“He won’t come; he is sulking,” Schmidt explained. “He said you were rude to him and so far as he is concerned the entire male population of Bad Steinbach can assault you. But he didn’t mean it, Vicky.”

“Go away, Schmidt,” I said.

“I don’t want to go away. I want to stay here and talk to Sir John.”

“I’m afraid not this evening, Herr Schmidt.” John had recovered himself; he rose with all his old grace, and had the effrontery to grin at me. “Shall we try my place next time?” he inquired politely. “This has been an evening I won’t soon forget, but the novelty of it would pall with repetition.”

“Go away, John,” I said.

“Can I have my gun back?” Schmidt inquired meekly. John weighed it in his hand. I knew it was against his principles to carry a weapon—”the penalties are so much more severe”—but it was even more against his principles to give it back to Schmidt.

“I’ll take it,” I said, standing up with a martyred sigh. My nightgown promptly slid down to my hips, and Schmidt emitted a gentle moan of pleasure. I decided he had had enough excitement for one night, so I put on my robe and slipped the Colt into its pocket, over Schmidt’s strenuous objections—to the robe and to the “sequestion of his piece,” as he called it.

I got them both out, and shoved an armchair against the door to hold it in place. Schmidt had burst the tongue of the lock completely out of its socket. That was one thing he did well, falling heavily on things and breaking them. I went to bed. Nobody woke me. I didn’t know whether I was glad or sorry about that.

Nine

I THINK I HAD A RIGHT TO EXPECT THAT AFTER the carnival of comedy inflicted on me the night before, matters were going to calm down. Wrong; the second act of the farce began with the arrival of my breakfast. It surprised me a little, because I hadn’t ordered breakfast.

I mumbled “Herein,” in response to the call, and then realized that she couldn’t because the chair was blocking the door. So I got up and moved it.

The woman wasn’t one of the waitresses—at least she wasn’t one of the current waitresses. She did not respond to my sleepy “Guten Morgen”; carrying the tray with that never-to-be-forgotten skill, she pushed past me and slammed it down on a table.

“That’s very nice of you,” I began.

“Eat it and go,” said Friedl. She folded her arms. “I need the room. It is reserved. You will please check out before Mittag.”

There were two cups on the tray. I sat down and poured coffee. “Are you joining me?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then why…Oh, I get it. Not bad,” I said judiciously. “As you can see, Frau Hoffman, I am alone. What’s bugging you? Why aren’t we friends anymore?”

“You can ask?” She flung out one arm in a dramatic gesture toward the door, sagging on its hinges. “I do not allow such things in my hotel.”