Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [92]
“I know what you mean and no, you can’t and no, it is not okay.” I pulled my hand away and marched off. Honestly, I thought—it just shows what a mistake it is to be nice to some people. At the door of my room I turned. Tony was looking at me, his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. If he had appeared apologetic, or pleading, or even disappointed, I might have weakened, but his pose of righteous indignation brought my anger to the boiling point.
“Shame on you,” I said. “Faithless and forsworn already? How could you so easily forget dear little Ann, the knitter of sweaters?”
Out of consideration for sleeping guests, I did not slam my door. Dimly in the distance I heard the reverberation as Tony slammed his.
The maid had left a single light burning; the room looked warm and cozy, but it was already cooling off. Tossing my jacket onto the bed, I quickly got into my nightgown and opened the window a crack. I was about to leap into bed when suddenly there came a tapping—as of someone gently rapping—at my chamber door.
“Go away, Tony,” I called.
The tapping came again. It occurred to me that it might not be Tony. I unlocked the door and looked out.
Not Tony, not Jan, not John. Dieter.
I assumed he must be up to one of his unseemly jokes. He was dressed for it, in an overcoat that practically touched the floor and a fifties fedora pulled low over his eyebrows. The reek of beer was so strong I fell back a step. Dieter took this for an invitation; he slithered through the opening and closed the door. Then he turned the key.
“Oh no, you don’t,” I said, backing away from him. “Get the hell out of here, Dieter.”
“I will take off my coat and stay awhile,” said Dieter, with the profound air of a man quoting from the classics.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” I began.
He did anyway. My eyes popped. He was wearing the most hideous pajamas I have ever seen—and I include Schmidt’s, which range from the merely tasteless to the utterly unspeakable. Dieter’s were lavender, printed with sketches of naked women and rude sayings in German, French, and English. I started to laugh. Dieter looked hurt. He put out one hand and pushed me, hard. I fell backward onto the bed; Dieter fell on top of me.
I was tired, and still bemused by the lavender pajamas; it took me a few seconds to react. When I did, I was surprised to find that my struggles to free myself were futile. He had both my arms pinned, and his mouth covered mine so that I couldn’t express my exasperation. Exasperation was the word—not fear, nor even worry; he was stronger than I had realized, but I am not exactly a fragile little victim type. I decided to relax and bide my time. It wasn’t until I heard the fabric of my nightgown give, with a nasty rending rip, that I got mad. That nightgown had cost me 380 marks.
Before I could slug him, Dieter suddenly soared up into the air. It was the most amazing thing I have ever seen. He seemed to hang there, arms and legs dangling, mouth horribly smeared with my lipstick, for the longest time. Then his feet dropped, his body swung sideways, and he toppled over backward.
I raised myself onto my elbows and stared at John. “Well! That was lovely. Rambo couldn’t have done it better.”
“Rambo would have blown him away.” John frowned at his scraped knuckles and raised them tenderly to his mouth. “Which is what I should have done,” he mumbled. “When will I learn to control these impetuous impulses? I suppose now you’re going to tell me you didn’t need rescuing.”
“Well, no,” I said apologetically. “Although it was a very nice gesture.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s only Dieter.”
“Maybe you did need rescuing.”
“Oh, it was just a silly joke. Look at those pajamas.”
“They’re a joke right enough. The absolute nadir of bad taste.”
“Exactly. Dieter thinks I’m here with Tony. He probably set this up so that Tony would burst in on us and find us in a compromising position.”
“Very funny,” muttered John. “Far be it from me to