Silhouette in Scarlet (2 page)

The police wouldn’t tell me what it was he had stolen. I didn’t really want to know.

John is a thief. He specializes in the objects I am paid to guard and protect – gems, antiques, art objects. He isn’t a very successful thief. He’s smart enough, and God knows
he’s tricky, but he is also a dedicated coward. When he hears the heavy footsteps of cops or competitors thundering towards him, he drops everything and runs. That may not seem like an
attractive quality, but it is actually one of John’s more appealing traits. If everybody were as reluctant to inflict or endure pain, there wouldn’t be any wars, or muggings of helpless
little old ladies.

He has the most atrophied conscience of anyone I know. He also has . . . But perhaps I had better not be too explicit, since I want this book to appeal to a family audience. When he’s
engaged in what he does so well, one may be momentarily bemused into forgetting his true nature, but one would have to be a damned fool to let him con one at any other time.

I picked up the rose and tried to tear the petals off. As I should have realized, it was one of those silk imitations, quite sturdily constructed. I was reaching for the scissors when I saw
something else in the box.

It was a blue imitation leather travel folder containing a plane ticket and hotel reservation slip. The hotel was in Stockholm. The ticket was to Stockholm. I had a reservation on a plane
leaving in ten days’ time.

What I had was a bucket of squirming worms. What was he up to this time?

I said it aloud. ‘What are you up to this time, you dirty dog?’ Caesar, sprawled across my feet, took this for a deliberate, undeserved insult. He barked indignantly.

It may have been an omen, who knows? I had both hands on the flimsy paper layers of the ticket, ready to rend it apart. By the time I had reassured Caesar and apologized, I had had a chance to
reconsider.

A rose is a rose is a rose, and a ticket is a ticket, and a ticket is a hell of a lot more useful than a rose. My mental excursion into poetry reminded me of another verse, that touching little
lyric of Dorothy Parker’s, in which she mourns,

I felt sure John was also familiar with that gem of American literature. A plane ticket doesn’t measure up to a limousine, but Dorothy would have preferred it to a rose.

Rain sloshed at the window. I sneezed.

Sweden. The land of my ancestors. (Some of them, anyway.) Roots. Stockholm, the Venice of the North, its canals gleaming under a warm spring sun . . . No, there was too much water in that image.
The stately palaces and quaint old streets of Stockholm shining in the warm spring sun . . . As I contemplated the mental picture, the sun shone brighter and brighter. I would use that ticket. And
when John showed up, I would spit right in his baby-blue eyes. The Paris hotel bill had set me back almost two hundred bucks.

I looked into the bottom of the box, hoping for something else that had actual cash value – a cheque (though it would probably bounce) or some trinket stolen from a museum, such as a
diamond necklace (though it would undoubtedly be a fake). There was something else in the box – a single sheet of paper. Printed on it, in the same hand as the address on the package, were
two words. And these were they: WIELANDIA FABRICA.

I sat staring at the paper for so long that Caesar thought I had passed out and began nervously licking my feet to restore me to consciousness. The only thing that will distract Caesar from this
activity, which he enjoys for its own sake, is a bone. I went and got him one, blundering into doorframes and furniture because my eyes were glued to that exasperating message.

I knew what it meant, of course. In case you don’t, I will tell you, because it isn’t fair to plant clues based on esoteric knowledge. The explicit translation of the phrase should
be obvious to anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of Latin – ‘Wayland’s work.’ But, you ask, who was Wayland?

I first encountered him as Wayland the Smith, in
Puck of Pook’s Hill
, when he forged a dark grey sword with Runes of Prophecy on the blade – a sword that sang when it was
pulled from the scabbard. Kipling knew his legendry; he was aware that Wayland had come down in the world since he entered England as a heathen god whose altars reeked with blood and burning. The
Norse sagas tell his history; he was a divine smith, like the Roman Vulcan, and, like Vulcan, crippled by malice. When writers wanted to describe a particularly fine piece of craftsmanship they had
only to label it WELANDES WEORC. Centuries later, Latin epics were using the same phrase. Wayland’s enchanted blades had powers beyond those of mortal steel, and his hilts were of gold,
gem-encrusted.

Scandinavia, fabled goldsmith, jewel thief . . . It made an odorous little syllogism, as neat and as crazy as one of Lewis Carroll’s exercises in logic. John was on the track of a Viking
treasure. Or rather, that is what John wanted me to believe. I didn’t believe it. If he really intended to commit grand theft, I was the last person to whom he would broadcast his intentions.
The message was just a lure, a juicy chunk of bait – and a fairly ingenious one. My interest was definitely aroused.

I checked the travel folder again. The plane ticket was one-way, the cheapest tourist class. The hotel room had not been paid for in advance, only confirmed. Now I knew I was going to Stockholm,
if only for the pleasure of telling that skinflint what I thought of him and his cut-rate romantic gestures.

‘But she is hiding in the broom closet while the Huns search the house,’ he exclaimed. ‘How will she escape? Did not Attila remark, at the end of chapter four hundred and
twenty, “We have not looked in the broom closet”? This time, surely . . .’

‘She won’t be raped,’ I said. ‘It’s against my principles to allow a heroine to be raped.’

‘What of that night in the perfumed, silk-swathed tent of the Emir Ahmed?’

‘That was not rape.’

‘Ah, so,’ said Schmidt, like Fu Manchu.

‘You’ll just have to wait, Schmidt. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks.’

‘Could you not give me a small hint?’

I couldn’t. I never know myself what Rosanna is going to do until I sit down at the typewriter. ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘The new Valerie Valentine is out – it’s
called
Passion’s Burning Lust.
That should hold you for two weeks.’

‘She is good, but not as good as you,’ Schmidt said. ‘She has not your imagination.’

He gave me one of his pouts – an elderly baby yearning for his bottle. I shook my head. Schmidt sighed.

‘Oh, very well. I hope you enjoy yourself.’

‘So do I,’ I said grimly.

‘The land of your ancestors,’ Schmidt mused. ‘Seeking out your roots – yes, it is very romantic. You will stay at the Grand?’

‘Fat chance. It’s too expensive.’

‘But you must stay there. It is very romantic. And very convenient.’

He meant it was convenient for him. He’d know how to find me if he started to suffer from withdrawal symptoms. It was a tempting idea, though. The Grand is almost as romantic as Schmidt
thinks it is, one of the famous old hotels of Europe. And – needless to say – it was not the hotel where John had booked a room for me.

‘Yes,’ Schmidt insisted. ‘You will stay at the Grand. The manager is an acquaintance of mine. I will telephone at once.’

Oh, well, I thought. Why not? In for a penny, in for a few thousand kronor. I could always move to a cheaper place if I ran short of cash.

I had decided to use the plane reservation. I doubted that John would meet me at the airport; he was conceited enough to assume I would trot obediently to the hotel he had selected and sit with
folded hands until he condescended to get in touch with me. But with John I would never be certain. I came out of customs in a wary crouch, looking for trouble in the form of a dapper blond
crook.

There were a good many fair heads visible, but none had the silver-gilt glimmer of John’s. Reassured, I straightened up and went looking for the currency exchange.

I love airports – the bustle and excitement, the air of expectation – people beginning or ending adventures of their own – tearful farewells, smiling reunions. The well-dressed
balding man with the expensive briefcase and the frown of concentration – he might be a diplomat on a secret mission to an eastern trouble spot, or a businessman, brooding on the complexities
of a billion-dollar deal, or a nervous husband meeting a lady friend in Copenhagen for the weekend and hoping to God his wife wouldn’t call the office. (Don’t worry about the
well-dressed man, you’ll never see him again. He’s just an example of my imagination at work.)

Nobody was paying any attention to me. You have no idea how great that made me feel. Bavarians are short and stocky and brown-haired. Usually I’m a head taller than any woman in a Munich
crowd, taller than most of the men, and my yellow head glares like a beacon. But this place was filled with Swedes wonderful, tall, blond Swedes. There were at least three females in the vicinity
who were my height. I knew then that the trip was going to be a success. Wonderful country! Wonderful people! Roots!

I was so dazzled by this discovery that I didn’t mind the fact that I had, as usual, selected the slowest moving of the lines at the currency exchange. Some poor idiot with no idea of what
he wanted or how to ask for it was at the counter arguing with the teller; the people ahead of me in line grimaced, muttered, or left to try their luck in another queue. I just stood there admiring
the view. Tall, blond people – people like me. I knew how Gulliver felt when he got back from Lilliput.

One man caught my eye, and not only because he was inches taller than his tall countrymen. He had to be a Swede. With a horned helmet on that magnificent thatch of flaxen hair, and a coat of
chain mail covering those magnificent shoulders, he’d have been the image of a Viking warrior, like the ones in the books I read when I was a kid. Never mind that the Vikings didn’t
wear horned helmets; the illustrations in the book had imprinted the image onto my brain. This man even had a long, droopy mustache like the one sported by Leif Eriksson.

He stood sideways to me, reading a newspaper, and was unaware of being observed. I continued to stare, hoping he would look in my direction. Finally he shifted and glanced up. So much for the
power of the piercing stare; he didn’t look at me. I followed his gaze to discover what was so much more fascinating than me.

Characteristically, John had overdone the disguise just a bit. I guess he was trying to look like a Near Easterner of some variety. He had the build for it – slight, slim, lithe. Now his
hair was dark and his complexion was a smooth, pale olive. The little black moustache and the too-well-tailored suit suggested Rudolf Valentino. I might not have recognized him if he hadn’t
been ignoring me so ostentatiously. As he stared fixedly into the middle distance his profile was turned to me, and the outline of that impeccable structure was unmistakable.

The sight of him brought on an overwhelming flood of emotion – frustrated anger, amusement, contempt, and another feeling, of the sort that Schmidt would probably call
‘romantic’. (By now you should have a pretty good idea of what that word means to Schmidt.) The first emotion predominated. I didn’t stop to think, I didn’t wonder why he
was in disguise; the mere fact that he preferred not to be noticed was reason enough to publicize his presence. I opened my big mouth and yelled, ‘Hey, John. John Smythe! Hi, there,
John.’

My voice, at full volume, has been compared with that of Brunhild leading the ride of the Valkyries. John started convulsively. Every head within a thirty-yard radius turned towards me. I waved,
I stood on tiptoe, I pointed. The heads turned in John’s direction.

A wave of colour – sheer rage, I’m sure – darkened his cheek to olive drab. I knew his ability to combine speed of movement with inconspicuousness; one minute he was there, the
next he was gone. It seemed to me that there was an odd little eddy of movement around the spot he had vacated – a kind of swirl of bodies.

The man behind me nudged me. The line was moving. I closed up the gap that had opened between me and the person ahead.

I had not the least intention of going after John. What bothered me was the impression that someone else had done just that. Uneasily I contemplated his original location, by a pillar next to
the newsstand. It was a logical place for people to meet if they missed one another at the gate or the exit from customs. The crowd seemed thinner now. I tried to recall individual faces and
shapes, but to no avail; I had not been paying attention to anyone but John and the Viking. The latter was still there, and he was still thoroughly uninterested in me. Folding his newspaper, he
tucked it under his arm and strolled away.

Nudged again, I shuffled forward. It would not have surprised me to learn that someone was following John. Someone usually was an outraged husband, a policeman, a fellow criminal. The list of
people who might want to murder or cripple John was infinite. If I felt any guilt about raising the view halloo, my conscience was assuaged when I recalled that he had summoned me to Stockholm,
right into the middle of whatever scam he was currently working. No, I didn’t feel guilty. I felt like killing the rat myself.