Free Silhouette in Scarlet by Elizabeth Peters

Jonsson.
    ‘Mr Jonsson?’ I stammered ‘Hi. Hello, there. This is Vicky. Victoria Bliss.’
    ‘Victoria!’ He didn’t raise his voice, but it sang with delight. ‘I am so glad! You are so good to telephone me. You are well? You are not ill or injured?’
    ‘No, I’m fine. I – er – ’ I couldn’t ask Everybody’s Dad the questions I had intended to ask. ‘Who the hell are you, Mr Jonsson? Where did you get
the crazy idea I was your cousin?’
    ‘There was some confusion,’ I said finally. ‘I – uh – I changed hotels
    ‘Yes, I am so glad. The Grand is a good hotel.’
    ‘How did you know I was staying at the Grand?’
    He hesitated, then said even more softly, ‘I apologize to you. When I found you were not at the Excelsior, I inquired of several other hotels. I feared there had been an
accident.’
    ‘You knew I was here, but you didn’t call me?’
    ‘It would have been to intrude,’ Gustaf said simply. ‘Your Aunt Ingeborg said you desired to visit me, but a young lady does not always desire what her aged aunt believes she
desires. I am aged too, and dull. I understand if you do not wish to waste time with me.’
    I had hoped that if he talked long enough, he would give me the information I needed without having to dig for it, but this speech turned my brain numb. I felt like a computer feeding back what
someone has put into it. I said feebly, ‘Aunt – Aunt Ingeborg?’
    ‘Yes; it was so good of her to write to me. She found me through a genealogist, when tracing the history of your family. Genealogy is my hobby too – quite a coincidence, would you
not say? Always I meant to investigate the American branch. It must stem, I believe, from Great-great-uncle Johann, who ran away from home at the young age of fifteen and was not heard of again.
His grieving mother believed he had drowned, but I always wondered . . .’ He broke off, with a grandfatherly chuckle. ‘You see how it is? When I speak of my hobby I forget good manners.
As I wrote to Miss Ingeborg, it would make me so very glad to see you. I do not entertain – I am a grouchy old recluse, in fact – ’
    ‘Then perhaps I shouldn’t intrude.’
    ‘No, no, I say it badly, I am so stupid. I mean only to warn you that you may be bored. But you are not a stranger, you are kin. For those of the same blood my door is always
open.’
    ‘I’d love to come.’
    ‘You are sure? I do not force you?’
    ‘You’d have to use force to keep me away,’ I said grimly.
    ‘I am so glad! Tomorrow, is it too soon? I am so glad! I will send my car. It is only a five, perhaps six, hours’ drive. Will nine o’clock in the morning be too
early?’
    The bank references should have warned me that Cousin Gustaf was the kind of man who sent cars to pick up unknown relatives. ‘Nine o’clock?’ I repeated stupidly.
    ‘It is too early?’
    It definitely was too early – not only for me, but for the unfortunate chauffeur who would have to get up at three am. As I hesitated, Gustaf went on, ‘Ten o’clock? Eleven
o’clock? Twelve – ’
    ‘Twelve o’clock would be fine.’
    ‘I am so glad. You will know the car . . . No, best I should give Tomas a letter. You will read it before you get in the car, then you will know he is the right person. That is the proper
way to do it. You will be safe with Tomas. He is a married man, very dependable, very honest.’
    I assured him that I was not at all worried about being sold into white slavery by Tomas, though not in those precise words, and hung up with his reiterated expressions of gladness ringing in my
ears.
    Talking to Cousin Gustaf had been quite an experience. I felt so undone that I collapsed across the bed. So he had heard from Aunt Ingeborg. He must have employed a good medium. Aunt Ingeborg
had died the previous October.
    The main outlines of the plot were fairly clear now. If my surmises were correct, and I felt sure they were, it was absolutely imperative that I visit Gustaf