Free Silhouette in Scarlet by Elizabeth Peters Page A

Jonsson. That sweet, kindly old man
had to be warned.
    I was still prone, picturing medieval torture devices with a certain smirking Englishman as the central feature, when the phone rang. I glanced at my watch. Six o’clock, on the dot.
    ‘Where have you been all the day?’ he demanded.
    ‘“Henry, my son,”’ I said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Are you sure you don’t know where I went today?’
    ‘How could I know? When I telephoned you had left the hotel I believed we were to meet for lunch.’
    ‘You should have shared your belief with me.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘What do you want, Leif?’
    ‘To take you to dinner,’ said Leif.
    ‘You just want to pump me about Smythe.’
    ‘You have seen him?’
    ‘No,’ I said flatly.
    ‘Oh. Anyway, I will take you to dinner.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘I will come at six-thirty.’
    ‘You will come at seven. I’ll be downstairs.’
    I went down at twenty to seven and settled in a quiet corner of the lobby near the bar, where I could keep an eye on the door. Before Leif arrived I had turned down two pressing invitations to
have a drink. Neither came from a middle-sized man wearing horn-rimmed glasses. I saw several people who fit that general description; it made me realize how vague it was.
    At precisely seven o’clock Leif came through the door. The suit he had worn the previous day had been a cheap ready-made, and rather too small; I suppose he’d have trouble finding
something that fit even in a shop that catered to ‘tall, large men.’ That evening he featured wrinkled cotton khaki pants and a short-sleeved knit shirt that had seen better days. I
deduced that we were dining informally.
    If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn he was glad to see me – myself, not a potential informer. A smile replaced his abstracted frown when he saw me and his eyes moved from my
face to my feet and back again with the proper degree of appreciation. As I was begnning to preen myself, he said, ‘No word from Smythe?’
    ‘You might at least pretend you’re interested,’ I said.
    ‘In you? I am, of course. If I cared only about Smythe, I would seek information by telephone instead of taking you to dinner.’
    He offered a stiff bent elbow. Stifling a smile, I took it. On the whole I was more inclined to believe Leif’s blunt comments than the florid endearments of certain other people.
    I suggested we go back to the same restaurant so I could ask about my notebook, but Leif was firm. He had another place in mind. It was a pretty cafe, with tables on a balcony overlooking some
stretch of water or other, but the prices on the menu were considerably lower than those of the other restaurant. Studying it, I muttered, “Why is it no one ever sent me yet, One perfect
limousine, do you suppose?”
    Predictably, Leif said, ‘What?’
    ‘Nothing.’ I wondered whether this evening’s outing would go on his expense account. The prices didn’t prove anything one way or the other The only people I know who
enjoy lavish expense accounts are politicians and business executives.
    Covertly I studied my companion over the top of my menu. He wasn’t looking at me. One finger nervously stroked his moustache; the other hand beat a restless tattoo on the table as his eyes
moved around the room, inspecting the faces of the diners. I had been too preoccupied with my own thoughts to notice that he had something on his mind too. He was looking for someone –
possibly John, possibly someone else. But if he was a policeman of any variety, I was a Short Person.
    He just didn’t have the right look. I’m not referring to his physical appearance; as we all know from movies and television, undercover cops aren’t supposed to look like cops;
they are supposed to look like pushers or hookers or crooks. But all of them have one thing in common – professionalism. They wouldn’t live long if they didn’t know their trade.
Leif’s performance as a