Silhouette in Scarlet (10 page)

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.

Chapter Five

I
COULD HAVE SAVED
myself a lot of bother if I had mentioned Cousin Gustaf’s name to the hotel management. The arrival of his Mercedes
brought all the higher-ups out of their offices, bowing and smiling and hoping I had enjoyed my stay. Nobody mentioned the bed.

I wasn’t ready when the car came. I didn’t get to sleep until after two a.m. Leif tore the room apart. John had departed with such celerity that Leif hadn’t laid eyes on him,
and the big oaf refused to accept my statement that I was not concealing someone in the room. He made havoc among the clothes in the closet and stripped the bed down to the matress. It took me half
an hour to get things in order after he finally stormed out, muttering threats and dire warnings of disaster.

More than once, as pillows went flying across the room and blouses tumbled off their hangers, I was tempted to ask why he didn’t call in his cohorts from the Department of Art and
Antiquities. I controlled the impulse for the same reasons that had kept me silent earlier. After the first quick survey of the room he must have known there wasn’t anyone there; throwing
blankets around was just his way of letting off steam.

I propped up the bed as best I could, but it wasn’t very stable.

I was up at eight sharp. After a quick breakfast I headed for the museum, and argued my way into the office of the director. My official card gained me admittance to the library, though the
place wasn’t supposed to be open to the public till later.

I had some idea of what I was looking for, but even so it took a long time to find it. I kept wandering off into side tracks, some unexpectedly productive, others of purely academic interest. I
took a lot of notes, though it was not necessary; the things I discovered had a poignant immediacy that branded them onto my memory.

Delayed by my research and by some last-minute shopping, I was still packing my suitcases when the phone rang and an awed voice announced that Herr Jonsson’s car was waiting. Three
bellboys arrived to carry my two suitcases. The third tried to take my purse, which was admittedly large enough to warrant his interest, but I insisted on carrying it myself. In stately procession,
amid ranks of bowing officialdom, we passed through the lobby. I loved it, especially when I caught a glimpse of Leif hiding behind a pillar, bent almost double in his attempt to look shorter. He
rose to his full height, gaping, when he saw my entourage. I waved. A few discreet inquiries would tell him where I was going, but I figured it would take him a while to get on the trail. It was
unlikely that he had a car, or he would have used it before this.

The chauffeur, a solemn middle-aged man, swept off his cap and handed me an envelope. I started to stuff it into my pocket. He frowned anxiously and said, ‘Please – read . . .’
So I did. The minuscule script covered the entire page; the text consisted solely of repetitive statements as to the reliability of Tomas and the happiness of Gus at my condescending to visit
him.

The car lacked ostentatious gadgetry – TV sets, bars, and the like – but every appointment was of the best quality, and a pair of large baskets on the back seat showed that Gus had
attempted to supply any missing amenities. As the car glided smoothly along the waterfront and across the bridge, I investigated the baskets. One was full of food – salads, sandwiches, and
thermoses of various liquids from white wine to mineral water – enough to feed a dozen people. The other basket contained a mirror, several magazines in three languages, a jug of water with
rose leaves floating in it (presumably for washing, since a towel was wrapped around it), a supply of hand cream and cold cream, a miniature tape player with a selection of tapes (Bach and
Vivaldi), a book of crossword puzzles and a freshly sharpened pencil, and a guidebook entitled
Beautiful Dalarna.

By the time I had explored the baskets we were in the suburbs, heading northwest. I waited till the car stopped at a traffic signal before I banged on the glass. Tomas glanced back. I waved a
sandwich at him. He smiled and shook his head. ‘Thank you. I have eaten.’ His voice came from over my head. As I might have expected, there was a speaker system between front and back
seat.

I leaned back against the grey velvet upholstery and poured myself a glass of wine. The ride was so smooth that the pale gold liquid scarcely rippled when I placed the glass on the small table
(rosewood, what else?) that unfolded from the armrest. I began to hope that Gus really was a cousin. Or that I could persuade him to adopt me. If I hadn’t already been in love with him, the
contents of those baskets would have won my heart.

The guidebook told me little that I didn’t already know. I had looked up Karlsholm on a large-scale map at the museum that morning. It was too small to appear on the tourist map I had
brought from Munich. It was in the country of Dalarna – Dalecarlia, Jämbäraland of the sagas – haunting, musical names, like something out of Tolkien. After all, northern
history and legendry had inspired much of
The Lord of the Rings.
Dalecarlia might have been the hobbit name for the Elvish Dalarna, and it sounded like the sort of place hobbits would favour
– a land of fertile farmland and green forest, of hills and rivers and deep-blue lakes. In the days of my innocence, before hordes of sinister characters started following me, I had planned
to visit Dalarna. It is one of the few places in the world that is almost as charming as the guidebooks say it is.