Borrower of the Night: The First Vicky Bliss Mystery by Elizabeth Peters Read Free Book Online Page A

knew you’d be along. What kept you?”
    With a wave of his hand he indicated the chair next to his. I took it, without comment; if he wanted to continue the childish pattern of noncourtesy he had established back home, that was fine with me. I put my elbows on the table and studied him. No doubt about it: jaunty was the word for Tony.
    “How long have you been here?” I asked.
    “Couple of days.”
    “You must have made good use of your time. What have you—”
    “Quiet,” said Tony, scowling. “Not now.”
    He was trying to look like James Bond again. It’s that loose lock of hair on his brow. I didn’t laugh out loud because it was expedient to keep on good terms with him, for a time. I turned my head away and glanced around the room.
    If the tables in the dining room were any guide, the hotel part of the Schloss wasn’t large, but it was doing a good business. There were a couple of dozen places laid, four to a table. Most of them were occupied.
    “Fill me in on our fellow guests,” I said.
    “Two American high school teachers,” Tony began, indicating a couple at the next table. “A German family from Hamburg—two kids. The honeymoon couple are French; the old miserable married couple are Italian. There are some U.S. Army types from Munich, and a miscellaneous bevy of Danes.”
    “You’ve been busy,” I said, smiling at him. He looked pleased, the naïve thing.
    “The little fat guy who looks like Santa Claus without the beard is a professor,” he went on complacently. “What he professes I don’t know; he keeps trying to corner me, but I’ve avoided him so far. The middle-aged female with the face like a horse is English. She’s a crony of the old countess’s.”
    “Old countess? Is there a younger one?”
    “You must have met her. If she wasn’t carrying your suitcases, she was scrubbing your floor. She does all the work around here.”
    “Her?” I gasped ungrammatically.
    “Sure. Irma. The last frail twig on the Drachenstein family tree.”
    “Irma!” It was some name for a girl who looked like a Persian houri. I was about to express this sentiment—and get some additional insight into Tony’s attitude toward her—when a man walked up to the table. He was a stocky young man with brown hair and blue eyes, a deeply tanned face, and an expression as animated as a block of wood. He distributed two brusque nods and a curt “ Abend ” around the table, and sat down.
    Now as I have indicated, I find the usual leering male look quite repulsive. I am accustomed, however, to having my presence noted. Tony, who knows me only too well, glanced from me to the newcomer and said, with a nasty grin.
    “This is Herr Doktor Blankenhagen, from Frankfurt. Doc, meet Fräulein Doktor Bliss.”
    The young man half rose, clutching his napkin, and made a stiff bow.
    “Doctor of medicine,” he said, in heavily accented English.
    “Doctor of philosophy,” I said, before I could stop myself. “How do you do?”
    “Very pleased,” said Herr Doktor Blankenhagen, without conviction. He opened a newspaper and retreated behind it.
    “Hmmph,” I said; and then, before Tony’s grin could get any more obnoxious, I went on,
    “One more place at the table. Who’s that for?”
    Tony’s grin faded into the limbo of lost smiles. I knew then. I had been half expecting it, but I still didn’t like it.
    “Hi, there,” said George Nolan, making his appearance with theatrical skill, at just the right moment. “Glad you got here, Vicky.”
    “Hi yourself,” I said. “Congratulations on your detective skill. Or did you just follow Tony?”
    George laughed, and leaned over to give Tony a friendly smack on the shoulder. Tony swayed.
    “Right the second time.”
    “No problem following him?” I asked sweetly. “Not for a man who has tracked the deadly tiger to its lair, and hunted the Abominable Snowman in his mysterious haunts.”
    “He went to the Jones Travel Agency,” said George, still grinning.