The door to the shop was closed; Muller escorted me into a tiny hall that led to his living quarters.
Already the small parlor had the cold, waiting look of a place whose occupants have left it for a protracted period of time—dark, fireless, overly neat. Two comfortable chairs flanked the fireplace. In one—obviously her usual place—was the cat, bolt upright, tail curled neatly around her hindquarters, wide blue eyes fixed unblinkingly on the occupant of the other chair.
John was dressed with less than his habitual elegance; I deduced that the jeans and shabby boots and worn jacket had been selected in an effort to convince Herr Muller he was just one of the boys and hence trustworthy. He was staring back at the cat with a nervous intensity that reminded me of a character in one of the Oz books, who tries to cow the Hungry Tiger with the terrible power of the human eye. The cat appeared no more impressed than the Hungry Tiger had been.
Glancing in my direction, he said sternly, “You’re late, Dr. Bliss. I expected you an hour ago.”
“I had to…We stopped by…I’m sorry.”
“If you’re ready, Herr Muller.” John got to his feet. The cat let out a raucous Siamese squawl. John flinched.
“Yes, I will get my suitcase. But I still cannot believe…”
“It’s just a precaution,” John said. “Our investigation is in the preliminary stages.”
Shaking his head, the old man ambled out. “Who is ‘our’?” I inquired. “Interpol, British Intelligence, or some exotic organization invented by you?”
John whipped a leather folder from his pocket and presented it for my inspection. I must say when he did a job, he did it properly; the shield glittered busily in the light, and the ID card was frayed authentically around the edges. Even the picture was perfect—it had the ghastly, staring look typical of drivers’ licenses, passport photos, and other official documents.
“International Bureau of Arts and Antiquities Frauds,” I read.
“IBAAF,” said John, returning the folder to his hip pocket. “It was your name that won the old boy’s confidence, however. You’re a district inspector.”
“And you, of course, are my superior?”
“Regional inspector.”
“That’s modest of you. I had expected a title with the word ‘Chief’ in it.”
“I have no time for idle persiflage,” said John coldly. “You should have been here before this. Let me be brief—”
“That I want to see.”
The cat yowled as if in agreement. John started nervously. “I’m staying here,” he said rapidly. “At least for the time being. I want to have a look at the fragments of the
“The man who was shooting at us must have seen you.”
“I was wearing one of those handy-dandy ski masks, remember? I might have been any casual traveler, rushing to the rescue. If you want to see me, come to the back door and give the signal—”
“What signal?”
“Anything you like,” John said magnanimously. “Whistle ‘Yankee Doodle,’ rap three times—”
“Three, then a pause, then two.”
“How unoriginal. I’ll telephone or leave word at the desk should anything interesting arise.” The sound of footsteps descending the stairs quickened his voice. “Watch for familiar faces. Be careful. Don’t tell Tony I’m here. Let me know—”
“I’ll report later this evening, sir,” I said, as Herr Muller entered.
John tried to take the suitcase from him but was rebuffed. “I am not so old as that,” the old man said huffily. “We can go now. I still cannot believe…Fraulein, do you know what it is, this mysterious missing painting?”
“No,” I said, feeling it was safer not to elaborate. Lord knows what fantasy John had spun.
“My friend would not do anything wrong,” the old man insisted.
“There is no question of that,” John said smoothly. “I can’t go into detail, Herr Muller, you understand, but we are certain that his involvement was accidental and, unhappily, fatal. He said nothing to you?”
“I have told you. I cannot believe…”
The cat jumped off the chair and walked stifflegged around the suitcase, sniffing it and grumbling to herself.
“She knows I am going away,” Muller said seriously. “She doesn’t like changes. Remember, Herr Inspektor, she must have a square of raw liver each evening….”
A spasm of profound distaste rippled over John’s face. “Er—Dr. Bliss, why don’t you take the nice pussy cat to the hotel with you? She likes you.”
Clara had given up her inspection of the suitcase and was rubbing around my ankles. I bent over to stroke her. “Don’t you like cats, sir?”
“I am fond of all animals. That cat doesn’t like me.”
“Why, sir,” I said, “you must be imagining things. Cats are splendid judges of character. I always say, never trust a person a cat dislikes,…sir.”
The cat started toward John. The hoarse purr with which she had welcomed my touch changed tone. It was more like a growl. To be accurate, it
“Perhaps she would prefer to go with you, Fraulein,” said Muller. “It is her old home, after all.”
“I imagine she’ll go where she wants to go,” I said. “Don’t worry about her, Herr Muller. I’ll help the inspector to watch over her.”
“That would be most kind.”
John had retreated into the hallway, and the cat had backed him into a corner. Crouched, her tail twitching, she appeared to be on the verge of leaping. Much as the sight entertained me, I was anxious to get Muller on his way. I scooped Clara up and put her in the parlor while John made his getaway.
The back door opened onto a walled garden deep in snow. Paths had been shoveled to the gate and to a chalet-style bird feeder, obviously Muller’s own work, which hung from a pine tree. Its branches were strung with suet, bits of fruit and berries, and other scraps.
Muller hovered in the doorway, one foot in the house and one foot out. “I must make sure I turned off the fire under the glue pot.”
“It’s off,” John said firmly. “I watched you do it.”
“Fresh water for the cat—”
“I watched you do that, too.”
The old man’s eyes wandered over the dead garden. “I meant to take the
John was hopping from one foot to the other, whether from cold or the same formless sense of anxiety that nagged me, I did not know. “With all respect, Herr Muller—”
I slipped my arm through the old man’s. “I’ll take the flowers,” I said. “I meant to do it anyway.”
“You would be so good? For her as well—poor Amelie?”
“Of course.”
“Not flowers, they would only freeze. Green boughs as for
“I know,” I said gently. “They still do that in my home town in Minnesota. I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”
That promise got him out of the house. While he was locking the door, he told me how to find the cemetery. “The church is abandoned now, no one goes there except to tend the graves, and there are few left who care; Anton’s grave will be the last, I think. For generations, the family of his wife was buried there, so he was given permission to rest alongside her; but one day the mountain will crumble and cover church and graves alike. The fools have cut away the trees for their sports, tampering with God’s work—they don’t know or care….”
Between us, we urged him down the path to the gate and through it, into a roofless corridor of an alleyway lined for its entire length with high fences. These people liked their privacy. I could see that John approved of it, too. He wrestled the suitcase from Muller and put it in the back of his car.
