Silhouette in Scarlet Read Online Free PDF

might as well get dinner out of Leif. If he intended to spend the
evening pumping me about Sir John Bloody Smythe, the least he could do was pay for my time.
    I studied my menu with intense interest, but Leif would not be put off any longer.
    ‘This is not the place for a private conversation,’ he grumbled.
    ‘I don’t go to isolated places with strange men,’ I said.
    Instead of objecting, he nodded approvingly. ‘Very wise. What I would expect of a lady of your reputation.’
    ‘What do you know about my reputation?’ I demanded.
    ‘All those who work in my field are acquainted with Dr Victoria Bliss. You are employed by the National Museum of Munich, and you are an authority on medieval art.’
    ‘Well, well,’ I said. ‘Do you by any chance know Inspector Feder, of the Munich police? Short, paunchy man with a bald head?’ Leif grinned, baring all his rapacious
teeth, and conjuring up a pair of elongated but attractive dimples. ‘Feder is tall, not short; lean, not paunchy. But he is, I confess, losing his hair.’ This accurate description did
not cheer me as it should have. I sighed. ‘What are you, Leif – Interpol, or the Swedish equivalent of the FBI?’
    ‘It is what you would call the Special Branch of Art and Antiquities. You are familiar with our work?’
    ‘I know that many countries have such special departments. The number of crimes involving art objects has necessitated a corps of men with specialized training. But I wasn’t aware
that Sweden had suffered to that extent. Besides,’ I added heatedly, ‘I’m an art historian, not a private eye. And I’m supposed to be on vacation.’
    ‘Dr Bliss. Will you swear to me that you are not presently involved with Al Monkshood?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The man you greeted at the terminal.’
    ‘You heard me call him John – John Smythe. Maybe,’ I said hopefully, ‘we aren’t talking about the same person.’
    ‘He has as many aliases as hairs on his head,’ Leif said, grinding his big white teeth. ‘Smythe is one of them. Yes, we are talking about the same person. Do you expect me to
believe that it was by coincidence that you hailed the best art thief in Europe?’
    ‘He isn’t all that good,’ I mused. ‘Al Monkshood . . . What won’t he think of next? Look here, Leif, let’s order dinner and get the waiter out of our hair;
then I’ll tell you what I know. It isn’t much.’
    I am not uninterested in food. A woman of my size needs her nourishment. But I can’t remember what we ordered or how it tasted. If I could have gotten my hands on John Smythe, AKA Al
Monkshood, I would have squeezed his neck till his face turned puce.
    We sat in silence until the waiter had brought our dinner. The silhouette cutter was still circulating, head bent over his work, he was reproducing the far from symmetrical features of a chubby
Italian paterfamilias several tables away.
    Our own table wasn’t very big. By the time the waiter finished fussing over the arrangement of the dishes, Leif was simmering with frustration. He kept dropping things – napkins,
forks, menus – and diving under the table to retrieve them. His face was flushed with exertion by the time the waiter had finished.
    ‘Well, then, speak,’ he demanded.
    ‘Okay, okay. I met Sir John Smythe, as he called himself, in Rome several years ago. I know the title is a fake, and I presume the name is, too, though he told me John was his real first
name. He was mixed up in a scheme to copy famous antique jewels and steal the originals. But,’ I said, ‘if you’re familiar with his career, you probably know the
details.’
    ‘ Natürlich, ’ Leif said impatiently.
    ‘Then you know the scam didn’t succeed – thanks in large part to me.’ Leif gave me a raised eyebrow, but modesty is not a virtue I cultivate. I went on, ‘Smythe and
I were allies at one point because certain developments threatened him as well as me. I can assure you, I have no fond memories of the