don’t try to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You remember. Say it. Say it again, loud and clear.”
John moistened his lips. “I…”
“That’s a start. Come on, get it out.”
“I don’t…”
“Yes, you do.”
“I…I need another glass of wine.”
“No, you don’t. You aren’t going to get out of it by claiming you were drunk.”
He closed his eyes. I put one finger on a lowered lid and pushed it up. There was no brilliance, no sapphirine glitter in the eye that glared back at me; it was opaque as lapis lazuli, resentful and bloodshot. Then a spark stirred deep in the azure depths; he pushed my hand away and imprisoned it in his.
“I love you,” he said flatly. “I—love—you. Shall I elaborate? I have loved you. I do love you. I will love you. I didn’t want to love you. I tried not to love you. I will undoubtedly regret loving you, but—God help me—I love you— so much—”
“That’s what I thought you said,” I murmured.
“So he has gone?” Schmidt demanded, pouting.
“He has gone. Back into the shadows whence he came—but ready, whenever the chance of profit beckons, to take up his role as Supercrook, robbing the rich to sell to the highest bidder—”
“You joke? You can joke, in the face of this disgrace, this—this fiasco?” Schmidt’s pout turned to a scowl. It was hard to tell the difference, since both expressions involved lowering brows and an out-thrust lower lip, but I was only too familiar with my boss’s countenance. He went on, his voice rising in pitch and in volume, “Never have I been so humiliated! I, the director of the National Museum! Gaping down into an empty hole, while vulgar policemen snickered behind their hands and went home to tell their wives about the crazy old man who thought there was a treasure buried in an innkeeper’s grave…. I believed you. That was my mistake. I should have known better. I should have known you would betray me….”
He went on in this vein for some time. I didn’t interrupt, since in a way I felt I deserved a reprimand. It was Tony who came to my rescue. He had been released just in time to join the expedition to the cemetery, and I must give him credit; he hadn’t so much as smiled when the grave turned out to be empty of anything except Frau Hoffman’s coffin.
“Hold it, Schmidt,” he said. “You can’t blame this on Vicky. On the basis of the information we had, her deduction was eminently logical—and don’t forget, we both went for it. So we were mistaken. The job had to be done.”
Schmidt said, “Humph.” I said, “Thanks, Tony,” and I meant it; but his kindly, if somewhat patronizing, consideration for my feelings couldn’t wipe out my own sense of chagrin. I would never forget the awful sinking sensation that seized me when I realized my brilliant if belated deductions had been flatout wrong. The fact that everyone else, including John, had also been wrong, was small consolation. The policemen hadn’t actually snickered, but there had been quite a few suppressed grins and meaningful glances.
Avoiding those glances, I had found myself scanning the hillside, half-expecting to see a lurking form or the gleam of sunlight on a head of fair hair. I had left John recumbent in bed, looking as frail and pathetic as only John could look, but I had not been under any delusions as to his intentions or his capabilities. Nor had I been at all surprised to find no trace of him when I returned to the hotel. The chambermaid had tidied the room and made the bed; there was not even a crumpled pillowcase to show he had ever been there.
“Well, then,” said Schmidt briskly, “why are we wasting time talking? We must return to Munich at once—we must organize ourselves. The gold is out there somewhere; now that its presence has been made public, there is no hope of concealment, so we may as well invite cooperation, eh? Yes, yes; all the museums and universities will join in the search—fine-tooth combs—strong young graduate students….” He rubbed his hands together, his good humor completely restored by the picture taking shape in his mind—hundreds of hapless underlings crawling over the mountains of Bavaria, under the direction of that brilliant mastermind, Anton Z. Schmidt.
Frankly, the prospect left me cold. If the gold was ever found, it would be as the result of ordinary, painstaking police-type investigation of Hoffman’s activities over the months preceding his death, interrogation of everyone who had spoken with him, consultation with local guides and mountaineers who knew the terrain and could suggest likely hiding places. All very efficient and very boring.
“Hurry, Vicky,” Schmidt ordered. “Why are you so slow?
I put my mutilated nightgown into the suitcase and closed it. “I’m ready. Except for Clara. She was in your room, Schmidt; why don’t you go and get her?”
“You are adopting her, then?” Schmidt asked.
“It was predestined,” I said with a sigh. “I called Herr Muller this morning; he wants to stay with his daughter for a few weeks, and he doesn’t trust the neighbors to look after Clara properly, and…To make a long story short, he talked me into it. He always wanted me to take her.”
“That is good,” Schmidt said seriously. “The poor Caesar, he will have someone to play with,”
He went trotting out. Tony leaned back in his chair and ran his hand through the tumbled waves of his hair. “I still don’t understand everything that happened,” he grumbled. “I never suspected Dieter.”
I hadn’t either, but I didn’t say so. I felt I had been humiliated quite enough already. “There are some things none of us will ever understand; the only people who knew the truth are dead. This isn’t one of those neat storybook solutions, where the detective triumphantly ties up all the loose ends and exposes all the unknown motives. But the general outline is clear, isn’t it? I was the only one to whom Hoffman sent a photograph of his wife. Either there was a return address on the envelope, or he intended to follow it up with a letter. I think—I’m almost sure—he was still hesitating. His initial infatuation with Friedl had cooled, he had realized she couldn’t be trusted with his secret—but it never would have occurred to him that he might be in danger from her. He was anticipating only an inevitable, but hopefully not imminent, natural death, so he saw no need for haste.”
“That seems reasonable,” Tony admitted. “But you’ll never prove it.”
“I don’t have to prove it. I said this wasn’t a storybook ending…. In fact, I don’t believe Friedl meant to kill Hoffman. She knew he was about to communicate with me, and she ordered Freddy to stop him. Freddy goofed—or perhaps he misinterpreted her orders. Neither of them was very bright. It was sheer bad luck for them that Muller found the envelope before one of them could retrieve it. When Dieter learned what had happened, he decided he had better come to Bad Steinbach and supervise matters in person. They weren’t sure that I had received the photograph until I showed up, along with Schmidt; but Dieter had already taken the precaution of sending similar photos to all the others. He didn’t have copies of the one of Frau Hoffman, so he had to settle for Frau Schliemann.”
“Yes, I understand that,” Tony admitted. “He wanted an excuse for being here, if one of us spotted him —”
“And it got Jan Perlmutter here as well. Jan was supposed to be the fall guy in case things went wrong. That’s why he got a clue you and the others didn’t get. Dieter never meant you to show up; and he only brought Elise along as camouflage.”
“It’s an awfully complicated, convoluted plot,” Tony said.
“Dieter had a complicated, convoluted mind—as evidenced by some of his practical jokes. We’ll never know for certain why he killed Freddy, but Freddy was a danger to him all along; he knew Dieter’s identity and wasn’t above a spot of blackmail. Tossing the body into my garden was just another little spot of confusion. Then Friedl started to crack. Her nice simple little plan of finding the loot and peddling it through Dieter had taken on alarming dimensions and the treasure was still missing. She was jealous of him—look at the way she flew off the handle after she found out he had come to my room—and more than a little afraid of him. She was ready to confess, I’m sure; he realized it too, and got rid of her; called both of us, imitating her voice, to set us up. The more suspects, the better.”
“I guess that clears most of it up,” Tony said.
“Not quite all.” I folded my arms. “I didn’t have a chance to give you my Christmas present, Tony, and now I can’t find the card—Clara must have chewed it up. So I will eschew subtleties and say straight out, What the hell is the idea of lying to me about imaginary Annie?”
Tony blushed. “Oh,” he muttered. “I was afraid you had figured that all out.”
