Silhouette in Scarlet

Chapter Six

I WAS WAKENED once during the night by a strange, high-pitched cry. It was not repeated. I concluded I must have been dreaming, but I was sufficiently concerned to get out of bed and go to the door.

Dim lights burned in the hall. Gus’s door was slightly ajar. His room was dark, but as I listened I heard faint rustling noises, like someone turning over in bed. That put an end to any idea I might have had of seeking a midnight rendezvous with John. So I went back to bed. Not that it would have made any difference . . .

It was a little after five when I was awakened for the second time, and on this occasion the noises could not be mistaken for the products of my imagination. Crashes, thuds, and curses echoed through the house.

Like the fool that I am, I dashed into the hall. The noises came from John’s room. Gus’s door was now closed; either he was up and about, or he was a heavier sleeper than he had claimed, for he did not appear.

John’s door was open. By the time I reached it, the noises had stopped. The room was a disaster – furniture overturned, sheets torn off the bed, and a handsome lamp smashed to bits. At the foot of the bed, sprawled in awkward abandon, was a body. It was that of a man with longish brown hair, wearing a dirty white sweater and faded jeans. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses, miraculously unbroken, lay on the floor by his hand. Over him, breathing heavily and dripping blood from a split lip, stood John.

I hadn’t quite taken all this in, much less absorbed the full effect of John’s pale-blue silk pajamas with the gold crest on the pocket, when the muslin curtains exploded into the room and another man appeared. There was no mistaking his identity. It was fully light outside, and he filled the entire window embrasure. His eyes bulged, and his hair bristled like that of an antique warrior in the grip of the insane berserker rage. After one quick glance, from the recumbent body to John, he let out an animal howl and flung himself forward.

His shoulders stuck in the window. The delay gave John time enough to leap aside. Leif stumbled forward, assisted by John’s foot, and hit the floor with a crash that shook the room. One of his outflung arms sent me reeling backward. I bounced off the wall and sat down harder than I wanted to.

John appeared to be a trifle put out, but he had not lost his grasp on essentials. He snatched up a heavy brass candlestick and headed for Leif, who was grunting and gasping and trying to get his wind back I scrambled to my feet and wrapped myself around John in time to stop the blow.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he gasped, trying to free his arm. ‘I want to – ’

‘I know what you want.’ He got his left hand free. Leif struggled to his knees, shaking his head dizzily. John curled his fingers into his palm and hit me under the ear. I sat down again. Leif sat up. John weighed the new developments and opted for flight He was halfway to the door when a fresh complication appeared.

The man was pretty big, but not as big as Leif. In this case, however, size did not matter. He’d have been just as effective if he had been four feet tall. He pointed the gun at John and said, ‘Halt.’

John halted. The man with the gun advanced into the room. John retreated, tactfully avoiding Leif and the body which was making uncouth noises and jerking its limbs. A second man followed, also carrying a gun.

‘Mais quel contretempts,’ he remarked, surveying the chaos. ‘Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé ?’

‘Die Kerle haben sich geschlagen,’ his companion explained. ‘Was sollen wir mit ihnen anfangen?’

‘Je demanderai.’

He went out.

The body rolled over. It was the man John had described. He looked deathly ill, his cheekbones jutting sharply, his skin sallow. When he opened his eyes the nature of his complaint was evident. They were red-rimmed and bloodshot. From his sagging mouth a trickle of saliva ran down into his matted beard.

I made a little noise of pity and revulsion. Leif lifted the limp body so that it was supported against his shoulder.

‘Behold the work of your friend, whom you were so careful to protect,’ he said bitterly. ‘A pretty sight, nicht?’

John’s stare held no pity, only disgust. With a shrug he turned to the guard and said calmly, ‘I’d like to put on my dressing gown, Hansel. Watch that trigger finger, eh?’

The Frenchman returned. ‘Là-bas, tout de suite,’ he said briskly.

I demanded my robe and was allowed to get it, with the Frenchman as an escort. They were quite an international crowd. I suppose I should have been scared, but everything had happened so fast, I couldn’t take it in. All those people turning up out of nowhere . . . There was only one character missing.

He was waiting for us in Gus’s study, leaning back in the desk chair as if he were the owner of the house. He wore the thick grey wig, but he had replaced his sweater with an expensive-looking three-piece-suit As we were ushered into the room, he rose politely.

‘A pleasure to see you again, Dr Bliss. Will you join me for breakfast? The good housekeeper of Mr Jonsson was kind enough to prepare it before she left, and I promise you it will be excellent.’

The food was set out on a table by the window, doilies and all. Dazedly I sank into the chair the grey-haired man held for me.

‘Perhaps I may impose on you to pour,’ he went on. ‘Gentlemen, don’t be shy – take your places.’

John was the first to obey. He kept a wary eye on Leif, but the latter was occupied with the man whose twitching, muttering body he supported.

‘Where is Mr Jonsson?’ I asked.

The grey man smiled approvingly. ‘I am happy to see you accept the situation sensibly, Dr Bliss. Mr Jonsson is in our hands. He will be released unharmed as soon as we finish our work here – unless one of you does something foolish. At my request, he has given his staff a little holiday. He was easily persuaded to do so when I pointed out that their safety might depend on their ignorance of the situation. They are accustomed to his eccentricities, and unquestioningly accepted his statement that we will be engaged in certain experiments that require privacy and solitude.’

‘You seem to have thought of everything, Mr. . . . I don’t know your name.’

‘Please call me Max. It is not my real name, of course, but that is the rule in this group; you are the only one of us who has not been travelling under a pseudonym.’

‘You mean Leif – ’ I began.

‘Is a Geman engineer named Hasseltine,’ Max said. ‘The disgusting apparition he tends so lovingly is his brother Georg – once a promising young archaeologist.’

They didn’t look like brothers, but Max’s explanation accounted for several things that had puzzled me. I said, ‘I should have known Leif wasn’t your real name.’

His hand on his brother’s shoulder, he gave me a strained smile. ‘The friends of my youth sometimes called me that.’

‘I was pretty sure you weren’t a Swede, though. You slipped a few times, used a German word.’

‘I am a simple man,’ Leif said simply. ‘Intrigue and deceit are not easy for me. I have business in Munich, that is how I knew of you, Vicky. I am ashamed I did not tell you the truth, but. . .’

He indicated his brother, who was mumbling in German and making ineffectual attempts to rise.

‘I understand,’ I said.

Leif turned to Max. ‘I must take care of him. He wants his rucksack. He needs . . . He must have . . .’

‘He does indeed.’ Max studied the mumbling object with dispassionate contempt. ‘Well, why not? Pierre – the luggage, please.’

It was brought from our rooms – John’s expensive matched calfskin bags, my battered plastic ditto, a big leather two-suiter, and a canvas backpack. At the sight of the latter Georg Hasseltine made sick, mewing noises. Max gestured. The Frenchman opened the pack and dumped its contents onto the floor.

In addition to the usual toilet articles and clothing, the bag contained two interesting items – a wicked-looking knife and a tin box that rattled when Max nudged it with a fastidious toe. Wrinkling his nose at the smell of dirty socks, Max snapped out directions. Pierre confiscated the knife; Leif got the box, and his brother. He carried both out of the room. The other objects were cramned back into the pack, and John’s suitcases were brought forward. Pierre dropped them at Max’s feet like a dog presenting his master with a fat rat.

There wasn’t much left of the bags or their contents by the time Pierre finished searching them. He ripped seams and tore out linings with zealous pleasure. John winced every time a garment was desecrated; once he made a mild protest. ‘You know I never carry a weapon, Max. Have a heart. That shirt cost me – ’

‘What is this?’ Max pounced on a monogrammed leather case.

‘Hair dryer,’ John said, without even blushing.

‘How decadent,’ Max muttered, adding it to the pile of confiscated objects – a set of ivory-handled razors, a pair of small dumbbells (whose evil significance eludes me to this day), and a manicure set exquisitely encoiffed in morocco leather and red plush, which included several lockpicks.

By contrast, my beat-up cases were handled with gentlemanly tenderness. The clothes I had unpacked the night before had been replaced in the suitcases – not too neatly, but I had no real cause for complaint, since I am a notoriously sloppy packer. Max inspected each garment, except for the underwear. Even his nasty, suspicious mind couldn’t find anything remotely resembling a weapon in a pair of bikini panties. When he had finished with the suitcases, he reached for my purse.

A man can’t understand why a woman’s handbag is such a sensitive object – almost an extension of her person. I don’t fully understand it myself. Maybe it’s because we keep so many private, intimate possessions in our purses – love letters, cosmetics, jelly doughnuts . . . Maybe a purse is a symbol of the womb, or something equally Freudian. I can’t explain it, but I know I hate the idea of a stranger’s hands rummaging in my bag. I had to bite back a yelp of protest when Max dumped the contents out onto the desk.

He made a few jokes, naturally. I suppose he thought they relieved the tension. He grinned and raised his eyebrows over the little black book in which I had, unwisely, made some personal comments beside certain addresses. Some of the cosmetics raised a ridiculous amount of mirth. What’s so funny about eyelash curlers, for heaven’s sake?

He was not so amused as to neglect his precautions. My Swiss pocket knife went into the verboten pile, along with my can of Mace. Occasionally he asked quizzically, ‘And what is the purpose of this item?’ I snapped out answers. ‘Tape measure. In case I see a picture frame that might fit one of my prints. Stockings. In case I want to try on shoes. Sewing kit. In case I rip my clothes. Flashlight. Do I have to explain why I carry a flashlight?’

Leif’s suitcase contained nothing of interest. He was allowed to keep his razor; it was electric.

The henchmen tossed our belongings back into the suitcases. Then there was an expectant pause.

They searched John first. Hans’s pudgy fingers went over every inch of his body. He didn’t complain until Hans messed up his exquisitely brushed hair. ‘Damn it, Hansel . . . Don’t overlook anything, I beg. What about the cyanide pill and the teeny-tiny knife wedged between my back molars?’

He opened his mouth to its widest extent. Hans was actually peering into the cavity when Max snapped, ‘Enough.’

All eyes turned towards me. I stood up and untied the belt of my robe.

Max said sharply, ‘Turn your backs.’

The henchmen exchanged eloquent glances, but obeyed. ‘You, too,’ Max said to John. His face preternaturally grave, John executed a smart right-about wheel and stood at attention, the back of his ruffled head fairly radiating amusement.

I took off my robe. In deference to Gus I was wearing the least revealing of my nightgowns. It bared my shoulders and arms and my legs below the knee – well, actually, below mid-thigh.

Max studied the exposed parts of me with shrinking fastidiousness. He was clearly torn between personal distaste and professional thoroughness, so I decided to help him out.

‘How’s this?’ I asked, bunching up the gown in back and pulling it tight against my front

Max looked relieved. ‘Yes, that is adequate. If you will turn. . .’

He stayed behind the desk while I pivoted and pulled and adjusted the fabric. I suppose, in a way, it was a more perverse performance than stripping to the buff, and it certainly took longer, but I realized that in his own weird way Max believed he was respecting my maidenly modesty. He made me put my robe back on before he let the boys turn around.

Hans trotted out with the luggage and Max returned to the role of gracious host. He offered me a plate of pastries. I took one, but the first bite tasted like sand, so I put it on my plate. ‘Why are you going to all this trouble?’ I asked bluntly. ‘I don’t know what’s out there, but unless you have more information than I do, you must know it can’t be worth the time and trouble you will have to expend on it. Surely there are enough accessible objects, in museurns and collections, to occupy your time, without resorting to excavation.’

‘Mr Jonsson’s pasture may prove more productive than you think,’ Max said. ‘However, you are quite right in your assessment. Under normal circumstances our organization deals only with products that are already on the market, so to speak. However, there are times when even a hard-headed businessman may be moved by personal motives.’

The muscles of his neck stretched to a degree I had thought possible only in certain reptiles. His eyes focused on John.

John was expecting it. His hand was quite steady as he reached for his coffee cup. ‘Max, old chum – ’

‘You have annoyed us for a long time,’ Max said softly. ‘We expect and tolerate a certain amount of competition, but your methods go beyond the level of tolerance. This last affair – you made a fatal error, my friend. Now you have compounded it. Why did you not heed my warning?’

Over the rim of John’s cup a pair of cornflower-blue eyes gazed soulfully at me. Before I could protest, Max murmured, ‘I wondered if that might not be the case.’

‘There is no reason for us to be at odds,’ John said. ‘I don’t know what Albert told you – ’

‘Everything,’ said Max, closing his lips with a snap on the last syllable.

John went a shade paler. ‘I see.’

‘You mean you – ’ I began.

‘Please, Dr Bliss. Let us not dwell on distasteful subjects.’

‘Poor old Al,’ John muttered. ‘I knew him well . . . Yes, but look here, Max. Al couldn’t have given you a precise location, because he didn’t have it. I’ve worked out a few theories that might help. That’s a largish stretch of pasture; what do you say we collaborate?’

Max did not respond to this naive proposal. We were sitting in silence when the brothers Hasseltine returned.

I had seen ‘before’ and ‘after’ pictures, but the transformation in the younger man made me stare. He was still haggard and worn, but now his step was firm and his eyes were aware. The therapy that had cured Georg (only too temporarily) had had the reverse effect on Leif. When he saw John, he made a grating noise deep in his throat and started for him, hands flexing.

Max got between them. ‘Sit down, Mr Hasseltine. I understand your feelings, but you must wait your turn. There is a chance he may yet be helpful to us.’

‘He does not deserve to live,’ Leif muttered. ‘He should die slowly, with the same agony he brought to others.’

‘No doubt he will.’ Max flicked an invisible speck of dust from his coat sleeve. ‘But not until he has served his purpose.’

His icy calm had the desired effect. Leif’s distorted face relaxed. ‘I don’t know what you want here,’ he said slowly. ‘It is not my business. An enemy of Smythe is no enemy of mine – so long as you mean no harm to this lady and her friend.’

‘Excellent,’ Max said. ‘Let me make it quite clear, so there will be no unfortunate misunderstandings. None of you is to leave the island or attempt to communicate with the mainland. I hold Mr Jonsson as security for your good behaviour, Dr Bliss; I feel sure you will not risk his safety by acting foolishly. You – ’ He looked at John. ‘You may try to escape. Please feel free to try.’

John wasn’t the only one to shiver at that speech. ‘I presume,’ he said, ‘that you will exterminate the others if one of us gets away. You count on the fact that I wouldn’t abandon Dr Bliss.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t count on that,’ I said earnestly to Max. ‘I really wouldn’t.’

‘You underestimate yourself, my dear.’ His smile was paternal. ‘Do not fear; where Sir John is concerned, I count on nothing. I have other methods of controlling him. As for you two . . .’

‘I have told you where I stand,’ Leif said. ‘This lady is hostage for me.’

Georg had seated himself at the table and was wolfing down food. He looked up. ‘I haven’t been exactly with it lately,’ he said coolly. ‘Just what are you after, Mr – Max, is it?’

Max leaned back in his chair, fingertips together, and studied the speaker. Georg returned his gaze composedly I wondered what he was hooked on. It was amazing stuff, whatever it was.

‘Our project should interest you, Dr Hasseltine,’ he said. ‘We have reason to believe that there is a fifth-century hoard of gold and silver buried in the pasture behind this house.’

‘Migration Period?’ Georg looked interested. Then he shrugged. ‘Not my field. I’m a classical archaeologist.’

‘But you have had excavation experience.’

‘Oh, certainly. I’m a first-rate excavator.’

‘I believe you.’

‘I suppose you want my help,’ Georg went on airily. ‘You’re no archaeologist. I knew that as soon as I saw the fellows with the guns.’ He laughed heartily at his own wit.

‘We could certainly use the assistance of a scholar with your reputation,’ Max said. Leif winced, but Georg appeared not to notice the double entendre. He was flying high. With another cheery laugh he leaned over and clapped Max on the shoulder.

‘Perhaps we can come to an agreement.’

‘Georg,’ Leif exclaimed. ‘Please – ’

‘Shut up!’ Georg turned on him. ‘Always you interfere with me, always you play the big brother. Leave me alone. I know what I’m doing.’

‘Quite right,’ Max said. ‘Why don’t you come with me, Dr Hasseltine, and I will show you the site.’

‘Great’. Georg tossed down a half-eaten roll and rose. Hans and Pierre followed the pair out.

‘Now we escape,’ Leif said. ‘While they leave us unguarded.’

John gave him a peculiar look. ‘He doesn’t need to guard us, you idiot. He has us by the short hairs.’

‘He means what he says – that he will kill the old man?’

‘He means it.’

‘Then we must free the old man.’

‘Splendid idea. Brilliant plan. How do you propose we go about it?’

‘First,’ said Leif, ‘we must find where they are keeping him.’

John sighed. ‘I’m going back to bed.’

He sauntered out, his leisurely stride a calculated insult. Leif glowered at his retreating back. ‘Someday I smash his face.’

‘Max is planning to take care of that little matter for you,’ I said.

‘And you object.’

‘I object to murder. It’s just a silly girlish prejudice.’

Sarcasm was wasted on Leif. He gave me a blank stare. ‘Besides,’ I went on, ‘we can’t depend on Max’s guarantees. How do we know he won’t kill all of us when he’s finished here?’

‘Why should he?’

‘Because he’s a crimnal,’ I said patiently. ‘His organization specializes in grand theft, blackmail, torture, and murder. For God’s sake, Leif, you can’t be that naive.’

‘Then what do you want to do?’ Leif asked, frowning.

‘Well, I sure as hell don’t want to sit around waiting for Max to make up his mind whether or not to kill me.’

‘You wish to escape from him?’

‘You’ve got it.’

‘All of us?’

‘All of us.’

‘Smythe too?’

‘Smythe too.’

‘You wish me to help?’

‘That would be very nice.’

Leif thought about it, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. Then he nodded. ‘Very well. First we find the old man. Then we escape – all of us, even Smythe. Then I smash Mr Smythe’s face.’

Whereupon he left the room, having arranged his programme to his satisfaction.

Aside from a few imponderables – such as locating Gus, overpowering his guards, and knocking all the other villains unconscious – there was one basic flaw in Leif’s scheme. In a few brilliantly conceived sentences, Max had made Georg a confederate. Perhaps Georg had once been a promising archaeologist – his name was vaguely familiar – but Max had two firm holds on him now: the drug he used, which Max could hand out or withhold at his own, discretion, and Georg’s hatred of John. If he had been chasing his bête noire all over Europe, he was not about to shake hands and forget the whole thing. He’d be more than happy to cooperate in Max’s project of extermination, and although I didn’t know the precise details of the part John had played in his disintegration, I wasn’t altogether sure I blamed him.

The coffee was cold. I swallowed the repulsive dregs and decided I might as well get dressed. I hadn’t had much sleep, but there was no chance of wooing Morpheus, not in my present mood.

My room was a shambles. Someone had done a thorough job of searching it. Straightening up the mess gave me a chance to work off some pent-up anger; it was also a form of protest against the chaos these thugs had brought into Gus’s harmless, decent life.

I put on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and tossed a sweater over my shoulder. On my way out I passed John’s door and paused to listen. Not a sound. I eased the door open. He lay curled up like a sleeping baby, an angelic smile on his lips. His lashes, several shades darker than his hair, fringed the closed lids with gold. I slammed the door as hard as I could and went on.

The echoes of the slam followed me as I trotted along the corridor, fighting a panicky impulse to run. The stillness of the empty house was unnerving. My brain couldn’t seem to get in gear. A succession of shocks had stunned it into stupidity.

Unless Max struck it lucky, I had a couple of days. He wouldn’t dispose of us until he had no further use for us as hostages or sources of information. In fact, he might have been telling the truth when he said he meant to let us go unharmed. It wasn’t as if we were the only people in the Western Hemisphere who could identify him as a master criminal. After due reflection I decided I had a seventy-thirty chance of survival. But I didn’t like the odds. Where my life is concerned I prefer a sure thing.

There were two possible methods of procedure. The first was to rescue Gus and then go on from there. The second was to immobilize Max and all his gang. I am sure I need not explain why, after very brief consideration of the second idea, I returned to method number one.

Method number one depended on my assumption that Gus was somewhere on the island. If he had been transported to the mainland, the whole deal was off. But it would have been risky to move him in broad daylight, after he had announced to his staff that he was entertaining guests. Also, a smart crook like Max would want his hostage accessible, in case I demanded to see him or speak with him.

Assuming Gus was on the island, assuming I could find him and set him free – what next?

We could make a run for it, or we could call for help and hold the gang at bay until said help arrived. Holding the gang at bay meant hiding; I wasn’t about to consider anything more adventurous. Gus must know some good hiding places. The burning question was: Could I contact the mainland?

Just for the hell of it, I tried the telephone. As I had expected, it was dead. Gus probably had an emergency means of communication laid on – a shortwave or CB radio or something of that sort – and if I ever found Gus I would ask him. I decided not to waste time searching, though. Unless it was well concealed, Max had probably dealt with it already.

Smoke signals, setting the barn on fire, flashing SOS’s with my pocket mirror . . . Too chancy. So much for the idea of communicating with the mainland. The alternative, running for our lives, presented one minor difficulty. We couldn’t run. We were surrounded by water.

So far my reasoning hadn’t been distinguished for brilliance or originality. If I couldn’t do better than that, I might as well forget the whole thing.

The silence of the house was getting to me. I headed for the door. It was a relief to be in the sunlight and fresh air. The rain had left everything looking fresh and clean. The wind stung my face. I assumed the thugs were all in the pasture, digging for treasure, but I kept a wary eye peeled as I descended the stairs to the dock. When the boathouse door opened, I got ready to duck. But it was only Leif.

‘I have looked,’ he said. ‘Nothing we can use.’

I was prepared for that discouraging statement; the fact that Max hadn’t bothered to set a guard on the boats was proof positive that they had been put out of commission. Hope dies hard, though. When I advanced, Leif grinned and stood aside to let me see for myself.

The more I looked, the madder I got. Max hadn’t just destroyed the boats, he had smashed the dreams and memories they symbolized. In his younger days Gus must have been a first-class mariner. Now the canoe and the kayak and the neat little sailboat lay deep underwater, held only by their mooring ropes. The rowboat was a utility craft, big enough to hold several people and a tidy amount of cargo. At least it could have held them if someone hadn’t chopped a hole in the bottom. The cruiser appeared to be undamaged, except for the shortwave, which had been demolished.

I sat in the cockpit and swore.

Leif peered in at me. ‘The key is missing.’

‘I know.’

‘Perhaps there is another key.’

‘If we ever find Gus, we can ask him.’ I took Leif’s proffered hand and climbed out. ‘Isn’t there some way of starting her up without a key? I’ve done it with cars, but I’m not familiar with this type of engine.’

Leif shrugged, looking almost as bland and stupid as Hans, and I snapped, ‘I thought you were an engineer.’

‘I am not a mechanic,’ Leif said in an offended voice. ‘But I do know there are many things one can do to an engine to make sure it will not start.’

‘They can’t have done anything drastic,’ I argued. ‘This must be the craft they plan to use when they leave.’

‘Unless they have arranged for a boat or helicopter to pick them up,’ Leif said.

I hadn’t thought of that. It didn’t make me feel very good.

‘In any case, it would take hours to check the cruiser,’ Leif said. ‘The ignition system, the fuel lines, and so on. Do you suppose Max will stand back and allow us to do that?’

‘How did you get here?’ I asked. Leif blinked. ‘I swam.’ Through the open doors I could see the distant shore and the waves that rose and fell in brisk cadence. The water was a deep, rich blue; it looked as cold as a freezer. No wonder Leif’s calf muscles looked like the hawsers of the Q.E. II.

‘What about your brother?’

‘You don’t give up, do you?’ Leif said admiringly.

‘I can’t imagine him swimming.’

‘No.’ Leif’s face lengthened. ‘I did not ask how he came. Possibly he hired someone to bring him across. What is the use of this, Vicky? There is no boat we can use.’

‘I have to agree with that.’ Hands in my pockets, I went out onto the dock. Leif followed.

‘I believe your fears are needless,’ he said. ‘The man, Max, means you no harm. Let him have his gold. What value does it have?’

‘I don’t give a damn about the treasure,’ I said, not quite truthfully. ‘But I’m not stupid enough to trust Max’s word. Besides, I can’t turn my back on deliberate, cold-blooded murder.’

‘Smythe deserves it,’ Leif said.

I turned away. He grabbed my wrist and spun me around to face him. His eyes glittered like topaz.

‘You think I am cruel, like those criminals? No, no. When you hear you will understand why I do not risk my life, or yours, to save such vermin.’

I knew I had to hear it sooner or later, and I despised myself for being so reluctant to learn the truth. ‘All right, all right,’ I said resignedly. ‘Let’s go up and sit in the garden. If I have to listen to a rotten story, I might as well have something pretty to look at.’

It was as rotten a story as I could have imagined. Even the scent of the flowers didn’t lessen the sickness that mounted as I heard what Leif had to say.

‘He is only twenty-six. You would not think it to see him, would you? Even as a child he was brilliant, a genius. He won his doctorate from your Harvard University and was appointed to the dig at Tiryns in Greece. You read, perhaps, of the discovery of the royal tombs?’

Naturally I had; it had been the archaeological sensation of the year. So that was why Georg Hasseltine’s name was familiar to me.

‘It could have been the making of his career,’ Leif said somberly. ‘Instead it was the end of him. By accident the director discovered that one of the treasures – a golden mask, like the ones found at Mycenae – was a clever fake. Georg had stolen and sold the original. You can guess to whom he sold it.’

Even if I had not known, I would have recognized John’s fine Italian hand. He didn’t go in for blatant breaking and entering. Half the museums in Europe owned fraudulent pieces, left by John in place of the originals he had made off with. I don’t know what perverse instinct made me try to defend him.

‘Your brother could have refused his offer,’ I said.

‘He was only a boy! And there was a woman – someone Smythe had supplied, I do not doubt, along with the deadly white powder to which Georg is now a slave . . . You know the man’s power over the innocent. He ruined Georg. There was no scandal – universities do not love publicity – but the word was passed. No one would employ him. In despair he turned to petty crime. Whenever I found him and tried to help, he eluded me. And always he has searched for Smythe, to take revenge. I followed him across half the world. Not to help him kill, as you think – no. I would not weep to see that man destroyed, but I could not let my brother commit murder.’

I patted his arm sympathetically. Georg was a weak fool, who had traded an honourable career for quick profit, but that didn’t excuse what John had done.

‘And now he has fallen again.’ With a groan Leif buried his head in his hands. ‘Helping these criminals to rob . . .’

‘Maybe he’s only pretending to cooperate – gaining Max’s confidence in order to double-cross him.’

The phrase was not well chosen. Leif shook his heed desparingly. ‘I wish I could believe it. But I dare not. Do not trust him, Vicky. Tell him nothing of your plans.’

I was relieved I hadn’t had to make that point myself. ‘I won’t, Leif.’

‘You have plans?’ He studied me keenly, then smiled. ‘Yes, you do. You are stubborn. You don’t give in. What is a man to do with such a woman?’

‘Just don’t get in my way, Leif.’

‘I would be afraid!’ His eyes widened in pretended terror.

I had to admire his resilience from tragedy to corny jokes in the space of a few seconds. ‘So,’ he said, ‘if you are determined, I must help you. What shall we do?’

‘The first thing is to find Gus.’

‘How?’

‘I think he’s here, on the island.’ I explained why I thought so. Leif nodded.

‘It is reasonable. But if you are wrong?’

‘Then I’m wrong. But what’s the harm in looking? We can’t make a move until Gus is free.’

‘What kind of move?’ He put his arm around me.

I pulled away. ‘Not now, Leif. I’m not in the mood.’

‘Rest and be still for a moment,’ Leif said softly. ‘You are forcing yourself beyond your strength. Your heart is pounding.’

He had cause to know. I tried to relax. Even my teeth were clenched.

The wind stitched the water into little white ruffles, and a flock of fleecy clouds glided serenely across the sky. Above the emerald hills snowcapped mountains shone in the sun.

‘It’s no use,’ I said, wriggling out from Leif’s embrace. ‘I can’t relax, I can’t sit still, and I don’t want you to pat me and ask stupid questions. I want you to do something.’

‘I will do whatever you want. Only tell me.’

‘I’m trying to think. With the boats out of commission, there’s no way of getting off the island. Maybe you could swim to shore; maybe I could. But I doubt that Gus is able, not with that leg of his.’

‘That is right. I have a plan.’

‘Yes?’ I turned hopefully.

‘We find the old man.’ Leif tossed this off as if it were a matter of locating a pair of misplaced spectacles. ‘Then you take him to a hiding place. In the trees, or – or somewhere. I will swim the lake and go for help.’

‘What about your brother?’

Leif didn’t answer immediately. Lips pressed tightly together, forehead furrowed, he appeared to be wrestling with thoughts too painful for utterance. Finally he said, ‘I will take care of Georg. But, Vicky – tell him nothing. Tell Smythe nothing. We can trust no one except our two selves.’

Much as I hate having the narrative interrupted by long paragraphs of description, I guess I had better give you some idea of the terrain, since it figures prominently in suceeding events. As I said, the shape of the island was roughly triangular, the sides longer than the base, and the end blunted. The house was located on this blunt end. Behind the house the land rose, culminating in a plateau of rough pasture that formed the central portion of the island. The western side of the triangle was heavily wooded, in a belt that curved northward and expanded to fill the base of the triangle. On the east the land sloped down to the water, ending in a boggy section of swampland. Searching for Gus, and for any other useful piece of information we might encounter, Leif and I followed a gravelled path that encircled the house. Behind the main building lay a group of sheds and stables, a big beautiful stone barn, and, in their own hedged enclosure, several small cottages that had probably housed servants in the days when the main house was fully staffed. Though their tiny yards were free of weeds, and their windows shone cleanly, they appeared to be unoccupied – even by a prisoner.

As we approached the barn, a man stepped out from behind the wall. He had the swarthy, brachycephalic look of a southern Italian or Sicilian, but I was unable to confirm this identification by his speech, since he said not a word.

He simply showed us his rifle. We took the hint.

‘Could Gus be in one of those sheds?’ I asked, when we were out of earshot.

‘More likely the man is guarding tools that we might use as weapons.’

Our path led through a gate in a high stone wall, into a grove of trees. Unlike the natural woodland that fringed much of the island, these giant firs appeared to have been planted as a windbreak. They were well tended, and the ground was free of underbrush. The breeze murmured in the high branches; the sound of our footsteps was deadened by a thick layer of fallen needles.

Coming out of the trees, we climbed a steep slope and found ourselves on the plateau. In the middle of the pasture I saw a group of men – or, to put it more accurately, the torsos of a group of men. The high grass hid the lower parts of their bodies.

At one time the pasture had been cultivated. Nobody had ploughed it recently, though. It had been allowed to revert to grass, weeds, and wild flowers. The growth seemed unusually luxuriant for the climate and the season. Perhaps Gus’s grandpa’s experiments had involved a lavish use of fertilizer.

Leif pushed gallantly ahead, trampling down the grass and muttering about snakes. I doubted there were any, but I stored the idea away for the purposes of harassment. City slickers, who take muggers, traffic, and pollution for granted, tend to panic when faced with rural perils.

Never had I seen so obvious a collection of urbanites. Georg was the only one who wasn’t staring uneasily at the wide-open spaces. The false euphoria of the drug he used was at its peak; he was talking animatedly, punctuating his speech with expansive gestures. As we drew closer I heard him say:

‘It will take at least a month. With only six men, and no proper tools perhaps longer. Surely you must have more specific information.’ Max must have seen us – singly, Leif and I were hard to miss, and as a pair we were outstanding – but since he paid me no attention, I saw no reason why I should favour him with a ‘Good morning.’ I sat down on a boulder and watched with malicious pleasure as Max helplessly surveyed the sea of grass stretching out all around. If you have ever tried to dig a garden – a moderate-sized plot, thirty feet on a side – you can understand the little man’s distress.

‘The pasture behind the house,’ he said finally. ‘That is all I know.’

‘But you have nothing!’ Georg waved his arms. ‘Not the most rudimentary equipment for a dig.’

Max indicated a wheelbarrow. ‘Picks, shovels, hoes – ’

‘And a metal detector.’ Georg lifted the instrument off the wheelbarrow and sneered at it. ‘Excellent for finding tin cans on beaches. Hopeless for your purpose. Now if you had brought a proton magnetometer, or an electrical resistivity instrument . . .’

‘I can get them,’ Max said eagerly. ‘I will send Hans – ’

‘No use.’ Georg waved the offer aside. ‘Oh, perhaps if the circumstances were different . . . But you have no trained personnel. I cannot do everything myself.’

Max’s eyes wandered in my direction. I waved a casual hand. ‘Count me out, Max. I’m no archaeologist. I wouldn’t know a proton whatchamacallit from a toaster.’

‘Also,’ Georg went on, ‘in such a stony soil, and an area of heavy rainfall . . .’

Max gritted his teeth. ‘How long would such a survey take, with these instruments?’

‘Hmmm.’ Georg fondled his beard. ‘We would need a source of electricity, naturally. The probes of the resistivity meter should be placed no more than one metre apart – ’

A bleat of fury came from Max. ‘One metre? Do you know the size of this field?’

‘About three acres, I would suppose,’ was the calm reply.

‘We dig,’ Max said shortly. ‘All of us.’

‘Very well,’ Georg said. ‘First we must mow the field.’

It would take too long and serve no useful purpose to report Max’s comments. Eventually one of the men was sent to the house to fetch scythes, and the work began.

Leif wandered off, perhaps fearing that Max would put him to work. He needn’t have worried; Max wasn’t naive enough to put a large cutting instrument into Leif’s hands. He missed a treat. Watching those inept goons trying to cut grass made my morning. Nobody got decapitated, but Pierre almost lost his left foot to a wild swipe from Hans.

When the slapstick palled, I got up and strolled around, giving the mowers a wide berth. To the northwest, almost hidden by the trees, I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the roof of a building. When I sauntered to that side of the pasture, a sharp command from Max sent one of the boys after me, waving his gun. So I went back to my rock.

Towards midday John appeared, picking a delicate path through the weeds. His attire was country-casual: old tweeds, a cashmere sweater, and a tie with the insignia of some institution – possibly Sing-Sing or Wormwood Scrubbs.

After a leisurely survey of the proceedings he joined me on my rock, dusting off the surface with an immaculate handkerchief before planting his tailored bottom on it.

I rose ostentatiously, and he said, ‘Now, now, this is no time for petty spite. We ought to have a little chat about . . .’ Max trotted towards us and John went on, without a change of tone, ‘. . . lunch. Who’s in charge of the kitchen?’

‘A good question,’ Max said.

‘I suppose you all expect me to do it,’ I grumbled.

‘You object?’ Max inquired.

‘Of course I object. But I guess I haven’t much choice.’

Before Max could comment, John said quickly, ‘I wouldn’t advise it, Max. When a liberated woman offers to take on a chore that violates her precious principles, she always has an ulterior motive.’

‘I do not underrate Dr Bliss’s intelligence,’ Max said. ‘We can subsist on cold meats and cheese for a few days.’

He gave me a patronizing smile. I said, addressing the air six inches above John’s head, ‘You lousy fink.’

‘It was a rather ingenuous attempt,’ John said. ‘Max is not ingenuous.’

‘No,’ Max agreed. ‘Nor am I stupid enough to permit the two of you to confer privately. Smythe, since you are so concerned about your stomach, I will put you in charge. Bring the food here. We will have a luncheon al fresco – a picnic, as you would say.’

‘What makes you think he won’t poison you?’ I asked. ‘His motive is more pressing than mine.’

‘I am glad you realize that.’ Max bowed. ‘He will not poison the food because Pierre will watch every move he makes. Nothing elaborate, Smythe – bread, cheese, ham, beer. And don’t forget a bottle opener.’

Pierre was happy to be reassigned. His cohorts looked at him enviously as they mopped their dripping faces. Grass speckled them like green freckles. Hans complained that he was getting a blister on his thumb.

I might have known John would make a production out of the simple task. He and Pierre came back loaded with baskets and boxes, not to mention cushions and rugs and other luxuries. Among the latter was a stringed instrument of some variety – it looked like a cross between a lute and a guitar – that John had slung over his shoulder by its elaborately woven strap. Max’s eyebrows rose when he saw this device, but he did not comment.

It was – to put it mildly – an unusual kind of picnic. Sprawled on the rough ground munching sandwiches, we were not exactly your normal little gathering of friends. The assorted artillery struck a particularly inappropriate note. Max was the only one of the gang who wasn’t visibly armed to the teeth, but when he leaned forward to reach for a beer I saw the butt of an automatic under his coat. Other than that he didn’t look out of place. It was only my awareness of what he really was that gave his face a sinister cast. Before I knew his identity I had thought him inoffensive and harmless-looking.

The same could not be said of the others. Except for Hans, whose blunt features had the deceptive innocence of vacuity, the faces bore the same stamp of evil. There were six of them – Max and Hans and Pierre, a sandy-haired character who spoke German with a thick Austrian accent, another Frenchman, and a dapper little man with the coldest eyes I have ever seen. His name was Rudi, and he appeared to be an eastern European, country unknown but probably glad to be rid of Rudi. The (presumed) Italian guarding the barn made seven, but I couldn’t be sure that was the complete contingent.

After lunch Pierre took the empty bottles back to the house and the dig began in earnest. John reclined on his cushions like a sultan watching the serfs at work and strummed his guitar. I knew he played the piano with considerable skill, but I had not realized his musical talents were so diversified. He sang one folk song after another, in a dozen different languages; from time to time he switched to a piercing falsetto. If I hadn’t been so furious with him, I’d have enjoyed the game. It reduced poor old Max to the brink of hysteria. Every time he looked at John resting and crooning, he got a shade redder.

Leif, who had returned when the food appeared, sat like a monolith, hands on his bent knees, eyes fixed on his brother. Georg had found some stakes and string and was setting up a grid system, like any normal archaeologist preparing a normal excavation. There was something terrifying about his intense absorption. It was as if he were living in a world totally removed from the realm the rest of us inhabited – a world of crime and kidnappmg and mass murder.

The crooks dug. Max clung stubbornly to his metal detector; whenever he located something the gang flew into action. By late afternoon they had dug up a horseshoe, a rusty axe blade, and seven tin cans. John was asleep, his lute across his knees; Leif was still brooding; and I was bored to screaming point.

‘I’m halfway tempted to help dig,’ I said to Leif.

‘What? ‘ He turned drowsy eyes towards me. ‘Wake up, dammit. We’ve got to do something; we can’t just sit here.’

‘What?’ It was a different kind of ‘what.’ At least he was paying attention.

‘Well . . . plan. Have you had any new ideas?’

‘The old man is not in the house,’ Leif said. ‘There was a shortwave radio. It is smashed.’

‘I think I know where Gus is being held. Look over there.’

Leif caught my hand as I raised it to point. ‘He will hear you,’ he muttered, nodding at John.

‘He’s asleep.’

‘He is not.’

John opened one eye. ‘If either of you has a useful idea, I wish you’d let me in on it. No one can possibly be more interested than I in finding a way out of this.’

‘Cheer up,’ I said heartlessly. ‘Max and the boys will be too tired to torture you tonight.’

‘They are torturing him now,’ Leif said, in a tone as flat and hard as the rock against which he leaned. ‘Waiting for the inevitable is the most painful torment of all. Never knowing at what moment the executioner’s sword will descend . . .’ He made a graphic, shocking gesture, drawing his hand across his throat and opening his mouth in a silent scream.

Seeing my expression, he smiled apologetically. ‘I ask your pardon. I do not care for this man. If I were not civilized, I would help Max to kill him.’

‘But you are civilized,’ I pointed out. ‘We may as well join forces, since we’re all in the same boat. Keeping in mind,’ and I turned a critical eye towards John, ‘that we can’t trust the dirty dog an inch unless his self-interest is involved.’

‘My self-interest is deeply involved in my own survival,’ John said sincerely. ‘And my best hope of survival is with you. I’d gladly cooperate with Max, but he won’t let me.’

‘What have you to contribute to the general welfare?’

‘The first thing, as our Leif has so brilliantly suggested, is to find Gus. That hut in the trees is a definite possibility. Someone ought to check it out.’

‘Someone?’ I said.

‘You’ve the best chance of moving about unobserved. Max likes you. Whatever did you do to win his heart?’

‘Mom always told me that good manners and consideration for the feelings of others paid off in the end,’ I said.

‘That’s always been my motto as well; but it doesn’t seem to be working at present. No matter; Max has a soft spot for you. And he has the typical middle-aged European male tendency to underestimate women.’

‘You can eliminate two of those adjectives,’ I said.

‘I don’t underestimate you,’ John assured me, with a flash of blue eyes. ‘However, I’ll volunteer for the job. Any distraction you could provide would be gratefully received.’

‘What sort of distraction did you have in mind?’

‘Improvise, love, improvise. We can’t make plans until we know what security measures Max has in mind for tonight.’

‘Hmph.’ I turned to Leif, who had withdrawn into his private thoughts, and jabbed his elbow. ‘What do you think, Leif?’

‘I am wondering,’ Leif said, ‘how much longer it will be before Max decides the project is hopeless.’