Trojan Gold

known all these interesting things earlier.”

“Oh, were you looking for me?”

“Yes. So was Clara.”

“I can’t say I’m sorry to have missed Clara.”

“She went with me to the cemetery.”

“How jolly. I seem to detect a note of criticism, even of resentment, in your voice; is there something I’m missing?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. Let’s see, what else is new? Oh, yes. Jan Perlmutter has come in out of the cold, or out of the closet, or whatever—”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

John threw up his arm as if to protect himself from a blow. “Your suspicion cuts me to the quick. I saw the gentleman with you this evening, and I recognized him from the snapshot you were good enough to share with me.”

“Oh.” I sat down on the bed. “So you admit you’ve been watching over me. Or is it following me?”

“A little of both.” His hand moved across the small of my back.

“I said this is business—”

“A little of both,” John repeated. “Yes, I saw Perl-mutter. I found it amusing….” Somehow I found myself on my back with John leaning over me and the robe I had assumed with such difficulty half-off. He continued without missing a beat, “…seeing you all together, smiling at each other and lying…” He kissed me and went on smoothly, “…in your collective teeth with every word….”

I let out a screech. “Your hands are freezing.”

“Oh, sorry. Let’s try this.”

The next sound I made wasn’t a scream, but I supposed it might have been rather shrill. John’s reply, if any, was lost in a thunderous crash. The door exploded inward and a large, round projectile hurtled through the opening. A large, round, orange projectile.

“You are safe, Vicky, I am here,” Schmidt shouted. “There is nothing to fear!”

“Oh, Christ,” John said. “Is that—does he have—”

He rolled off me and got very slowly and carefully to his feet.

“Put the gun down, Schmidt,” I said apprehensively.

“Oh, it is Sir John,” Schmidt exclaimed. “I am so glad to see you again, my friend.”

John bared his teeth in a sickly smile. “I’m delighted to see you, too, Herr Schmidt. Er—that’s a very nice gun you have there. Colt forty-five, isn’t it?”

Schmidt nodded, beaming. “Yes, it is a rare antique. Would you like to see it?” He offered it to John. I think he’d forgotten his finger was still on the trigger. The muzzle was pointing straight at John’s nose.

“Lovely,” John said in a strangled voice.

His hand moved in a blur of speed, sweeping the weapon neatly out of Schmidt’s pudgy little paw. Then he turned pea-green and collapsed into the nearest chair.

“You don’t have to be so rude,” Schmidt said, hurt. “I would have given it to you.”

“Where did you get it?” I demanded. Germany in its admirable wisdom has very tight gun-control laws.

Schmidt grinned and winked. “Ha ha, Vicky. I have my connections.”

“It probably isn’t even registered,” I muttered. “Schmidt, what possessed you to come crashing in here?”

“You screamed,” said Schmidt.

“I did not scream. I…It was not a scream.”

“Well, I see that now,” said Schmidt. He gave me an admiring leer. “I forget that you have so many lovers. First Tony—”

John stopped mopping his brow and gave me a thoughtful look, but said nothing. Schmidt went merrily on, “I knew it was not Tony, since he was with me. Dieter was very angry after you would not let him make love with you, he said many rude things which you did not hear because you had closed the door, but I was afraid he would come back and do what he said he would do to you, so I brought my gun, in case of trouble, and tiptoed here to listen at the door and make sure Dieter had not come back to assault you, and then when you cried out…Well, now you see how it was. Are you going to get up from the bed?”

“No,” I said.

“Then I will sit here and we will have a conference,” Schmidt announced.

“Schmidt,” I said wearily, “the door is gaping open—I don’t know how we are going to explain that—and I am somewhat inadequately clothed—”

“Yes, it is very nice,” said Schmidt, eyeing me with candid approval.

“…and why Tony hasn’t appeared I cannot imagine—”

“He won’t come; he is sulking,” Schmidt explained. “He said you were rude to him and so far as he is concerned the entire male population of Bad Steinbach can assault you. But he didn’t mean it, Vicky.”

“Go away, Schmidt,” I said.

“I don’t want to go away. I want to stay here and talk to Sir John.”

“I’m afraid not this evening, Herr Schmidt.” John had recovered himself; he rose with all his old grace, and had the effrontery to grin at me. “Shall we try my place next time?” he inquired politely. “This has been an evening I won’t soon forget, but the novelty of it would pall with repetition.”

“Go away, John,” I said.

“Can I have my gun back?” Schmidt inquired meekly. John weighed it in his hand. I knew it was against his principles to carry a weapon—”the penalties are so much more severe”—but it was even more against his principles to give it back to Schmidt.

“I’ll take it,” I said, standing up with a martyred sigh. My nightgown promptly slid down to my hips, and Schmidt emitted a gentle moan of pleasure. I decided he had had enough excitement for one night, so I put on my robe and slipped the Colt into its pocket, over Schmidt’s strenuous objections—to the robe and to the “sequestion of his piece,” as he called it.

I got them both out, and shoved an armchair against the door to hold it in place. Schmidt had burst the tongue of the lock completely out of its socket. That was one thing he did well, falling heavily on things and breaking them. I went to bed. Nobody woke me. I didn’t know whether I was glad or sorry about that.

Nine

I THINK I HAD A RIGHT TO EXPECT THAT AFTER the carnival of comedy inflicted on me the night before, matters were going to calm down. Wrong; the second act of the farce began with the arrival of my breakfast. It surprised me a little, because I hadn’t ordered breakfast.

I mumbled “Herein,” in response to the call, and then realized that she couldn’t because the chair was blocking the door. So I got up and moved it.

The woman wasn’t one of the waitresses—at least she wasn’t one of the current waitresses. She did not respond to my sleepy “Guten Morgen”; carrying the tray with that never-to-be-forgotten skill, she pushed past me and slammed it down on a table.

“That’s very nice of you,” I began.

“Eat it and go,” said Friedl. She folded her arms. “I need the room. It is reserved. You will please check out before Mittag.”

There were two cups on the tray. I sat down and poured coffee. “Are you joining me?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then why…Oh, I get it. Not bad,” I said judiciously. “As you can see, Frau Hoffman, I am alone. What’s bugging you? Why aren’t we friends anymore?”

“You can ask?” She flung out one arm in a dramatic gesture toward the door, sagging on its hinges. “I do not allow such things in my hotel.”

“Oh, that was just Schmidt,” I said. “He’ll pay for it. He’s got pots of money.”

Now that the coffee had cleared my head, I could see her outrage was not assumed. Her chin was jerking