Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [66]
He had more to say about Jan Perlmutter. They lived in the same city, though divided from one another by a wall that was more than material, and communication between the museums of the two Berlins was not infrequent. According to Dieter, Jan had recently been passed over for promotion because of some petty political issue, and was very bitter about it.
The only other subject of interest arose when Elise asked where we were staying.
“Ah, the Hexenhut,” Dieter said reminiscently. “Yes, it was a pleasant little place—especially that waitress—you know who I mean, Tony….”
He rolled his eyes and smacked his lips in a display that made it difficult for Tony to admit a like knowledge. I said, “You’re revolting, Dieter. I suppose you mean Friedl.”
“Yes, that was her name. Dear little Friedl. How is she, Tony?”
I took it upon myself to reply. The news of Friedl’s marriage and bereavement didn’t arouse much interest; Elise looked bored, Dieter giggled and made a ribald comment.
After dinner, we made the rounds of a few bars, and then Tony and I excused ourselves. We left Dieter doing the Schuhplattler with a group of costumed entertainers while Elise looked on with a sour smile.
As we began to drive back to Bad Steinbach, Tony said thoughtfully, “It can’t be Dieter.”
“What can’t? Who can’t?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Friedl said her husband planned to communicate with someone about the treasure. She thought it was you, but she may have been mistaken. Elise and Dieter were both at the hotel last year, and both are museum officials. What I’m saying is, it can’t be Dieter.”
“Why not?” We left the lights of the town behind and headed up into the hills; the stars spilled out across the sky like a handful of flung jewels.
“He’s such a jackass,” Tony said, in tones of deep disgust.
“He is that.”
“Hoffman wouldn’t confide in an idiot like Dieter.”
“You think Elise is more likely?”
“No, not really. Now if Perlmutter were to turn up in Bad Steinbach…”
“Come, now,” I said, sneering. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for the dirty-Communist routine.”
“Eastern-bloc scholars have pressures on them we don’t have,” Tony argued. “Suppose the item in question came originally from behind the Iron Curtain. Recovering it would give Perlmutter a lot of prestige, maybe a step up the party ladder.”
Again he was getting too close to the truth. I changed the subject.
As soon as I got Tony tucked away for the night, I planned to pay John a visit. He was entitled to know what I had discovered. The presence of two more of the gang of six would get his mind off Tony as suspect number one. (At least that provided a reasonable motive for calling on John; if there were others, I preferred not to admit them.)
But it was to be an evening of renewing old acquaintances. When we walked into the lobby, the first thing I saw was an all-too-familiar face and form. Red as a rose and round as a berry—Schmidt and no other.
John had promised to take care of Schmidt. I hadn’t inquired how he meant to handle the matter. Now I wished I had. Obviously the scheme had backfired.
Schmidt was so happy to see us. He waved frantically. “Here,” he cried. “Here I am.”
We joined him. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I came to help you, of course,” said Schmidt.
“But I thought—”
“What is he doing here?” Schmidt glowered at Tony.
“Well,” I began.
“You have told him!”
“No. No, Schmidt—now look, Schmidt—”
“It was our private affair. You and I and—”
“Never mind!”
“You told this fat old idiot about the deal and you didn’t tell me?” Tony demanded.
“Fat and old? Who is fat