Read Online Silhouette in Scarlet by Elizabeth Peters - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Peters
Tags: Suspense
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ostrich.
Nasty things don’t go away when you hide your head, that just gives them a chance to sneak up on you.
I tried the bank first, on the off chance, but there was no answer. Bankers’ hours are the same everywhere. Next I called Schmidt. His messages were always marked ‘Urgent,’ but
in view of the revelations of the previous evening I thought I had better take these ‘Urgents’ seriously. Schmidt kept erratic hours – being the director, he could keep any hours
he liked – and, having neither kith nor kin, wife nor child, he often stayed late at the office.
I almost dropped the phone when I heard the voice of Schmidt’s secretary. Gerda’s punctual departures are a staff joke; it is claimed that the wind of her passage out of the office
can knock a strong man flat. I said, ‘What did you do, sit on a tube of glue?’
Gerda was not amused. She said stiffly, ‘Herr Professor Dr Director Schmidt has departed. He asked me to remain to deliver a message.’
‘To me?’
‘ Aber natürlich, ’ Gerda said. It is also a staff joke that I am Schmidt’s pet. I’m not supposed to know that, but of course I do.
‘That was kind of you,’ I said, in my most ingratiating voice. ‘What’s the message?’
Gerda switched to English. Her self-conscious voice and stumbling pronunciation showed she was reading aloud.
‘“Cousin Gustaf checks out with carillon. Golden boys say he is night attire of felines, Empress of Germany.”’
After a moment I said, ‘You had better give me that again.’
She gave it to me again. I scribbled. Then I said, ‘I appreciate it, Gerda. Thanks a lot. You run on home. Oh were there any calls for me today?’
‘Nein.’
‘Gerda, are you mad at me?’
‘Nein.’
‘Then why do you sound like the Ice Queen?’
‘Herr Director Schmidt has said, “Read the message, then shut up.”’ The phrase she used was German slang, not exactly vulgar, but definitely not the kind of language she
was accustomed to hearing from Schmidt, who treated women with the courtliness of a vanished age.
I thought it over. Then I said cunningly, ‘If he had not said that, is there anything you would tell me?’
Gerda giggled. ‘ Nein, ’ she said.
I tried a few more subtle tricks and got a few more nein’s. It was unlikely that Schmidt would confide in her; he hadn’t a high opinion of her intelligence or discretion.
So I bade her goodnight and turned to Schmidt’s message. It was mystification for the fun of it, serving no useful purpose. Gerda wouldn’t understand outdated American slang, but
there was no earthly reason why he had to give it to her in code.
All I said was that Cousin Gustaf was in the clear. With bells on. Schmidt had called the bank references (damn his nosy, interfering ways) and had been told that Mr Jonsson was the cat’s
pyjamas – or words to that effect. I had heard the phrase, probably from my grandmother, and knew it implied approbation. The final comment confirmed that meaning. The Empress of Germany was
the Kaiser’s wife, and as we all know, Caesar’s wife is above reproach. Which was more than I could say for Schmidt’s literary style.
The information was reassuring, and it fitted the theory I had begun to construct. Even so, I crossed my fingers and took a deep breath before I made the next call.
Did you ever fall in love with a voice? I don’t mean the voice of a singer, like Elvis or Lennon or Luciano Pavarotti. Just an ordinary speaking voice, saying ordinary words: ‘Hello.
This is Gustaf Jonsson.’
I assumed that was what he said. He spoke Swedish. It’s hard to describe the quality of his voice. It was deep and gentle and calm, with a remarkable timbre, like a clear humming. It
sounded like my father, though it didn’t resemble Dad’s gruff, grumbly tones. It sounded like everybody’s father. Oh, hell, I can’t describe it; all I can say is that the
moment he spoke I forgot any lingering suspicions of Gustaf
Nasty things don’t go away when you hide your head, that just gives them a chance to sneak up on you.
I tried the bank first, on the off chance, but there was no answer. Bankers’ hours are the same everywhere. Next I called Schmidt. His messages were always marked ‘Urgent,’ but
in view of the revelations of the previous evening I thought I had better take these ‘Urgents’ seriously. Schmidt kept erratic hours – being the director, he could keep any hours
he liked – and, having neither kith nor kin, wife nor child, he often stayed late at the office.
I almost dropped the phone when I heard the voice of Schmidt’s secretary. Gerda’s punctual departures are a staff joke; it is claimed that the wind of her passage out of the office
can knock a strong man flat. I said, ‘What did you do, sit on a tube of glue?’
Gerda was not amused. She said stiffly, ‘Herr Professor Dr Director Schmidt has departed. He asked me to remain to deliver a message.’
‘To me?’
‘ Aber natürlich, ’ Gerda said. It is also a staff joke that I am Schmidt’s pet. I’m not supposed to know that, but of course I do.
‘That was kind of you,’ I said, in my most ingratiating voice. ‘What’s the message?’
Gerda switched to English. Her self-conscious voice and stumbling pronunciation showed she was reading aloud.
‘“Cousin Gustaf checks out with carillon. Golden boys say he is night attire of felines, Empress of Germany.”’
After a moment I said, ‘You had better give me that again.’
She gave it to me again. I scribbled. Then I said, ‘I appreciate it, Gerda. Thanks a lot. You run on home. Oh were there any calls for me today?’
‘Nein.’
‘Gerda, are you mad at me?’
‘Nein.’
‘Then why do you sound like the Ice Queen?’
‘Herr Director Schmidt has said, “Read the message, then shut up.”’ The phrase she used was German slang, not exactly vulgar, but definitely not the kind of language she
was accustomed to hearing from Schmidt, who treated women with the courtliness of a vanished age.
I thought it over. Then I said cunningly, ‘If he had not said that, is there anything you would tell me?’
Gerda giggled. ‘ Nein, ’ she said.
I tried a few more subtle tricks and got a few more nein’s. It was unlikely that Schmidt would confide in her; he hadn’t a high opinion of her intelligence or discretion.
So I bade her goodnight and turned to Schmidt’s message. It was mystification for the fun of it, serving no useful purpose. Gerda wouldn’t understand outdated American slang, but
there was no earthly reason why he had to give it to her in code.
All I said was that Cousin Gustaf was in the clear. With bells on. Schmidt had called the bank references (damn his nosy, interfering ways) and had been told that Mr Jonsson was the cat’s
pyjamas – or words to that effect. I had heard the phrase, probably from my grandmother, and knew it implied approbation. The final comment confirmed that meaning. The Empress of Germany was
the Kaiser’s wife, and as we all know, Caesar’s wife is above reproach. Which was more than I could say for Schmidt’s literary style.
The information was reassuring, and it fitted the theory I had begun to construct. Even so, I crossed my fingers and took a deep breath before I made the next call.
Did you ever fall in love with a voice? I don’t mean the voice of a singer, like Elvis or Lennon or Luciano Pavarotti. Just an ordinary speaking voice, saying ordinary words: ‘Hello.
This is Gustaf Jonsson.’
I assumed that was what he said. He spoke Swedish. It’s hard to describe the quality of his voice. It was deep and gentle and calm, with a remarkable timbre, like a clear humming. It
sounded like my father, though it didn’t resemble Dad’s gruff, grumbly tones. It sounded like everybody’s father. Oh, hell, I can’t describe it; all I can say is that the
moment he spoke I forgot any lingering suspicions of Gustaf
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