—”
“Grudge? Grudge, my eye! Why should I?”
“Because I proved my superiority,” said Tony, with a smirk and a superb disregard for the truth. “Because we made a bet and I won.”
“Like hell you won.” The cat grumbled and dug her claws into my leg. I moderated my voice. “We collaborated on that affair. It was a joint success.”
“That’s what I mean. You can’t stand sharing the credit.”
“There is some truth in that,” said Schmidt judiciously. “You do not share well with others, Vicky. You did not tell Papa Schmidt, or Sir John—”
“And that’s another thing,” shouted Tony. “Who is that character, anyway? What’s he doing in this business? How did you meet him?”
“But I have told you,” said Schmidt, winking furiously at me to indicate…something or other. Even when I’m at my best, I am sometimes uncertain as to the esoteric meaning of Schmidt’s gestures. Enlightenment dawned as he continued, “Sir John is an under-the-blanket personage of an extremely secret organization—”
“So secret I’ve never heard of it?” Tony demanded. “He’s lying to you, Schmidt. There is no such thing. He’s probably some kind of crook; Vicky attracts them the way a dog collects fleas.”
They went on exchanging insults and lies, which gave me a chance to consider this latest development. If anything, it only strengthened my determination to get myself, not to mention Tony and Schmidt, out of what was beginning to look like a nasty, dangerous, unproductive mess.
When they had wound down, I said, “If you two have quite finished, I’d like to make a statement. I said I was through, and I am. Through.”
“But the murder of Freddie—” Schmidt began.
“Schmidt, there is no way anybody could suspect I killed Freddie.”
“But the gold—” Tony exclaimed.
“What gold? We’ve built up a fabric of guesswork and surmise. We haven’t the slightest clue, and there is nothing more we can do here.”
“Not true,” said Tony. Schmidt nodded vigorous agreement.
“What can we do?”
“Inspect Hoffman’s papers.”
“Lots of luck, buster. You can be sure Friedl has already been through them with a fine-tooth comb.”
“I don’t know why you are so prejudiced against the poor woman,” Tony said. I rolled my eyes in speechless commentary. Tony reddened. “Even if she is—er—up to no good, which I consider unproven, I may find something she overlooked. I hope you won’t accuse me of vanity if I suggest I am slightly more intelligent than she.”
“No,” I said. “I won’t.”
Tony wasn’t quite sure how to take that, so he decided to let it pass. “We should also interrogate our colleagues.”
“Now, Tony—”
“Look here, Vicky,” Tony said in a kindly voice. “Let me spell it out for you, okay? You and I both got copies of that photograph of Frau Schliemann—”
“It wasn’t Frau Schliemann.”
“Well, Helene Barton of the Classics Department said it was.”
“Helene Barton is a jerk. She doesn’t know her—”
“Please, Vicky. The point is, if you and I got copies of the picture, maybe the others did, too—Dieter and Elise and Jan Perlmutter. My being here is a coincidence; I have to admit I didn’t give that photo a second thought. Maybe Dieter just happened to fix on Garmisch for his holiday. But you can bet Perlmutter wouldn’t be hanging around, and in disguise, at that, if he weren’t up to something sneaky.”
“Tony,” I said desperately, “if your—my—our—theory is correct, one of them is a killer.”
“Precisely. Therefore it behooves us to find out which one.”
“It is Perlmutter who is the killer,” said Schmidt. “He is in disguise. Or perhaps the one we have not seen— D’Addio. It is very suspicious that she has disguised herself so well we have not even seen her.”
The brilliant illogic of this took my breath away for a moment. “There’s another possibility, just as logical,” I said. “Nobody we know is the killer. The photos were sent as a bizarre practical joke, or the delusion of a sick old man. Freddy’s murder is unrelated to the hypothetical gold of Troy.”
“Then why was his body left in your garden?” Schmidt asked.
“I don’t know. Which is precisely why I intend to return to Munich this evening and make a full confession. I’ll tell my friend Karl Feder the whole story and let him laugh himself sick at my girlish delusions of buried treasure, and then the police can get on with their investigation.”
“She is speaking out of despair,” Schmidt explained to Tony. “She is easily discouraged. We will find a clue and then she will change her mind. Vicky, let us go to Garmisch and give Dieter the third degree.”
“Sorry, I didn’t bring my rubber hose. Besides, I have an errand to do this morning.”
“Ah—to find Perlmutter. Perhaps that is better. I will come with you while Tony reads the old gentleman’s mail.”
“You can come if you like. I’m not going to look for Perlmutter.”
“What, then?”
“I’m taking flowers to a dead man.”
We were still arguing in a desultory, unproductive sort of way, and finishing the food the cat hadn’t eaten, when the phone rang. It was Friedl, summoning us to The Presence. I agreed to accompany the delegation, provided I was allowed to get dressed first.
“There, you see, Tony,” Schmidt remarked. “She is recovering. She will not abandon the quest.”
“I’m going along to make sure you two don’t dig yourselves into a deeper hole,” I snapped. “And to keep you from committing me to a project I’ve no intention of pursuing. Now listen, both of you. You may not agree with me about Friedl’s character, or lack thereof, but for God’s sake don’t volunteer any information. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.”
“But of course,” said Schmidt. “That is a basic principle of criminal investigation.”
Tony’s only comment was, “Don’t be insulting.”
We called on Friedl in a body, so to speak. She looked a little startled when we marched in, and I couldn’t blame her; there was a decided nursery-rhyme air about the group—Peter, Peter; Peter’s wife; and the pumpkin. She didn’t notice the cat until Clara reared up and began clawing at the sofa. She let out a shriek, which didn’t bother the cat one whit; when she reached for a poker, I intervened.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I said untruthfully—actually. I hoped she did. “The cat seems to have attached herself to me. I’ll try to keep her out of your way.”
The cat bothered her, all right. Clara was a living reminder of the old man she had deceived and betrayed, perhaps to his death. The feeling was reciprocated. Though she permitted me to hold her, the animal didn’t relax into a nice furry bundle; her claws were out, her fur bristled. That was exactly the way Friedl affected me.
“It keeps coming back,” she muttered. “I suspect the cook feeds it. I would fire her if I could….”
“But she is an excellent cook,” said Schmidt interestedly. “The Bavarian burger especially, that is a stroke of genius.”
“Schmidt, Schmidt,” I said, more in sorrow than in anger.
“Yes, you are right, Vicky; I am distracting myself. I must allow Frau Hoffman to tell why she asked to see us.”
“I wished to know whether you had learned anything new,” Friedl said.
“No,” I said.
“That’s not quite accurate,” Tony objected. “We have discovered what it was your husband was hiding —”
I dropped the cat onto Tony’s lap. It was a vicious, cruel, spiteful gesture; the information Tony had been about to disclose was information Friedl already knew, and if my assessment was accurate,
After a while I got up and opened the door to let the cat out. Friedl went on mopping blood off Tony—an
