Borrower of the Night: The First Vicky Bliss Mystery by Elizabeth Peters Page B

yeah, the English female is in the tower too. I told you she was a crony of the Gräfin .”
    “Good God. How can we do any searching? It’s like Main Street on Saturday night.”
    “If you’re planning to start ripping up floor boards in the guest rooms, you aren’t as logical as you think you are.”
    I sighed ostentatiously.
    “Must I explain my reasoning? I thought it was obvious.”
    “I’ve been sharing my humble thinking with you. Go ahead, be obvious.”
    “Well, isn’t the master bedchamber—Burckhardt’s own room—the logical place in which to start searching?”
    “It might be, if we knew which room was Burckhardt’s.”
    At that moment the moon rose above the wall and turned the little garden into something out of Rostand. I glanced at Tony. He put his arm around me and I leaned back against it.
    “I can’t fight with you,” Tony said.
    “You can’t fight with anybody. You’re too nice a guy. No, none of that. We were reasoning, remember. What we need is a plan of the Schloss as it was in the good old days. Or we could ask the Gräfin which room was the master bedchamber.”
    “I’m against that.”
    “So am I,” I agreed amiably. “We don’t want to rouse any suspicions. Anyhow, she may not know.”
    “And until we know, I don’t see any point in searching the bedrooms. The hiding place won’t be obvious; you really would have to rip up floors and tear down the walls.”
    “Anyhow,” I said thoughtfully, “the count’s room might not have been the best place to hide something. Didn’t they have servants and attendants hanging around all the time?”
    “I wouldn’t say that. But there are any number of equally likely places: Such as—”
    “Don’t,” I said suddenly. The garden was a magical place, but it was a little uncanny, with the rustling shrubbery and a breeze moving the branches of the trees. “Let’s go in. I’ve had enough atmosphere for tonight. I could stand a glass of plain prosaic beer.”
    We had our beer, served by Irma, in the room of the château that served as a lounge. The family from Hamburg were playing Skat and the honeymoon couple, in a shadowy corner, were fully occupied with each other. The only person in the room who wasn’t distracted by the squeaks and giggles coming from that corner was the English lady, who sat knitting like a robot, without removing her eyes from her needles. George was nowhere to be seen, and I wondered uneasily about the rustling I had heard in the garden.
    When the clock struck ten, there was a general exodus. Apparently Rothenburg, like my home town, rolled up the streets at an early hour. That was fine with me. I had other plans for the middle hours of the night.
    At the door I was intercepted by the little man whom Tony had identified, somewhat vaguely, as a professor. He introduced himself with a big broad smile.
    “ Ich heisse Schmidt . And you are the American Professorin, nicht ? What is it that you teach?”
    I admitted to being a historian. I was caught off guard by his blunt approach, but it was impossible to resent the little guy. He did look like Santa Claus. Besides, he only came up to my chin. As I have said, I can’t be cruel to little people.
    “And you, Herr Schmidt?” I asked. “Are you perhaps also a historian”
    Herr Schmidt’s eyes shifted. All at once he looked like a very sneaky Santa Claus.
    “Alas, I am no longer anything. I am, as you say, retired. I enjoy a long vacation. And you, I hope you find Rothenburg pleasant? You are, like me, in the older wing of the Schloss ? It is charming! Full with atmosphere of the past, very appealing to Americans. But inconvenient, this charm. For example, we must light ourselves to bed. There is no electricity in the old wing.”
    He picked up a candle, one of a row which stood atop a chest.
    “So I noticed,” I said drily.
    In a mellow moment Tony lit a candle for me and we found ourselves part of a small procession which wound its medieval way