“So of course I left Munich at once,” Schmidt finished. “To tell you what had happened. But I could not find you. You were not here. And by the time you came, I had seen Perlmutter—”

“Didn’t you call the police?” I asked.

“No. Why should I do that? They would only detain me, asking questions. But I suppose they will find him before long,” said Schmidt calmly. “And then they will want to talk with you. And when they find who he is, and that you were at the hotel—”

“Schmidt, don’t be theatrical. I’ve got to go home right away. There is no sense in staying on here—”

“We can’t leave yet,” Tony protested. “Friedl—er—Frau Hoffman—has given me permission to look through her husband’s papers. He must have left some sort of memo or note or map telling where he hid the gold.”

“The gold,” I said. “Right. I suppose Schmidt told you.”

“Yes, he did. And I must say, Vicky, that your behavior has hurt and astonished me. I would like to believe that it was concern for my safety and respect for my altered status that prompted your reticence—”

“Believe it,” I said, shrugging.

“I would like to believe it, but I don’t. You’ve harbored a grudge ever since the Riemenschneider affair—”

“Grudge? Grudge, my eye! Why should I?”

“Because I proved my superiority,” said Tony, with a smirk and a superb disregard for the truth. “Because we made a bet and I won.”

“Like hell you won.” The cat grumbled and dug her claws into my leg. I moderated my voice. “We collaborated on that affair. It was a joint success.”

“That’s what I mean. You can’t stand sharing the credit.”

“There is some truth in that,” said Schmidt judiciously. “You do not share well with others, Vicky. You did not tell Papa Schmidt, or Sir John—”

“And that’s another thing,” shouted Tony. “Who is that character, anyway? What’s he doing in this business? How did you meet him?”

“But I have told you,” said Schmidt, winking furiously at me to indicate…something or other. Even when I’m at my best, I am sometimes uncertain as to the esoteric meaning of Schmidt’s gestures. Enlightenment dawned as he continued, “Sir John is an under-the-blanket personage of an extremely secret organization—”

“So secret I’ve never heard of it?” Tony demanded. “He’s lying to you, Schmidt. There is no such thing. He’s probably some kind of crook; Vicky attracts them the way a dog collects fleas.”

They went on exchanging insults and lies, which gave me a chance to consider this latest development. If anything, it only strengthened my determination to get myself, not to mention Tony and Schmidt, out of what was beginning to look like a nasty, dangerous, unproductive mess.

When they had wound down, I said, “If you two have quite finished, I’d like to make a statement. I said I was through, and I am. Through.”

“But the murder of Freddie—” Schmidt began.

“Schmidt, there is no way anybody could suspect I killed Freddie.”