Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [84]
Eight
I WAS ON THE BED, FLAT ON MY BACK WITH the cat on my stomach, when Tony walked in. The early winter dusk had descended, and I hadn’t bothered to turn on a light. He fell over a chair, swore, fell over a table, swore, and finally found the light switch. I deduced that he had not expected to find me in residence, because he jumped nervously and let out a yelp when he saw me.
“What the hell…Are you all right? Is something the matter, Vicky? Are you sick?” He clumped to the bed leaving damp footprints across the floor, and put an icy hand on my forehead.
“I’m fine,” I said. His fingers felt like those of a corpse. “Just thinking.”
“You and Sherlock Holmes.” Tony sat down on the edge of the bed. He was in a high good humor, so I deduced he had not sprained or broken anything that day. “I don’t buy this sedentary ratiocination technique, Vicky; you’ll never learn anything if you lie around here.”
“You’re leaking all over the bed,” I said irritably. “Get up.”
“It’s just melted snow.”
“I know it’s melted snow, that’s what I’m objecting to. Get up.”
Tony rose to his full height.
“What time is it?” I asked, yawning.
“A little after five. Dieter and Elise are joining us as soon as they change. Listen, Vicky, I found out something—”
“I suggest you emulate them,” I said, looking critically at the puddle forming around his feet.
“I will in a minute. I want to tell you what I found out—”
“Jan Perlmutter will be here at six.”
“While you were lying here in slothful ease I found out…What? Perlmutter? Where? Here? How—”
“Schmidt captured him—or vice versa.” Tony stood there melting and looking chagrined while I explained. I did not feel guilty for spoiling his big news. During my hours of cogitation, I had decided not to confront him with his low-down lies. There might be an innocent explanation, but I couldn’t think of one, and I was very hurt by his behavior. If I couldn’t trust Tony, whom could I trust?
Sir John Smythe? I had been a fool to suppose the leopard had changed its spots. Worse—a besotted fool, so bemused by John Donne and his disciple that I hadn’t noticed the fatal slip until long afterward. Perhaps John had been a little bemused too; it wasn’t like him to be so careless. More likely he was just getting old. I would like to live to see the day when John alias Smythe let a woman cloud his crystal-clear selfishness.
I couldn’t trust Schmidt either. He would double-cross me without a moment’s hesitation if he could talk himself into believing he was doing it for my own good. Just as I would do it to him.
I couldn’t trust anybody. And after all the efforts I had made to keep Tony safe and unwitting…
The narrative took the wind out of his sails in another way. Jan’s theory anticipated the one Tony had cleverly formulated after talking with Dieter. “He and Elise both got copies of that photograph,” Tony informed me.
“Oh, yeah?”
“I expected a little more enthusiasm. Even, perhaps, a touch of admiration. Something like ‘Oh, Tony, how clever,’ or ‘Tony, you never cease to amaze me—’”
“You never do,” I said grimly. “So you spilled your guts to Dieter and Elise?”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” I echoed. “Why not indeed? Why ever not?”
“You are sick,” Tony said.
I pushed his hand away. “I’m not sick. Keep your clammy hands off of me. So. Dieter and Elise are on the trail, too. Separately or in collusion?”
Tony scratched his head. “They seem to be colluding now. It was Dieter’s expedition to begin with. Elise paid no attention to the photograph—thought, as I did, that it was a typical crank communication.”
“There was no message on hers?”
“I guess not. There certainly wasn’t on mine. Dieter…” Tony pondered. “He didn’t say exactly, but there must have been something. He called Elise and got her interested; talked her into joining him here.”
“The sly little rascal,” I said. “He certainly didn’t invite me to collude with him.”
“You don’t collude well,” Tony said with a grin. “Dieter