Trojan Gold (7 page)

“Containing troop quarters, a hospital, and an air-raid shelter for fifteen thousand people,” John said. “Because of its strong fortifications and its location, in the grounds of the zoo in central Berlin, it was one of the last places to be taken. In fact, it wasn't taken; the commandant surrendered after the general order had gone out at midnight on the first of May. The Russians entered the bunker several hours later—before dawn.”

“So it was still dark,” I said. “Raining, too—”

“Rain was the least of it.” John lit another cigarette. “The city was a scene from the inferno—church spires burning like giant candles, Russian tanks rumbling along Unter den Linden and the Wilhelmstrasse, screaming mobs fighting their way through the flaming, rubble-strewn streets. There was a heavy artillery bombardment, and hand-to-hand fighting, throughout the zoo and park area. The commandant of the Tiergarten bunker told his men that those who wanted to try breaking out before the surrender could do so.”

“So people were going in and out—”

“Mostly in,” John said. “What you must realize is that the Russians were not a homogeneous group. The first ones to reach Berlin were highly disciplined shock troops; the terrified inhabitants, expecting the worst, were surprised and relieved when they were treated with relative decency. The second wave was something else again—a motley medley of illiterate tribesmen from the steppes—Karelians, Kazakhs, Tatars, Mongols, you name it—who could barely speak Russian and who had never seen a light bulb or a
W.C.
”

“I know that. And I don't want to hear—”

John went on as if I had not spoken, his voice, as cool and dispassionate as that of a lecturer. “There were thirty thousand people crammed into the shelter in the bunker—twice the number it had been designed to hold. There were patients in the hospital, nurses, doctors, guards. The commandant handed over the keys; the Russians went in. Then, to coin a phrase, all hell broke loose. Patients were shot in their beds, nurses—” He broke off at my involuntary gesture of protest and a bleak smile
touched his lips. “War is hell, as they say. While all this was going on, the Russian troops reached the third level, where the museum treasures were stored.

“What happened then is anybody's guess. The Soviets never turned over the museum pieces to the joint commission on missing and stolen art. Some of them have resurfaced since, but it is conceivable that the gold of Troy is still thriftily stored away in a Kremlin vault. It may have been lost or destroyed during the journey east. A group of those untutored laddies from the steppes may have smashed it to fragments in the boyish exuberance of victory. They wouldn't have realized its value—”

“There is another possibility,” I said. “Someone may have got to it before the Russians did. Someone who did know its value. In all that pandemonium, he could have smuggled it out of the building and out of the city. It didn't bulk that large. Schliemann bundled the whole lot into his wife's shawl when he removed it from the excavation.”

“Anything is possible,” John said. He thought for a second and then added, “Almost anything. See here, Vicky, there are a number of points about that scenario of yours that make my hackles rise. Why was the photograph sent to you? Why didn't the sender give you more information? Your advertisement was a wee bit misleading, you know. Black Michael and Rupert of Hentzau may not be hiding in the woodshed, but something nasty is; the bloodstain you described didn't come from a cut finger. If the sender is still alive, why hasn't he communicated with you?”

“He could have had an accident.”

“Tripped on a cobblestone and cut himself on a beer tin,” said John in his most disagreeable voice. “And some kindly passerby found the envelope and posted it?”

“You're contradicting yourself,” I said. “First you tell me there's no evidence and then you imply—”

“That the only evidence is bloody,” John said poetically. “Either way, I don't like it.”

“Then you're not interested?”

“No.”

The flat finality of his refusal caught me unawares. I stared at him, disconcerted and surprised; he shifted uneasily and turned away. “Give it up, Vicky. You're wasting your time.”

“Just tell me one thing. Are there any rumors in the art underworld about the Trojan gold?”

“I have severed my connections with that ambiance,” John said primly. “I am leading a life of quiet, honest—”

“Sure you are. That's why you're in disguise—why you keep looking nervously in rearview mirrors, why you are so astonishingly well informed about the Battle of Berlin and the architecture of the Tiergarten bunker.”

“Oooh, what an evil, suspicious mind you have,” John murmured. “I know a lot about a lot of things, my dear.”

“Military history is not your specialty. Would you care to swear on something sacred to you—your own precious hide for example—that your interest in the gold of Troy has not been recently reawakened by some of those rumors I mentioned?”

“You cut me to the quick.” John pressed his hand against his presumably aching heart and gave me
a soulful look. “In order to dispel your suspicions and restore that perfect amity that should mark our relationship, I will make a clean breast of it. I owe the information to my dear old dad.”

The statement surprised me so that I forgot, momentarily, that he hadn't denied the allegation. One tended to think of John as self-engendered, like Minerva from Jove's headache.

He went on blandly, “You'd remember every grisly detail, too, if you had heard them as often as I did. The Battle of Berlin was the old boy's favorite topic of conversation when he got to reminiscing about the good old days in general and his own heroism in particular. He'd rave on for hours about how Churchill tried to convince the Allies to drive through to Berlin, and how bloody Eisenhower held back. He had studied the subject intensively, and I was the only one who'd listen to him. Or rather, who could be coerced into listening. I was young and frail and helpless—”

“And abused and whatever,” I agreed. “Is that why you became a pacifist?”

“Because of Papa's ghoulish war stories?” John grinned. “I wouldn't call myself a pacifist. It's impossible to convince some people of the error of their ways without hitting them as often and as hard as one possibly can. I'm simply opposed to people hitting
me
.”

“Emulating dear old Dad's heroism is not your aim?”

“Emphatically not. Which is why I am presently avoiding publicity. In case it has slipped your mind, I am still being sought by the police of several countries, including Germany.”

“Public enemy number one.”

“More like number one hundred and ten. I never aspired to greatness. Neither do I aspire to spending ten to fifteen years in prison.”

“So you won't help me.”

“No.”

“All right.” I reached for the handle of the door.

John's hand closed over mine. “Don't be a sorehead. Let me buy you a drink and we'll reminisce about old times.”

“No, thanks. You can drop me at my car if you will. It's parked near the gallery.”

Conversation during the drive back was minimal. His brow unclouded, his hands light on the wheel, John whistled tunefully as he drove. I recognized the song: “Oh Mistress Mine, Where Are You Roving?”

Good question. John acted like a man who was at peace with the world, having fulfilled a tedious duty to an old acquaintance. His behavior was unexceptional, his logic was unassailable—and he had been courteous enough to refrain from hinting, even obliquely, that I must have invented the whole preposterous story as an excuse for trying to locate him.

I could have killed him.

“That's my car,” I said, pointing.

“I know,” said John, driving past.

“Of course you do. I should send you the mechanic's bill.”

“I trust it wasn't excessive,” John said anxiously. “There were only a few minuscule wires dislocated.” He turned the corner and stopped. “This is
a bit more private,” he explained. “I presume you'd rather not be seen in my company.”

“You mean you'd rather not be seen in mine.”

“Just a precaution. You do have an untidy habit of attracting predators.” Before I could reply to this blow below the belt—the most recent set of predators had been put on my trail by John himself—he leaned across me and opened my door.

I took the hint. For fear of scraping his precious tires, he had stopped a safe distance from the curb, and I stepped out into six inches of icy slush.

I turned. “I won't bother putting an advertisement in the papers when I find the gold. You'll see the headlines.”

“Would you mind letting go of the door?”

“Oh—sorry.”

Instead of closing it, he remained stretched out across the seat, peering up at me from under lowered brows. “You aren't going to take my well-meant advice?”

“No.”

John's frown deepened. “Do you know something you haven't told me?”

“A few ideas are swimming briskly about in my head,” I said. “But they needn't concern you. You aren't interested.”

Still prone, he took a card and a pen from his pocket. “I might be able to extend a few tentacles into the old-boy network. See if anything is stirring.”

I watched him scribble on the card. “I'd appreciate that. But please don't bother giving me a phone number; it would just turn out to be the So
viet chancellery or the Society for the Prevention of Extramarital Sex.”

John grinned reluctantly, but held on to the card. “I'll be in touch. We might have dinner. Or perhaps a spot of extramarital—”

“Sorry. I'm saving myself for Tony.”

“Who's Tony?”

“An old friend of mine. He's coming all the way from Chicago to spend Christmas with me. He's an assistant professor—six-five, tall, dark, and handsome.” I don't know why I went on talking; I couldn't seem to stop myself. “If Tony should fail me, I'm afraid I would have to consider Dieter's application before yours. He's shorter than you are, but he'll be a curator at the Antikenmuseum by the time he's forty. A nice, honest job.”

John propped his chin on his hands and politely smothered a yawn. “Do go on,” he urged. “How far down the list am I?”

The slush had soaked through my supposedly waterproof boots and my feet were getting numb. “Never mind,” I snapped. “I'll be seeing you. Or not, as the case may be.”

“Take this.” He handed me the card.

“Well!” I said, examining it.

John's smile shone with seraphic innocence. “It's an answering service,” he murmured.

The door slammed; the car pulled away.

“Bastard,” I said, staring after it.

I had spoken English; but many
Münchener
understand the language. A woman passing along the sidewalk stopped and looked at me. “Aren't they all, dearie,” she said.

 

It was a good thing I had to keep my foot on the gas as I drove back to work. Otherwise I'd have been tempted to kick myself.

Though I felt sure he hadn't meant to do so, John had given me a clue with one casual question. He hadn't asked
why
the photograph had been sent to me. He had asked why the photograph had been sent to
me
. The stress made all difference. Why send it to me, of all people? And why in heaven's name hadn't it occurred to me to ask myself the question?

I knew why I hadn't asked myself, and the answer did me no credit. Vanity, all is vanity, saith the poet. Whom else would a repentant thief look up but the great Victoria Bliss, art historian extraordinaire and famous amateur sleuth?

Which was nonsense. I wasn't famous. In the field of pre-Hellenic art, I wasn't even well known. I had not written on the subject or lectured about it.

Somewhere, at some time, I must have met the sender of that photograph, talked to him—bragged, more likely—about my status and my expertise.

I had no opportunity to explore the hypothesis that afternoon. When I dashed into the museum, already ten minutes late for a meeting, Schmidt was lying in wait for me. He was furious—not because I was late, but because I had eluded him earlier—and I had to stand there in my wet, icy boots while he bawled me out.

The meeting lasted for over two hours, and then I had a dozen odds and ends to deal with. When
the long day was over, I drove straight home without bothering to see whether Schmidt was following me.

The first thing I did was to call the number on the card John had given me. It turned out to be an answering service, just as he had said. I had expected some kind of practical joke, and it wasn't until the bored voice asked for whom I was calling that I realized I didn't know.

“John Smythe?” I mumbled, making it a question.

“I am sorry, we have no client of that name.”

Hot with fury and embarrassment, I was about to hang up when it hit me. “Schmidt,” I said. “John—Johann Schmidt.”

“Your message?”

“Never mind,” I growled, and hung up.

Caesar growled too, and lunged for the phone. The strange black object had offended me; he was anxious to mete out the punishment it deserved. I pushed him away and was about to replace the phone when it rang. The caller was Schmidt, suggesting he drop by and take me out to dinner. I didn't ask where he was; I suspected he was calling from the kiosk on the corner. I told him no, I didn't want to go out, I was catching a cold, I had a headache and a lot of work to do. He didn't believe me. Finally I hung up on him.

The phone kept ringing. Schmidt again; then Gerda, wanting me to go out with a cousin of hers who was in town for the holidays. I know what Gerda's cousins are like—she had set me up with a blind date once before—so I declined. Schmidt called again. Another friend called, asking me to a
party I didn't want to go to. Schmidt called again. After that I unplugged the phone.