Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [97]
“Now, don’t give Frau Hoffman the wrong idea,” Tony said. “We’re not trying to pull a fast one. If we ran with it, we’d run straight to the proper authorities. Right, Vicky?”
“Oh, right. Sure.” I added thoughtfully, “Whoever the proper authorities may be….” I saw Friedl’s head swivel toward me, her eyes narrowing. She might not be too bright, but she had a good ear for nuances—of a certain variety.
“We wish to help you, Frau Hoffman,” Dieter said. “You know we are honorable people, with reputations to consider. Have faith in us.”
“Well…”
“If you still want me to leave,” I began.
“No. No, I didn’t mean…” She glanced around the room and seemed to gain confidence from the silent approval and sympathy the men were beaming at her. “I would be pleased to have you stay on.”
“For another day or two, then. Perhaps we can talk later—all right?”
I hoped she would take the hint, and her departure; the arrival of the committee had ended any hope of a confidential chat, but I had a feeling that Friedl and I might have things to say to one another under the right circumstances.
“Changed your mind, eh?” said Tony, after Friedl had left. “Now why—”
Schmidt had finished my food. “It is time for breakfast,” he announced. “Let us adjourn the meeting to the restaurant and confer some more.”
“Yes, why don’t you?” I said. “I’ll join you later.”
Dieter was the last to leave. He looked doubtfully at the sagging door. “Did I do that?” he asked. He sounded as if he hoped he had.
“No. Don’t you remember?”
His sudden rueful grin stretched the purpling bruise on his jaw. “I remember only that I made a fool of myself, as I always do with you. Did you have to hit me so hard?”
“I didn’t…”
His eyes were wide and innocent. I amended my original statement; if he really didn’t know there had been another person in my room, there was no need to tell him. “I have a few bruises of my own, buddy.”
“Am I forgiven?”
“I think you came out worse than I did.”
Dieter’s hand went to his jaw. “Yes. I think so, too.”
Glancing into the restaurant as I passed, I saw that Jan had joined the group. If I had entertained the slightest intentions of participating in that so-called conference, the sight of him would have squelched them.
Sullen gray clouds pressed down on Bad Steinbach. A scattering of snowflakes was blown into frenzied dances by the frigid wind. Gaiety prevailed, despite the cold; booths and stands still fringed the Marktplatz, dispensing food, drink, and variegated trinkets. It was Christmas Eve. The demons of darkness had been banished for a year, and tonight the birthday of the Child would be celebrated with midnight mass at the church and private family devotions.
There was no sign of life at Müller’s shop—inside or outside. My signaled knock went unanswered. As I re-emerged into the Marktplatz, I saw someone sauntering slowly across the open square. He walked toward one of the cafés and went in.
The small place was crowded, the few tables occupied. I joined the man who was standing at the counter—a man with a bushy gray mustache and heavy matching brows. His knit cap was pulled low over his ears. I ordered coffee and bread from the bustling waitress and waited until it had been delivered before I turned to him.
“Why aren’t you answering your door?”
He had his back to the room, but his eyes remained fixed on the mirror behind the counter. There was a second door not far away; I knew if he saw anything that bothered him, he’d be out the door in a flash—leaving me with the check.
“I’ve moved,” he said after a moment. “Too many people know where I live.”
“What have you done with the cat?”
That inconsequential question drew a flash of blue eyes and a half-smile. “Locked her in the house with three days’ supply of food and water. Müller will be back by then.”
“Oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“How can you tell?”
“I can tell.”
“It’s Friedl. She’s wound so tight she’s ready to explode. She burst into my room this morning in a fit of hysterics and ordered me to leave—”
“Well, what can you expect after