John looked as if this struck him as a splendid idea, but when I launched into my story, he did all he could to back me up. It was some story. I had to do some impromptu editing to make it sound even halfway plausible. I didn’t go into the business of the Trojan gold, figuring that would be too much for a bewildered local sergeant; time enough for complications when the Landpolizei were on the case. Instead, I concentrated on the mad killer theme. The sergeant readily took to that idea; when he exclaimed, “Ah! A crime of passion!” I knew we had sold him. Everybody understands crimes of passion. Of course, John couldn’t resist the chance to show off; baring his breast, he displayed his wound to the admiring gaze of the sergeant, who expressed himself as thoroughly convinced. We told him we would be at the hotel and left him in animated conversation with his superiors in Garmisch.

Tony was in Garmisch too. The sergeant said he had been taken there the day before, since the local lockup was already full of holiday revelers. I would have lingered to inquire about posting bail and such things, but John kept muttering insistently about food and drink, and I figured Tony could wait. I was sure we had not seen the last of Dieter. His tender little ego had taken another lump, and now he knew where the gold was hidden. I didn’t know what he would do, but I knew he would try something. The police would be looking for him, but between the blizzard and the holiday, they would be shorthanded.

I was itching to get back to the cemetery with some tools—including a gun with actual bullets in it, in case Dieter had the same idea. However, as John kept reiterating, that matter could wait until we had figured out a method of transport and replenished our strength. I had to agree with him; I felt as though I would topple over if someone blew hard at me.

The clerk had a handful of messages for me. As I might have expected, all of them were from Schmidt.

“Where is Herr Schmidt?” I asked. “In the restaurant?”

The woman flung both hands shoulder-high in a dramatic shrug. “I saw him earlier, but…Herr Gott, Fräulein, it is a madhouse here. Frau Hoffman dead, and no one knowing what will happen next…. The police asked for you, too.”

“That’s all right, I’ve talked to them,” I began.

John took me firmly by the arm. “If anyone else asks for the Fräulein Doktor, she will be in the restaurant.”

Schmidt wasn’t in the restaurant. The smell of coffee and fresh-baked rolls made me so weak in the knees, John had to lead me to a table. I tackled the food with a gusto worthy of Schmidt himself. As soon as I started to feel stronger, I started to worry again.

“What do you think he’ll do?”

“God knows,” John said placidly.