Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [81]
“Never mind, Schmidt,” I said. “Are you telling me your boss fell for this yarn, Jan?”
Not only did he fall for it; the old boy practically had a stroke. He had been on the staff of the museum and had known Hoffman well. After the war he hadn’t bothered to look him up, since the relationship had been purely professional; if he thought about the matter at all, he assumed Hoffman had been killed. When Jan assured him that Hoffman had been rusticating in Bavaria for over forty years, he thought the circumstances curious enough to merit investigation. And, as Jan modestly remarked, who was better qualified than he to investigate? The letter had been addressed to him, he knew Hoffman personally—and he also knew the five other scholars who had stayed at the Gasthaus Hexenhut.
Not that Jan actually made that last statement. He didn’t have to; I knew as well as if I had been sitting in on the discussion that this factor had been raised and debated. Jan was no dumbbell; he must have suspected he might not be the only one to receive a message.
He was rattling merrily along, his crisp curls coiling tighter as they dried, and he looked so beautiful I hated to scuttle his story. But I forced myself.
“Just an innocent little inquiry,” I said. “All open and aboveboard.”
“Aber natürlich. I have done nothing against the law—”
“Then why the wig? Why were you trailing me in Munich? Oh yes, you were, Jan; I saw you. What were you up to, that you didn’t want to be recognized?”
I would like to say that Jan’s reaction typified the police-state mentality, but I’m afraid it is typical of people in general: When somebody catches you pulling a dirty trick, blame them.
“You were conspiring against me,” Jan said sulkily.
“Me and who else? Him?” I indicated Schmidt.
Jan shook his head. “No. Of course, your superior would be in your confidence. I did not blame you for that.”
“Ha,” said Schmidt, giving me a meaningful look.
“But when I saw Dieter enter the museum, and then Tony came, all the way from America, I knew all of you were together, against me. The Western capitalist oppressors—”
“That is a flat-out lie,” I said indignantly.
“Yes? But they are here now, and also Elise and the Herr Direktor. For what have you come if it is not to steal the treasure from me?”
Schmidt emitted one of his fat, rich chuckles. “It has a suspicious look, Vicky. Admit it.”
“Well…I suppose if someone has a strong streak of paranoia to begin with…”
Schmidt’s open amusement went farther than my righteous indignation to convince Jan. He looked uncertainly from Schmidt to me.
“Are you telling me it is only a coincidence that you have met here? That you are not—”
“Conspiring? Hell, no, we aren’t even cooperating! Nobody has the faintest idea of what anybody else is doing. I don’t even know what I’m doing.”
Jan studied me solemnly. Then his lips parted and stretched into one of his rare smiles. The effect was dazzling. “I am inclined to believe you.”
“How very condescending.”
“But, Vicky, you are the one I would have expected to be best informed. You knew the old man best; it was to you he talked, sent flowers—”
“You make it sound like some sort of November-June romance,” I snapped. “We did talk. But he never mentioned the gold, Jan. Believe it or not.”
“I do believe it. Because if he had told you then, you would not be here now.” Jan leaned back in his chair and put his fingertips together pyramid-style, like Holmes getting ready to enlighten poor thick-headed Watson. His smile continued to dazzle, but his eyes were as hard and opaque as brown pebbles. “I will tell you what else I believe,” he went on. “I believe you were all summoned here, as I was summoned. That Hoffman intended to divulge to us the secret he had guarded for so many years. We are in a sense an international committee, representing some of the world’s great museums,