‘We’d all have a better chance of getting out of this if you could bring yourself to cooperate with me.’
‘You cooperate first,’ I said.
‘If I’m to get out of the house tonight, I’ll need your help.’ He broke off with a grunt of exasperation as the front door opened and Rudi appeared. ‘Pretend to be angry,’ he muttered.
‘No trouble.’ I slapped his face hard. He yelled. Rudi grinned – at least I think the slit in the lower part of his face was intended to be a smile.
John retreated into the house, ostentatiously nursing his cheek. Rudi followed. I went down the steps into the garden.
The roses were beginning to bloom. I touched a creamy bud; its opening petals were as translucent as fine porcelain. Gus had talked about his rose garden the night before. His mother had set it out, nursing the prize plants through the long cold winter. Gus was enormously proud of it.
Where was he now, the kind old man who had welcomed kin so warmly? If he met his death through my carelessness and lack of foresight I would never forgive myself.
It was still bright daylight, and would be for many hours. If John meant to prowl tonight, he wouldn’t have a long period of darkness at his disposal. In fact, he might not have any. This far north, with midsummer almost upon us, a deep dusk is the most one can expect in the way of night. John would need all the distraction he could get, there was no question about that.
In the crystal-clear air the distant mountains of Norway looked like a low-hanging white cloud, the snow on their peaks shimmering in reflected sunlight. The lake was as calm as a fish pond. The island was almost in the centre of the lake, but the distance between our dock and the one opposite, on the mainland, seemed slightly shorter than it was elsewhere. If we had to swim, that was the obvious route – straight towards the garage- boathouse on shore. Gus was the one I was worried about; but with Leif to help, I could probably get him across. If we could get even fifteen minutes’ apart, night or day . . . Surely there would be people at the boathouse during the day, villagers who kept their boats there, and the old codgers. A flash of light caught my eye. It came from the shadows under the eaves of the garage, and as I squinted, shading my eyes with my hand, I thought I saw them – five shapes, rigid as statues in their wooden chairs.
‘Laugh,’ said a voice behind me.
I turned with a start. ‘Laugh,’ Max repeated, taking my arm. ‘One of them is watching us through binoculars.’
I stretched my mouth into a gaping grin. The crown of his dead, flat grey hair barely reached my nose, but the pressure of his fingers bit into my bicep. I let him turn me towards the house.
‘They are only inquisitive old men, with nothing better to do,’ Max went on. ‘But I would not want you to succumb to a foolish impulse. The situation has not changed. Mr Jonsson is still in my hands, and if a signal from you brought one of those doddering ancients to the rescue, he would only be added to my collection of hostages.’
‘I have only your word for it that Gus is still alive,’ I said, as he opened the door for me.
‘I wondered when you would bring that up. Would you like to talk to him?’
He led the way into the study. I took a chair by the desk while he opened a cupboard and removed a canvas-wrapped bundle. He made no attempt to conceal what he was doing. I suppose he thought I wouldn’t have enough technical knowledge to recognize the device.
I hadn’t seen that particular model before – it was a good deal more sophisticated than the ones my brothers owned – but I recognized it as a kind of wireless walkie-talkie. Max pushed a few buttons, and a long antenna wavered out. He pressed more buttons.
A harsh voice croaked a few words. Max answered in English, obviously the lingua franca of that cosmopolitan group. ‘Put Mr Jonsson on.’
After an interval I heard Gus’s voice. ‘Vicky? Are you there, my dear?’
‘Gus! Gus, are you okay?’
‘Yes, they have not hurt me. Have they hurt you?’
‘No. Don’t worry about me, Gus, I’m fine.’
‘Do nothing, Vicky. Do what they say. Take no risk.’
Before I could answer, Max played a tattoo on the buttons and the antenna retracted. He returned the gadget to the cupboard, locked it, and tucked the key ostentatiously into his jacket pocket.
He needn’t have worried. The walkie-talkie wouldn’t do me any good; it obviously had a limited range. I had been right all along – Gus was on the island. And now I knew where on the island.
I suspected the conversation had been set up in order to calm Gus as well as me. The hostage situation worked both ways; he wouldn’t try anything while I was in Max’s hands. At least I hoped to God he wouldn’t. He was a proud man, unaccustomed to intimidation, and if he lost his temper he might do something rash. The sooner I put my half-baked plan into action, the better. I had to cooperate with John. I knew it, and he knew it too. He had the best chance of scouting unseen; he could move like a shadow, and he knew dirty tricks I had never heard of. I figured I could count on him not to double-cross me, because he needed me as much as I needed him. Alone he was no match for Max and the boys, especially since Leif and Georg weren’t too crazy about him either.
My meditations were interrupted by an object that came flying in through the open window. It landed on a table and squatted there, staring with malevolent emerald eyes.
‘Ah,’ Max exclaimed. ‘What a beautiful cat. Hello, my friend; what is your name?’ He held out his hand and made cooing sounds.
To my surprise and disgust, the cat promptly responded. Another flying leap took it to the desk. Max scratched it under the chin. Not only did it accept the caress, it squirmed and wriggled and started to purr.
‘So much,’ I said, ‘for stereotypes.’
Leif would have said, ‘What?’ Max laughed, his hand moving over the cat’s head and neck with practised skill.
‘I’m sorry to disturb your prejudices, Dr Bliss. I am very fond of animals, and they like me. I have a cat of my own, an aristocratic Siamese named Marguerite.’
He certainly knew how to handle the species. The big tabby literally drooled on him. Finally it flung itself on its back in an abandonment of bliss, knocking Max’s briefcase to the floor. The crash startled it. With a hiss it bounced up and departed, via the window.
Smiling, Max bent to pick up his possessions. The briefcase had sprung open, scattering the contents – scissors, black papers, white cardboard mounts. Not all the papers were black, however. A few sheets were scarlet, bright as fresh blood.
‘You use red paper?’ I asked curiously.
Max’s deft hands paused in their work of gathering up the papers. ‘Sometimes,’ he said curtly.
‘When the mood takes you, or . . .’ The funniest feeling came over me; I don’t know why. I swallowed. ‘Or – or for a particular reason?’
‘For a particular . . . collection.’ Max’s back straightened, the briefcase in his hands. His eyes avoided mine. ‘We all have personal idiosyncrasies, Dr Bliss.’
‘Right,’ I mumbled. ‘Sure.’
Max selected a sheet of black paper. ‘You permit?’
I gave him the profile he wanted, without further comment. He made a sound of satisfaction. ‘You are a good subject, Dr Bliss. Such well-defined features.’
The sticky subject had been dropped. We were back on our old terms. I thought I knew the significance of the scarlet silhouettes, and I was no more anxious to talk about them than Max was. But, my God, the psychological impact of that little ‘idiosyncrasy’ . . .
Max was still snipping when a delegation trooped in, headed by John. He gestured at Rudi.
‘Must I have Peter Lorre dogging my footsteps?’
Instead of appearing offended, Rudi beamed with pleasure. I suppose if you are imitating a villain, it is a compliment to be compared to one of the greatest.
‘I have decided you require a permanent escort,’ Max said equably. ‘Don’t feel persecuted; Mr Hasseltine will also be guarded.’
He indicated Hans. That literal-minded soul was standing so close to Leif that his heavy breathing blew the latter’s hair into his face. Leif glowered.
