Trojan Gold

“Not Tony.”

“What’s his annual salary? The amount of money involved might weaken anyone’s moral fibers. Even if he’s too good for that sort of thing, consider the temptation of being hailed as the discoverer of the Trojan gold. Headlines, television interviews, a book, a film based on the book—and, under certain circumstances, a strong claim to the treasure for his museum.”

I gave up the argument, not because I was convinced but because I seemed to be losing.

Short of picking a fight with Tony in the hope that he would storm out of the house and bid me farewell forever, there was no way of getting rid of him. Anyhow, he was just as likely to go on to Bad Steinbach by himself. I didn’t want to postpone my own trip. For one thing, I was worried about Herr Muller. I should have taken steps to warn him earlier, but with a wounded, starving Schmidt on my hands early in the evening, and John later…Nothing had happened to him as yet, but then nothing had happened to me, either, until after I had paid him a visit. I’d be a lot easier in my mind if I could persuade him to get out of town for a few days.

Besides, Friedl might be on the level. I might indeed be as innocent (translation: stupid) as a new-laid egg, but John had a cocksure, arrogant way of stating theories as facts and of assuming his inter-pretation was the only logical one. I could think of others that made equal sense. Friedl could be hopeless but harmless; Freddy could be repulsive but right-minded. The villains could have been four other people.

So I said, fine, that sounds like a great idea, and I called Carl the janitor, who became incoherent with pleasure at the idea of baby-sitting Caesar for a few days. I said I’d bring him over right away, since we wanted to get an early start. This added concession almost reduced Carl to tears. De gustibus non est disputandum.

After we had dropped the dog off, we went out to dinner at a little place the tourists haven’t discovered, where the food is good and the prices are reasonable. Tony’s capacity for food is almost as great as Schmidt’s, though it doesn’t show. As he stuffed himself with Schweinebraten mit Knodel, he kept mumbling about how good it was to be back in Germany, and recalling some of our past experiences. Usually I’m a sucker for sentiment and “remember when,” but it irritated me that evening, and not only because Ann was hovering over the table like Banquo’s ghost. It was almost as if Tony were deliberately avoiding certain subjects. Whenever I casually introduced the subject of crank mail and unusual letters, Tony went off onto another spate of nostalgia.

Much later, in what are termed the wee small hours of the night, I was awakened by soft sounds at my door—light scratching, the squeak of a turning doorknob. There was no further action because I had propped a chair under the knob. Sauce for the gander…

Six

SAINT EMMERAM’S BEARD WAS STILL ICE-FRINGED; he had a long icicle on his nose as well. It had turned fiercely cold overnight; the world glittered with a cold, hard shine, like a diamond. Sunlight reflected from the snow-covered fields with a shimmer that stung the eyes. It was, as Tony said, a perfect day for skiing.

I had my skis strapped to the rack on top of the car, primarily as camouflage; I had a feeling I wasn’t going to have much time for sport. Tony was planning to rent. Tony has this delusion that he is a great skier. I don’t know what his problem is; it can’t be his height because a good many fine skiers are tall. He kept talking about trying the Kandahar Trail, where the championship downhill races are held. I was tempted to tell him to go ahead and break his damned leg, so he’d be out of my hair, but then I decided that was not nice. Besides, a broken leg might keep him from traveling on to Turin, and who knows what I might find myself doing with a pathetic, bedridden, pain- wracked, engaged ex-boyfriend in desperate need of TLC?

He made no mention of his late-night visit, so naturally I did not refer to it. Ann’s name was not prominent in our conversation, either.

Tony loved Emmeram’s icy beard and the wreath of greenery draped around his stony shoulders. “I’m glad I thought of this,” he said, as I pulled into the parking area reserved for hotel guests. “I always liked this place. Nice to see it hasn’t changed.”

“Herr Hoffman is dead,” I said.

Tony turned a blank, innocent face toward me. “Who?”

“Hoffman. The host—the owner.”

“Oh, the nice old guy who bought us a round the night before we left? Too bad. You know, this is a great place to spend Christmas. We can go to midnight mass at the church and…er…”

Freddy was not at the desk. There were a number of people waiting impatiently; the concierge, a stout middle-aged woman, kept poking nervously at the wisps of hair escaping from the bun at the back of her neck. When she got to me, she didn’t wait for me to speak, but shook her head and said rapidly, “Gruss Gott, I am sorry, but unless you have a reservation—”

“I believe Frau Hoffman is expecting me. My name is Bliss.”

“Ach, ja, die Dame aus Munchen. Entschuldigen Sie, we are so busy—”

“Calm yourself, gnadige Frau,” Tony said soothingly. “We are in no hurry, and life is short.”

Tony’s German is schoolboy-simple, with a pronounced American accent that some Germans, especially middle-aged women, seem to find delicious. The concierge stopped poking at her hair and returned his smile. “You are very kind, mein Herr. You understand, this is a busy season for us and we are shorthanded; I am the housekeeper, not a clerk, and what we are to do, with so many people…”

Tony listened sympathetically. Basking in his boyish smile and melting brown eyes, the woman would have gone on indefinitely if I hadn’t cleared my throat and reminded her that customers were piling up again. She handed a registration form, not to me, but to Tony. It’s a man’s world, all right, especially in country villages. I took it away from him and filled it in. There was no bellboy; Tony allowed me to carry my own suitcase.

If Friedl was planning to murder me, she had taken pains to soften me up for the slaughter. The room was one of the best in the house—a big corner room, with an alcove furnished with sofa and chairs, and a wooden balcony offering a breathtaking view of the mountains. I was distressed to observe that the balcony was decorated with plastic geraniums.

Tony didn’t comment on the geraniums; he was more interested in the bed, a massive antique four- poster.

“Don’t worry about getting another room,” I said generously. “You can sleep on the couch in the alcove.”

“It’s only five feet long!”

“There’s always the floor.”

“Now, Vicky, this is ridiculous,” Tony began.

“It certainly is. But I wasn’t the one who established the rules. I suppose we could put a naked sword between us, the way the medieval ambassadors did when they bedded their royal masters’ brides. Ann would probably love that one.”

Tony picked up his suitcase and stalked out. When I went through the lobby, I saw him flirting with the concierge. He was so intent on the job he didn’t see me, which suited me fine.

By the time I reached Muller’s shop, I had worked myself into a state of idiotic apprehension; finding the place dark and the door locked, I banged and knocked for some time before I noticed the sign. It read, “Closed for the holidays.”

I was about to turn away when there was a rattle of hardware inside. The door opened a crack; a narrowed blue eye and a tuft of bushy white eyebrow appeared.

“Ah, it is you,” Muller exclaimed, and threw the door wide.

“I thought you’d gone.”

“I am about to go—to my daughter’s, for Weihnachtszeit. Come in, come in.” He locked the door after me and then went on, “I had not intended to leave until tomorrow, but your friend persuaded me otherwise. He is waiting now to drive me to Fussen. A kindly gesture, though I cannot believe—”

“My friend,” I repeated.

“Yes, he is here. Perhaps you wish to speak to him.”

I indicated that I definitely did wish to speak to him.