“Now you understand why I am here,” said Jan solemnly.

“I’m damned if I do.”

“But—did you not receive a similar communication?”

Schmidt’s mouth opened. I put a doughnut in it. “Even if I had,” I said truthfully, “I wouldn’t have assumed it was an oracle from on high.”

“You don’t understand,” said Jan.

“I told you I didn’t.”

What I failed to understand was that East German scholars, particularly those of the Berlin museums, had developed a mild neurosis about the Trojan gold. They knew the Russians didn’t have it, which put them one up on the rest of us and also added to the mystery. Jan’s boss, the director of the Bode Museum, was particularly sensitive about the subject; the very mention of Troy, Schliemann, or Helen initiated a fit of twitching and mumbling. So as soon as the photograph arrived, Jan carried it dutifully to his superior.

Schmidt couldn’t let that pass. “Ha, I knew he would not have the initiative to come here on his own. They cannot go to the toilet without permission. However, Vicky, there is something admirable about the loyalty of a subordinate to—”

“Never mind, Schmidt,” I said. “Are you telling me your boss fell for this yarn, Jan?”

Not only did he fall for it; the old boy practically had a stroke. He had been on the staff of the museum and had known Hoffman well. After the war he hadn’t bothered to look him up, since the relationship had been purely professional; if he thought about the matter at all, he assumed Hoffman had been killed. When Jan assured him that Hoffman had been rusticating in Bavaria for over forty years, he thought the circumstances curious enough to merit investigation. And, as Jan modestly remarked, who was better qualified than he to investigate? The letter had been addressed to him, he knew Hoffman personally—and he also knew the five other scholars who had stayed at the Gasthaus Hexenhut.

Not that Jan actually made that last statement. He didn’t have to; I knew as well as if I had been sitting in on the discussion that this factor had been raised and debated. Jan was no dumbbell; he must have suspected he might not be the only one to receive a message.

He was rattling merrily along, his crisp curls coiling tighter as they dried, and he looked so beautiful I hated to scuttle his story. But I forced myself.

“Just an innocent little inquiry,” I said. “All open and aboveboard.”

“Aber natürlich. I have done nothing against the law—”

“Then why the wig? Why were you trailing me in Munich? Oh yes, you were, Jan; I saw you. What were you up to, that you didn’t want to be recognized?”

I would like to say that Jan’s reaction typified the police-state mentality, but I’m afraid it is typical of people in general: When somebody catches you pulling a dirty trick, blame them.

“You were conspiring against me,” Jan said sulkily.