Silhouette in Scarlet

Chapter Eight

I WENT STRAIGHT to the front door and out of the house, without making any attempt to conceal my movements. I wanted Max to think that the discussion had inspired me to have another look at the site. I definitely intended to do that, but it wasn’t my only purpose.

The air was crisp and winey. The sun hung low in the west, and the sky was emblazoned like a page from a medieval manuscript, gold and copper, crimson and bronze. The light was more than adequate. In fact, it couldn’t have been better. Slanting shadows can show up topographical features that are obscured by growth.

I went around the house into the barnyard. The big barn was a beauty, probably older than the house, and built of local stone. It would have served nicely as a fortress in time of war. Well tended as it was, it looked desolate without the cattle and horses that had once occupied the stalls. As I approached, I saw Pierre sitting on the ground, his back against the wall and his rifle on his knees. He nodded and said politely, ‘Bonsoir, mademoiselle.’

I nodded back and went on, following the eastern shoreline. It was a lovely walk, through the meadows at sunset, with waves sloshing softly among the reeds. When the ground started to get soggy, I headed inland. Reaching the pasture, I climbed onto a rock and had a look around. The only breaks in the yellowing stubble were the pits dug by the treasure hunters. Georg’s neat little brown square made a rather pathetic intrusion.

Maybe it was just my imagination, but as I surveyed the pasture I began to see things. The mowing had been done roughly, inexpertly, but the bare bones of the land showed through, and the shadows were long and sharp. To the north, in front of the trees – surely that line of shadow was more regular than one cast by a natural feature. It defined a low bank, broken in places, but distinct. And towards the northeast a patch of brighter green, roughly oval, where the grass had grown thicker and richer than elsewhere . . .

A little thrill ran through me. If I could see it, how much more would it have affected Georg, who was the real expert? Was it pure luck that had prompted him to select the site of the ancient garbage dump, or had he seen something that gave him a clue?

John must have seen it too. I felt certain that this was not his first visit to the island. It wouldn’t have been easy to trespass unobserved when Gus was in residence, but it could have been managed; Gus kept no cattle, so the pasture would be deserted most of the time. I did not underestimate John’s expertize. I had no idea what his background was; he might even have a degree in archaeology.

And the plan was typical of his cautious, wily mind. A perfectly open, orthodox dig, sponsored by Gus and supervised by John, who could undoubtedly have produced a briefcase full of academic credentials if they were required. As the man in charge he could control every detail of the digging. It took a trained eye to recognize the value of a battered, corroded object wrenched from the dirt; silver rots, gold is bent and twisted. Yes, he would be in a perfect position to extract the plums from the pudding, and to make off with the loot and have it replaced by copies. ‘My laboratory at the university can restore this . . .’

Only, instead of a greedy, gullible property owner, he had found Gus. No doubt he had been in disguise when he made the first approach – glasses, an academic stoop, a hesitant little cough. Gus had turned him down flat, and then the tricky skunk had thought of me.

The outlines were clear now, and for some illogical reason they made me feel a little more kindly towards John. He had no scruples about using me in his swindle, but he had not intended to drag me into the middle of a shooting war. Georg and Leif were, as he had insisted, inconvenient leftovers from a former scam, and John himself hadn’t known about Max’s group until he saw the silhouette I had to give the bastard credit; he had tried to persuade me to leave.

I climbed down from the rock and began pacing back and forth across the pasture, trying to emulate an archaeologist – or an ignoramus’s idea of an archaeologist. I assumed someone was following me. I would have had someone follow me, if I had been Max. So I picked up a stick and jabbed it into the ground from time to time, and then bent over to examine the turf. I must say the procedure increased my respect for the diggers. Thickly matted roots made a crust as hard as a plank.

My path led eventually toward the belt of trees on the north. They were pines, high enough and thick enough to frustrate the growth of weeds and brambles. The ground was covered with needles that gave off a faint sweet smell as my feet pressed them. A spectral greenish light permeated the grove, and even the birds were still. I didn’t go far into the trees. I had the feeling that something was watching me, and that it wasn’t one of Max’s men. Though I still carried the stick, I did not probe the ground. If anybody was under there, I didn’t want to disturb him.

I had planned to pick up my pace at this point, but I must admit I moved faster than I had originally intended. The soft sighing sounds I heard were undoubtedly produced by the wind stirring the boughs. In that soft false twilight they conveyed quite another impression.

At a brisk trot, I followed the treeline westward. Before long the roof of the shack came into sight I headed straight for it, running.

He popped out from behind a tree, waving his rifle in an unprofessional manner. Max wasn’t the only one who was showing signs of strain in the rustic ambience.

‘Halt,’ he said breathlessly. It wasn’t Hans, it was the Austrian, a husky specimen with scant sandy hair.

‘I’ve halted. Had I but known you were here, I would not have ventured to intrude.’ It didn’t come out quite so smoothly; I was out of breath too. Seeing him frown, I went on in German. ‘I was looking at the site. Max asked me to help him.’

‘Go back now.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Drop the stick.’

‘Stick? It’s only a little – ’

‘Drop it. Schnell, schnell.’

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. I don’t mind being considered brave, but I was not stupid enough to go in swinging a stick against an opponent armed with a rifle. So I dropped the stick, schnell, and backed away.

I had seen all I needed to see. There was no building of any sort on the east side of the island. Though I had not explored the northern side thoroughly – and I was not about to, except in broad daylight – the hut was the only place I had found that might serve as a prison. It was small, perhaps a shelter for a herdsman or shepherd in the days when Gus’s ancestors had practised animal husbandry, and, like everything else Gus owned, it had been kept in good repair. A shiny new padlock hung from the hasp on the door. There was only one window, and it was covered by a wooden shutter.

When I got to the barnyard Pierre was still there. Max was with him; as I strolled up, he turned on me in visible exasperation. ‘Where have you been? It is late.’

‘I wanted to have a look at the site.’

‘Anything?’

‘Only what I expected.’

‘No more exploring,’ Max said, like a stern parent. ‘You should be in your bed.’

‘Okay,’ I said amiably.

Max followed me as I walked toward the house, shaking his finger and lecturing. ‘I expect you to stay inside tonight. In your own wing of the house.’

‘Okay.’

‘My men will be on guard, outside and in. No one is to leave.’

‘Okay, okay.’

‘Go straight to your room.’

‘Can I get a snack first?’

‘Oh, very well. But be quick about it.’

‘I’ll take it to my room.’

He trailed along. Maybe he was hoping I’d suggest a congenial chat over a cup of coffee. I didn’t. I piled a tray with bottles of beer, cheese, bread, and sausages. Max watched, eyes widening as the comestibles piled up, but he made no comment until I poured milk into a bowl and stooped to put in on the floor.

‘For the cat?’ he asked.

‘No, for the pixies.’

‘Perhaps it does not like milk,’ Max said seriously. ‘Marguerite will not touch it.’

‘Marguerite sounds like one damned spoiled cat.’

Max was offended. ‘Are you finished?’ he asked stiffly.

‘I guess so.’ I hefted the tray with the never-to-be-forgotten skill I had acquired one summer as a waitress at Joe’s Café and went out.

The wing in which our rooms were located was connected to the central block by a door from which a corridor led straight down the length of the wing, with doors on either side. Rudi had taken up a position by the connecting door. He stiffened to attention when his boss appeared, his gun at the ready. The velvet armchair in which he was sitting detracted slightly from the picture of military discipline, but one could hardly blame him for wanting to be comfortable if he was going to be there all night.

He looked yearningly at my loaded tray, and Max, who missed very little, said sharply, ‘You will take no food or drink from her.’

‘But of course not,’ Rudi said, as if the idea had never occurred to him.

I swayed on down the corridor. (Carrying a tray necessitates a certain rhythm of the hips. At least that was the custom at Joe’s.) John emerged from the bathroom, timing his exit with such precision that we met just outside the door.

‘Any time now,’ he said, out of the corner of his mouth. Max trotted up, ears pricked; John turned the twist of his mouth into a leer and gave me a long vertical inspection, from head to foot.

‘A little late-night supper à deux?’ he inquired. ‘What a super idea. Who’s the lucky lad?’

‘Not you,’ said Max indignantly. ‘Get into your room and do not leave it.’

‘But what if I have to get up during the night to – ’

Max shoved him into his room and slammed the door. ‘What a tedious person he is,’ he remarked. I could not but agree.

Since John was a master at double entendres of all varieties, I took his comments to indicate approval of the plan I had cleverly concocted. I could not be sure whether he had indicated Leif or Hans when he spelled out ‘distract,’ but by keeping the former in situ (to use an archaeological term), I could immobilize Hans at the same time. I assumed the latter was outside. The doors and windows were the only exits from the bedrooms, and Rudi was covering the doors.

‘Mr Hasseltine is in this room,’ Max said helpfully, indicating the door.

‘You are becoming a trifle tedious yourself, Max,’ I said. ‘Get lost, will you? Rudi is audience enough.’

Max removed himself. I kicked the door. After a minute Leif opened it. ‘You,’ he exclaimed.

‘Me,’ I agreed. ‘I thought you might be feeling a bit peckish.’

‘Peckish?’

‘Speak German. I understand it, you know.’

Smiling, he took the tray, ushered me inside, and kicked the door shut, in one movement. ‘What a pleasant idea. We may as well take what enjoyment we can from the situation.’

‘I hope you don’t think I’m being forward,’ I said. ‘To be truthful, I felt the need of companionship. I’m very nervous.’

‘Of course you are.’ He put the tray on a table and gallantly helped me into a chair. ‘But I’m sure we have nothing to worry about, Vicky. Max has taken a fancy to you – which is not surprising.’

This went on for a while – me expressing girlish timidity, Leif manfully reassuring me – while we drank beer and ate cheese. Gradually the light faded to a soft grey twilight, but the darkness I had hoped for did not come. The only encouraging note was the fact that Hans was indeed distracted. The curtains at the window fluttered in the breeze; every now and then a bundle of fingers shaped like sausages would catch at a blowing fold to keep it out of the line of vision.

When Leif set his empty bottle down with a decisive thump and wiped the crumbs off his lips, I knew the second stage of the entertainment – the part Hans was waiting for – was about to begin. Leif rose from his chair. With slow, deliberate strides he came to me and held out his hands. I gave him mine. He lifted me into his arms.

It may have been the change in language. People sound much more formal when they speak a tongue that is not their own unless they speak it fluently. They even act more formally, as if constrained by the necessity of thinking what word to use next. The hands that fondled me, the lips that explored mine might have belonged to a stranger, not the big ox who had mauled me in the park in Stockholm. I was decidedly short of breath and very, very cooperative when he picked me up, as easily as he might have lifted a child, and carried me towards the bed.

I am a declared feminist, but I have never believed that economic and political equality (which we’re a helluva long way from having, by the way) should have anything to do with the relations between the sexes – the romantic aspects, as Schmidt would have said. Like every other woman I cherish secret fantasies. My favourite is to be short. I dreamed of having a man hold me close, with my cheek resting on his chest, not his ear. Of feeling the steady, passionate beat of his heart, not his bristly beard. Of having his lips pressed against my hair, not the other way around.

Now I was living my fantasy, and I didn’t like it.

Also, I couldn’t concentrate on the matter at hand. I kept thinking of Gus, languishing in his dank, dirty prison; of John, prowling the grounds; of Hans, who was probably halfway in the room by now, the lousy Peeping Tom . . .

‘I can’t,’ I gasped, and rolled off the far side of the bed.

‘Liebchen, mein Schatz, mein Herzliebchen – ’

‘Yes, right,’ I gabbled, tucking my blouse into my jeans. ‘I’m sorry, Leif, I’m really sorry. I can’t stand it, it’s too much. Max is probably going to shoot me tomorrow or the next day, and Hans is watching every move we make, and I – I’m just not in the mood, dammit.’

In case he harboured any doubts as to my sincerity, I burst into tears.

The flood quenched Leif’s ardour. Possibly the idea of providing a free peepshow for Hans didn’t appeal to him either. He was very nice. He patted me and told me to get a good night’s sleep. ‘I promise you, on my honour, that you will not be harmed,’ he said solemnly. ‘And when this is over – ’

‘Yes. Oh, yes Leif . . . No, Leif. Remember Hans.’

Somehow I made it back to my room, trying not to see Rudi’s knowing grin. My hands were shaking so badly it seemed to take forever to get out of my clothes and into my nightgown. I was disgusted with myself, but I couldn’t help it. The night air felt bitterly cold. Even after I had gotten into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin I couldn’t stop shivering.

I was reluctant to close the shutters, even though it was still exasperatingly light outside and Hans was on the prowl. I could hear the crunch of gravel under his feet as he walked up and down. I assumed – I hoped -John had managed to get out while Hans was playing voyeur. I wondered how he planned to get back in. Maybe he had counted on me to keep up the distraction. Too bad. There are limits.

I was still awake, twisting and turning, when I heard an outrageous burst of noise outside – a shrill caterwauling of animal rage, a deeper howl that sounded equally inhuman. Heavy footsteps pounded along the path. My curtains billowed and a dark form slid into the room and fell across my feet.

‘Scream,’ John said breathlessly. ‘It won’t take him long to – ’

‘You’re squashing my legs.’

‘Scream, damn it!’ He grabbed a handful of my nightie and tried to tear it. I defy Muhammad Ali to rend a wad of Dacron; it just stretches, interminably. John swore, I started to laugh – an insane, high-pitched giggle that afflicts me in times of stress. He flung back the covers and swung the rest of his body into the bed. I yelped. His feet were bare, and as cold and clammy as those of a corpse.

‘Louder and faster,’ said my seducer. I obliged with a series of shrieks, ranging from ‘Rape’ to ‘Fire.’ The response was gratifyingly prompt. It was nice to know I need not fear being raped or set on fire in that house. Killed, maybe, but not sexually molested or immolated.

Rudi was the first to arrive. He had the presence of mind to switch on the light. Max and Leif were right behind him; they all stared. John had his hand over my mouth, to keep me from laughing, and I was wriggling as I tried to get his elbow out of my stomach.

I squirmed out from under him and sat up. His dark slacks and sweater were dry, but his skin had the slimy dankness of a fish’s scales. When I saw Leif’s face I stopped laughing. He came at the bed in a rush. I bounded up and threw myself in front of John, who had prudently retired into the farthest-possible corner. He made no attempt to prevent me.

The bed, and Max’s shout, brought Leif to a stop. Veins bulged in his forehead. ‘I will kill him,’ he said quietly.

‘Not you,’ Max corrected. ‘Where is that stupid . . . Hans!’

Hans was stuck in the window. Lacking the sense to turn sideways, he just stood there grunting and shoving. Max pointed out his options, in words that clanked like ice cubes, and Hans climbed into the room. His cheek was bleeding freely from a long row of parallel scratches. His face went blank with disbelief when he saw John.

‘How did he get here?’

‘I was about to ask you the same question,’ Max said through his teeth.

Now that the tension had subsided somewhat, John considered that it was safe to come out from behind my skirts.

‘He turned his back for a few moments,’ he said, with a patronizing smile. ‘That was all I needed.’

‘You turned your back?’ Max said to Hans.

Hans turned pink, like an embarrassed baby. He had very fair skin. ‘Aber Herr Max – die Dame war hier im Zimmer, und da war das Fenster, und wenn sie aus dem Fenster geschaut hätte . . .’

‘That shows a delicate mind, Hans,’ I said. ‘I appreciate it.’

‘Und,’ Hans went on, indignation replacing modesty, ‘die Katze hat mich – ’

‘Herr Gott allmächtigf!’ Max shouted. Then he got a grip on himself and inquired carefully, ‘How long ago did this – turning of your back occur?’

‘Not long, Herr Max, not long at all. Only a few moments ago.’

‘Hmph.’ Max’s frown lessened a trifle. ‘Then no great harm has been done. However, I grow weary of Mr Smythe’s frivolities. I think the time has come – ’ He paused, his eyes moving deliberately over each of us in turn. My mouth went dry. ‘Max,’ I said.

‘Hans,’ Max said.

John tried to get behind me again. Hans’s heavy hand fell on his shoulder and yanked him out into the open.

‘Take him into the cellar,’ Max said.

John’s face turned a pale shade of green. His complexion was the only part of him he couldn’t control; when he spoke, his voice was steady. ‘Don’t do anything you might regret, Max.’

‘I thought as much.’ Max folded his arms. ‘You have information.’

‘A tidbit or two. I’ve been saving them for an emergency. It appears,’ John said wryly, ‘that the emergency is upon me. I’m ready for a trade.’

‘You are in no position to bargain. The cellar, Hans.’

‘You’ll get no cooperation from me if you go through with this, Max,’ I said. My voice was not at all steady.

‘I regret.’ Max gestured. Hans transferred his grip to John’s arm and shoved him towards the door. The audience had grown to include Georg, who had observed the proceedings with a singularly unattractive smile.

‘I’ll come along,’ he said, baring a few more teeth. ‘I would enjoy watching.’

‘Georg!’ his brother exclaimed.

‘Watching is about all you’re capable of doing,’ John said rudely. ‘You ineffectual, effeminate, impotent junkie.’

He could have avoided the blow. Georg telegraphed his punch, and his coordination was shot to hell. In fact, it appeared to me that at the last moment John leaned into it. Georg’s fist landed on his cheekbone and John went limp, as gracefully as Errol Flynn in the grasp of the Inquisition.

I sat down. There didn’t seem to be anything else I could do.

I should have worn the rest of the night away pacing and wringing my hands. Actually, my eyes closed the minute I lay down, and I slept like a baby. The weather may have been partially responsible. When I woke, the room was in shadow; clouds hung heavy in the sky and a sharp wind snapped the curtains.

I rolled over and reached for the hard object that was poking into my hip. It was a round, squat bottle, made of dark plastic and carrying a pharmacist’s label. ‘Multivitamins,’ the label said. I shook it experimentally. There was no rattle of capsules, only the shifting of some nonliquid substance.

Thoughtfully I tucked the bottle into my bra and pulled on a heavy sweater to hide the bulge. By the time I was ready to appear in public, my imagination had gotten into gear, and I was feeling . . . Well, let’s say I felt a little queasy. It wasn’t hard to figure out what John was up to; he would remain resolutely unconscious as long as possible and dribble out his information as slowly as was compatible with safety. He was trying to gain time. I hoped his plan had worked.

I found him in the kitchen scrambling eggs, and I am not ashamed to admit that I was relieved to see him. On the counter beside him was the cat, eating bacon with the insolence of a creature who knows he is under official protection. I might have known John’s attempt to woo the cat with kidneys had an ulterior motive. He had used it, quite cold-bloodedly, to complete the distraction of Hans, but it really hadn’t been in danger; a big, stupid man is no match for an angry feline, especially when the big, stupid man knows his boss has a weakness for pussycats. Hans was still nursing a grudge. He fingered the scratches on his cheek as he glowered at the cat.

They were all there, even Georg and Leif – sitting at the table waiting for breakfast The condemned man was not eating a hearty meal, he was cooking it for the executioners.

I said, ‘Good morning,’ and John turned. I examined him critically.

‘You got off easier than I expected,’ I said.

‘Most of the bruises are in places that don’t show,’ John explained. ‘How about slicing some bacon?’

I took the knife. His wrist was swollen to twice normal size, and turning a pretty shade of purple.

‘Let me do that,’ Leif said, as I leaned into the slab of bacon. I handed over the knife. ‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked tenderly.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’ John glared at me. I went on, ‘I take it you have arrived at an agreement.’

‘Oh, right,’ John said. ‘I’ve agreed to show them where the loot is buried and they have agreed to cut my throat. Amiable arrangement, isn’t it?’

‘I will keep my promise, Dr Bliss,’ Max said. ‘In a few hours you will be free of us.’

The stench of burning eggs filled the kitchen. John dumped them onto a platter with such vigour that fragments flew all around. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Max, my lad,’ he said. ‘As I told you, I’m no surveyor. The calculations are going to take a little time.’

‘As much time as you can manage,’ Max said with a sneer. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, my friend. Dr Hasseltine will be happy to assist you in your calculations.’

Georg, devouring burned eggs with the relish of a man whose taste buds are dead and buried, looked up. Apparently he had not been present during the interrogation after all, for he asked, ‘You know the bearings?’

‘Rough ones,’ John replied. ‘My informant didn’t have equipment with him; he had to estimate.’

‘Naturally,’ Georg said. ‘To obtain accurate measurements on such uneven terrain, one would need levels, transit and tripod, plumb bob . . . I can perhaps rig some sort of makeshift substitute.’

‘That would be most accommodating of you,’ Max said. ‘And the sooner we begin, the sooner we will be finished.’

‘Why don’t you just kill him now and get it over with?’ I said angrily. ‘This cat-and-mouse nonsense – ’

‘Keep your suggestions to yourself,’ John said.

‘We must make sure he has not tricked us,’ Max explained. ‘I promised him a pleasant death if he would cooperate. I will keep my word, but if he has deceived me . . .’

‘That does it,’ John announced. Picking up the heavy frying pan, he tossed it into the sink with a theatrical gesture. ‘I’ve had it. No more Mr Nice Guy. No more cooking, no more delectable dishes – ’

‘Thank heaven for that,’ Max said, poking at the shreds of burned egg. ‘Come. To work.’