Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [73]
“Sit down,” said Schmidt. “We must discuss the case.”
“I’m retiring from the case,” I mumbled, sitting. Fortunately there was a chair under me.
“What? No! Give her coffee, Tony, she does not ever make sense until she has had coffee.”
Tony obliged. Clara took advantage of his distraction to hook the sausage off his fork; she carried it across the room and sat down on the beruffled lace-trimmed hem of my robe to eat it. I was too far gone to protest. I said faintly, “1 am retiring from the case.”
“Have more coffee,” said Schmidt.
“I will. But that will not affect my decision. I am retiring from the case because there is no case.”
Tony and Schmidt said in unison, “You can’t.”
“Oh yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t,” said Schmidt and Tony. Tony glared at Schmidt, who continued in solo, “The police are looking for you, Vicky, my dear. You must solve the case to free yourself from suspicion.”
The cat rose fluidly from the floor to the table and clamped its teeth on the bacon Tony was holding. Tony tugged at it and swore. The cat growled but did not relinquish her hold. Schmidt giggled.
“A charming animal,” he said approvingly. “Yours, Vicky? It was outside your door early this morning; I had hoped you would be awake, but you were not, and I thought I would let you sleep a little longer, so I brought it here with me—”
“Schmidt,” I said softly. “Shut up. No. Don’t shut up. Repeat what you just said.”
“I thought I would let you sleep a little longer, so—”
“Before that. Something about the police.”
“Yes, I expect they are looking for you.”
“Why, Schmidt?”
“Because of the dead man in your garden, of course.”
“The dead man in my garden,” I repeated hollowly.
“Give her more coffee,” said Schmidt.
Schmidt was full of admiration for the foresight of Sir John Smythe, who had warned him about the dead man.
“Well, not in so many words, of course,” Schmidt admitted. “But he told me there would be a desperate attempt on your life, Vicky, and that I must come at once to tell you when it occurred.”
“He told you I would be here?” I was still trying to get a grip on the situation.
“He did not have to tell me, I knew. He has a greater respect for my intelligence than some people.”
“Wait,” I pleaded. “Just stop talking for a minute, Schmidt, and let me think. Did you find…No, that’s not the most important…How was he…What I want to know is, who was it?”
“You don’t have to shout,” Schmidt roared, clapping his hands over his ears.
“I’m sorry,” I whimpered.
“Have some hay,” Tony suggested. “It’s very good when you’re feeling faint.”
Suddenly I felt better. It may have been the caffeine, but I think it was just Tony—the comradely grin, the familiar dimple, the tacit acknowledgment that the whole scenario had the lunatic logic of a Lewis Carroll plot. The cat jumped on my knee and began washing her whiskers.
“Let him tell it,” Tony went on, indicating Schmidt. “He’s been bending my ear with his tale since six A.M. He’d have rousted you out at that hour if I had let him, so you can thank me for your extra sleep.”
“Thank you,” I said meekly.
“Bitte schön. I might add,” Tony added, “that if he had bothered to mention this little detail last night, instead of waiting until this morning—”
“There were more important things,” Schmidt protested. “The spy from East Berlin—”
“Schmidt, you were so drunk you wouldn’t have known a spy from a brontosaurus,” I said wearily. “Never mind. Tell me now.”
Schmidt made a long dramatic story of it, but there really wasn’t much to tell. He had arrived at my house shortly after Tony and I had left. After Brotzeit, lunch, and a short nap, he had decided to take a little exercise. Jogging briskly and breathlessly around the block, he had attracted a pack of dogs. (Schmidt is irresistible to dogs; he is so round and so roly-poly, and he yelps so delightfully when they nip at his ankles.) Trailed by the fascinated pack, he had fled back to the house, but had been too distracted by the nips and barks and whines to unlock the door. In the hope that his