Silhouette in Scarlet (18 page)

To my surprise and disgust, the cat promptly responded. Another flying leap took it to the desk. Max scratched it under the chin. Not only did it accept the caress, it squirmed and wriggled and
started to purr.

‘So much,’ I said, ‘for stereotypes.’

Leif would have said, ‘What?’ Max laughed, his hand moving over the cat’s head and neck with practised skill.

‘I’m sorry to disturb your prejudices, Dr Bliss. I am very fond of animals, and they like me. I have a cat of my own, an aristocratic Siamese named Marguerite.’

He certainly knew how to handle the species. The big tabby literally drooled on him. Finally it flung itself on its back in an abandonment of bliss, knocking Max’s briefcase to the floor.
The crash startled it. With a hiss it bounced up and departed, via the window.

Smiling, Max bent to pick up his possessions. The briefcase had sprung open, scattering the contents – scissors, black papers, white cardboard mounts. Not all the papers were black,
however. A few sheets were scarlet, bright as fresh blood.

‘You use red paper?’ I asked curiously.

Max’s deft hands paused in their work of gathering up the papers. ‘Sometimes,’ he said curtly.

‘When the mood takes you, or . . .’ The funniest feeling came over me; I don’t know why. I swallowed. ‘Or – or for a particular reason?’

‘For a particular . . . collection.’ Max’s back straightened, the briefcase in his hands. His eyes avoided mine. ‘We all have personal idiosyncrasies, Dr
Bliss.’

‘Right,’ I mumbled. ‘Sure.’

Max selected a sheet of black paper. ‘You permit?’

I gave him the profile he wanted, without further comment. He made a sound of satisfaction. ‘You are a good subject, Dr Bliss. Such well-defined features.’

The sticky subject had been dropped. We were back on our old terms. I thought I knew the significance of the scarlet silhouettes, and I was no more anxious to talk about them than Max was. But,
my God, the psychological impact of that little ‘idiosyncrasy’ . . .

Max was still snipping when a delegation trooped in, headed by John. He gestured at Rudi.

‘Must I have Peter Lorre dogging my footsteps?’

Instead of appearing offended, Rudi beamed with pleasure. I suppose if you are imitating a villain, it is a compliment to be compared to one of the greatest.

‘I have decided you require a permanent escort,’ Max said equably. ‘Don’t feel persecuted; Mr Hasseltine will also be guarded.’

He indicated Hans. That literal-minded soul was standing so close to Leif that his heavy breathing blew the latter’s hair into his face. Leif glowered.

‘I will not endure this,’ he exclaimed.

‘Sit down!’ Max shouted. ‘All of you, sit and be quiet. I am in no mood for childishness tonight.’

I gestured towards the sofa where I was sitting, and Leif joined me. Hans tried to squeeze his bulk into the narrow space between us. ‘Hey,’ I said. Max rolled his eyes.

‘Heaven give me patience. Hans, take a chair – that one, behind the sofa.’

Everyone subsided. The glum silence was broken by Max. He held up the finished silhouette.

‘It is not so pleasant as the last,’ he said in a worried voice.

‘I don’t feel as pleasant,’ I assured him. He had caught my scowl and out-thrust lip quite accurately.

Max picked up another piece of paper. It was black, not scarlet, but as his eyes focused on John, the latter sprang from his chair as if he had been stung.

‘This is a dull group,’ he announced. ‘What about a game?’

Without waiting for an answer, he threw open one of the cupboard doors. ‘Chess, checkers, Go, Monopoly . . . He must have bought out a toy shop. Anyone for a game of Scrabble?’

‘Why not?’ I stood up.

I don’t know what John would have done if someone else had accepted his offer. In fact, I didn’t know what he was going to do now that I had accepted it. The manoeuver was pretty
obvious. Max thought so too. His eyes sparkled with malicious amusement.

‘What a charming idea. We will all be entertained. Rudi, sit at the table and call out the words as they are played.’

Apparently undisturbed by this suggestion, John poured the tiles out onto the table. I helped him turn them over and watched approvingly as he gave them a very perfunctory shuffle. I palmed the
pieces I wanted – not very expertly, but nobody saw me. All eyes were glued on John.

I moved first. That was fine with me. I had only one question, but it was an important question, and I wasn’t sure when, if ever, I would have an opportunity to talk privately with
John.

I spelled out ‘boss’ and rolled my eyes in Max’s direction as Rudi intoned the word like a bingo announcer.

‘No, no,’ John said. There was a brief but perceptible pause before he added, ‘You’ll have to do better than that, my girl.’

The confirmation came as no surprise. Directors of big criminal organizations don’t go into the field; they sit in fancy offices in New York or Hamburg or Marseilles, and give generous
donations to charity. I realized there was another question I needed to ask, and cheated shamelessly as I collected my next tiles. Rudi didn’t notice; he was watching John.

John spelled ‘distract,’ using the second
5
in ‘boss,’ then folded his hands and smiled at me. One thumb was folded across; the other jerked up, indicating . . .
Not Rudi, as I had expected. Hans, who was leaning over Leif’s shoulder trying to see the board.

If I had planned a spot of nocturnal spying, I’d rather have had Hans on my trail than Rudi. The latter was much more intelligent. However, Hans was much bigger. It was a moot point, and I
figured John had his reasons.

Rudi announced ‘distract,’ with a thick Viennese accent. He was getting into the swing of it, rolling his
r
’s with fine effect. Max’s brow furrowed. It was
beginning to dawn on him that he might be missing some nuance or other.

I spelled ‘initiame,’ slapping down the tiles with reckless haste, before Max could call the game off. It was the best I could do. I couldn’t find two
t’s.
John
stared at me in consternation, while I thought the word at him as hard as I could. I don’t know whether ESP worked, or whether his quick mind made the right connection. He said,
‘Nothing,’ with crisp emphasis, and looked at his tiles. ‘Nothing,’ he repeated sadly. ‘What a rotten collection of useless consonants.’

‘Initiame,’ Rudi said. ‘Wait – that is not a word. She is cheating.’

He sounded shocked.

‘Enough,’ Max said. ‘I am weary of your tricks, Smythe. Come here and sit for me. I am desirous of adding your portrait to my collection.’

Peter Lorre couldn’t have done it better – the long hiss of the sibilants, the faint, derisive smile. But the paper he finally selected was black. John didn’t appear to be
visibly heartened by this; he gave me a very thoughtful look before moving to obey Max.

I collected the scattered tiles and folded the board. We had not had much time, but it had helped. Max was a subordinate, who had no authority to initiate action. Before calling off the dig, he
would have to contact his boss. That meant we had a little more time.

As I finished packing up the game, the door burst open and Georg Hasseltine came in, carrying a wooden crate. He was alone; no guard for Georg. His gaze wandered over the room, ignoring his
brother’s raised hand with unconscious cruelty, and focused on me.

‘There you are, Dr Bliss. I have been looking for you.’ He put the box on the table and pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘You will appreciate what I have
found.’

It took all my willpower to be civil to the little creep, but one never knows when civility will pay off. Besides, I was curious. Max wasn’t; he went on cutting. He knew that whatever
Georg had found, it was not the treasure.

To an inexperienced eye – mine, in this case – the objects Georg placed tenderly on the table might have come from a garbage pile: two lumps of corroded metal, a roughly shaped
stone, and a handful of bones, brown and brittle with age. The young man stood gazing down on this unsightly assemblage with shining eyes. He looked little older than his true age as enthusiasm
warmed his features. My irresponsible emotions veered from contempt to pity.

‘You see?’ Georg said eagerly. ‘You realize what it means?’

Leif got up and joined us, closely followed by the faithful Hans. ‘What is it, Georg?’ he asked.

‘You wouldn’t understand.’ Georg continued to beam at me. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

My sympathies veered back, due north. ‘I don’t understand either,’ I said coolly. ‘I’m not an archaeologist, and the Iron Age isn’t my bag.’

Georg pounded on the give-away word. ‘I knew you would recognize them.’

‘Only that this is iron.’ I picked up one of the metal lumps. As I turned it in the light, it took on form. ‘Arrowhead?’ I hazarded.

‘More probably a point from a throwing spear. That isn’t definitive; a wandering hunter could have lost it. But the bones are those of domesticated animals – sheep and cattle.
The spindle whorl proved my case.’

There was no point in pretending to be dense. If I didn’t say it, he would. ‘Kitchen midden,’ I said.

‘Yes. And that means habitation – probably a farm or fort. A rich settlement.’

‘Rich?’ Max rose, knuckles on the desk. ‘How do you know that?’

‘It’s a prime location,’ Georg answered. ‘Easy to defend, with its own water supply and ample pasturage. A coveted site. Only a strong leader could hold it. Probably a
local chieftain or jarl.’

‘But the treasure,’ Max said. ‘Where would they have hidden it?’

Georg lifted one shoulder and smiled at me – one intellectual to another, deploring the ignorance of the hoi polloi. ‘The treasure is unimportant. I suspect that this –
’

‘Unimportant?’ Max’s voice was very quiet, but it wiped the smile from Georg’s lips. ‘What do you think we are here for, you young fool? If you have learned
anything from your digging, you had better tell me at once, or – ’

‘Wait.’ Leif moved quickly, putting himself between the angry little man and Georg. ‘Let me talk to him. He will tell me.’

‘Talk, then. Persuade him. If you fail, there are other methods.’

Georg appeared shaken. Maybe his last fix was wearing off. He allowed Leif to lead him out.

John edged towards the door. ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured. ‘I know it’s frightfully early, but . . .’

‘Go, then. All of you – except you, Dr Bliss. I wish to talk to you.’

John didn’t favour me with a glance or a goodnight. He ambled out, followed by Rudi. When the door had closed behind them, Max let out a long sigh.

‘Please sit down, Dr Bliss. You have nothing to fear from me. I think we can help one another.’

I took the chair he indicated. Max turned to the window and stood staring out, hands clasped behind his back. I glanced at the desk. He had almost finished the silhouette. It was a gentler
caricature than I would have expected; he had turned John’s admittedly pointed nose into a modified Pinocchio pecker and made his chin recede more than it actually did, but that was all. Hand
and scissors had slipped, perhaps when Georg said the magic word ‘rich.’ A ragged tear ran across the shadow head, from the bridge of the nose to where the ear would have been.

Max turned from the window, once more calm and smiling. ‘Let us not waste time sparring with one another, Dr Bliss. You are an intelligent woman, and I am a very busy man. It would serve
the interests of both of us if I could conclude this matter swiftly and leave you in peace.’

I didn’t say anything, but he interpreted my expression accurately. ‘You doubt that I would leave you alive and well? Consider the pros and cons. I have nothing to gain by harming
you and your friends, and a great deal to lose. I will even make concessions, if it will ease your mind. For instance, I might restore Mr Jonsson to you.’

‘So far as I can see, that concession would just make it simpler for you,’ I said. ‘Get all the pigeons in the same place, so to speak.’

‘But if you had a gun,’ Max said softly. ‘A thirty-eight, fully loaded? Picture it. You and Mr Jonsson, locked in one of the upstairs rooms. We could not reach you from the
window, but you could see us leave – and you could shoot to kill if anyone tried to enter by the door.’

Talk about your seductive pictures. What’s more, some odd sixth sense told me he was sincere – not planning any nasty little tricks like setting fire to the house. Watching the play
of emotions on my face, Max sidled up to the desk and lowered himself into a chair. ‘I will consider any reasonable suggestion,’ he murmured. ‘Only help me to find the
treasure.’

‘I don’t know where it is,’ I wailed.

‘But you are the possessor of expert knowledge, training, that might give me a clue.’ His voice changed. It held a note of purely human curiosity. ‘How the devil did Smythe
trick you into joining him in this? Your reputation is excellent, and now that I have met you I find it impossible to believe you wanted to swindle Mr Jonsson.’

‘It’s too complicated to explain,’ I said mournfully. ‘But you’re right – he did trick me, the bastard.’

‘He will be punished. For that and other injudicious acts.’

‘I don’t suppose you’d include him in your amnesty offer.’

‘No. Why should you care? You owe him nothing; he is responsible for your present plight.’

‘How true.’

‘Are you in love with him?’

‘No. None of your business.’

‘I take a fatherly interest.’

I gaped at him. He went on seriously. ‘He is not a proper associate for a lady of your worth. You will be better off without him. Mr Hasseltine, now – there is a fine man, young and
healthy. What are your feelings for him?’

My head was spinning. I couldn’t believe I was getting advice on affairs of the heart from a leader of organized crime. Uncle Maxie’s Love Column . . .

‘Now, look here, Max,’ I said. ‘Not that I don’t appreciate your interest – but let’s get back to basics, okay? Your deal has its attractive points, and
I’d be strongly tempted to take you up on it, except for one detail.’

‘Your professional conscience?’