Trojan Gold (18 page)

Lederhosen are those short leather pants. Let me repeat the word “short.” They do not come to the knee, or just above the knee, or to mid-thigh; they are, not to belabor the point,
short
. On Tony they were a cross between a visual obscenity and a bad joke; he had to buy the largest pair in the shop in order to cover the essentials, and they were so big around the waist there was room inside for two of him. He said it didn't matter, the suspenders would hold them up.

The suspenders, brightly embroidered with objects such as edelweiss, were part of the costume, which also included knee socks and one of those silly little hats with a feather or an ostrich plume or a
Gamsbart
(chamois beard) tucked into the band. Tony's had a white ostrich feather. When attired in the complete ensemble, he looked exactly like Peter, Peter, Pumpkin-Eater in a German edition of
Mother Goose
I had bought for one of my nieces.

He wanted me to try on dirndls—so we'd match, I suppose. I actually love those cute little outfits; the astute reader has probably realized that my nasty remarks about the waitresses were prompted
by pure jealousy. A dirndl looks as absurd on me as the lederhosen looked on Tony, if not as indecent. I tried on a few, to shut him up; when I saw him in a whispered conference with the shopkeeper, I realized he was planning to buy me one for a Christmas present. I also realized I didn't have anything for him, so we cruised a few more stores and I took mental notes on the items Tony admired.

We stowed his parcel in the car. By mat time it was dark, and the town was aglitter with thousands of Christmas bulbs strung from storefronts and lampposts. Snow crunched underfoot, the air was redolent with the smell of pine branches and wood fires; the colorful ski jackets and caps glowed like neon—raspberry, turquoise, hot pink—and the sound of carols poured from every door. It was very pretty and festive, and all I could think of was John's advice: Look out for familiar faces. Between the ski masks and the scarves and the caps pulled low over ears and foreheads, it would have been difficult to recognize my own mother. The season and the setting could not have been more convenient for someone who preferred to pass unrecognized.

We hadn't gone a block from the car before I saw a familiar face. He was as swathed in scarves as all the others; I recognized him by the globular red nose that flashed on and off.

He saw me at the same time. Dropping the arm of the woman who was with him, he came pelting toward me, arms extended, nose glowing. “Vicky! Adored and most elongated of womanly pulchritude”—he made it all one word, which you can do in German, if you aren't particular about syntax. “You changed your mind! You came!”

He flung his arms around me and burrowed his face into my chest.

It was merely a token gesture, since I was wearing three layers of clothing and my parka had a zipper that closed it tighter than a chastity girdle, but Tony decided to take offense. Twisting a hand in the back of Dieter's collar, he removed him.

“She came, and I came with her,” he said, biting off the words so that his breath made irritated white puffs in the cold air, like a dragon hiccuping. “Cut it out, Dieter.”

“I saw you,” Dieter admitted. “I hoped you were only a figment of my imagination and that if I ignored you, you would dissolve into air. Where is my nose?”

He fumbled at his face. “Here,” I said, handing it back to him. “Must you, Dieter?”

“Yes. Yes, yes, I must, or go mad with longing….” He began pounding on his chest.

I indicated the woman who stood some distance away, her arms folded and her foot tapping. “Isn't that Elise?”

“It was Elise,” Dieter admitted. “No doubt it still is Elise. You see, when you turned me down, Vicky, I had to find another companion. Don't tell Elise I asked you first. She would not like to be second choice.”

Elise did not come rushing to greet us. “Look who I have found,” Dieter cried, presenting us like trophies.

“Yes,” said Elise. “Quite a coincidence that we should all be here again.”

“It certainly is,” said Tony.

“Why do you stand looking hard at one another
like two strange dogs?” Dieter asked curiously. “That is no way for old friends to behave. Let us all kiss one another.”

Whereupon he flung his arms around Tony and stood on tiptoe, his lips pursed. Torn between amusement and disgust, Tony finally succumbed to laughter; he pushed Dieter away and reached for Elise. “Good idea, old buddy.”

He had to lift Elise clean off her feet to kiss her; when he put her down she was looking a lot more amiable. Giggling, she linked arms with Tony and leaned against him. “We were about to have dinner. You will join us, won't you?”

There was no way of getting out of it without rudeness, even if we had wanted to, which neither of us did. The coincidences were falling as thick as the leaves in Vallombrosa.

But as the meal progressed and everyone mellowed with wine and food, I began to wonder whether this particular coincidence might not be legitimate. Dieter was a keen skier, and Garmisch was one of the most popular winter-sports areas in Germany. Elise's presence surprised me a little, but there again, Dieter's explanation made sense. They had certainly been friendly the year before; now that her marriage was kaput, she would be looking for entertainment.

I wondered whether Schmidt would approve of her new hairstyle. It was jet-black instead of pink, and arranged in the wispy, wind-blown style fashionable that year. She had lost weight, which in her case was not becoming. The hollows under her cheekbones were as deep as scars, and her wrists looked brittle as dry twigs. She laughed a lot.

Tony wasn't buying the coincidence, but he didn't make much progress in his subtle attempt to elicit information. One of his problems was that he had no idea what we were supposed to be looking for; it could have been a painting or a piece of sculpture, a rare coin or an entire frescoed ceiling. He twitched at the mention of Tintoretto and started at Saint Stephen's Crown. It was the most entertaining aspect of the evening, a lot funnier than Dieter's dreadful jokes.

During the course of the usual shoptalk and professional gossip, I had a chance to inquire after Rosa and Jan. Elise's comments about Rosa were surprisingly catty, even for her; from what she said, I got the impression that a professional feud was brewing, probably over some earth-shaking issue such as whether a painting was by Rembrandt or by one of his students. Dieter professed to know nothing about her; since their fields of expertise were so different, they would not ordinarily meet professionally, and—as Dieter candidly and crudely remarked—Rosa had nothing else to attract a man of his tastes.

He had more to say about Jan Perlmutter. They lived in the same city, though divided from one another by a wall that was more than material, and communication between the museums of the two Berlins was not infrequent. According to Dieter, Jan had recently been passed over for promotion because of some petty political issue, and was very bitter about it.

The only other subject of interest arose when Elise asked where we were staying.

“Ah, the Hexenhut,” Dieter said reminiscently.
“Yes, it was a pleasant little place—especially that waitress—you know who I mean, Tony….”

He rolled his eyes and smacked his lips in a display that made it difficult for Tony to admit a like knowledge. I said, “You're revolting, Dieter. I suppose you mean Friedl.”

“Yes, that was her name. Dear little Friedl. How is she, Tony?”

I took it upon myself to reply. The news of Friedl's marriage and bereavement didn't arouse much interest; Elise looked bored, Dieter giggled and made a ribald comment.

After dinner, we made the rounds of a few bars, and then Tony and I excused ourselves. We left Dieter doing the
Schuhplattler
with a group of costumed entertainers while Elise looked on with a sour smile.

As we began to drive back to Bad Steinbach, Tony said thoughtfully, “It can't be Dieter.”

“What can't? Who can't?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I'm not sure I do.”

“Friedl said her husband planned to communicate with someone about the treasure. She thought it was you, but she may have been mistaken. Elise and Dieter were both at the hotel last year, and both are museum officials. What I'm saying is, it can't be Dieter.”

“Why not?” We left the lights of the town behind and headed up into the hills; the stars spilled out across the sky like a handful of flung jewels.

“He's such a jackass,” Tony said, in tones of deep disgust.

“He is that.”

“Hoffman wouldn't confide in an idiot like Dieter.”

“You think Elise is more likely?”

“No, not really. Now if Perlmutter were to turn up in Bad Steinbach…”

“Come, now,” I said, sneering. “Don't tell me you've fallen for the dirty-Communist routine.”

“Eastern-bloc scholars have pressures on them we don't have,” Tony argued. “Suppose the item in question came originally from behind the Iron Curtain. Recovering it would give Perlmutter a lot of prestige, maybe a step up the party ladder.”

Again he was getting too close to the truth. I changed the subject.

As soon as I got Tony tucked away for the night, I planned to pay John a visit. He was entitled to know what I had discovered. The presence of two more of the gang of six would get his mind off Tony as suspect number one. (At least that provided a reasonable motive for calling on John; if there were others, I preferred not to admit them.)

But it was to be an evening of renewing old acquaintances. When we walked into the lobby, the first thing I saw was an all-too-familiar face and form. Red as a rose and round as a berry—Schmidt and no other.

John had promised to take care of Schmidt. I hadn't inquired how he meant to handle the matter. Now I wished I had. Obviously the scheme had backfired.

Schmidt was so happy to see us. He waved frantically. “Here,” he cried. “Here I am.”

We joined him. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I came to help you, of course,” said Schmidt.

“But I thought—”

“What is
he
doing here?” Schmidt glowered at Tony.

“Well,” I began.

“You have told him!”

“No. No, Schmidt—now look, Schmidt—”

“It was our private affair. You and I and—”

“Never mind!”

“You told this fat old idiot about the deal and you didn't tell me?” Tony demanded.

“Fat and old? Who is fat and old?” Schmidt struggled to get out of his chair, but it fit his ample posterior so snugly he could only rock back and forth. His voice rose. “Fat and old, is it? I will show you. You will receive a strip of paper measuring the length of my sword. Choose your seconds!”

That was when I knew Schmidt was drunk—really bombed out, stinking drunk, not just mildly inebriated. He never challenges people to duels when he's just mildly inebriated. At my urging, Tony apologized; we sat down; Schmidt stopped rocking and relaxed. A look of mild perplexity replaced his indignant frown, and he muttered, “Now what was it I had to tell you? So much has happened, but Sir John must know—”

“How long have you been waiting?” I asked, trying to get his mind off the engrossing subject of Sir John.

“Hours,” Schmidt grumbled. “Hours and hours and…No one knew where you had gone. Since I did not know where you had gone, I could not follow.”

“True, O Schmidt,” I said.

“I had a little to drink and to eat,” Schmidt said, like a suspect under police interrogation trying to remember the activities of a long-past day. “I talked to the pleasant lady at the desk—she is the housekeeper, you know…. But she intends to resign as soon as Frau Hoffman can find a replacement. I fear the poor young lady is not popular with the employees. It was expected that the hotel would be taken over by the nephew of the first Frau Hoffman, since it has belonged to her family for two hundred years. There is much resentment, I believe, since the second Frau Hoffman—”

“Schmidt,” I said. “What are you talking about?”

Schmidt blinked. “About the nephew—or perhaps it is the grandnephew—”

“
Why
are you talking about him?”

“Now that,” said Schmidt, “is a pertinent question. Why am I talking about him? I do not know. I should not be talking about him. There is a matter of greater importance—of consuming importance—of an importance demanding immediate action….
Ach, ja
, now I remember! Come, come quickly, I will show you. He is there—I saw him go in. He has not come out. I staked myself here to watch.”

He surged to his feet, accompanied by the chair. Tony plucked it off his posterior and put it down. Schmidt ignored this with the lofty unconcern of a man who has more important matters on his mind. “There,” he hissed. “He is there. I saw him go in. He has not come out.”

He pointed toward the door of the bar. “But, Schmidt,” I began. “There's another door—”

“Who?” Tony asked blankly.

“I will show you.” Schmidt beamed. His face
looked like the harvest moon hanging low over the hills of Minnesota. A pang of homesickness swept over me. Oh, to be in Minnesota now—away from intoxicated German professors and slippery English crooks and miscellaneous people trying to kill me….

We followed Schmidt to the bar. I fully expected that his suspect—some innocent householder who had beady eyes or a nose like Peter Lorre's—had had his beer and gone home via the street door. I was wrong. “There,” said Schmidt, in the hissing shriek that is his idea of a whisper. “See—he is there!”

He was there, all right. There was no doubt as to whom Schmidt meant; his quivering forefinger and his intent stare pilloried a man sitting alone at a corner table.