It had come to him in the mail. Unlike my photograph of the lady who was not Frau Schliemann, this offering had something written on the back. “What happened to the Trojan gold? Inquire of A. Hoffman, former assistant curator of the Staatliches Museum, Berlin 1939, now owner-manager of the Gasthaus Hexenhut, Bad Steinbach.”
“Now you understand why I am here,” said Jan solemnly.
“I’m damned if I do.”
“But—did you not receive a similar communication?”
Schmidt’s mouth opened. I put a doughnut in it. “Even if I had,” I said truthfully, “I wouldn’t have assumed it was an oracle from on high.”
“You don’t understand,” said Jan.
“I told you I didn’t.”
What I failed to understand was that East German scholars, particularly those of the Berlin museums, had developed a mild neurosis about the Trojan gold. They knew the Russians didn’t have it, which put them one up on the rest of us and also added to the mystery. Jan’s boss, the director of the Bode Museum, was particularly sensitive about the subject; the very mention of Troy, Schliemann, or Helen initiated a fit of twitching and mumbling. So as soon as the photograph arrived, Jan carried it dutifully to his superior.
Schmidt couldn’t let that pass. “Ha, I knew he would not have the initiative to come here on his own. They cannot go to the toilet without permission. However, Vicky, there is something admirable about the loyalty of a subordinate to—”
“Never mind, Schmidt,” I said. “Are you telling me your boss fell for this yarn, Jan?”
Not only did he fall for it; the old boy practically had a stroke. He had been on the staff of the museum and had known Hoffman well. After the war he hadn’t bothered to look him up, since the relationship had been purely professional; if he thought about the matter at all, he assumed Hoffman had been killed. When Jan assured him that Hoffman had been rusticating in Bavaria for over forty years, he thought the circumstances curious enough to merit investigation. And, as Jan modestly remarked, who was better qualified than he to investigate? The letter had been addressed to him, he knew Hoffman personally—and he also knew the five other scholars who had stayed at the Gasthaus Hexenhut.
Not that Jan actually made that last statement. He didn’t have to; I knew as well as if I had been sitting in on the discussion that this factor had been raised and debated. Jan was no dumbbell; he must have suspected he might not be the only one to receive a message.
He was rattling merrily along, his crisp curls coiling tighter as they dried, and he looked so beautiful I hated to scuttle his story. But I forced myself.
“Just an innocent little inquiry,” I said. “All open and aboveboard.”
“Aber natürlich. I have done nothing against the law—”
“Then why the wig? Why were you trailing me in Munich? Oh yes, you were, Jan; I saw you. What were you up to, that you didn’t want to be recognized?”
I would like to say that Jan’s reaction typified the police-state mentality, but I’m afraid it is typical of people in generaclass="underline" When somebody catches you pulling a dirty trick, blame them.
“You were conspiring against me,” Jan said sulkily.
“Me and who else? Him?” I indicated Schmidt.
Jan shook his head. “No. Of course, your superior would be in your confidence. I did not blame you for that.”
“Ha,” said Schmidt, giving me a meaningful look.
“But when I saw Dieter enter the museum, and then Tony came, all the way from America, I knew all of you were together, against me. The Western capitalist oppressors—”
“That is a flat-out lie,” I said indignantly.
“Yes? But they are here now, and also Elise and the Herr Direktor. For what have you come if it is not to steal the treasure from me?”
Schmidt emitted one of his fat, rich chuckles. “It has a suspicious look, Vicky. Admit it.”
“Well…I suppose if someone has a strong streak of paranoia to begin with…”
Schmidt’s open amusement went farther than my righteous indignation to convince Jan. He looked uncertainly from Schmidt to me.
“Are you telling me it is only a coincidence that you have met here? That you are not—”
“Conspiring? Hell, no, we aren’t even cooperating! Nobody has the faintest idea of what anybody else is doing. I don’t even know what I’m doing.”
Jan studied me solemnly. Then his lips parted and stretched into one of his rare smiles. The effect was dazzling. “I am inclined to believe you.”
“How very condescending.”
“But, Vicky, you are the one I would have expected to be best informed. You knew the old man best; it was to you he talked, sent flowers—”
“You make it sound like some sort of November-June romance,” I snapped. “We did talk. But he never mentioned the gold, Jan. Believe it or not.”
“I do believe it. Because if he had told you then, you would not be here now.” Jan leaned back in his chair and put his fingertips together pyramid-style, like Holmes getting ready to enlighten poor thick-headed Watson. His smile continued to dazzle, but his eyes were as hard and opaque as brown pebbles. “I will tell you what else I believe,” he went on. “I believe you were all summoned here, as I was summoned. That Hoffman intended to divulge to us the secret he had guarded for so many years. We are in a sense an international committee, representing some of the world’s great museums, and he knew us personally. But Hoffman’s death frustrated his intention. So now we are assembled, as he wished us to be, and the treasure is still missing. You don’t know where it is either. I have observed you, all of you. Your actions have been as aimless and undirected as my own.”
“Humph,” Schmidt grunted. “He is no fool, this one.”
I was forced to agree. Jan’s theory was one that had not occurred to me—nor to the great John Smythe. It left a few minor odds and ends unaccounted for—like the frozen corpse in the back yard—but it had merit.
However, I was not moved to take Jan into my confidence and clasp him to my bosom (tempting as that idea might be). For once I didn’t have to warn Schmidt to avoid the same error. His little blue eyes narrowed to slits, and he rumbled, “Yes, he is no fool. Watch out, Vicky. Next he will suggest we puddle our information—”
“Pool,” I said. “Not puddle, Schmidt. Pool.”
“But is not that the most logical thing to do?” Jan asked guilelessly. “Working together we may achieve what none of us can do alone. We are scholars, not criminals; our aim should be to restore a treasure that belongs, not to any individual, but to the world.”
Schmidt’s reaction to this beautiful sentiment was openmouthed indignation. I looked around for something to put in his mouth before he could put his foot in it. However, he had eaten everything. So I kicked him in the ankle, and he began swearing in fluent Mittelhochdeutsch.
“I have no quarrel with your reasoning, Jan,” I said. “But I’m afraid the cause is as hopeless as it is noble. As you have seen for yourself, I have no idea where to look. There are thousands of square miles of mountain scenery out here.”
“So what do you suggest?” Jan asked.
“Me?” I opened my big blue eyes wide and looked innocent. “I’m baffled, Jan. So, as long as I’m here, I figure I might as well stay for a few days and enjoy some skiing and some Christmas cheer. The others will be going on to Turin on the twenty-seventh. I will return to my job—which I have rather neglected lately—and forget the whole thing.”
“I see,” Jan said slowly.
“You’re welcome to join the crowd,” I went on. “There’s some sort of local festival here this evening; I think Elise and Dieter are planning to have dinner with us and watch the show.”