Chapter Fifteen

I

THE FOLLOWING DAYS are something of a blur. We spent most of the time trying to elude the press and the rest of it talking with various officials. Occasionally I’d catch a glimpse of a mosque or a suq and once I actually saw the gates of the Cairo Museum as the limo passed it.

While John and Schmidt were shopping I called Mother and Dad and told them the reports of my nervous breakdown had been greatly exaggerated, but not as exaggerated as the story of my abduction and the news of my engagement. Despite her all-around relief, Mom was a little disappointed to find out that I wasn’t engaged to marry a millionaire. She was tactful enough not to say so, however. I managed to talk Dad out of flying to Cairo. My call had caught him just as he was about to leave for the airport.

It was a nerve-racking interlude, and not just because I kept wanting to punch out the ghouls who followed us with cameras and microphones shouting questions. The worst were the questions that focued on John’s supposed bereavement. They would have been cruel and contemptible if he had really cared about her. Under the circumstances they verged on emotional assault and battery, and I don’t know how he kept his temper. Mine came close to cracking more than once.

Even more nerve-racking were the interrogation sessions. Everybody from the CIA to Interpol to the SSI to the Salvation Army seemed intent on questioning us. It was tantamount to walking, not a tightrope, but a spiderweb strung over a pond full of piranhas. My head ached trying to keep track of the lies we’d invented.

One encounter stands out in my mind.

Following Schmidt’s advice, I had refused to be questioned except at the Embassy and in his company. John was there that day too. Everyone understood why we stuck together – or at least they thought they understood. Clichés, good old clichés – we had suffered together and survived together, and so on ad nauseam.

I had been expecting this particular meeting and had braced myself for it, so when Burckhardt rose to greet me I didn’t slug him or spit in his face or even throw anything at him.

‘You son of a bitch,’ I said, slapping his outstretched hand aside. ‘How you have the gall to face me after screwing up the way you did – ’

John and Schmidt descended on me murmuring soothing comments, and forced me into a chair. ‘No, I will not be quiet,’ I shouted. ‘I’m just getting started. God damn you, Burckhardt, if that’s your name, which I doubt, you and your security measures and your smug superiority and your total indifference to ordinary human decency almost got me killed. And furthermore . . .’

I hadn’t planned it that way, but my explosion turned out to be the smartest move I could have made. By the time I finished telling him what I thought of him he was too nervous to think straight.

‘We know now,’ he said, when I gave him a chance to talk, ‘that the individual referred to in the message was the man you had encountered in Sweden.’

‘Max,’ I snapped. ‘That was the name I knew him by. And no, I didn’t recognize him. He kept out of my way and he didn’t look at all the way I remembered him. The others – Hans and Rudi – weren’t on the boat.’

Burckhardt fumbled through his notes. ‘Dakin and Gurk – ’

‘Who? Speak up, Burckhardt, I’m bloody sick and tired of stupid questions.’

‘Uh. You knew them as Sweet and Bright.’

‘Oh, right. I’d never seen them before. I thought they were two of your people.’ I added, in case he’d missed the point, ‘You and your goddamm obsession with security! It’s no wonder the poor effed-up world is in the state it’s in, with people like you behind the scenes manipulating policy.’

‘Now, Vicky,’ Schmidt began.

‘Shut up, Schmidt. And you too, Burckhardt. I’ve answered the same questions fifty times and I’m not going to answer any more. And you can tell Karl Feder that when I get my hands on him – ’

‘Yes, yes,’ Burckhardt said quickly. ‘Would you like – uh – perhaps a glass of water?’

‘I am not hysterical,’ I shouted. ‘I am . . . I am leaving! Yes, leaving! Now.’

‘I think no more questions?’ said Tom the diplomat, trying to sound firm and professional.

I rounded on him. ‘Yes, and what about you? You’re supposed to be looking out for my rights.’

‘I am, I am,’ Tom said quickly. ‘Herr – uh – Burckhardt, I don’t believe it would be a good idea to continue. Not at the present time.’

‘Not at any time!’ I informed him. I was beginning to enjoy myself. ‘I am leaving. But before I do, I want to ask Burckhardt a question for a change. Just out of idle curiosity, who was the incompetent jerk who was supposed to be protecting me?’

‘It was not her fault,’ Burckhardt muttered. ‘She obeyed orders. She was told not to – ’

‘She?’

‘Would you like to speak with her? She asked for a chance to express her congratulations and apologies personally, but I did not think that advisable.’

‘You wouldn’t.’ I wanted to get the hell out of there, but curiosity got the better of me. ‘Where is she?’

In the next room, of course. That’s where these people live, in the next room – peeking through keyholes and eavesdropping on private conversations.

I didn’t recognize her at first. I didn’t recognize her the second time I looked either. Close-cropped sandy hair, a tailored suit . . . Not until she flashed that wide toothy grin did enlightenment dawn.

‘Suzi?’

She didn’t come any closer. ‘I wanted to express my regrets personally, Dr Bliss. I failed you, and I feel very bad about that. None of us had the slightest suspicion of Mr Blenkiron; I assumed that when you were with him you were okay.’

Her voice was quicker and harder than Suzi’s, with a flat Midwestern twang instead of a Southern drawl.

‘Criminy!’ Surprise had numbed my brain. Then I remembered something. ‘You were at the hotel that night – with Perry.’

She nodded, no longer smiling. ‘Trying to find you and Herr Schmidt. Foggington-Smythe knew nothing about my real purpose; I took him along as camouflage. You saw me?’

‘I saw you. Since I didn’t know whose side you were on I ran. All the way down the goddamn Nile!’ Renewed rage choked me. ‘That awful trip – scared out of my mind – worried about – thirst and exhaustion – fever – Feisal lying in that damned hospital with his legs full of bullet holes – get out of my way! I’m going to kill him!’

Burckhardt retreated behind the desk and John caught me by the arm. ‘You’ll excuse us, gentlemen and madam. She’s been through a lot lately.’

He and Schmidt towed me out. Suzi moved quickly to open the door for us. Her back was to Burckhardt and when she caught my eye she rolled hers and made an expressive face.

Then . . . Then her eyes moved, slowly and deliberately, from me to John. He had drawn my arm through his and his hand covered mine. He shouldn’t have done it, I shouldn’t have let him do it, but things like that happened occasionally; it was so hard to be on guard every moment.

Involuntarily I started to pull my hand away. His fingers tightened, holding mine fast, warning me not to react; but she’d observed both movements, and she tilted her head and widened her eyes, and there was Suzi again, and I knew as clearly as if she had spoken aloud that she was remembering a conversation between me and Larry the day at Sakkara. ‘He’s not so young,’ I had said, without thinking, and Larry had asked if I had known him before.

She looked me straight in the eye and smiled ‘Goodbye, Dr Bliss. Goodbye, Mr Tregarth. Good luck – to both of you.’

Funny, how everybody kept wishing me luck.

I began to believe we might get away with it after all. In fact there were rumours about ceremonies of honour and assorted medals. Feisal was going to be the new director of the institute and I didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d be standing on his own two feet when he assumed the position. He was recuperating much faster than the doctors had expected; when I leaned over to kiss him goodbye the last time we visited him, he pulled me down onto the bed and into his arms, and John had to detach me by force.

‘You’ll come back, won’t you?’ Feisal asked. ‘And let me show you Egypt without distractions?’

‘I hope so,’ I said. And to my surprise I found I meant it.

All in all, things were looking up. I wasn’t even dreaming. But John was.

He always quietened as soon as I touched him. But the night before we were to leave I forced myself to wait and watch while he thrashed around and groaned, and finally a few words became audible. He might have said more, but I couldn’t stand it any longer, and when I took hold of him he woke.

He lay quiet in my arms until his breathing was back to normal. Then he said, ‘There is one misapprehension you may harbour that I would like to correct. I am not one of those sensitive overeducated aristocrats who writhe around in a frenzy of guilt because they have been responsible for bringing a sociopath to his or her well-deserved end.’

‘I suspect they occur only in fiction,’ I said, trying to match his precise, detached tone.

‘Oh, quite. There’s no one so bloody-minded and selfish as your overeducated aristocrat. No doubt you’ve noticed that.’

‘John – ’

‘I’m sorry I woke you. It won’t happen again.’

Before long he drifted off to sleep. I didn’t.

We said goodbye at the airport next morning. Schmidt and I were leaving first; John’s plane took off an hour later. He was wearing a sling, for the effect, he claimed; but that unimportant overlooked bullet hole wasn’t healing the way it should and I thought that morning he had a touch of fever. I told myself not to worry. Jen would nag him till he saw a doctor.

The sling matched the black armband on his left sleeve. The suit hung a little loosely, but it was beautifully tailored and he was the picture of an English gent manfully suppressing personal sorrow. For the benefit of the photographers he bowed over my hand and allowed Schmidt to slap him on the back. ‘Three friends, brought together by chance and bonded in tragedy.’ I read some of the newspaper stories later. They were very mushy, especially the tabloid versions.

I had sworn I wouldn’t look back, but of course I did. He raised his hand and smiled, and then turned away.

‘Do not weep, mein Kind,’ Schmidt said. ‘You will see him soon again.’

‘I’m not weeping.’ I wasn’t. Two tears do not constitute weeping. I knew there was a chance I wouldn’t see him again.

II

A couple of weeks later Schmidt and I were walking along the Isar. In the rain. It was Schmidt’s idea. He thinks walking in the rain is romantic. I did not share his opinion, and I remembered those bright hot days in Egypt with a nostalgia I had never expected to feel. The river was grey as steel under a steely sky. Fallen leaves formed soggy masses that squelched under our feet. My hair hung in lank dank locks that dripped onto my nose and down my neck. I had meant to have it cut. Why hadn’t I? I knew why.

‘This was a stupid idea,’ I grumbled. ‘I’m cold and wet and I want to go back to work.’

‘You have not done five minutes’ work in the past week,’ Schmidt said. ‘You sit in your office, all alone in the tower, staring at your papers and accomplishing nothing. You are the stupid one. Why don’t you telephone him? He is in the book.’

‘Schmidt, you devil!’ My foot slipped and I had to grab at Schmidt to keep from falling. He grinned and grabbed back. ‘You didn’t call him, did you?’

‘No, what do you take me for?’

‘An interfering, nosy – ’

‘I called the information in England to get the number,’ Schmidt said calmly. ‘It would be only courteous of you to inquire after his health.’

‘He’s all right.’ I kicked at a wad of sodden leaves. ‘You know that Jen called you too.’

‘Oh, yes, very touching,’ Schmidt said with a sniff. ‘The dear old Mutti thanking us for our kindness to her little boy. Herr Gott, when she began to talk about his tragic loss and the virtues of that terrible young woman I was hard-pressed to hold my tongue.’

It hadn’t been pleasant. Jen hadn’t been awfully pleasant either. She’d said all the right things but I had had a feeling she wasn’t too happy about some of the newspaper stories. None of the reporters had had the bad taste to come right out with their prurient suspicions but there had been references to my youthful blond beauty (every female in stories like those is beautiful) and John’s tender concern.

He had told me once his mother wouldn’t like me.

‘He must be getting very tired of being fussed over,’ said Schmidt.

‘He’ll put up with it only as long as he chooses. Schmidt, can we go back now?’ I sneezed.

‘No. We have not yet said what must be said. But I do not want that you should catch cold. We will go to a café and have coffee. Mit Schlag,’ Schmidt added happily.

He had whipped cream on his coffee and on his double serving of chocolate torte and, by the time he finished, on his moustache. It was a warm, cosy little café with low ceilings and windows covered with steam that blurred the gloomy weather outside. Schmidt wiped his moustache and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

‘Now, Vicky. What is wrong? It is good to talk when one is in distress, and who better to listen than Papa Schmidt, eh?’

He’d missed a speck of whipped cream. It might have been that homely touch or his worried frown, or the comfortable intimate ambience, but all of a sudden I knew I was going to talk till I was hoarse.

‘I love you, Schmidt,’ I said.

‘Well, I have known that for a long time,’ Schmidt said complacently. ‘But it is good to hear you say it. Have you found the courage now to say it to him?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘With more enthusiasm than that, I hope. And he loves you too. So of what are you afraid?’

‘Funny,’ I said hollowly ‘He asked me the same thing.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘Something stupid, I guess. It’s a stupid question, Schmidt! Loving someone condemns you to a lifetime of fear. You become painfully conscious of how fragile people are – bundles of brittle bones and vulnerable flesh, breeding grounds for billions of deadly germs and horrible diseases. And loving a man like John is tantamount to playing Russian roulette. He can’t help being the way he is, he’ll never change, and that life-style doesn’t offer much hope for a long-term relationship, does it? I’ve been fighting my feelings for a long time, longer than I wanted to admit, because I knew that once I gave way it would be all the way, no holding back, no reservations. That’s the way I am. And he . . . It’s not just physical attraction . . . Are you laughing, Schmidt? So help me God, if you laugh at me – ’

‘But who could not laugh? You, of all people, so prim and proper with the poor old gentleman. I was not always old, Vicky, and I have not forgotten what it is like to feel as you do. But I still do not understand what is holding you back.’

‘It’s not me, damn it! It’s John. He’s gone all sentimental and noble and self-sacrificing on me. I hoped I was wrong, but I couldn’t think of anything that would change his mind, he’s so arrogant and stubborn, and he’d have called me by now if he meant to, it’s been almost two weeks, and having her call instead was a deliberate sign – ’

Schmidt whipped out his handkerchief. ‘Weep, my dear Vicky. Break yourself down. It will relieve you.’

‘Thanks, I think I will.’

He moved his chair closer to mine and put his arm around me. He felt as comforting and soft as a huge pillow, and warm besides. When I finished blubbering I saw there was another cup of coffee in front of me, with a double order of Schlag on it. Schmidt’s ideas of consolation are based on whipped cream and chocolate.

‘So,’ said Schmidt in a businesslike voice. ‘That is better. We can seriously discuss the problem. I will accept your assumption that this is how he feels, for you are in a better position to know than I. Can you explain why he should feel so? For surely now your position is safer than it has ever been. He is not under suspicion by the police and you have an excuse for enjoying an acquaintance that began openly and legitimately.’

‘John Tregarth isn’t wanted, no. But Sir John Smythe and a couple of dozen other aliases are, and not only by the police. Max assured us he held no grudge, but John obviously didn’t believe him, and how many others like Max are there crawling around in the woodwork? That’s what has him worried, Schmidt. Not just worried – terrified. I thought he was feeling guilty about her until the night before we left Egypt, and then . . . It was me he was having nightmares about. He was reliving that awful hour with Max and the others, and dreading what would happen – not to him, to me – if he didn’t pull it off. He kept repeating, “It was too close,” and he didn’t mean coming too close to murder, he meant . . . Oh, hell. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘Yes, I understand,’ Schmidt said, frowning. ‘It is very – ’

‘If you say romantic I’ll slug you.’

‘“Touching” was the word I had in mind. More than touching. Beautiful! Yes, yes, it is what I would expect from such a man. He fears to endanger you, and so he will stay away. Is that what you want?’

I had resigned myself to a long poetic tirade. The direct question startled me into the truth. ‘No.’

‘But he may be in the right,’ Schmidt said. ‘He knows more than you of the possible dangers.’

‘He has no right to make that decision for me. God damn it, Schmidt, it’s the same old macho crap you guys always try to pull and it’s not based on chivalry but on pure selfishness – tuck the little woman away in some safe place so you won’t have to worry about her. What about us worrying about you? If you follow me.’

‘Oh, I do,’ said Schmidt. ‘I follow you very well.’

My eyes fell. ‘Touché, Schmidt. I know; I’ve done the same thing to you. But in this case – in both cases – the damage is already done. Once you care about someone you’re wide open, and the worst part of it is not knowing. Something awful could happen to him anytime, it could be happening at this very moment, and I might not even know about it for days or weeks or . . . You know what I did yesterday? I bought a goddamn London newspaper and read the goddamn obituaries! I can’t live that way, Schmidt, and he has no right to expect me to, and no, I’m not going to call him because this is his problem and he’s got to come to grips with it and if he can’t admit the obvious, basic fact – ’

I broke off. I had run out of breath. Schmidt was nodding and smiling, and there was a calculating look in those beady little eyes of his.

‘Schmidt,’ I said. ‘I already owe you more than I can ever repay and I am deeply grateful to you for inducing this emotional orgy, even if you did enjoy every maudlin moment of it. But if you call him and repeat this conversation – ’

‘Now, Vicky, would I do such a thing?’ He took out his wallet. ‘Come, we must return to the museum. To work, to work, eh? I trust you will be more efficient in the future.’

It went on raining. Day after day. Three days, to be precise. I didn’t mind. At that point I’d have considered sunlight a personal insult. And the bad weather kept me occupied. Cleaning up after Caesar was a full-time activity

He and Clara had been glad to see me. Not that Clara admitted it. In fact, she spent a full day displaying her displeasure at my absence. She’d walk into the room and then sit down with her back to me, glancing over her shoulder now and then to make sure I was aware of how she was ignoring me. And she talked. There is nothing noisier than an irritated Siamese. Finally she condescended to get on my lap and after that I couldn’t get rid of her. I fell over her every time I climbed the stairs and she slept on my head instead of at my feet. With her tail in my mouth.

Caesar’s delight at my return was more openly expressed. Thanks to the incessant rain he was able to coat himself with mud whenever he went out and he was determined to share this pleasure with the one he loved best. If it hadn’t been for them and for Schmidt . . .

But I was feeling more suicidal than ever that gloomy Thursday evening. The drive home, through misty rain and fog, had been a nightmare of traffic and fender benders. Caesar had found something dead in the garden when I let him out, and he had rolled in it. Clara had decided she didn’t care for the brand of cat food I had been feeding her for a week. I had just bought a whole case of it.

I had been too depressed to change my wet clothes or my muddy shoes. I was sitting on the couch, elbows on my knees, chin on my hands, dank hair dripping down my face, when the doorbell rang.

Schmidt looked like Father Christmas with an armful of parcels and a red scarf wound around his double chins. The bottle sticking out of one of the bags appeared to be champagne.

‘Coming to cheer me up, are you?’ I inquired sourly.

‘Do not be rude, you know you are glad to see me.’

‘Yes, I am. Hi, Schmidt.’

‘Gröss Gott,’ Schmidt said formally. ‘Help me unpack these things. We are having a party.’

‘I hope “we” means you and me.’ I followed him to the kitchen. So did Caesar and Clara. They knew Schmidt. When he began unloading his parcels I realized he’d been shopping at Dallmayr’s, Munich’s legendary gourmet deli. ‘I don’t want anybody else.’

‘I have invited another guest,’ Schmidt said. He was trying not to grin but he couldn’t hold it back, and I knew before he went on what he was going to say. ‘I think you will be glad to see him, though.’

Slowly I followed Schmidt back into the living room, and there I stayed – rooted to the spot is the phrase, I believe – while he went into the hall. Was I thinking, in that supreme and critical moment, of how god-awful I looked? Of course I was. I had allowed myself to imagine such a meeting. In that fantasy I was attired in robes of filmy white, and my (freshly washed and carefully brushed) hair fell over my shoulders. Trust Schmidt to pick a moment when I resembled a charwoman on her way home from work.

But I didn’t really care.

However, I managed not to throw myself at him when he entered the room. His hair was damp and a little too long; it curled over his ears. I swallowed and said, with typical graciousness, ‘You didn’t have to come.’

‘I tried to stay away,’ John said. ‘It was for your sake, my darling; I’m not worthy of you, but your image has been enshrined in my heart. Aren’t you going to stop me before I perpetrate any more assaults on English prose?’

He was smiling, but it was an oddly tentative smile, and if I hadn’t believed the word could never apply to John I would have said he looked a little shy.

‘I’m not going to do anything till Schmidt leaves the room,’ I mumbled.

‘Why not?’ Schmidt inquired curiously.

‘Why not, indeed,’ I agreed. ‘Damn good question, Schmidt.’

Mine is a small living room. One step was all it took.

‘Sehr gut,’ said Schmidt’s voice from somewhere in the rosy pink clouds. (I hate to mention those clouds, but as I have already admitted, my imagination runs to clichés.) ‘I will now open the champagne.’

‘No bandages,’ I whispered. ‘Are you really all right?’

‘What are you doing, counting ribs? The area is still a trifle sensitive, so if you wouldn’t mind – ’

‘You’re so thin. Did Schmidt call you, after I threatened to kill him if he – ’

‘You’ve lost bit of weight yourself, haven’t you? Here – and perhaps here – ’

‘He did call you.’

‘When he did, I had been sitting staring at the telephone for over two hours. Trying not to ring you. Are you angry with him?’

‘No. What did he say?’

‘My ears are still burning,’ John said wryly. ‘Even my dear old mum’s lectures never attained that level of surgically accurate analysis. Vicky . . .’ He put his hands on my shoulders and held me away. ‘We must settle this before Schmidt comes back and breaks that bottle of champagne over our bows. I thought it quite likely you’d never want to set eyes on me again.’

‘I told you I loved you.’

‘Yes, but – ’

‘Weren’t my demonstrations convincing?’

‘Oh, that. You couldn’t help that, you were powerless to resist. I’ve been told Great-Grandad had to beat them off with a club. Darling, stop doing that and be serious for once.’

‘Me?’ I stopped doing that.

‘I know. It’s your fault, I don’t behave this idiotically with anyone but you.’ He took my face between his hands. ‘Seriously, Vicky. I did try to stay away. If you hadn’t – ’

‘Will you marry me?’

His eyes widened with horror. ‘Certainly not! Are you out of your mind?’

‘Well, what’s a girl to do? If you won’t ask me – ’

‘You don’t suppose I would insult your intelligence by asking you to marry me, do you?’ John demanded indignantly.

‘How about a dangerous liaison, then?’

It was the wrong adjective. His eyes darkened and his fingers pressed painfully into my temples. ‘I haven’t guts enough to go through this again, Vicky. If I had survived and you – and you hadn’t, I would have put a bullet through my head.’

‘I’m told that drinking yourself to death is more fun,’ I said.

‘Oh, God. Won’t you allow me a single moment of high drama?’

‘I owe you one for spoiling my big scene at Amarna.’

‘You’re incorrigible.’ He pulled me into his arms. ‘And irresistible. All right, then – ’

‘Sweetheart! You’ve made me the happiest woman in – ’

‘I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last woman on earth,’ John said. ‘But we’ll give the other a try. And make frequent offerings to Saint Jude. My darling, are you certain this is what you want? It may be years before – ’

The swinging door to the kitchen opened and Schmidt’s head appeared. ‘Do not concern yourselves, my friends. Schmidt is working on the problem.’

The head vanished, to be followed by a thump, a burst of profanity, and a series of frustrated yelps from Caesar. Schmidt had blocked Caesar’s path but he had overlooked one little thing. John yelped and clutched his leg. ‘Bloody hell!’

I looked down. Clara had bitten him on the ankle.

‘Eight years,’ Schmidt said. His ingenuous face fell. ‘Unless it is petty theft – ’

‘There’s nothing petty about my activities,’ John said. ‘Let me think . . . Italy.’

It was a charming domestic scene. Schmidt was sitting at the table, his papers spread out before him, his pen poised. He had stripped to his shirt sleeves in order to work more efficiently, and with the glasses perched on the end of his nose and his face set in a frown of concentration he looked like a conscientious little accountant. An old Roy Acuff tape was playing; when one of his favourites came on, Schmidt joined in. His rendition of ‘The Prisoner’s Lament’ was particularly soulful.

Schmidt had graciously allowed me to retire in order to change and wash my face. My wardrobe doesn’t run to diaphanous robes, but I did the best I could, and I tied a red ribbon around my hair. As I had hoped, the ribbon had the appropriate effect on John. His eyes widened, but all he said – all he had time to say, before Schmidt was with us again – was, ‘Once you’ve made up your mind you don’t hold back, do you?’

Caesar was snoring under the table with his head on Schmidt’s foot. Clara was in the kitchen. I had bribed her with the extravagant remains of Schmidt’s feast, but she was still complaining. Every time she yowled John flinched.

He was recumbent on the couch, coat and tie off, shirt open, like a weary husband at the end of a hard day’s work. I sat on the floor next to him. It is a sufficient indication of my state of mind that I had assumed that position without even thinking about it. Now and then his hand touched my hair, so lightly that no one except a woman who was totally besotted would have felt it. It ran through every nerve in my body.

‘Italy,’ John repeated thoughtfully. ‘It’s been almost three years since I did anything in Italy.’

‘Ah, sehr gut,’ Schmidt exclaimed. He made a notation. I turned my head. ‘Rome?’

‘Right. What a memory you’ve got.’

‘Now then.’ Schmidt shuffled papers. ‘We have nothing in Norway. Sweden is next. Was your last, er, hum, adventure in Sweden the one in which Vicky was involved?’

‘That doesn’t count,’ John said, stretching comfortably. ‘They never pinned anything on me.’

‘How about Leif?’ I suggested.

‘Always looking on the bright side, aren’t you?’ He tugged lightly at the lock of hair he had wound round his fingers. ‘They can’t prove I did it. Anyhow, it was self-defence.’

‘Very good, very good.’ Schmidt beamed. ‘And you have committed no, er, hum, actions in the U.K.?’

‘Nothing we need worry about,’ John said somewhat evasively. ‘There’s an old adage about fouling one’s own nest.’

‘And the States?’

‘No.’

‘What about that artifact the Oriental Institute fondly believes it got back?’ I asked.

John looked shocked ‘It’s the original. How can you doubt me?’

Schmidt peered at his notes ‘So we have . . . Germany, Italy, France, Egypt, Turkey, and Greece. Hmmmm. Nothing for two years, anywhere?’

‘I’ve been busy,’ John said defensively.

I rose to my knees and turned to face him. ‘Two years? Then last winter, when you fed me that line about a nice honest job and turning respectable . . . It was the truth?’

John smiled sheepishly. ‘Hard to credit, I know. I did lie about the cottage in the country. I can’t afford it yet. Everything’s gone back into the shop. Really, the difficulty of starting an honest business in today’s world, what with taxes and endless forms to fill out and all those regulations – ’

‘Oh’ John.’ I took his hand and carried it to my cheek. ‘Did you go straight for me? I think I’m going to cry.’

‘You dreadful woman, how dare you make fun of me?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

He looked as embarrassed as if I had accused him of bigamy. I sat back on my heels. ‘You didn’t want to prejudice my decision, was that it? John, if you don’t stop being so damned noble I’ll dump you and get myself a more interesting beau.’

He grinned, but Schmidt was deeply moved. ‘You should not joke about such things, Vicky. It will not be so long after all; six years at the most, perhaps only five.’

It wasn’t that simple. The statutes of limitations with regard to art thefts are subject to interpretations that vary from country to country and even judge to judge – and they are constantly changing. And it wasn’t the police John was primarily worried about. Schmidt knew all that as well as I did. He was just trying to cheer us up, bless his heart.

‘I suppose I could give some of them back,’ John said, like a sulky little boy offering to return the candy bars he had swiped from the corner grocery. But I saw the gleam in his eye, and when Schmidt said eagerly, ‘That would be wunderbar,’ I said, ‘Not if you have to steal them back. Aren’t you in enough trouble already? Honestly, John, I think you just enjoy taking things, never mind why.’

Unobserved by Schmidt, who was considering this new angle, John’s index finger curled around my ear.

‘There’s always a chance of time off for good behaviour,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ve been very virtuous of late. Mending fences, so to speak. The Oriental Institute isn’t the only institution that thinks kindly of me. Innumerable little old ladies have promised to mention me in their prayers, and several starving orphans – ’

‘It’s getting late,’ I said catching my breath. ‘You must be tired, Schmidt.’

‘Tired? No! We are celebrating, are we not?’ The damned tape chose that moment to start a new song, and Schmidt jumped up, bouncing on his toes. ‘Come, Vicky, we will dance, nicht?’

‘It’s not a polka, Schmidt.’

‘Well, do you think I do not know a polka when I hear it? I waltz as well as I do the polka and the Schuhplattler and the samba and the rhumba.’

He offered his hand. Smiling, I let him pull me to my feet. At that point I’d have agreed to anything the little guy wanted, even if he wouldn’t go home. At least it wasn’t a samba.

Schmidt clasped me in his arms and off we went, just as I had expected: one two three hop, one two three hop . . . I was helpless with laughter, trying to figure out what outré combination of steps Schmidt was doing, when he stopped and stepped back, beaming. John caught my hand and swung me into the circle of his arm.

There were so many things we had never done together. Gone grocery shopping, walked in the rain . . . Walked, period. Usually we were running. Planted daffodils, played pinochle, gone to the opera, washed the dishes . . .

I wasn’t surprised to find he was a good dancer, light on his feet, with a strong sense of rhythm. I thought I was doing pretty well myself until a voice murmured tenderly into my ear, ‘Stop trying to lead.’

Laughter loosened my muscles and he spun me in an extravagant circle, adding, ‘For now, at least. We’ll argue each case as it arises.’

There is no more sickeningly saccharine, swoopingly sentimental piece of music than ‘The Tennessee Waltz.’ Over John’s shoulder I caught glimpses of Schmidt smiling and nodding and swaying more or less in time with the music. Then I didn’t see him anymore because I had closed my eyes and stopped trying to lead.

When the tape clicked off and I opened my eyes Schmidt was gone. I heard the front door close softly.

John inspected the room with a wary eye.

‘She’s in the kitchen,’ I said. ‘Could I interest you in a game of pinochle?’

He always knew what I was thinking. ‘Tomorrow. After we’ve walked the dog and done the washing up. I’ll even attempt to establish a truce with that man-eating cat of yours. At the moment, however . . .’

‘You can lead.’

‘I intend to. This time.’

He took the ribbon from my hair.

There would be a next time. And at least one tomorrow. I’d settle for that. One is all any of us can count on.