Street of the Five Moons (27 page)

Authors: Elizabeth Peters

Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective, #Suspense, #Crime & Thriller, #Fiction - Mystery, #Detective, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Women Sleuths, #American, #Mystery fiction, #Crime & mystery, #Detective and mystery stories, #Mystery & Detective - Series, #Women art historians, #Bavaria (Germany), #Vicky (Fictitious chara, #Vicky (Fictitious character), #Bliss, #Detective and mystery stories; American, #Bliss; Vicky (Fictitious character)

“Why not?”

“It wouldn’t have been ethical. Besides,” I added, with a rueful laugh, “I’d never be sure whether it was real or fake.”

“It was such a beautiful swindle,” John murmured wistfully.

“And the only one who is going to suffer for it is you. Damn it, John, I really am sorry. I know you don’t believe me, or understand, but—”

“I understand. I don’t agree, but I understand. I had the same trouble myself, years ago. Only constant practice can overcome the disability. The day I forged my first check I really felt quite uncomfortable for a few hours. The second time—”

“Can’t you ever stop joking?”

“No, why should I? Laughter is one of the two things that make life worthwhile. Aren’t you going to ask me what the other one is?”

“That was totally meaningless,” I said haughtily, lowering my eyes before his meaningful regard. “Merely an interlude. It would never have happened if you hadn’t taken unfair advantage last night — flaunting your cuts and bruises and pretending to be helpless. That, and the fact that I was curious about…”

“About what? Don’t be so mysterious.”

“Never mind,” I said, with my most mysterious smile. There was no sense in telling him what Bianca had said — or that I was inclined to agree with her evaluation. The man’s ego was swollen to monumental proportions already.

“It was just one of those things,” I repeated. “One of those crazy things…”

“Not for me, it wasn’t. Never before in my life… Well, perhaps one other time, but she was Spanish, and you know how these Latin—”

“Ships that pass in the night,” I said loudly. “Never to meet again…”

“Oh, we’ll meet again,” John said coolly. “I’ll be in touch.”

“How? One red rose, once a year?”

John forgot himself and started to laugh.

“Caught you,” he said, dabbing tenderly at his lower lip. “I knew it; I knew that under that tough exterior you were a secret romantic.
The Prisoner of Zenda
, for God’s sake.”

“No,
Rupert of Hentzau
. And I’m not a romantic, I’m a compulsive reader. Mother has shelves of books like that —
Graustark, The Scarlet Pimpernel
… I read everything in the house, including old Sears, Roebuck catalogs.”

“You protest too much.”

The loudspeaker overhead burst into a babble of Italian, in which I caught the word “Monaco.” That’s Italian for “Munich.”

“My flight,” I said. “Good-bye.”

“Time for one last passionate embrace,” said John, and put his arm around me.

I braced myself; even with one arm he could literally sweep a lady off her feet, as I had good reason to know. But instead of pulling me close to him he just stood there looking into my eyes. His face was unmasked and vulnerable — and dangerously appealing. It was an unbelievably effective performance; my insides started to go soft, like melting jello. I had to remind myself that with John it was hard to tell what was real from… a forgery.

He brushed my lips gently with his, and stood back.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said again, and walked away.

“One red rose?” I called. He turned.

“Nothing so jejune. I won’t tell you what the message will be. You’ll know.”

That was six months ago; but he was right. When the message came, I knew who it was from.

It arrived yesterday. There was no note, nothing in writing. Only a little box containing Marie Antoinette’s engagement ring. Six rose-cut diamonds encircling a ten-carat sapphire.

It’s in the Louvre. I think.

I have some leave time coming. Schmidt agreed I didn’t have to count the Rome trip. Getting kidnapped, hit on the jaw, and threatened by a mixed-up kid with a gun is not anybody’s idea of a vacation — not even Schmidt’s. I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. They say if you stand on the Champs Élysées, sooner or later you will meet everyone you’ve ever known.

About the Author

Elizabeth Peters was named Grandmaster by the Mystery Writers of America in 1998. She earned her Ph.D. in Egyptology from the University of Chicago’s famed Oriental Institute. In addition to the Vicky Bliss mysteries, Elizabeth Peters is the author of the bestselling Amelia Peabody mysteries.