Free Trojan Gold by Elizabeth Peters Page A

said John in his most disagreeable voice. “And some kindly passerby found the envelope and posted it?”
    â€œYou’re contradicting yourself,” I said. “First you tell me there’s no evidence and then you imply—”
    â€œThat the only evidence is bloody,” John said poetically. “Either way, I don’t like it.”
    â€œThen you’re not interested?”
    â€œNo.”
    The flat finality of his refusal caught me unawares. I stared at him, disconcerted and surprised; he shifted uneasily and turned away. “Give it up, Vicky. You’re wasting your time.”
    â€œJust tell me one thing. Are there any rumors in the art underworld about the Trojan gold?”
    â€œI have severed my connections with that ambiance,” John said primly. “I am leading a life of quiet, honest—”
    â€œSure you are. That’s why you’re in disguise—why you keep looking nervously in rearview mirrors, why you are so astonishingly well informed about the Battle of Berlin and the architecture of the Tiergarten bunker.”
    â€œOooh, what an evil, suspicious mind you have,” John murmured. “I know a lot about a lot of things, my dear.”
    â€œMilitary history is not your specialty. Would you care to swear on something sacred to you—your own precious hide for example—that your interest in the gold of Troy has not been recently reawakened by some of those rumors I mentioned?”
    â€œYou cut me to the quick.” John pressed his hand against his presumably aching heart and gave mea soulful look. “In order to dispel your suspicions and restore that perfect amity that should mark our relationship, I will make a clean breast of it. I owe the information to my dear old dad.”
    The statement surprised me so that I forgot, momentarily, that he hadn’t denied the allegation. One tended to think of John as self-engendered, like Minerva from Jove’s headache.
    He went on blandly, “You’d remember every grisly detail, too, if you had heard them as often as I did. The Battle of Berlin was the old boy’s favorite topic of conversation when he got to reminiscing about the good old days in general and his own heroism in particular. He’d rave on for hours about how Churchill tried to convince the Allies to drive through to Berlin, and how bloody Eisenhower held back. He had studied the subject intensively, and I was the only one who’d listen to him. Or rather, who could be coerced into listening. I was young and frail and helpless—”
    â€œAnd abused and whatever,” I agreed. “Is that why you became a pacifist?”
    â€œBecause of Papa’s ghoulish war stories?” John grinned. “I wouldn’t call myself a pacifist. It’s impossible to convince some people of the error of their ways without hitting them as often and as hard as one possibly can. I’m simply opposed to people hitting me .”
    â€œEmulating dear old Dad’s heroism is not your aim?”
    â€œEmphatically not. Which is why I am presently avoiding publicity. In case it has slipped your mind, I am still being sought by the police of several countries, including Germany.”
    â€œPublic enemy number one.”
    â€œMore like number one hundred and ten. I never aspired to greatness. Neither do I aspire to spending ten to fifteen years in prison.”
    â€œSo you won’t help me.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAll right.” I reached for the handle of the door.
    John’s hand closed over mine. “Don’t be a sorehead. Let me buy you a drink and we’ll reminisce about old times.”
    â€œNo, thanks. You can drop me at my car if you will. It’s parked near the gallery.”
    Conversation during the drive back was minimal. His brow unclouded, his hands light on the wheel, John whistled tunefully as he drove. I recognized the song: “Oh Mistress Mine, Where