Before I could slug him, Dieter suddenly soared up into the air. It was the most amazing thing I have ever seen. He seemed to hang there, arms and legs dangling, mouth horribly smeared with my lipstick, for the longest time. Then his feet dropped, his body swung sideways, and he toppled over backward.

I raised myself onto my elbows and stared at John. “Well! That was lovely. Rambo couldn’t have done it better.”

“Rambo would have blown him away.” John frowned at his scraped knuckles and raised them tenderly to his mouth. “Which is what I should have done,” he mumbled. “When will I learn to control these impetuous impulses? I suppose now you’re going to tell me you didn’t need rescuing.”

“Well, no,” I said apologetically. “Although it was a very nice gesture.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s only Dieter.”

“Maybe you did need rescuing.”

“Oh, it was just a silly joke. Look at those pajamas.”

“They’re a joke right enough. The absolute nadir of bad taste.”

“Exactly. Dieter thinks I’m here with Tony. He probably set this up so that Tony would burst in on us and find us in a compromising position.”

“Very funny,” muttered John. “Far be it from me to criticize your personal habits, but the way these men keep popping in and out…Is Tony about to join us?”

“I shouldn’t think so. But you’d better go. If Dieter wakes up and sees you—”

“He could hardly have missed me,” John said caustically. “Had I but known you were entertaining, I’d have worn my mask.”

“I think he’s coming to,” I said.

A mumble from poor Dieter confirmed the diagnosis. John glanced down at him. “No, he’s not,” he said.

“John, don’t—” It was too late—not that he would have paid any attention anyway. The toe of his boot clipped Dieter’s jaw in a carefully calculated, but very nasty-looking blow. Dieter subsided. I winced.

John sat down beside me on the bed. He started to speak, then frowned and fumbled under his thigh. “What the hell is this?”

I studied the object he was holding; things had been happening so fast, I had to think before I could identify it. “It’s a bulb.”

“I can see that,” John said in exasperation. “Perhaps I should have been more explicit. Why are you hatching daffodils in your bed?”

“It must have fallen out of my pocket. How do you know it’s a daffodil?”

“My dear old mum is a fanatical gardener. I’ve planted thousands of the damned things for her. There’s no use carrying it around, Vicky, it’s the wrong time of year.”

“Well, I know that. I found it at the cemetery—on Mrs. Hoffman’s grave. It looked so lonesome and cold—”

A moan from the recumbent form at our feet interrupted me. John said, “I should have kicked him harder.”

“Don’t you dare kick him again.”

“I suppose I can’t go on doing it indefinitely. He must have a jaw like Gibraltar. Honestly, Vicky, you can waste more time on trivial conversation than anyone I’ve ever met. Get rid of him. Like MacArthur, I will return.”