“Wait, wait.” Schmidt was snorting and flailing around in the snow like a red octopus. “I have questions—many questions—”

“I’m sure you do.” Even white teeth flashed in the mouth hole of the mask.

I said resignedly, “Schmidt, meet Schmidt.”

“Schmidt?” My boss’s bellow of laughter made the echoes ring. “Ha, yes. Schmidt—Smythe—very good. I am so glad—”

“Yes, well, my rapture is also extreme,” John said politely. He twitched his foot out of my numbing grasp and rose lithely to his feet. “Vicky, you’d better get Kris Kringle to a fire and a doctor. Auf Wiedersehen.”

He scrambled over the bank and disappeared from sight. I got to my feet, ignoring Schmidt’s breathless appeals for assistance, information, and so on, and was in time to see the pale blue outfit disappear in the trees. A moment later an automobile engine started up, revved a few times, and faded. He had been following me the whole time. That diabolical road had required so much of my attention I hadn’t watched for following vehicles.

Schmidt’s Mercedes was blazing merrily away. I hoped it wouldn’t start a forest fire. My own car was closer to the blaze than I liked.

“Wait here,” I told Schmidt. “I’ll turn around and come back and collect you.”

By the time I had reported the accident and taken Schmidt to be overhauled by a doctor, night had fallen on the charming mountain village of Bad Steinbach. I was prepared to spend the night—though not by choice—in the Gasthaus Hexenhut if Schmidt’s injuries demanded it, but he had come out relatively unscathed—only a bump and a cut on his forehead, which had hit the steering wheel. All those layers of fat had protected his body; he didn’t even have a cracked rib. However, he was out of sorts because the doctor had slapped a large-sized Band-Aid on his wound instead of swathing him in bandages like a hero in the movies, so I agreed to stop in Garmisch to replenish his strength, i.e., eat.

He insisted on one of the best restaurants in town. He was paying, so I didn’t object. When he had eaten his soup and a big hunk of saddle of venison, mit Preiselbeeren and all the rest, he announced that he was now feeling well enough to discuss our next move.

“What next move? We’re going straight back to Munich and you are going straight to bed.”

“There are many things we must discuss,” said Schmidt seriously. “To think I have seen him at last—the great, the famous Sir John Smythe!”

“The infamous Sir John Smythe. You didn’t see him, you only saw that mask.”

“I would have known him anywhere,” said Schmidt romantically. “Who else would appear out of thin air to save us from a flaming death? But you, Vicky—you have deceived me. You were not surprised to see him. You knew he was still alive—you have been seeing him, making love with him all these months—”

“Schmidt, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I think you’re jealous.”