Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [82]
“Humph,” Schmidt grunted. “He is no fool, this one.”
I was forced to agree. Jan’s theory was one that had not occurred to me—nor to the great John Smythe. It left a few minor odds and ends unaccounted for—like the frozen corpse in the back yard—but it had merit.
However, I was not moved to take Jan into my confidence and clasp him to my bosom (tempting as that idea might be). For once I didn’t have to warn Schmidt to avoid the same error. His little blue eyes narrowed to slits, and he rumbled, “Yes, he is no fool. Watch out, Vicky. Next he will suggest we puddle our information—”
“Pool,” I said. “Not puddle, Schmidt. Pool.”
“But is not that the most logical thing to do?” Jan asked guilelessly. “Working together we may achieve what none of us can do alone. We are scholars, not criminals; our aim should be to restore a treasure that belongs, not to any individual, but to the world.”
Schmidt’s reaction to this beautiful sentiment was openmouthed indignation. I looked around for something to put in his mouth before he could put his foot in it. However, he had eaten everything. So I kicked him in the ankle, and he began swearing in fluent Mittelhochdeutsch.
“I have no quarrel with your reasoning, Jan,” I said. “But I’m afraid the cause is as hopeless as it is noble. As you have seen for yourself, I have no idea where to look. There are thousands of square miles of mountain scenery out here.”
“So what do you suggest?” Jan asked.
“Me?” I opened my big blue eyes wide and looked innocent. “I’m baffled, Jan. So, as long as I’m here, I figure I might as well stay for a few days and enjoy some skiing and some Christmas cheer. The others will be going on to Turin on the twenty-seventh. I will return to my job—which I have rather neglected lately—and forget the whole thing.”
“I see,” Jan said slowly.
“You’re welcome to join the crowd,” I went on. “There’s some sort of local festival here this evening; I think Elise and Dieter are planning to have dinner with us and watch the show.”
“Perhaps I will do that.”
“Good. But—this is only a suggestion, of course—I don’t think you ought to discuss this with the others. They are even more baffled than I am.”
He agreed to meet us at the hotel at six. We parted with many expressions of good will.
After I had ushered him out, I turned to Schmidt, who was methodically finishing his catalogue of Middle-High-German obscenities. One advantage of an advanced education is that it provides you with such an extensive list of languages to swear in.
“Now what’s the matter with you?” I demanded. “That little nudge didn’t hurt.”
“I am angry with you,” Schmidt explained. “Vicky, you are a fool; don’t you know that when a Communist invites you to share a meal with him, he is planning to eat your food and his own?”
“That evil suspicion did occur to me, Schmidt.”
“He will give nothing away. He only wishes to pick your brain.”
“There’s nothing in my brain to pick.”
“Humph,” said Schmidt.
“It should be amusing,” I said dreamily. “He’ll be looking for hidden meanings in everything we say. Finding them, too, I expect.”
“Your idea of amusement is very strange,” Schmidt grumbled. “Why are you sitting here? Why don’t you follow him?”
“Why should I?”
“Because he…because you…” Schmidt bounced up. “If you don’t, I will.”
“Have fun.”
“Humph,” said Schmidt. Snatching his cap, he trotted to the door.
He opened it; then he stood back. Clara sauntered in, her tail swinging. “Guten Tag,” Schmidt said absently, and proceeded on his way.
“He wasn’t home?” I asked.
The cat didn’t reply. Jumping onto the bed, she clawed one of Tony’s shirts into a nest, lay down on it, and went to sleep.
The beds had been made, but Schmidt and Tony had managed to create considerable havoc. Cast-off clothing littered the bed and the floor,