The Laughter of Dead Kings Read Online Free PDF Page A

with parcels. “I take them to the kitchen,” he announced.
    I followed him. Compared with Suzi, Schmidt was the lesser of two evils. “These in the refrigerator,” he announced, suiting the action to the words. “These on…” He looked down into the hopeful face of Caesar. “On the high shelf. And here is wine.”
    I took the bottle he handed me. “I didn’t know you and Suzi were an item.”
    Schmidt smirked. “I don’t tell you everything, Vicky. Yes, we have been friends for some time. Good friends.”
    If he giggles, I thought, I’ll hit him with this bottle.
    Schmidt struck a pose, hand on hip, chin lifted. “You have not told me how well I look.”
    I hadn’t really looked at him. Same old Schmidt, five feet six standing on tiptoe, round as an orange and rosy as an apple, bristly white mustache…Wait a minute. Not white—brown. Rich, decisive brown. If I hadn’t been so bemused by Suzi I would have seen it immediately. Other details began to penetrate. The cheeks weren’t quite as plump or florid, the stomach had retreated behind what appeared to be a solid barrier of some kind.
    “You dyed your mustache,” I said.
    “Not dyed; brought out the natural color,” said Schmidt indignantly. “It is a special formula designed for prematurely gray individuals. Is that all you see?” He thumped his stomach, winced, and went on, “I have lost twenty pounds. I am fitter than most men half my age. Would you like to see my pecs?”
    “Good God, no! I mean…” This new development almost made me forget Feisal, the missing mummy, and gimlet-brained Suzi, who must not, MUST NOT get wind of either of the former. “You look great,” I mumbled. “Was that where you were? At a fat…uh, I mean, a spa?”
    “A scientific health clinic,” Schmidt corrected. “In Switzerland.” Selecting a knife from the rack above the counter, he sliced cheese and apples onto a plate. (Apples? Schmidt?) “Come, we must join our friends. Er—I would appreciate it if you would not mention the clinic to Suzi.”
    From the look of relief on John’s face I deduced he had found conversation heavy going. Catching my eye, he supplied me with a drink. It was mostly tonic, I discovered with regret. He was right, though; we needed to keep our wits about us.
    For the next half hour Schmidt did most of the talking. My God, it was boring. Calories, saturated and unsaturated fats, carbs, the glycemic index, the food pyramid, the ratio of this to that and that to whatever peppered his speech. Red wine was mentioned, and so was dark chocolate. There wasn’t a food fad, scientific or pseudo, Schmidt had missed. John listened in open fascination. His gaze kept moving from the plate of sliced apples to Schmidt’s bright-brown mustache to the bottle of wine. (Red wine, of course.) I watched Suzi.
    As a Southern belle she had affected masses of blond hair, a toothy grin, and a well-developed, ostentatiously displayed figure. The last time I had seen her, at the embassy, she had worn a tailored suit, very businesslike. Only the grin had been familiar. It was still in evidence, but her hair was short and there were glints of silver in its sandy waves. I wondered how old she was. Over forty, under sixty? It’s hard to tell these days. Her trim figure suggested she worked out regularly. Tonight she was casually dressed in jeans and T-shirt, the latter loose enough to be discreet but tight enough to make Schmidt’s eyes keep wandering back to her chest. There was no doubt in my mind that Schmidt’s interest was romantic, not professional. But what about her?
    I tried to remember the details of that last conversation I hadhad with Suzi. They were foggy. I’d been somewhat upset, or, to be more accurate, mad as hell. When I agreed to go on that damned cruise I had been assured that the anonymous officials who sent me would have an equally anonymous agent on board who’d come to my rescue in case there was trouble. There was plenty of