“No,” I said. “We’re expecting someone else. Jan Perlmutter.”

That distracted Dieter from the subject of whoopee cushions. “Jan? He is here?” Unexpectedly, he began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Tony asked sourly.

Dieter took off his nose and wiped his eyes. “You don’t see how comical it is? All of us skulking about in disguise, keeping secrets from each other. It is most comical for Jan, he is naturally a spy at heart. How did you flush him out?”

Puffing himself up, Schmidt gave his version of the “capture.” Dieter shouted with laughter. “Yes, it is very funny. Poor Jan, how his pride must be hurt. He hoped to find the prize and make off with it before we could stop him.”

“Didn’t we all?” I asked, glancing at Tony, who scowled back at me.

“Of course,” Dieter said cheerfully. “Can you imagine the legal battles if it were found? Everyone has a claim—the Greeks, the Turks, the Germans—and the Metropolitan Museum or the Getty Museum would try to buy it; they have the most money to spend. But if one of us said, ‘Ha, here it is, I have it, now what are you going to do?’ it would not be easy to take it away. And if it were in East Berlin—”

“Sssh,” I said, “Here he comes.”

“Why should I ssssh?” Dieter demanded. “I don’t say anything I wouldn’t say to him. Ha, Jan, old comrade, how are things in the beautiful socialist society, eh? Have you won your dacha on the Black Sea yet?”

“No,” Jan said. “Guten Abend, Elise, Vicky, meine Herren.” Elise gave him a languid hand, and he bent over it, obviously relieved that someone was doing the proper thing.

“But how lovely it is to see you again, Jan,” Elise murmured. “Vicky, why don’t you move over, then Jan can sit between us? It is more suitable than having two ladies together.”

In my opinion, it was questionable as to whether either of us qualified, but I did as she asked, and Jan sat down. They made a nice couple; unlike the other men, Jan was formally attired in a gray three-piece suit and a somber dark tie. He only needed a black armband to complete the picture, but even the rotten tailoring and dismal color couldn’t mar Jan’s absurd good looks. He’d look divine in the clothes like those of the King in the painting—rich brocades and glowing colors, and the chaperone headdress, with its graceful hanging drapery.

Tony on my other side gave me a sharp jab in the ribs, and I realized that a silence had fallen over the table. Several people started talking at once; out of the corner of his mouth Tony muttered, “You look like a groupie staring at a rock star. Stop making a fool out of yourself.”

“I’ll have plenty of help,” I said.

Dieter banged on the table. “A toast,” he exclaimed, raising his glass. “Let us drink to…to Heinrich Schliemann!”

Schmidt giggled and Tony’s tight lips relaxed. Jan nodded gravely; but after Elise had drained her glass, she said pettishly, “I say to hell with Heinrich Schliemann. He started this—”