“Why not?” We left the lights of the town behind and headed up into the hills; the stars spilled out across the sky like a handful of flung jewels.

“He’s such a jackass,” Tony said, in tones of deep disgust.

“He is that.”

“Hoffman wouldn’t confide in an idiot like Dieter.”

“You think Elise is more likely?”

“No, not really. Now if Perlmutter were to turn up in Bad Steinbach…”

“Come, now,” I said, sneering. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for the dirty-Communist routine.”

“Eastern-bloc scholars have pressures on them we don’t have,” Tony argued. “Suppose the item in question came originally from behind the Iron Curtain. Recovering it would give Perlmutter a lot of prestige, maybe a step up the party ladder.”

Again he was getting too close to the truth. I changed the subject.

As soon as I got Tony tucked away for the night, I planned to pay John a visit. He was entitled to know what I had discovered. The presence of two more of the gang of six would get his mind off Tony as suspect number one. (At least that provided a reasonable motive for calling on John; if there were others, I preferred not to admit them.)

But it was to be an evening of renewing old acquaintances. When we walked into the lobby, the first thing I saw was an all-too-familiar face and form. Red as a rose and round as a berry—Schmidt and no other.

John had promised to take care of Schmidt. I hadn’t inquired how he meant to handle the matter. Now I wished I had. Obviously the scheme had backfired.

Schmidt was so happy to see us. He waved frantically. “Here,” he cried. “Here I am.”

We joined him. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I came to help you, of course,” said Schmidt.

“But I thought—”

“What is he doing here?” Schmidt glowered at Tony.

“Well,” I began.

“You have told him!”

“No. No, Schmidt—now look, Schmidt—”

“It was our private affair. You and I and—”

“Never mind!”

“You told this fat old idiot about the deal and you didn’t tell me?” Tony demanded.

“Fat and old? Who is fat and old?” Schmidt struggled to get out of his chair, but it fit his ample posterior so snugly he could only rock back and forth. His voice rose. “Fat and old, is it? I will show you. You will receive a strip of paper measuring the length of my sword. Choose your seconds!”

That was when I knew Schmidt was drunk—really bombed out, stinking drunk, not just mildly inebriated. He never challenges people to duels when he’s just mildly inebriated. At my urging, Tony apologized; we sat down; Schmidt stopped rocking and relaxed. A look of mild perplexity replaced his indignant frown, and he muttered, “Now what was it I had to tell you? So much has happened, but Sir John must know—”

“How long have you been waiting?” I asked, trying to get his mind off the engrossing subject of Sir John.