guts enough to go through this again, Vicky. If I had survived and you – and you hadn’t, I would have put a bullet through my head.’
‘I’m told that drinking yourself to death is more fun,’ I said.
‘Oh, God. Won’t you allow me a single moment of high drama?’
‘I owe you one for spoiling my big scene at Amarna.’
‘You’re incorrigible.’ He pulled me into his arms. ‘And irresistible. All right, then – ’
‘Sweetheart! You’ve made me the happiest woman in – ’
‘I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last woman on earth,’ John said. ‘But we’ll give the other a try. And make frequent offerings to Saint Jude. My darling, are you certain this is what you want? It may be years before – ’
The swinging door to the kitchen opened and Schmidt’s head appeared. ‘Do not concern yourselves, my friends. Schmidt is working on the problem.’
The head vanished, to be followed by a thump, a burst of profanity, and a series of frustrated yelps from Caesar. Schmidt had blocked Caesar’s path but he had overlooked one little thing. John yelped and clutched his leg. ‘Bloody hell!’
I looked down. Clara had bitten him on the ankle.
‘Eight years,’ Schmidt said. His ingenuous face fell. ‘Unless it is petty theft – ’
‘There’s nothing petty about my activities,’ John said. ‘Let me think . . . Italy.’
It was a charming domestic scene. Schmidt was sitting at the table, his papers spread out before him, his pen poised. He had stripped to his shirt sleeves in order to work more efficiently, and with the glasses perched on the end of his nose and his face set in a frown of concentration he looked like a conscientious little accountant. An old Roy Acuff tape was playing; when one of his favourites came on, Schmidt joined in. His rendition of ‘The Prisoner’s Lament’ was particularly soulful.
Schmidt had graciously allowed me to retire in order to change and wash my face. My wardrobe doesn’t run to diaphanous robes, but I did the best I could, and I tied a red ribbon around my hair. As I had hoped, the ribbon had the appropriate effect on John. His eyes widened, but all he said – all he had time to say, before Schmidt was with us again – was, ‘Once you’ve made up your mind you don’t hold back, do you?’
Caesar was snoring under the table with his head on Schmidt’s foot. Clara was in the kitchen. I had bribed her with the extravagant remains of Schmidt’s feast, but she was still complaining. Every time she yowled John flinched.
He was recumbent on the couch, coat and tie off, shirt open, like a weary husband at the end of a hard day’s work. I sat on the floor next to him. It is a sufficient indication of my state of mind that I had assumed that position without even thinking about it. Now and then his hand touched my hair, so lightly that no one except a woman who was totally besotted would have felt it. It ran through every nerve in my body.
‘Italy,’ John repeated thoughtfully. ‘It’s been almost three years since I did anything in Italy.’
‘Ah, sehr gut,’ Schmidt exclaimed. He made a notation. I turned my head. ‘Rome?’
‘Right. What a memory you’ve got.’
‘Now then.’ Schmidt shuffled papers. ‘We have nothing in Norway. Sweden is next. Was your last, er, hum, adventure in Sweden the one in which Vicky was involved?’
‘That doesn’t count,’ John said, stretching comfortably. ‘They never pinned anything on me.’
‘How about Leif?’ I suggested.
‘Always looking on the bright side, aren’t you?’ He tugged lightly at the lock of hair he had wound round his fingers. ‘They can’t prove I did it. Anyhow, it was self-defence.’
‘Very good, very good.’ Schmidt beamed. ‘And you have committed no, er, hum, actions in the U.K.?’
‘Nothing we need worry about,’ John said somewhat evasively. ‘There’s an old adage about fouling one’s own nest.’
‘And the States?’
‘No.’
‘What about that artifact the Oriental Institute fondly believes it got back?’ I asked.
John looked shocked ‘It’s the original. How can you doubt me?’
Schmidt peered at his notes ‘So we have . . . Germany, Italy, France, Egypt, Turkey, and Greece. Hmmmm. Nothing for two years, anywhere?’
‘I’ve been busy,’ John said defensively.
I rose to my knees and turned to face him. ‘Two years? Then last winter, when you fed me that line about a nice honest job and turning respectable . . . It was the truth?’
John smiled sheepishly. ‘Hard to credit, I know. I did lie about the cottage in the country. I can’t afford it yet. Everything’s gone back into the shop. Really, the difficulty of starting an honest business in today’s world, what with taxes and endless forms to fill out and all those regulations – ’
‘Oh’ John.’ I took his hand and carried it to my cheek. ‘Did you go straight for me? I think I’m going to cry.’
‘You dreadful woman, how dare you make fun of me?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
He looked as embarrassed as if I had accused him of bigamy. I sat back on my heels. ‘You didn’t want to prejudice my decision, was that it? John, if you don’t stop being so damned noble I’ll dump you and get myself a more interesting beau.’
He grinned, but Schmidt was deeply moved. ‘You should not joke about such things, Vicky. It will not be so long after all; six years at the most, perhaps only five.’
It wasn’t that simple. The statutes of limitations with regard to art thefts are subject to interpretations that vary from country to country and even judge to judge – and they are constantly changing. And it wasn’t the police John was primarily worried about. Schmidt knew all that as well as I did. He was just trying to cheer us up, bless his heart.
‘I suppose I could give some of them back,’ John said, like a sulky little boy offering to return the candy bars he had swiped from the corner grocery. But I saw the gleam in his eye, and when Schmidt said eagerly, ‘That would be wunderbar,’ I said, ‘Not if you have to
Unobserved by Schmidt, who was considering this new angle, John’s index finger curled around my ear.
‘There’s always a chance of time off for good behaviour,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ve been very virtuous of late. Mending fences, so to speak. The Oriental Institute isn’t the only institution that thinks kindly of me. Innumerable little old ladies have promised to mention me in their prayers, and several starving orphans – ’
‘It’s getting late,’ I said catching my breath. ‘You must be tired, Schmidt.’
‘Tired? No! We are celebrating, are we not?’ The damned tape chose that moment to start a new song, and Schmidt jumped up, bouncing on his toes. ‘Come, Vicky, we will dance, nicht?’
‘It’s not a polka, Schmidt.’
‘Well, do you think I do not know a polka when I hear it? I waltz as well as I do the polka and the Schuhplattler and the samba and the rhumba.’
He offered his hand. Smiling, I let him pull me to my feet. At that point I’d have agreed to anything the little guy wanted, even if he wouldn’t go home. At least it wasn’t a samba.
Schmidt clasped me in his arms and off we went, just as I had expected: one two three hop, one two three hop . . . I was helpless with laughter, trying to figure out what outre combination of steps Schmidt was doing, when he stopped and stepped back, beaming. John caught my hand and swung me into the circle of his arm.
There were so many things we had never done together. Gone grocery shopping, walked in the rain . . . Walked, period. Usually we were running. Planted daffodils, played pinochle, gone to the opera, washed the dishes . . .
I wasn’t surprised to find he was a good dancer, light on his feet, with a strong sense of rhythm. I thought I was doing pretty well myself until a voice murmured tenderly into my ear, ‘Stop trying to lead.’
Laughter loosened my muscles and he spun me in an extravagant circle, adding, ‘For now, at least. We’ll argue each case as it arises.’
There is no more sickeningly saccharine, swoopingly sentimental piece of music than ‘The Tennessee Waltz.’ Over John’s shoulder I caught glimpses of Schmidt smiling and nodding and swaying more or less in time with the
