Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [76]
We called on Friedl in a body, so to speak. She looked a little startled when we marched in, and I couldn’t blame her; there was a decided nursery-rhyme air about the group—Peter, Peter; Peter’s wife; and the pumpkin. She didn’t notice the cat until Clara reared up and began clawing at the sofa. She let out a shriek, which didn’t bother the cat one whit; when she reached for a poker, I intervened.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I said untruthfully—actually. I hoped she did. “The cat seems to have attached herself to me. I’ll try to keep her out of your way.”
The cat bothered her, all right. Clara was a living reminder of the old man she had deceived and betrayed, perhaps to his death. The feeling was reciprocated. Though she permitted me to hold her, the animal didn’t relax into a nice furry bundle; her claws were out, her fur bristled. That was exactly the way Friedl affected me.
“It keeps coming back,” she muttered. “I suspect the cook feeds it. I would fire her if I could….”
“But she is an excellent cook,” said Schmidt interestedly. “The Bavarian burger especially, that is a stroke of genius.”
“Schmidt, Schmidt,” I said, more in sorrow than in anger.
“Yes, you are right, Vicky; I am distracting myself. I must allow Frau Hoffman to tell why she asked to see us.”
“I wished to know whether you had learned anything new,” Friedl said.
“No,” I said.
“That’s not quite accurate,” Tony objected. “We have discovered what it was your husband was hiding—”
I dropped the cat onto Tony’s lap. It was a vicious, cruel, spiteful gesture; the information Tony had been about to disclose was information Friedl already knew, and if my assessment was accurate, she knew that we knew. I was furious with Tony for shooting off his mouth and ignoring my sensible suggestions, but I suppose that’s no excuse.
After a while I got up and opened the door to let the cat out. Friedl went on mopping blood off Tony—an unnecessarily prolonged operation, in my opinion. The scratches weren’t all that deep.
“As Tony was about to remark, we have decided that he was right the first time,” I said. “We have found no evidence that your husband possessed anything of value, and if he did, we have found nothing to indicate what he may have done with it.”
“But,” Friedl stuttered. “But—but you—”
“I’m afraid I can’t spend any more time on this, Frau Hoffman. I have my own work to do.”
“I don’t,” said Tony.
She turned eagerly to him. “Then you will stay? You will help me?”
Her fluttering hands and flapping eyelashes had their effect on Tony’s gullible heart. Also, he was moved by the desire to get the better of me. “Sure,” he said. “You said I could go through his papers. Maybe he left a memorandum of some sort.”
She gushed her thanks, then eyed Schmidt. “And you, Herr Direktor?”
“I have certain inquiries of my own to pursue,” Schmidt said, trying to look mysterious.
She thanked him, though not as effusively as she had Tony (he wasn’t as young and cute as Tony) and then asked me when I was leaving. I said I’d give it another day. “I promised—promised myself—that I would visit your husband’s grave, Frau Hoffman. I thought I’d take some flowers or greenery. It’s a custom where I come from.”
I needn’t have bothered inventing excuses. She said indifferently, “It is also a custom here.”
“Would you like to go with me?”
From her reaction, one might have supposed I had suggested a visit to a morgue. “Lieber Gott, nein! That is—it is too painful for me. So soon after…”
She offered Tony free run of her office, but he declined, with thanks, and asked if the papers in question could be brought to his room.
“Whatsa matter?” I hissed, in the accent of the underworld, after we had left Friedl to her own devices. “You don’ wanna be friendly wit’ de little lady?”
“That’s disgusting,” said Tony.
He was right, so I abandoned the accent. “She seems a trifle tense, don’t you think?”
“After murdering her lover she should be relaxed?” Schmidt demanded at the top of his voice.
Tony and I fell on him and carried him away.
“That