Free The Laughter of Dead Kings by Elizabeth Peters Page B

action until they have tried and failed to achieve their ends through simpler methods. You don’t suppose I would have taken you to Rome if I had anticipated danger?”
    The door opened. Alan edged in, juggling several paper cups. “Thoughtful little me, I brought one for each of you. I expect to be reimbursed, naturally. My salary isn’t large enough to promote generosity.”
    “Take it out of petty cash,” John said. “Plus a generous tip, of course.”
    They sneered genteelly at each other; John gestured, and I followed him back into the office.
    “Why are you so nasty to him?” I asked, easing the cap off my coffee.
    “He’s a nasty little man,” John said, his lip curling. “I doubt he has a moral scruple in his head.”
    “So why did you hire him?”
    “Vicky, you have the greatest gift for idle curiosity of anyone I’ve ever met. He’s some sort of cousin—I have hundreds of them. He wormed his way into Jen’s good graces and asked her help in finding a nice gentlemanly job. He’s good with computers and he knows something about art and antiques. I need someone to look after the shop when I’m away, which is a great deal of the time: attending auctions, running down leads, responding to would-be sellers and so on. I know he’s untrustworthy, so I keep a close eye on him.”
    “Always expect the worst, then you are never disappointed?”
    “Or deceived. I trust that satisfies your curiosity. I haven’t opened the post yet. Why don’t you check your messages while I do so?”
    “I didn’t think anybody wrote letters these days,” I said, fishing in my backpack.
    “Jen does,” John said morosely. He waved an envelope at me—I noticed it had a coat of arms emblazoned on the backside—and ripped it open with the air of a man who knows he is going to be hanged and decides he may as well get it over with. “She wants me to pay her a visit.”
    “Fat chance,” I said. I picked up Jen’s envelope and examined the coat of arms. It was divided into four sections—quartered, I think is the term. One contained a shapeless blob, roughly square in shape and gray in color, another a dagger or sword; the third had several fleurs-de-lis and the fourth a couple of leopards or lions standing up on their hind feet. The royal arms of England and/or France? Iwouldn’t have put it past Jen to claim a relationship with either and/or both.
    While I tried to figure out the Latin motto, John went methodically through the rest of the post. It appeared to be the usual sort of thing—brochures, catalogs, and, of course, bills.
    “Well?” he inquired.
    “Well what? Oh, Schmidt.” I returned to my backpack and located my cell phone.
    “Put it on speaker,” John suggested, leaning back in his chair and picking up his cup. “I can hardly wait to hear whether Clara has attacked Suzi again.”
    She had. Schmidt rambled on about that for a while; the message ended with a reproachful “Where are you? You have not returned my calls. Why do you not return them? You know I worry.”
    “I’m surprised he hasn’t figured out how to track you,” John remarked.
    “Shh.” The second message was more of the same. The third…I clutched the phone with a suddenly sweaty hand and John sat up straight.
    “Where are you?” Schmidt’s voice was so choked I barely recognized it. “Vicky, I need you. Something terrible has happened. You must call me at once. The number—”
    “I know the number,” I groaned. “And that one, and that one…Schmidt, for God’s sake tell me what’s wrong.”
    “He can’t hear you,” John pointed out.
    The other numbers he had given me were those of his office at the museum, his home, and my house. At least he wasn’t in a hospital—or in jail. Neither one of which, knowing Schmidt as I knew him, would have surprised me.
    I tried his cell phone first. It rang and went on ringing. I wasabout to try the office when Schmidt’s voice fell like music on my ears. “Vicky! At last!