Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [88]
Tony pressed me to his manly bosom and we went blundering around the floor to the strains of “Du kannst nicht treu sein.” How appropriate, I thought sadly. How tragically, poignantly, painfully appropriate. Champagne always make me sentimental.
Champagne makes Tony belligerent. “What were you doing with Jan?” he demanded. “You turn me down and then go groping around with that—that—You know what he’s after, don’t you?”
“The same thing I was after. We were both wasting our time, actually.”
“Oh. You can’t trust him, Vicky. He just wants—”
“Tony, will you try to get it into your head that this has turned into a farce? It’s like one of those films about comic secret-service agents falling over each other’s feet and out windows and into swimming pools.”
We went back to the table. At least Schmidt was having a good time. Dieter appeared equally relaxed and happy, but Jan sat in frowning abstraction, replying to Elise’s bright chatter with brusque monosyllables.
When we reached the coffee-and-dessert stage, I saw Friedl circulating among the guests like a good hostess. Hoffman had done the same thing, but with a grace and genuine good will his widow could only imitate, not emulate. Her smile was mechanical, her movements abrupt, and she kept glancing toward our table.
Jan had been watching her, too. “Is that Frau Hoffman?” he asked.
“She used to be a waitress. Don’t you remember her?”
“No.” Jan added, “One never looks at their faces, does one?”
“Especially not in Friedl’s case.”
“Bitte?” Jan asked, looking puzzled.
“It was a joke, Jan. Not a very good one, though. Are you sure you don’t remember her? She used to have brown hair—braids—”
“Oh, yes,” Jan said indifferently. “She is the one who was Dieter’s friend.”
“Not yours?”
“I prefer tall blond ladies,” said Jan, looking at me sentimentally.
I never know what to say to remarks like that; fortunately, they don’t come my way very often. After a moment, Jan said in quite a different voice, “Surely he would confide in his wife.”
Dieter caught the remark. “He would be a fool if he confided in that one. She hasn’t a brain in her head.”
“Oh? And how do you know?” Jan demanded.
“Don’t be such a self-righteous little puritan,” Dieter said without rancor. “We all had a try for Friedl, including you; if you want to have another try, go ahead. But I can tell you, she would not be running this crummy little hotel in this dull little town if she knew where there was something of value to be sold. She would sell her mother…. Ah, Frau Hoffman! Please, won’t you join us for a liquor? We are enjoying ourselves so much.”
He liberated a chair from a nearby table and Friedl accepted the invitation with a gracious inclination of the head. Dieter, his round face now as lugubrious as an undertaker’s, offered his condolences on her husband’s death. A mildly embarrassed and wholly unconvincing murmur from the rest of us seconded the sentiment, which Friedl acknowledged with proper sobriety. Accepting a glass of brandy from Dieter, she said, “I remember all of you were here last year at this time. I hope you find everything satisfactory?”
We murmured at her again. “I am glad,” she said. “It has been difficult for a woman alone. It is hard to get good help.”
“But surely,” Jan said, “many of the former employees are still here. In such a small place, it is almost like a family, yes?”
I could see what he was thinking, the foxy devil. He was trying to find someone in whom Hoffman might have confided. It was the sort of thing a good thorough private investigator would do, but I had already considered the idea, and dismissed it. If Hoffman had not divulged the secret to his best friend, he was not likely to have confided in his cook or his driver.
Friedl answered him with a long string of complaints. Several of the older employees had left, the cook was threatening to quit, the younger ones preferred to work in Garmisch, where wages were higher and there was