Besides,’ I added heatedly, ‘I’m an art historian, not a private eye. And I’m supposed to be on vacation.’
‘Dr Bliss. Will you swear to me that you are not presently involved with Al Monkshood?’
‘Who?’
‘The man you greeted at the terminal.’
‘You heard me call him John – John Smythe. Maybe,’ I said hopefully, ‘we aren’t talking about the same person.’
‘He has as many aliases as hairs on his head,’ Leif said, grinding his big white teeth. ‘Smythe is one of them. Yes, we are talking about the same person. Do you expect me to believe that it was by coincidence that you hailed the best art thief in Europe?’
‘He isn’t all that good,’ I mused. ‘Al Monkshood . . . What won’t he think of next? Look here, Leif, let’s order dinner and get the waiter out of our hair; then I’ll tell you what I know. It isn’t much.’
I am not uninterested in food. A woman of my size needs her nourishment. But I can’t remember what we ordered or how it tasted. If I could have gotten my hands on John Smythe, AKA Al Monkshood, I would have squeezed his neck till his face turned puce.
We sat in silence until the waiter had brought our dinner. The silhouette cutter was still circulating, head bent over his work, he was reproducing the far from symmetrical features of a chubby Italian paterfamilias several tables away.
Our own table wasn’t very big. By the time the waiter finished fussing over the arrangement of the dishes, Leif was simmering with frustration. He kept dropping things – napkins, forks, menus – and diving under the table to retrieve them. His face was flushed with exertion by the time the waiter had finished.
‘Well, then, speak,’ he demanded.
‘Okay, okay. I met Sir John Smythe, as he called himself, in Rome several years ago. I know the title is a fake, and I presume the name is, too, though he told me John was his real first name. He was mixed up in a scheme to copy famous antique jewels and steal the originals. But,’ I said, ‘if you’re familiar with his career, you probably know the details.’
‘
‘Then you know the scam didn’t succeed – thanks in large part to me.’ Leif gave me a raised eyebrow, but modesty is not a virtue I cultivate. I went on, ‘Smythe and I were allies at one point because certain developments threatened him as well as me. I can assure you, I have no fond memories of the man and no reason to seek him out. I’d just as soon cohabit with a rattlesnake.’
I applied myself to my meal whatever it was. ‘That is all?’ Leif demanded.
‘That is all.’ It was all he was going to get. What I had told him was public knowledge – at least it was information available to any police officer. My private dealings with John were none of Leif’s business.
‘Why did you choose Sweden for your holiday?’ he asked.
‘Why not? It’s the land of my ancestors.’
‘You have kin here?’
‘Probably . . . Leif, I’ve tried to be cooperative, but I am terribly, terribly sick of Smythe-Monkshood and everything to do with him. There is nothing else I can tell you that could be of use to you.’
That wasn’t strictly true, but there were several good reasons for neglecting to mention John’s cryptic message about Wayland Smith which was beginning to look more and more like a legitimate clue instead of a cute come-on meant to lure me into a bargain-package rendezvous with John B. Smythe. It was one hell of a vague clue, though. ‘Wayland’s work’ could refer to any one of a hundred objects in a dozen different museums. If John really was planning to steal a historic treasure, and if Leif really was on his trail, Leif presumably knew more about the plot than I did. Besides, that damned message made me sound like a collaborator. I wouldn’t have blamed Leif for interpreting it that way. I couldn’t figure it out myself. Why the devil would John warn me of his illegal intentions? He knew I’d do everything possible to thwart him if I took the warning seriously . . . I hadn’t taken it seriously, though. The message had been perfectly framed – vague enough to preclude action on my part, intriguing enough to whet my curiosity. It had done the job. Here I was, right where John wanted me. I wished to God I knew why he wanted me here.
While I pursued this depressing train of thought, Leif watched me intently. After a while he said, ‘I believe you.’
‘Thanks a heap. I’d like some dessert, please.’
‘Certainly.’ He waved at the waiter and watched benevolently as I consumed something consisting primarily of whipped cream and custard. ‘I like to see a woman who enjoys her food,’ he announced.
I glanced at him, licking custard off my upper lip, but he wasn’t being funny. ‘You are right,’ he went on. ‘I should not spoil your vacation. I apologize. Let me make amends. I will show you some of the night life of Stockholm.’
Things were looking up. I smiled at him. ‘I’d like that.’
There was one minor contretemps, when I hauled my purse out from under the table and checked, as I always do, to make sure the contents were intact. I can never get the darned thing closed – I carry too many things in it – so I was not surprised to find that several items were missing. ‘My passport,’ I exclaimed.
Leif eyed the bulging, obscene object critically. ‘You should keep it always in your hands.’
‘It’s too big.’ I peered under the table, then shied back as I found myself nose to nose with Leif. His eyeballs gleamed like boiled eggs in the gloom. They looked absolutely disgusting.
‘As I thought,’ he said, fumbling around the floor. ‘Passport, lipstick, comb . . . What in God’s name is this?’
I couldn’t tell. It was too dark under the table. We both came up into the light and Leif handed me my belongings, including the object that had prompted his horrified inquiry. I didn’t blame him; it must have felt like something long-dead and rotten. I am particularly addicted to a variety of pastry made by a certain bakery in Munich. It’s like a jelly doughnut, but squashier. I had forgotten it was in there.
‘Sorry,’ I said, retrieving the collection and putting it in my bag. Leif started to lick his fingers, then thought better of it and wiped them on his napkin. ‘Is everything there?’ he asked, with the doggedly patient look men get when they deal with women’s purses.
‘I think so. No, wait – my notebook.’
We crawled around under the table for a while without success. The waiter watched our activities with poorly concealed alarm; when I explained, he joined the search. Finally he said breathlessly, ‘Perhaps it has been kicked away, under another table. If you would like me to look . . .’
‘There was nothing important in it,’ I said. ‘If it turns up, hang on to it. I’ll look in next time I’m in the neighbourhood.’
‘Are you sure you don’t wish to continue searching?’ Leif asked, as we started for the door.
I reassured him. The notebook was new; it contained nothing except a few addresses and miscellaneous notes.
The evening turned out to be a success after all. First we went to a jazz pub – ‘with jazz,’ as the advertisement carefully specified. Then we went on to a nightclub and danced. Leif was a marvellous dancer. For so large a man his movements were extraordinarily economical and controlled. After-wards we took a walk along the waterfront The white boats lifted at anchor and the long lights shimmered across the water. We held hands as we walked, and we didn’t talk much. When we finally turned back towards the hotel I had almost forgotten J. Smythe; if I thought of him at all, it was to thank him for inadvertently making it possible for me to meet Leif.
Though the hour was well after midnight, the ground floor windows of the restaurant and bar were brightly lit, and people streamed in and out of the main doors. Leif escorted me to the desk and waited till I asked for my key. When the clerk handed it over, he also gave me a small sheaf of messages.
‘There were several calls, Dr Bliss. If it is urgent, our switchboard will be open.’
Leif had stood to one side like a little gent, pretending not to listen when I mentioned my room number. Curiosity got the better of him when he saw the messages.
‘I hope nothing is wrong,’ he said.
I held the papers up so he could read them. ‘They’re all from Schmidt. Head of the National Museum, as you surely must know.’
‘Vicky, you do not need to convince me – ’
‘Just thought I’d mention it.’
