Silhouette in Scarlet

Chapter Four

I DECIDED TO GO back to the hotel instead of struggling with the intricacies of a pay phone. I found several messages waiting for me. Two were from Schmidt, one was from Leif. The latter had called at eleven-ten, right after I left the hotel. He had not left a number, but said he would call back at six.

I looked at my watch. It was already after five, too late for some of the calls I needed to make. Served me right, too. I should have taken action that morning instead of trying to play ostrich. Nasty things don’t go away when you hide your head, that just gives them a chance to sneak up on you.

I tried the bank first, on the off chance, but there was no answer. Bankers’ hours are the same everywhere. Next I called Schmidt. His messages were always marked ‘Urgent,’ but in view of the revelations of the previous evening I thought I had better take these ‘Urgents’ seriously. Schmidt kept erratic hours – being the director, he could keep any hours he liked – and, having neither kith nor kin, wife nor child, he often stayed late at the office.

I almost dropped the phone when I heard the voice of Schmidt’s secretary. Gerda’s punctual departures are a staff joke; it is claimed that the wind of her passage out of the office can knock a strong man flat. I said, ‘What did you do, sit on a tube of glue?’

Gerda was not amused. She said stiffly, ‘Herr Professor Dr Director Schmidt has departed. He asked me to remain to deliver a message.’

‘To me?’

‘Aber natürlich,’ Gerda said. It is also a staff joke that I am Schmidt’s pet. I’m not supposed to know that, but of course I do.

‘That was kind of you,’ I said, in my most ingratiating voice. ‘What’s the message?’

Gerda switched to English. Her self-conscious voice and stumbling pronunciation showed she was reading aloud.

‘“Cousin Gustaf checks out with carillon. Golden boys say he is night attire of felines, Empress of Germany.”’

After a moment I said, ‘You had better give me that again.’

She gave it to me again. I scribbled. Then I said, ‘I appreciate it, Gerda. Thanks a lot. You run on home. Oh were there any calls for me today?’

‘Nein.’

‘Gerda, are you mad at me?’

‘Nein.’

‘Then why do you sound like the Ice Queen?’

‘Herr Director Schmidt has said, “Read the message, then shut up.”’ The phrase she used was German slang, not exactly vulgar, but definitely not the kind of language she was accustomed to hearing from Schmidt, who treated women with the courtliness of a vanished age.

I thought it over. Then I said cunningly, ‘If he had not said that, is there anything you would tell me?’

Gerda giggled. ‘Nein,’ she said.

I tried a few more subtle tricks and got a few more nein’s. It was unlikely that Schmidt would confide in her; he hadn’t a high opinion of her intelligence or discretion.

So I bade her goodnight and turned to Schmidt’s message. It was mystification for the fun of it, serving no useful purpose. Gerda wouldn’t understand outdated American slang, but there was no earthly reason why he had to give it to her in code.

All I said was that Cousin Gustaf was in the clear. With bells on. Schmidt had called the bank references (damn his nosy, interfering ways) and had been told that Mr Jonsson was the cat’s pyjamas – or words to that effect. I had heard the phrase, probably from my grandmother, and knew it implied approbation. The final comment confirmed that meaning. The Empress of Germany was the Kaiser’s wife, and as we all know, Caesar’s wife is above reproach. Which was more than I could say for Schmidt’s literary style.

The information was reassuring, and it fitted the theory I had begun to construct. Even so, I crossed my fingers and took a deep breath before I made the next call.

Did you ever fall in love with a voice? I don’t mean the voice of a singer, like Elvis or Lennon or Luciano Pavarotti. Just an ordinary speaking voice, saying ordinary words: ‘Hello. This is Gustaf Jonsson.’

I assumed that was what he said. He spoke Swedish. It’s hard to describe the quality of his voice. It was deep and gentle and calm, with a remarkable timbre, like a clear humming. It sounded like my father, though it didn’t resemble Dad’s gruff, grumbly tones. It sounded like everybody’s father. Oh, hell, I can’t describe it; all I can say is that the moment he spoke I forgot any lingering suspicions of Gustaf Jonsson.

‘Mr Jonsson?’ I stammered ‘Hi. Hello, there. This is Vicky. Victoria Bliss.’

‘Victoria!’ He didn’t raise his voice, but it sang with delight. ‘I am so glad! You are so good to telephone me. You are well? You are not ill or injured?’

‘No, I’m fine. I – er – ’ I couldn’t ask Everybody’s Dad the questions I had intended to ask. ‘Who the hell are you, Mr Jonsson? Where did you get the crazy idea I was your cousin?’

‘There was some confusion,’ I said finally. ‘I – uh – I changed hotels

‘Yes, I am so glad. The Grand is a good hotel.’

‘How did you know I was staying at the Grand?’

He hesitated, then said even more softly, ‘I apologize to you. When I found you were not at the Excelsior, I inquired of several other hotels. I feared there had been an accident.’

‘You knew I was here, but you didn’t call me?’

‘It would have been to intrude,’ Gustaf said simply. ‘Your Aunt Ingeborg said you desired to visit me, but a young lady does not always desire what her aged aunt believes she desires. I am aged too, and dull. I understand if you do not wish to waste time with me.’

I had hoped that if he talked long enough, he would give me the information I needed without having to dig for it, but this speech turned my brain numb. I felt like a computer feeding back what someone has put into it. I said feebly, ‘Aunt – Aunt Ingeborg?’

‘Yes; it was so good of her to write to me. She found me through a genealogist, when tracing the history of your family. Genealogy is my hobby too – quite a coincidence, would you not say? Always I meant to investigate the American branch. It must stem, I believe, from Great-great-uncle Johann, who ran away from home at the young age of fifteen and was not heard of again. His grieving mother believed he had drowned, but I always wondered . . .’ He broke off, with a grandfatherly chuckle. ‘You see how it is? When I speak of my hobby I forget good manners. As I wrote to Miss Ingeborg, it would make me so very glad to see you. I do not entertain – I am a grouchy old recluse, in fact – ’

‘Then perhaps I shouldn’t intrude.’

‘No, no, I say it badly, I am so stupid. I mean only to warn you that you may be bored. But you are not a stranger, you are kin. For those of the same blood my door is always open.’

‘I’d love to come.’

‘You are sure? I do not force you?’

‘You’d have to use force to keep me away,’ I said grimly.

‘I am so glad! Tomorrow, is it too soon? I am so glad! I will send my car. It is only a five, perhaps six, hours’ drive. Will nine o’clock in the morning be too early?’

The bank references should have warned me that Cousin Gustaf was the kind of man who sent cars to pick up unknown relatives. ‘Nine o’clock?’ I repeated stupidly.

‘It is too early?’

It definitely was too early – not only for me, but for the unfortunate chauffeur who would have to get up at three am. As I hesitated, Gustaf went on, ‘Ten o’clock? Eleven o’clock? Twelve – ’

‘Twelve o’clock would be fine.’

‘I am so glad. You will know the car . . . No, best I should give Tomas a letter. You will read it before you get in the car, then you will know he is the right person. That is the proper way to do it. You will be safe with Tomas. He is a married man, very dependable, very honest.’

I assured him that I was not at all worried about being sold into white slavery by Tomas, though not in those precise words, and hung up with his reiterated expressions of gladness ringing in my ears.

Talking to Cousin Gustaf had been quite an experience. I felt so undone that I collapsed across the bed. So he had heard from Aunt Ingeborg. He must have employed a good medium. Aunt Ingeborg had died the previous October.

The main outlines of the plot were fairly clear now. If my surmises were correct, and I felt sure they were, it was absolutely imperative that I visit Gustaf Jonsson. That sweet, kindly old man had to be warned.

I was still prone, picturing medieval torture devices with a certain smirking Englishman as the central feature, when the phone rang. I glanced at my watch. Six o’clock, on the dot.

‘Where have you been all the day?’ he demanded.

‘“Henry, my son,”’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’

‘What?’

‘Are you sure you don’t know where I went today?’

‘How could I know? When I telephoned you had left the hotel I believed we were to meet for lunch.’

‘You should have shared your belief with me.’

‘What?’

‘What do you want, Leif?’

‘To take you to dinner,’ said Leif.

‘You just want to pump me about Smythe.’

‘You have seen him?’

‘No,’ I said flatly.

‘Oh. Anyway, I will take you to dinner.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I will come at six-thirty.’

‘You will come at seven. I’ll be downstairs.’

I went down at twenty to seven and settled in a quiet corner of the lobby near the bar, where I could keep an eye on the door. Before Leif arrived I had turned down two pressing invitations to have a drink. Neither came from a middle-sized man wearing horn-rimmed glasses. I saw several people who fit that general description; it made me realize how vague it was.

At precisely seven o’clock Leif came through the door. The suit he had worn the previous day had been a cheap ready-made, and rather too small; I suppose he’d have trouble finding something that fit even in a shop that catered to ‘tall, large men.’ That evening he featured wrinkled cotton khaki pants and a short-sleeved knit shirt that had seen better days. I deduced that we were dining informally.

If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn he was glad to see me – myself, not a potential informer. A smile replaced his abstracted frown when he saw me and his eyes moved from my face to my feet and back again with the proper degree of appreciation. As I was begnning to preen myself, he said, ‘No word from Smythe?’

‘You might at least pretend you’re interested,’ I said.

‘In you? I am, of course. If I cared only about Smythe, I would seek information by telephone instead of taking you to dinner.’

He offered a stiff bent elbow. Stifling a smile, I took it. On the whole I was more inclined to believe Leif’s blunt comments than the florid endearments of certain other people.

I suggested we go back to the same restaurant so I could ask about my notebook, but Leif was firm. He had another place in mind. It was a pretty cafe, with tables on a balcony overlooking some stretch of water or other, but the prices on the menu were considerably lower than those of the other restaurant. Studying it, I muttered, “Why is it no one ever sent me yet, One perfect limousine, do you suppose?”

Predictably, Leif said, ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ I wondered whether this evening’s outing would go on his expense account. The prices didn’t prove anything one way or the other The only people I know who enjoy lavish expense accounts are politicians and business executives.

Covertly I studied my companion over the top of my menu. He wasn’t looking at me. One finger nervously stroked his moustache; the other hand beat a restless tattoo on the table as his eyes moved around the room, inspecting the faces of the diners. I had been too preoccupied with my own thoughts to notice that he had something on his mind too. He was looking for someone – possibly John, possibly someone else. But if he was a policeman of any variety, I was a Short Person.

He just didn’t have the right look. I’m not referring to his physical appearance; as we all know from movies and television, undercover cops aren’t supposed to look like cops; they are supposed to look like pushers or hookers or crooks. But all of them have one thing in common – professionalism. They wouldn’t live long if they didn’t know their trade. Leif’s performance as a member of the Special Branch had a few glaring flaws. The way he picked me up, for instance – pretty crude, for a pro. Yet he knew me, my reputation and my background, including the fact that I was on good terms with members of the Munich police. So why didn’t he take me into his confidence if he wanted me to help him? And if he didn’t want my help, why was he hanging around?

There was an obvious answer to that question, but I wasn’t conceited enough to believe it. He was mildly interested, but it was only too apparent that he was even more interested in John. Surely he didn’t suspect me of being John’s confederate. Even if he knew about the Paris affair . . . If he was a police official, he probably did know about it; the whole damned embarrassing business was on record at the Sûreté. However, the French police had cleared me completely, and if Leif was familiar with that episode he would have every reason to assume I wanted to get even with John. There was only one thing I could think of that might arouse official suspicions of my present trip, and that was the message John had sent. I had flushed it down the toilet in a fit of pique – but the package had been opened before I received it.

Maybe Leif was a cop after all. It isn’t easy for a private citizen to interfere with the mails.

I decided it was time to get a few things off my chest ‘You owe me an explanation,’ I said.

Leif started. ‘What?’

‘You heard me. All you’ve told me is that you are following John . . . No, damn it, you haven’t even told me that much. Were you following him? Is that why you were at the airport – or were you waiting for me to show up? Why didn’t you arrest him when I identified him? Do you suspect me? Was one of your men following me today, and is six to midnight your shift?’

I had Leif’s complete attention now. He quit fiddling with his moustache and folded his hands on the table. He was trying to look cool, but the whitened grip of his fingers destroyed the image.

‘It is known that you have been in communication with Smythe,’ he said.

‘How? Mind you, I’m not admitting that I have; I’m just asking what gives you that idea.’

‘I am not at liberty to divulge my sources. You understand – ’

‘No, I don’t understand. I’m sick and tired of oblique hints and vague accusations. And, what’s more – ’

‘Be quiet!’

My rising voice had attracted attention. Fortunately for me, he had stopped me before my big flapping mouth had made any damaging admissions or accusations.

We glared at one another. Leif was breathing so hard the air from his nostrils made the ends of his moustache flap. After a moment his tight lips relaxed and he chuckled softly.

‘The little kitten spits and hisses,’ he said. ‘It is charming. I suppose many men have told you that you are beautiful when you are angry.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re the first.’

He looked pleased. I guess he thought I was complimenting him. ‘Have you any more questions, little lady?’ he asked.

‘Suppose you answer the ones I’ve already asked.’

‘Certainly. But not here. We will walk, and find a place where we can talk privately.’ When we left the cafe he took my hand and continued to hold it as we strolled along the quay The sun was setting; it would go on setting for hours, hanging around like an unwanted guest. The water reflected the deepening blue of the western sky. The tall masts of the sailing ship Wasa, now a youth hostel, lifted like pointing fingers. She was a beautiful craft, long and sleek. I decided that if Leif suggested a boat ride, I would make damned good and sure the boat was crowded. Yet it was difficult for me to be afraid of a man who called me little lady and told me I was beautiful when I was angry. I couldn’t imagine a cop using a tired old line like that one – in fact, I couldn’t imagme any man under seventy using it. Was he, or was he not?

He didn’t suggest a boat ride. He didn’t say anything until we reached Kungsträdgården. Then he announced, ‘This will be suitable,’ and looked around for an empty bench.

There weren’t many. People were watching a chess game, played on a giant board laid out on the pavement, with wooden men several feet high. Children were at play; couples were talking and drinking and making out. Watching one such pair, intriguingly entwined, Leif shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Such people.’

‘“They are the dirtiest of creatures,”’ ‘I said. ‘“And they do not wash themselves after sex.”’

‘What?’

“‘Furthermore, women have the right to claim a divorce. They do this whenever they wish.”’

‘What?’

‘Ibn-Fal-Ibrahim al-Tartushi said that in the tenth ccntury, when he visited Scandinavia.’

‘I do not understand what you are talking about’

‘Everything is relative. Autre temps, autre moeurs.’

‘We will sit here,’ Leif said, abandoning hope of making sense out of my comments. The bench he selected was in a quiet corner under a clump of lilacs. We sat down. Leif put his arm around me and mashed me against his side.

‘Now we appear like innocent lovers,’ he explained.

‘Uh-huh.’ There were plenty of people around. Two nearby benches were occupied, and pedestrians passed constantly. ‘Now, then,’ I said.

‘Always business first, eh?’ Leif chuckled and squeezed me. My breath came out in a grunt.

‘I am sorry; I forget my strength,’ Leif said, relaxing his grip a trifle.

‘Leif, you’re stalling.’

‘No, no, I don’t stall. Believe, Vicky, I have full trust in you. In your honour, at least. But you are too trusting. What are your feelings for that evil man?’

‘John?’ I hadn’t thought of him as evil. Tricky, dishonest, sneaky . . . ‘I hate the bastard,’ I said.

‘I am glad you don’t love him,’ Leif said. ‘He is not the man for you, my Valkyrie. He is too small.’

I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t because Leif had given me another hug and I was short of breath. When I got it back, I said, ‘Were you following John or waiting for me? Why didn’t you arrest him at the airport?’

Leif’s right hand began making little sorties, hither and yon. The sweater frustrated him at first, but he dealt with it rather ingeniously. ‘I did not arrest him because we must catch him in the act. We have no proof, only suspicions.’

‘Suspicions of what?’

Leif’s left hand, hitherto unoccupied, came swooping around like a cable car on a wire. When the heel of his hand was under my chin, his fingers curled up over the crown of my head. He turned my face towards his. His pupils looked like big chunks of amber. His moustache tickled my nose. My lips parted. I was about to sneeze. He muffled the explosion with a kiss. When he let me go I tasted blood. (That’s not a complaint, it’s only a comment.)

‘You distract me,’ he said gravely.

‘I distract you?’

‘Yes. Have you more questions?’

I will not claim that I had not enjoyed that kiss. It was a masterful performance. I was pretty sure now that Leif was not what he pretended to be and, what is more, I resented his attempt to distract my feeble feminine brain by making love to me. However, his hand was resting on the back of my neck, and I despise characters who blurt out their suspicions to the villain. ‘Then it was you who destroyed Sir Reginald’s suicide note! But that – that means . . .’ ‘Yes, my dear, you have stumbled on the essential clue. Now I am forced to silence you before you can tell the police.’

A dialogue like that was the last thing I wanted. So I said meekly, ‘I’m still curious, Leif. What is John after this time?’

‘It is a reasonable question,’ Leif conceded. ‘You must realize, however, that the information is classified.’

‘Don’t tell me Mr Smythe has gone into espionage. He used to specialize in art.’

‘Oh, yes, that is his expertize. But it is a state secret, all the same.’

‘Give me a hint.’

‘I would be violating my oath as a police officer if I did that.’

I could see his dilemma. I don’t mean to disparage my ancestral homeland when I say there wasn’t much in the entire country that was worth stealing. John didn’t fool around with minor treasures, he went for the big stuff, the Mona Lisas and Koh-i-noors. Leif didn’t even know enough about the Swedish collections to invent a believable lie; he must be aware that I knew more than he did.

I couldn’t resist. I owed him for insulting my intelligence with his inept fabrications and his macho lovemaking.

‘Oh,’ I cried, as if enlightenment had suddenly dawned on me. ‘You don’t mean . . . It isn’t . . .’

Leif waited hopefully for me to finish. I just sat there, wide-eyed and fascinated.

Finally he said between his teeth, ‘Don’t speak the word aloud. There are enemies everywhere.’

‘Naturally. But how is he going to do it?’

‘If we knew for certain, we would not be so concerned.’

‘I wish I could help you.’

‘You can help me by dropping the subject,’ Leif said sincerely.

‘But I’m intrigued. I can’t believe even John would try . . . What a scandal it would cause!’

‘Oh, yes.’ Leif was sweating. I decided to let him off the hook, not because I didn’t enjoy watching him sweat, but because it was getting late. John might come or he might not; if he came, I wanted to be there in good time.

‘Well, I hope you can tell me about it once the case is solved,’ I said, untangling myself from Leif and rising to my feet. ‘I’d better be getting back to the hotel now.’

‘Must you?’ But he rose with alacrity, and offered me another stiff elbow.

As we walked along the flower-lined path, Leif said, ‘I did not answer your questions.’

‘I noticed that.’

We left the park and stood on the corner waiting for the lights to change. Leif put his hand over mine. ‘You are not a criminal. But I think you know more of this John Smythe than you have told me. Are you not aware that one of his confederates has followed us this evening?’

‘You’re imagining things. Unless it was one of your men – ’

‘He was no police officer. I saw him at the restaurant and also at the park – short, very fat man, with large whiskers, wearing a straw hat.’

The light changed. Leif towed me across the street.

I had kept an eye out for followers, but I was looking for brown beards, not bushy whiskers, and for a familiar profile, however garbed. The man Leif had seen might have been John. I discounted the description; anyone under six and a half feet tall might seem short to Leif, and false whiskers and fat tummies are easily procurable.

‘Why didn’t you apprehend the miscreant?’ I inquired.

‘How could I prove what I suspected? It is not a crime to be in the same places we are in.’ He added, ‘You do not seem alarmed. Do you know who it is that follows you?’

‘You’re the only one I know who is following me.’

‘Vicky, I beg you to tell me the truth,’ Leif said earnestly. ‘I only wish to protect you. Oh, I know the power a man like Smythe has over young and inexperienced females. You think he is romantic, nicht? He is handsome and brave, he robs only the rich. But he will break your heart – he will throw you on the trash, like a wilted flower.’

Nobody, not even my father, who thinks I am still six years old, has ever pictured me as a fragile blossom. The image had a certain eccentric charm. It was also hysterically funny, the crowning masterpiece of all the antiquated clichés with which Leif had favoured me that evening. My efforts to suppress a shriek of laughter resulted in convulsive muscular spasms and a series of gurgling noises.

Leif looked at me in alarm. ‘Do not break down until we reach your room. You will tell me all. It will relieve you.’

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I reeled across the lobby and leaned on the desk, my face hidden in my hands and my shoulders heaving.

‘She is not well,’ Leif explained to the mystified concierge. ‘Pay no attention. I will escort her to her room.’

‘No, you won’t.’ I recovered in time to grab the key, which the concierge was offering to Leif. ‘I’m fine, I’m perfectly all right. Goodnight, Leif. Thanks for a very entertaining evening.’

‘But – ’ Leif began.

‘No buts. I appreciate your efforts to protect me from myself . . .’ The image of the flower on the trash heap flashed onto my mental screen. The flower was a petunia – a wilted purple petunia. I covered my mouth with my hand and ran for the elevator.

By the time I reached my room my amusement had faded. Leif couldn’t be that dumb. Nobody could be that dumb. Who the devil was he anyway, and what did he want? He didn’t fit into the scenario I had constructed earlier. The fat man who had been following us was another extraneous character. He might be a figment of Leif’s imagination, designed to frighten me into confidentiality. If so, he was a singularly unconvincing invention; I’d have expected Leif to come up with something far more sinister. Please, God, I prayed silently – make John keep that appointment. Once I got my hands on that sneaky devil, I’d hold on to him until he came clean.

He was late. It was almost one a.m. before I heard the signal. I picked up one of the table lamps and held it poised as I opened the door.

John slid into the room and closed the door. Except for red hair and a heavy tan, he had made no attempt to disguise himself.

‘Aunt Ingeborg, I presume,’ I said.

‘Damn.’ John kept a wary eye on the lamp. ‘So you’ve spoken with Gustaf. I hoped you hadn’t.’

‘Why? Wasn’t getting me and Gustaf together the point of this whole exercise?’

‘Would you mind putting that lamp down?’

‘I’d like to put it down on your head. Sit – over there, where I can keep an eye on you. And then talk. I want to know everything.’

He didn’t sit down. He kept shifting his weight, like a fighter who expects attack from several directions at once.

‘I’ve only one thing to say, Vicky. I’ll say it as succinctly as possible, and then I’m off. Go back to Munich. Catch the first plane tomorrow.’

He was reaching for the doorknob when I brought the lamp down on his arm. Out of consideration for the hotel and my depleted traveller’s cheques I didn’t hit as hard as I wanted to, but it was hard enough to make John pull his hand away. I got my back against the door.

‘Talk,’ I said. ‘You went to a lot of trouble to set this up. However, your confederate in the States isn’t very up-to-date. Aunt Ingeborg died eight months ago.’

A shadow of vexation crossed John’s face. It was replaced by a much livelier expression. ‘Vicky, this is no time to discuss my organizational problems. Matters have gone awry – decidedly awry. The deal is off. Cancelled, kaput, finis, finito. Is that precise enough for you?’

‘You’re scared stiff,’ I said. ‘My God, you have your nerve, you bastard. Dragging me into a situation that terrifies you out of your wits, like a damned sitting duck – ’

‘Christ Almighty, do you think I’d have brought you here if I had known what was going to happen?’ We were yelling at each other, our faces only inches apart; his cheeks and forehead shone with a thin film of perspiration. ‘I didn’t realize he was involved. My informant must have double-crossed me – sold the information twice – ’

‘If you don’t mention a name pretty soon, I am going to call the police,’ I said, brandishing the lamp. ‘Who the devil are you talking about? Leif?’

‘Who the devil is Leif?’ He jumped a good inch off the floor as a heavy fist hit the door right next to him.

‘He is the very tall, very blond character who is beating on the door,’ I said. ‘I think I’ll let him in. He visualizes me as a frail, wilted flower.’

Treading lightly, John moved away from the door.

‘I wonder what he has to do with this.’

‘You don’t know? He isn’t the man you’re so scared of?’

‘I haven’t the vaguest notion who he is.’ John was capable of lying with extreme skill, but this time I believed him. He was too nervous to do a good job of prevarication.

Leif kept pounding on the door. He seemed to be under the delusion that he was doing it quietly, for in between bangs he kept repeating, ‘Let me in, Vicky, or I will make a loud noise. I know he is in there.’

John sat down and folded his hands primly on his knee. ‘Police?’ he inquired

‘He says he is. I doubt it.’

‘Hmph.’

‘Vicky, let me in!’

‘If you don’t stop that, I’m going to call the concierge,’ I shouted.

The banging stopped. After a moment Leif announced, ‘I will not go away. I will stay here all night.’

‘He probably will,’ I said to John. ‘Shall I call the desk?’

‘The less attention we attract, the better.’

‘I have already attracted far too much attention.’

‘True. How do you find these people?’ I started to make a rude remark, but John cut me off. ‘The longer I stay, the worse for you, Vicky. You had better admit the irate gentleman. Once he’s satisfied I’m not here, he’ll leave. Or will he?’

I ignored the insolent leer that accompanied the question. ‘You are here,’ I said stupidly.

‘I won’t be when you let him in.’

There was only one other exit from the room – the window.

‘You can’t,’ I exclaimed.

‘How tall did you say Leif is? Seven feet? I assume he is proportionately broad, and he is obviously proportionately irate.’

‘Wait.’ I grabbed his arm as he strolled towards the window. ‘I’ll telephone the police, the manager – ’

‘And Leif the Lucky will broadcast my presence to half the population of Stockholm.’ I continued to tug at him as he paced; he glanced at me in surprise and then put two and two together. His eyes narrowed with amusement.

‘Why, darling, I didn’t know you cared. Do you really suppose I’m stupid enough to climb out that window?’

‘Then what – ’

‘It’s quite simple, really. Watch.’

He pulled away from my grasp and headed for the door.

‘Wait a minute,’ I exclaimed. ‘You can’t walk out of here without telling me – ’

‘The less you know, the better for you. Get out, go home, depart.’

‘Damn it, John, what about Cousin Gustaf?’

He stopped. ‘Cousin Gustaf will be all right.’

‘You involved him too. You’re after something he has. He told me himself he doesn’t like strangers – you planned to use me, a fictitious relative, to gain access to him. If your informant sold someone else the same information that led you to Gus, and that someone is less chickenhearted than you . . .’

In a very quiet, controlled voice, John said, ‘Bloody hell.’

Leif started throwing himself against the door. Every object in the room rattled.

‘What about Cousin Gus?’ I insisted.

John swung around to face me. ‘Vicky, you don’t get the picture. Gus is in no danger. At least . . . No, he can’t be. The – er – the object of my present quest . . . Let me put it this way. Gus doesn’t know where it is. I don’t know exactly where it is myself. The “someone” to whom you refer knows even less than I do. He can’t . . . That is, he wouldn’t . . .’ His voice trailed off. After a moment he repeated, ‘Bloody hell.’

‘You can’t even convince yourself,’ I said angrily. ‘Why the hell don’t you tell me what you’re after, instead of playing games?’

‘The less you know, the better,’ John said again. ‘All right, damn it – I’ll look after Gus. I promise.’

‘Ha, ha, ha,’ I said.

The door continued to rattle. I couldn’t imagine why no one had complained. The people in the nearby rooms must be out.

John grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. ‘I must have been out of my mind to bring you into this,’ he snarled. ‘You’ve brought me nothing but bad luck from first to last – ’

‘Well, who the hell asked you – ’ I began.

He stopped my mouth with his. The kiss lacked the leisurely finesse of his normal technique; it was hard and angry. When he let me go he was scowling. ‘I said I’d look after Gus, and I will. I’ll keep my promise, even if it brings me to a sticky end, which it probably will. That should please you.’

I saw no point in denying it. ‘Who’s the man you’re afraid of?’

‘The field director of one of the most unscrupulous gangs of art thieves in Europe. I don’t know what he looks like, since I have sincerely endeavoured to avoid making his acquaintance. However, he is said to have an unusual hobby.’

‘What hobby?’ I asked. But I thought I knew.

John’s hand seized the doorknob. He glanced at me over his shoulder. ‘He cuts silhouettes.’

He twisted the knob and flung the door open. His timing was perfect. Leif barrelled through the opening like the Cannonball Express, reeled across the room, hit the bed, and crashed down on it. The bed collapsed.

I looked out into the hall. There was no one in sight.