Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [77]
“Just one,” I said. “She and Freddy were lovers, all right. But she didn’t kill him. She may not even know he’s dead.”
“Shall we tell her?” Tony asked. We shoved Schmidt into the room and closed the door.
“The less anybody tells anybody, the better off we are,” I said sweepingly.
“That is a premise that can be carried too far,” Schmidt grumbled. “You carry it too far.”
“You know everything I know,” I assured him mendaciously. “But for the love of Mike, don’t blab to Friedl. I’ll be damned if I can figure her out. Does she want us to go or stay? She sure didn’t try to change my mind.”
“She doesn’t know her own mind,” Tony said. “She isn’t the one who is making the decisions.”
I smiled approvingly at him. “You aren’t as naïve as you look.”
“I never said Friedl wasn’t a crook; I said we couldn’t be certain.”
“I’m certain. And,” I continued, before Tony could object, “you’re right about her taking orders from someone else. Too bad we can’t listen in on her phone. I’ll bet she is passing on the latest news right now.”
“Ha,” said Schmidt. “You are again interested. You will not abandon—”
“Dammit, there is nothing to abandon! Oh, the hell with it. I’m off to the cemetery.”
A procession of hotel employees carrying cartons of papers arrived, and Schmidt and I left Tony gloomily contemplating the collection. Schmidt went with me to my room while I got my jacket and backpack; then he followed me downstairs and out of the hotel.
“You are really going only to put flowers on the poor old gentleman’s grave?” he inquired.
“I really am.”
“Not that I can believe you. But if you don’t care if I come, then it means you are not going to do anything I want to do. All the same, Vicky, I will come.”
“You’re a suspicious old goat. Come if you like.”
“No, that is not why. You go alone to this place so far from the village. I will come to protect you.”
The idea of danger hadn’t occurred to me until he mentioned it. I didn’t know whether to scold him for scaring me or kiss him for caring. I kissed him on his bald head and arranged his cap to cover his ears. “You’re a sweetie, Schmidt.”
“I thought I was a suspicious old goat. I would not mind the rest so much if you did not always say ‘old.’”
“‘Old’ doesn’t mean ‘old.’ It means—it’s a term of affectionate…of friendly…oh, never mind, Schmidt. I won’t say it again, I promise. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”
He remained dubious; I had to pretend to see Perlmutter skulking in the distance before he would leave. “I will pursue,” he exclaimed. “In that shop, you say?”
“No, he went up the street—that one. Hurry, Schmidt, before he gets away.”
Off Schmidt scuttled, approximately as inconspicuous as a carnival balloon.
The clear bright skies were being invaded by herds of elephant-sized clouds. Some squatted on the mountains, hiding the high peaks; others moved sluggishly westward, swelling and multiplying. I had not been looking forward to the expedition and the dismal skies didn’t increase my enthusiasm; but I had promised, and there was no sense postponing the job.
However, the idea of a little company had its appeal. I strolled across the square and made my way to the back of the wood shop. Clara was already there, staring at the closed panel with the ineffable air of concentrated expectation at which cats excel, and which seems to say, louder than speech, “If I wait long enough and hope hard enough, the anticipated miracle will occur—the door will open, herring will rain from the heavens, and I will be welcomed with the enthusiastic noises that are only my due.”
It’s sad to see such religious devotion go for nought. I knocked on the door. The cat didn’t look at me, she was concentrating on expectation. After a while I remarked, “He’s not there.”
Clara didn’t believe it. A piercing Siamese wail berated the cruelty of heaven.
Her howls produced no more result than my knocking. Either John was out or he didn’t want to see either of us. The former conclusion seemed