Appropriately attired in lederhosen, suspenders, et al., Tony was seated at the table digging into a hearty Bavarian farmers’ breakfast. It was no wonder he had been moved to start the stove; his bare thighs were still faintly blue with cold.

He was in a better mood than I had expected after a night listening to Schmidt snore. He greeted me with a wave of a fork on which a sausage was impaled. Such was my state of sleepy confusion that I was not at all surprised to see a Siamese cat sitting on the table next to the sausage.

“Sit down,” said Schmidt. “We must discuss the case.”

“I’m retiring from the case,” I mumbled, sitting. Fortunately there was a chair under me.

“What? No! Give her coffee, Tony, she does not ever make sense until she has had coffee.”

Tony obliged. Clara took advantage of his distraction to hook the sausage off his fork; she carried it across the room and sat down on the beruffled lace-trimmed hem of my robe to eat it. I was too far gone to protest. I said faintly, “1 am retiring from the case.”

“Have more coffee,” said Schmidt.

“I will. But that will not affect my decision. I am retiring from the case because there is no case.”

Tony and Schmidt said in unison, “You can’t.”

“Oh yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t,” said Schmidt and Tony. Tony glared at Schmidt, who continued in solo, “The police are looking for you, Vicky, my dear. You must solve the case to free yourself from suspicion.”

The cat rose fluidly from the floor to the table and clamped its teeth on the bacon Tony was holding. Tony tugged at it and swore. The cat growled but did not relinquish her hold. Schmidt giggled.

“A charming animal,” he said approvingly. “Yours, Vicky? It was outside your door early this morning; I had hoped you would be awake, but you were not, and I thought I would let you sleep a little longer, so I brought it here with me—”

“Schmidt,” I said softly. “Shut up. No. Don’t shut up. Repeat what you just said.”

“I thought I would let you sleep a little longer, so—”

“Before that. Something about the police.”

“Yes, I expect they are looking for you.”

“Why, Schmidt?”

“Because of the dead man in your garden, of course.”

“The dead man in my garden,” I repeated hollowly.

“Give her more coffee,” said Schmidt.

Schmidt was full of admiration for the foresight of Sir John Smythe, who had warned him about the dead man.

“Well, not in so many words, of course,” Schmidt admitted. “But he told me there would be a desperate attempt on your life, Vicky, and that I must come at once to tell you when it occurred.”

“He told you I would be here?” I was still trying to get a grip on the situation.

“He did not have to tell me, I knew. He has a greater respect for my intelligence than some people.”