Silhouette in Scarlet (13 page)

I
WAS WAKENED
once during the night by a strange, high-pitched cry. It was not repeated. I concluded I must have been dreaming, but I was
sufficiently concerned to get out of bed and go to the door.

Dim lights burned in the hall. Gus’s door was slightly ajar. His room was dark, but as I listened I heard faint rustling noises, like someone turning over in bed. That put an end to any
idea I might have had of seeking a midnight rendezvous with John. So I went back to bed. Not that it would have made any difference . . .

It was a little after five when I was awakened for the second time, and on this occasion the noises could not be mistaken for the products of my imagination. Crashes, thuds, and curses echoed
through the house.

Like the fool that I am, I dashed into the hall. The noises came from John’s room. Gus’s door was now closed; either he was up and about, or he was a heavier sleeper than he had
claimed, for he did not appear.

John’s door was open. By the time I reached it, the noises had stopped. The room was a disaster – furniture overturned, sheets torn off the bed, and a handsome lamp smashed to bits.
At the foot of the bed, sprawled in awkward abandon, was a body. It was that of a man with longish brown hair, wearing a dirty white sweater and faded jeans. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses,
miraculously unbroken, lay on the floor by his hand. Over him, breathing heavily and dripping blood from a split lip, stood John.

I hadn’t quite taken all this in, much less absorbed the full effect of John’s pale-blue silk pajamas with the gold crest on the pocket, when the muslin curtains exploded into the
room and another man appeared. There was no mistaking his identity. It was fully light outside, and he filled the entire window embrasure. His eyes bulged, and his hair bristled like that of an
antique warrior in the grip of the insane berserker rage. After one quick glance, from the recumbent body to John, he let out an animal howl and flung himself forward.

His shoulders stuck in the window. The delay gave John time enough to leap aside. Leif stumbled forward, assisted by John’s foot, and hit the floor with a crash that shook the room. One of
his outflung arms sent me reeling backward. I bounced off the wall and sat down harder than I wanted to.

John appeared to be a trifle put out, but he had not lost his grasp on essentials. He snatched up a heavy brass candlestick and headed for Leif, who was grunting and gasping and trying to get
his wind back I scrambled to my feet and wrapped myself around John in time to stop the blow.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he gasped, trying to free his arm. ‘I want to – ’

‘I know what you want.’ He got his left hand free. Leif struggled to his knees, shaking his head dizzily. John curled his fingers into his palm and hit me under the ear. I sat down
again. Leif sat up. John weighed the new developments and opted for flight He was halfway to the door when a fresh complication appeared.

The man was pretty big, but not as big as Leif. In this case, however, size did not matter. He’d have been just as effective if he had been four feet tall. He pointed the gun at John and
said, ‘Halt.’

John halted. The man with the gun advanced into the room. John retreated, tactfully avoiding Leif and the body which was making uncouth noises and jerking its limbs. A second man followed, also
carrying a gun.

‘
Mais quel contretempts,
’ he remarked, surveying the chaos. ‘
Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé ?
’

‘
Die Kerle haben sich geschlagen,
’ his companion explained. ‘
Was sollen wir mit ihnen anfangen
?’

‘
Je demanderai.
’

He went out.

The body rolled over. It was the man John had described. He looked deathly ill, his cheekbones jutting sharply, his skin sallow. When he opened his eyes the nature of his complaint was evident.
They were red-rimmed and bloodshot. From his sagging mouth a trickle of saliva ran down into his matted beard.

I made a little noise of pity and revulsion. Leif lifted the limp body so that it was supported against his shoulder.

‘Behold the work of your friend, whom you were so careful to protect,’ he said bitterly. ‘A pretty sight,
nicht
?’

John’s stare held no pity, only disgust. With a shrug he turned to the guard and said calmly, ‘I’d like to put on my dressing gown, Hansel. Watch that trigger finger,
eh?’

The Frenchman returned. ‘
Là-bas, tout de suite,’
he said briskly.

I demanded my robe and was allowed to get it, with the Frenchman as an escort. They were quite an international crowd. I suppose I should have been scared, but everything had happened so fast, I
couldn’t take it in. All those people turning up out of nowhere . . . There was only one character missing.

He was waiting for us in Gus’s study, leaning back in the desk chair as if he were the owner of the house. He wore the thick grey wig, but he had replaced his sweater with an
expensive-looking three-piece-suit As we were ushered into the room, he rose politely.

‘A pleasure to see you again, Dr Bliss. Will you join me for breakfast? The good housekeeper of Mr Jonsson was kind enough to prepare it before she left, and I promise you it will be
excellent.’

The food was set out on a table by the window, doilies and all. Dazedly I sank into the chair the grey-haired man held for me.

‘Perhaps I may impose on you to pour,’ he went on. ‘Gentlemen, don’t be shy – take your places.’

John was the first to obey. He kept a wary eye on Leif, but the latter was occupied with the man whose twitching, muttering body he supported.

‘Where is Mr Jonsson?’ I asked.

The grey man smiled approvingly. ‘I am happy to see you accept the situation sensibly, Dr Bliss. Mr Jonsson is in our hands. He will be released unharmed as soon as we finish our work here
– unless one of you does something foolish. At my request, he has given his staff a little holiday. He was easily persuaded to do so when I pointed out that their safety might depend on their
ignorance of the situation. They are accustomed to his eccentricities, and unquestioningly accepted his statement that we will be engaged in certain experiments that require privacy and
solitude.’

‘You seem to have thought of everything, Mr. . . . I don’t know your name.’

‘Please call me Max. It is not my real name, of course, but that is the rule in this group; you are the only one of us who has not been travelling under a pseudonym.’

‘You mean Leif – ’ I began.

‘Is a Geman engineer named Hasseltine,’ Max said. ‘The disgusting apparition he tends so lovingly is his brother Georg – once a promising young archaeologist.’

They didn’t look like brothers, but Max’s explanation accounted for several things that had puzzled me. I said, ‘I should have known Leif wasn’t your real
name.’

His hand on his brother’s shoulder, he gave me a strained smile. ‘The friends of my youth sometimes called me that.’

‘I was pretty sure you weren’t a Swede, though. You slipped a few times, used a German word.’

‘I am a simple man,’ Leif said simply. ‘Intrigue and deceit are not easy for me. I have business in Munich, that is how I knew of you, Vicky. I am ashamed I did not tell you
the truth, but. . .’

He indicated his brother, who was mumbling in German and making ineffectual attempts to rise.

‘I understand,’ I said.

Leif turned to Max. ‘I must take care of him. He wants his rucksack. He needs . . . He must have . . .’

‘He does indeed.’ Max studied the mumbling object with dispassionate contempt. ‘Well, why not? Pierre – the luggage, please.’

It was brought from our rooms – John’s expensive matched calfskin bags, my battered plastic ditto, a big leather two-suiter, and a canvas backpack. At the sight of the latter Georg
Hasseltine made sick, mewing noises. Max gestured. The Frenchman opened the pack and dumped its contents onto the floor.

In addition to the usual toilet articles and clothing, the bag contained two interesting items – a wicked-looking knife and a tin box that rattled when Max nudged it with a fastidious toe.
Wrinkling his nose at the smell of dirty socks, Max snapped out directions. Pierre confiscated the knife; Leif got the box, and his brother. He carried both out of the room. The other objects were
cramned back into the pack, and John’s suitcases were brought forward. Pierre dropped them at Max’s feet like a dog presenting his master with a fat rat.

There wasn’t much left of the bags or their contents by the time Pierre finished searching them. He ripped seams and tore out linings with zealous pleasure. John winced every time a
garment was desecrated; once he made a mild protest. ‘You know I never carry a weapon, Max. Have a heart. That shirt cost me – ’

‘What is this?’ Max pounced on a monogrammed leather case.

‘Hair dryer,’ John said, without even blushing.

‘How decadent,’ Max muttered, adding it to the pile of confiscated objects – a set of ivory-handled razors, a pair of small dumbbells (whose evil significance eludes me to this
day), and a manicure set exquisitely encoiffed in morocco leather and red plush, which included several lockpicks.

By contrast, my beat-up cases were handled with gentlemanly tenderness. The clothes I had unpacked the night before had been replaced in the suitcases – not too neatly, but I had no real
cause for complaint, since I am a notoriously sloppy packer. Max inspected each garment, except for the underwear. Even his nasty, suspicious mind couldn’t find anything remotely resembling a
weapon in a pair of bikini panties. When he had finished with the suitcases, he reached for my purse.

A man can’t understand why a woman’s handbag is such a sensitive object – almost an extension of her person. I don’t fully understand it myself. Maybe it’s because
we keep so many private, intimate possessions in our purses – love letters, cosmetics, jelly doughnuts . . . Maybe a purse is a symbol of the womb, or something equally Freudian. I
can’t explain it, but I know I hate the idea of a stranger’s hands rummaging in my bag. I had to bite back a yelp of protest when Max dumped the contents out onto the desk.

He made a few jokes, naturally. I suppose he thought they relieved the tension. He grinned and raised his eyebrows over the little black book in which I had, unwisely, made some personal
comments beside certain addresses. Some of the cosmetics raised a ridiculous amount of mirth. What’s so funny about eyelash curlers, for heaven’s sake?

He was not so amused as to neglect his precautions. My Swiss pocket knife went into the
verboten
pile, along with my can of Mace. Occasionally he asked quizzically, ‘And what is the
purpose of this item?’ I snapped out answers. ‘Tape measure. In case I see a picture frame that might fit one of my prints. Stockings. In case I want to try on shoes. Sewing kit. In
case I rip my clothes. Flashlight. Do I have to explain why I carry a flashlight?’

Leif’s suitcase contained nothing of interest. He was allowed to keep his razor; it was electric.

The henchmen tossed our belongings back into the suitcases. Then there was an expectant pause.

They searched John first. Hans’s pudgy fingers went over every inch of his body. He didn’t complain until Hans messed up his exquisitely brushed hair. ‘Damn it, Hansel . . .
Don’t overlook anything, I beg. What about the cyanide pill and the teeny-tiny knife wedged between my back molars?’

He opened his mouth to its widest extent. Hans was actually peering into the cavity when Max snapped, ‘Enough.’

All eyes turned towards me. I stood up and untied the belt of my robe.

Max said sharply, ‘Turn your backs.’

The henchmen exchanged eloquent glances, but obeyed. ‘You, too,’ Max said to John. His face preternaturally grave, John executed a smart right-about wheel and stood at attention, the
back of his ruffled head fairly radiating amusement.

I took off my robe. In deference to Gus I was wearing the least revealing of my nightgowns. It bared my shoulders and arms and my legs below the knee – well, actually, below mid-thigh.

Max studied the exposed parts of me with shrinking fastidiousness. He was clearly torn between personal distaste and professional thoroughness, so I decided to help him out.

‘How’s this?’ I asked, bunching up the gown in back and pulling it tight against my front

Max looked relieved. ‘Yes, that is adequate. If you will turn. . .’

He stayed behind the desk while I pivoted and pulled and adjusted the fabric. I suppose, in a way, it was a more perverse performance than stripping to the buff, and it certainly took longer,
but I realized that in his own weird way Max believed he was respecting my maidenly modesty. He made me put my robe back on before he let the boys turn around.

Hans trotted out with the luggage and Max returned to the role of gracious host. He offered me a plate of pastries. I took one, but the first bite tasted like sand, so I put it on my plate.
‘Why are you going to all this trouble?’ I asked bluntly. ‘I don’t know what’s out there, but unless you have more information than I do, you must know it can’t
be worth the time and trouble you will have to expend on it. Surely there are enough accessible objects, in museurns and collections, to occupy your time, without resorting to
excavation.’

‘Mr Jonsson’s pasture may prove more productive than you think,’ Max said. ‘However, you are quite right in your assessment. Under normal circumstances our organization
deals only with products that are already on the market, so to speak. However, there are times when even a hard-headed businessman may be moved by personal motives.’

The muscles of his neck stretched to a degree I had thought possible only in certain reptiles. His eyes focused on John.

John was expecting it. His hand was quite steady as he reached for his coffee cup. ‘Max, old chum – ’

‘You have annoyed us for a long time,’ Max said softly. ‘We expect and tolerate a certain amount of competition, but your methods go beyond the level of tolerance. This last
affair – you made a fatal error, my friend. Now you have compounded it. Why did you not heed my warning?’