No description exists.
I was sitting at my desk doing my nails when the door opened and the spy sneaked in. He was wearing one of those trench coats that have pockets and flaps and shoulder straps all over them. The collar was turned up so that it practically met the brim of the hat he had pulled down over his eyebrows. His right hand was in the coat pocket The pocket bulged.
"Guten Morgen, Herr Professor," I said. Wie geht's?"
Wie geht's is not elegant German. It has become an Americanism, like chop suey. I speak excellent German, but Herr Professor Doktor Schmidt was amused when I resorted to slang. He has a kooky sense of humor anyhow. Schmidt is my boss at the National Museum, and when he's in his right mind he is one of the foremost medieval historians in the world. Occasionally he isn't in what most people would call his right mind. He's a frustrated romantic. What he really wants to be is a musketeer, wearing boots and a sword as long as he is; or a pirate; or, as in this case, a spy.
He swept his hat off with a flourish and leered at me. It breaks me up to watch Schmidt leer. His face isn't designed for any expression except a broad Father Christmas grin. He keeps trying to raise one eyebrow, but he can't control the muscles, so they both go up, and his blue eyes twinkle, and his mouth puckers up like a cherub's.
"How goes it, babe?" he inquired, in an accent as thick as Goethe's would have been if he had spoken English -- which he may have done, for all I know. That's not my field. My field is medieval Europe, with a minor in art history. I'm good at it, too. At this point it is safe to admit that I got my job at the museum in Munich through a certain amount of -- well, call it polite pressure. Professor Schmidt and I had met while he was under the influence of one of his secondary personalities -- a worldly, sophisticated crook, like Arsene Lupin. We had both been looking for a missing art object and some of the good doctor's activities toward this end might not have struck his scholarly colleagues as precisely proper. No, it was not blackmail -- not exactly -- and anyway, now that I had been on the job for almost a year, Schmidt was the first to admit that I earned my keep. He didn't even mind my working on my novel during office hours, so long as I took care of pressing business first. And let's face it-there are few life-and-death issues in medieval history.
Professor Schmidt's eyes fell on the pile of typescript at my right elbow.
"How goes the book?" he inquired. "Did you get the heroine out of the brothel?
"She isn't in a brothel," I explained, for the fifth or sixth time. Schmidt is mildly obsessed by brothels-the literary kind, I mean. "She's in a harem. A Turkish harem, in the Alhambra."
Professor Schmidt's eyes took on the familiar academic gleam.
"The Alhambra was not-"
"I know, I know. But the reader won't. You are too concerned with accuracy, Herr Professor. That's why you can't write a popular dirty book, like me. I'm stuck for the moment, though. There have been too many popular books about Turks and harems. I'm trying to think-of an original example of lust. It isn't easy."
Professor Schmidt pondered the question. I didn't really want to hear his idea of what constituted original lust, so I said quickly, "But I distract you, sir. What did you want to see me about?"
"Ah." Schmidt leered again. He took his hand out of his pocket.
It didn't hold a gun, of course. I had not expected a gun. I had expected an apple or a fistful of candy; Schmidt's potbelly is the result of day-long munching. But at the sight of what emerged, clasped tenderly in his pudgy fingers, I gasped.
Don't be misled by the gasp.
