“Mmmm,” said John.
“Do you want me to go away?”
“Mmmm.”
He shifted position so that I couldn’t read the screen. I took the hint. The bells over the door jangled as I entered the showroom. Alan looked up. “Would you mind demonstrating an inordinate interest in the amber necklace?” he hissed.
A woman of what is known as “a certain age” had sidled in. What I could see of her hair, under her enormous hat, was an odd shade of grayish blue. The hat was eye-catching: bright scarlet, with a floppy brim that drooped down over her brow, leaving only nose and mouth exposed. Seeing me, she stopped just inside the door.
“Oh,” she said.
Alan advanced, smiling winsomely. “Come to have another look at the necklace?” he asked. “I put it aside for you, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come to a decision shortly. This lady is also interested.”
“Oh,” said the hat. “No. I, um…Thank you.”
The door closed after her. Alan shook his head. “One does meet the most peculiar people in this business.”
“What’s so exciting about the necklace?” I asked, leaning over the case of jewelry. “It’s just rough chunks of amber.”
“According to our esteemed chief, it came from a fifth-century Viking hoard. He’s got the papers to prove it.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“Some people,” Alan rattled on, “buy not for the intrinsic value or the artistry of the piece concerned; they focus on specific periods or areas.”
I stopped listening, since he was telling me stuff I already knew or didn’t care about. “This is nice,” I said, moving along the length of the case.
“Which?” Alan leaned over the case. “Oh, that. I’d forgot you were an authority on antique jewelry. Would you like to have a closer look?”
He fished out a bunch of keys, unlocked the case, and placed the pendant carefully on my outstretched palm. It was silver filigree set with roughly cut turquoise, with loops at the top so that it could be hung on a chain or cord.
“Turkoman,” I said. “It’s not that old; late nineteenth century, probably.”
“Show-off,” Alan said agreeably. He replaced the piece and locked the case again. “Darling, since you and the boss are here, would you mind if I popped out for a coffee?”
“Not if you bring one back for me.”
He waved his way out. The office door remained uncompromisingly closed.
I amused myself by wandering around the showroom. Some of the objects on display had been there as long as I could remember: a study in black chalk of an elephant, purportedly by Rembrandt (I had my doubts), a stunning
Entombment of Christ
in walnut polished to satiny smoothness (fifteenth-century German), and a bronze Chinese ceremonial vessel of some sort (not my field). One new
object occupied a pedestal in the center of the room. I was gaping at it when John emerged from the office.
“Where on earth did you get this?” I asked.
“Do I detect a note of accusation in your voice?” After a quick but comprehensive survey of the showroom, he came to stand beside me. “It’s been in the family for years. I am reduced, tragically, to selling off our treasures.”
It
was
a treasure—a small alabaster head, with the distinctive elongated cranium of an Amarna princess. Eighteenth Dynasty Egypt is not my period either, but artifacts of that quality are memorable; they don’t come on the market often. The lips were delicately tinted and the musculature of the face sketched in by an expert hand.
“How many years has it been in the family? Four?”
“Your skepticism cuts me to the quick. It was purchased in Egypt quite legitimately in 1892. I have the original bill of sale, and several dated documents describing it.”
I turned to meet his placid blue gaze. “So you do have family jewels.”
“A few. Where—”
“And they aren’t in the attic or your hankie drawer.”
“No. Do stop asking irrelevant questions. I want to talk to you before Alan comes back. Where is he, by the way?”
“Gone for coffee.”
“That usually takes quite a while. Still, I will be brief. Amid the plethora of trivia that constitutes my correspondence, there were a few interesting items.”
“From your former business associates?”
“One or two. Indicating, in the most tactful fashion, that they were presently at loose ends and would be pleased to act as middlemen in any transactions that might be pending.”
“Competitors of Bernardo? Or Monsignor Anonymous?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t try that icy stare on me. You didn’t go all the way to Rome to ask about thefts from a place like the Vatican, and you didn’t hand over that wad of money for information about relics. Why can’t you tell me the truth?”
“I paid you the compliment of assuming you would prefer to work it out for yourself.” He put a long arm round my shoulders and leaned toward me.
“Don’t try that either.” I turned my head away. John planted a kiss on my cheek and removed his arm.
“Assuming that you are on the level, which I am prepared to do for the time being,” I began.
“How can you doubt me?” John asked in hurt tones.
“Easily. Assuming that, I presume you are attempting to work out which organizations are capable of pulling off a job like the one in question. In the process you are weeding out people like Bernardo, who wouldn’t have tried to cut themselves in if they were already in, so to speak. May I add that your method of eliminating such individuals strikes me as somewhat hazardous?”
John shrugged. “Not really. Persons of that ilk don’t take drastic action until they have tried and failed to achieve their ends through simpler methods. You don’t suppose I would have taken you to Rome if I had anticipated danger?”
The door opened. Alan edged in, juggling several paper cups. “Thoughtful little me, I brought one for each of you. I expect to be reimbursed, naturally. My salary isn’t large enough to promote generosity.”
“Take it out of petty cash,” John said. “Plus a generous tip, of course.”
They sneered genteelly at each other; John gestured, and I followed him back into the office.
“Why are you so nasty to him?” I asked, easing the cap off my coffee.
“He’s a nasty little man,” John said, his lip curling. “I doubt he has a moral scruple in his head.”
“So why did you hire him?”
“Vicky, you have the greatest gift for idle curiosity of anyone I’ve ever met. He’s some sort of cousin—I have hundreds of them. He wormed his way into Jen’s good graces and asked her help in finding a nice gentlemanly job. He’s good with computers and he knows something about art and antiques. I need someone to look after the shop when I’m away, which is a great deal of the time: attending auctions, running down leads, responding to would-be sellers and so on. I know he’s untrustworthy, so I keep a close eye on him.”
“Always expect the worst, then you are never disappointed?”
“Or deceived. I trust that satisfies your curiosity. I haven’t opened the post yet. Why don’t you check your messages while I do so?”
“I didn’t think anybody wrote letters these days,” I said, fishing in my backpack.
“Jen does,” John said morosely. He waved an envelope at me—I noticed it had a coat of arms emblazoned on the backside—and ripped it open with the air of a man who knows he is going to be hanged and decides he may as well get it over with. “She wants me to pay her a visit.”
“Fat chance,” I said. I picked up Jen’s envelope and examined the coat of arms. It was divided into four sections—quartered, I think is the term. One contained a shapeless blob, roughly square in shape and gray in color, another a dagger or sword; the third had several fleurs-de-lis and the fourth a couple of leopards or lions standing up on their hind feet. The royal arms of England and/or France? I
wouldn’t have put it past Jen to claim a relationship with either and/or both.
While I tried to figure out the Latin motto, John went methodically through the rest of the post. It appeared to be the usual sort of thing—brochures, catalogs, and, of course, bills.
“Well?” he inquired.
“Well what? Oh, Schmidt.” I returned to my backpack and located my cell phone.
“Put it on speaker,” John suggested, leaning back in his chair and picking up his cup. “I can hardly wait to hear whether Clara has attacked Suzi again.”
She had. Schmidt rambled on about that for a while; the message ended with a reproachful “Where are you? You have not returned my calls. Why do you not return them? You know I worry.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t figured out how to track you,” John remarked.
“Shh.” The second message was more of the same. The third…I clutched the phone with a suddenly sweaty hand and John sat up straight.
“Where are you?” Schmidt’s voice was so choked I barely recognized it. “Vicky, I need you. Something terrible has happened. You must call me at once. The number—”
“I know the number,” I groaned. “And that one, and that one…Schmidt, for God’s sake tell me what’s wrong.”
“He can’t hear you,” John pointed out.
The other numbers he had given me were those of his office at the museum, his home, and my house. At least he wasn’t in a hospital—or in jail. Neither one of which, knowing Schmidt as I knew him, would have surprised me.
I tried his cell phone first. It rang and went on ringing. I was
about to try the office when Schmidt’s voice fell like music on my ears. “Vicky! At last! Why have you not—”
“You sound all choked up. Where are you?”
“In a café. You remember it; we were here together, one rainy day, when you wept on my shoulder and bared your heart to me.”
“You’re eating,” I said, watching John’s eyebrow go up. I remembered that café well. There wasn’t a thing on the menu that wasn’t covered in whipped cream. “Schmidt, what’s the matter? Have you gone off your diet?”
A sound of Schmidt being throttled would have alarmed me had I not known he was swallowing a large bite of something. Something with schlag all over it, I did not doubt. “I have gone off my diet, yes. Why should I torture myself? I am too old, too fat, too disgusting—” Another gulp.
“She’s ditched him,” John mouthed.
“Oh, no,” I mouthed back. Aloud I said, “Schmidt, darling, you are not disgusting. Nor any of those other things. Tell Vicky.”
He proceeded to do so, at some length. Chocolate and whipped cream perked him up; indignation replaced his woe. “She did not even have the courage to tell me to my face. She wrote a note. I will read it to you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“But I will.
Noch einmal, bitte.
” The last addressed, I assumed, to the waiter. “She says I am a wonderful man and she does not deserve me. It is the past and the future, not the present, that separates us.”
“Uh-oh,” said John.
“What?” Schmidt yelled. “Who is that? What did he say?”
“It’s just me, Schmidt,” John said, taking the phone. “Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing.”
Schmidt assured him, between mouthfuls, that there was no need to apologize, and proceeded to repeat the whole sad story. “So,” he concluded, “in such a case as this, a man needs to be distracted and to have his friends by his side. I am coming to see you. I have already my ticket. You will not be put out by me, I will stay at the Savoy. Until tonight, my dear friends.”
I grabbed the phone from John, who appeared to be temporarily paralyzed; but it was too late. Schmidt had hung up.
“I’ll call him back,” I said, fumbling. “Tell him we aren’t here.”
“But we are. And he knows we are. How does he know?”
“I didn’t tell him. Really. Maybe he just assumed we were going to London.”
“Maybe. I’d suggest we run for it, but that would be cruel, even for me.”
“Yeah,” I said, visualizing Schmidt’s round pink face slowly sagging as the phone in the flat rang and rang and rang and nobody answered.
“Let us try, for once, to stick to the point. Why did Suzi decide to jilt Schmidt, and why now?” John raised an admonitory finger and declaimed, “Is there a clue, perchance, in that cryptic reference to yesterday and tomorrow?”
“Hmm. What you want me to say is that Suzi may have got wind of the—er—of Feisal’s deprivation. That would fit the clue; it happened in the past and if she’s on the case she’s warning him that the future may be unpleasant for him or somebody close to him.”
John shook his head. “Too many assumptions. Besides, your theory gives her credit for an extraordinary degree of altruism. If she’s after it—him—and I am the principal suspect, sticking close to Schmidt would be her best lead.”
“Too many assumptions,” I said meanly.
“Isn’t that what you would do?”
“Not if I really cared about him. Using the man you love to trap his friend would be a lousy thing to do. Sure, I’d use any means possible to trap a child abuser or serial killer, but this is just a miserable missing mummy.”
“What a hopeless sentimentalist you are. She’s a professional, Vicky, and a damn good one. People in her business don’t allow personal feelings to interfere with their chance of promotion.”
“Well, then, it doesn’t make sense. Unless you have some bright ideas.”
“At the moment my mind is a black hole. Why don’t you go for a walk, or help Alan dust? I do have a business to run.”
“Something interesting?” I asked, as he picked up one of the letters he had discarded.
“Might be. It’s from a Miss Eleanor Fitz-Rogers, who claims to have a collection of pre-Columbian artifacts inherited from her father that she’s considering selling. Elderly spinster ladies,” said John with a faraway look, “are my favorite source.”
“Because they are easily swindled?”
“You are obviously not well acquainted with elderly spinster ladies. The important thing is that the collection probably dates from a period when exporting antiquities was perfectly legal.” His eyes went back to the letter. “Definitely worth following up. I think I’ll give her a ring.”
“Not my field,” I said, and left.
Alan was sitting behind the desk at the back of the room reading a magazine. Seeing me, he whipped it into a drawer, but not before I had got a look at the cover, which featured a trio of
Star Wars
storm troopers. Evidently Alan was into fantasy as well as historical reenactment.