“I am in Munich to consult with Frick at the Glyptothek,” he explained seriously.

“No, you’re not.”

“Of course I am not.” Dieter grinned. “I could not get the museum to pay my travel expenses unless I consulted with Frick. I am on holiday, in fact; I hoped I could persuade you to join me for a few days of skiing.”

“No, thanks. When I go on holiday I want to relax, not be on guard for snakes in the bed and buckets of water on the top of the door.”

“I don’t play jokes on the ladies who share my bed,” Dieter said, reaching for my hand.

“That’s not what I hear. Elise—”

“Oh, Elise.” Dieter’s fingers wriggled under the cuff of my sweater and squirmed up my arm. “One cannot resist teasing Elise; she is so funny when she is angry. You are different.”

“How?”

“You are much bigger than Elise,” Dieter explained. “You might strike me.”

“Good point.” Dieter’s arm was now entirely inside the sleeve of my sweater, and his eyes were crossed in intense concentration as he tried to stretch his fingers a strategic inch farther. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” I inquired with genuine curiosity.

Dieter put his cigarette in the ashtray. “I am thinking perhaps it would be better to start from the other direction—”

I pushed him away and pulled my sleeve down. “You are weird, Dieter. If I ever did decide to play games with you, it wouldn’t be in my office.”

“In a mountain chalet, then, with the snow falling and a fire on the hearth and a large furry bearskin in front of the fire—”

“I’m afraid not. I can’t get away right now.”

“Next week, then?”

“Sorry, I’m busy.”

“You are always busy.” Dieter lit another cigarette. “Why is it you always say no to me?”

I wasn’t sure myself. Dieter’s round face and dimples made him look like a kid, but he was well past the age of consent and not unattractive. Stocky and compactly built, he was an inch or two shorter than I, a consideration that didn’t seem to concern him any more than it did me. He was good company, when he wasn’t pulling chairs out from under people, and very good at his job. In a few years, when Dr. Fessl retired, he would probably be head curator—no mean accomplishment for a man in his mid-thirties. I loved him like a brother, when I didn’t hate him like a brother. But I had no desire to go to bed with him.

“Maybe some day,” I said soothingly.

For a moment I had feared he was really hurt by my excuses, but if so, he recovered quickly.

“Who is my rival?” he demanded in tragic accents. “Who is it I must kill to win your love?”

“It’s none of your business, actually,” I said. “But if you mean whom am I seeing next week—it’s Tony.”

“Tony. Ah, dear Tony.” Dieter chuckled and blew out a thick cloud of smoke. “He looked so funny, when the chair broke under him—those long, thin legs and arms entwined like pretzels. How is he?”