Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [93]
“I shouldn’t think so. But you’d better go. If Dieter wakes up and sees you—”
“He could hardly have missed me,” John said caustically. “Had I but known you were entertaining, I’d have worn my mask.”
“I think he’s coming to,” I said.
A mumble from poor Dieter confirmed the diagnosis. John glanced down at him. “No, he’s not,” he said.
“John, don’t—” It was too late—not that he would have paid any attention anyway. The toe of his boot clipped Dieter’s jaw in a carefully calculated, but very nasty-looking blow. Dieter subsided. I winced.
John sat down beside me on the bed. He started to speak, then frowned and fumbled under his thigh. “What the hell is this?”
I studied the object he was holding; things had been happening so fast, I had to think before I could identify it. “It’s a bulb.”
“I can see that,” John said in exasperation. “Perhaps I should have been more explicit. Why are you hatching daffodils in your bed?”
“It must have fallen out of my pocket. How do you know it’s a daffodil?”
“My dear old mum is a fanatical gardener. I’ve planted thousands of the damned things for her. There’s no use carrying it around, Vicky, it’s the wrong time of year.”
“Well, I know that. I found it at the cemetery—on Mrs. Hoffman’s grave. It looked so lonesome and cold—”
A moan from the recumbent form at our feet interrupted me. John said, “I should have kicked him harder.”
“Don’t you dare kick him again.”
“I suppose I can’t go on doing it indefinitely. He must have a jaw like Gibraltar. Honestly, Vicky, you can waste more time on trivial conversation than anyone I’ve ever met. Get rid of him. Like MacArthur, I will return.”
“When?”
“As soon as you get rid of him.” John rose to his feet, then looked searchingly at me. “Can you handle the fellow?”
“No problem. He’s very drunk.”
“Smells like a brewery,” John agreed, wrinkling his nose fastidiously. “Very well, then—à bientôt.”
He faded into the night like a shadow, leaving a blast of cold air to remind me my torso was bared to the breezes. After examining the damage, I was tempted to kick Dieter myself. Annoyance made me less tolerant of his moans of pain and protestations of regret than I might otherwise have been; I bundled him ruthlessly out into the hall and watched with mean satisfaction as he set off on a slow retreat, ricocheting from wall to wall.
“You forgot these,” I called, heaving his coat and hat after him.
I suppose I needn’t have spoken quite so loudly. As luck would have it, Schmidt chose that moment to open the door of his room. His exclamation of surprise and interest brought Tony to the door as well; the two of them stood there like Mutt and Jeff, staring from Dieter in his lavender pajamas to me, in what was left of my expensive nightgown.
I retreated and slammed the door. As I turned the key, icy air brushed my back and I whirled around, crossing my arms over my chest. “Close that window,” I ordered.
He had already done so. “Cold?” he inquired. “Personally I find it a bit close in here.” He peeled off his sweater and hung it neatly over a chair. “Stop right there,” I said, as his fingers went to the buttons of his shirt. “This is going to be a business conference.”
“You aren’t dressed for it,” said John.
“Where the hell is my robe?”
It was lying on the bed. I reached for it, and jumped spasmodically as a thunderous knock echoed at my door. “Vicky?” Tony bellowed.
“What do you want?”
“I want to come in.”
“Well, you can’t. Go away.” I got one arm in a sleeve. It was the wrong sleeve. John, lips twitching, moved to help me—or so I thought; instead of the robe, it was his arms that went around me. After an exploratory traverse, his lips settled into the hollow between my neck and shoulder.
“What happened?” Tony demanded loudly. “Are you all right? What did you do to him? What did he do to you?”
“Noth—ooop!—nothing.” John was laughing soundlessly; the movements of his lips were horribly ticklish. “Stop that,” I gurgled.
“What?” Tony shouted.