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3.

I stuffed my hastily folded skirt into the suitcase, just as Schmidt was insisting, "Vicky, if you are not to remain for the full conference, then --"

"See, that's what I'm trying to explain here, Schmidt. I'm really, really interested in seeing those collections, so I'm considering taking the rest of my accumulated time on top of this." I had my fingers crossed while I piled this on; that had to count for something, or so I told myself. I pressed the phone to my ear and stated, "The amount that's left in the conference account ought to cover the extra travel just fine." That muffled, choked sound assured me that Gerda had gotten the update, too.

In truth, I really had already made a few good contacts, and the smaller museums sounded like they had things I wanted to check out; their curators would be back on their home turfs by the time we swung by, probably. But the main object here was to forestall Schmidt swooping down upon me like the Great Speckled Bird with anyone else in tow, so I changed the subject smoothly: "How is Clara doing? Is she being good?"

"Ack, Vicky, she is a cat of such elegance," he said admiringly. "So well-mannered. When the fresh fish that I am shredding for her each night --"

"What?" I blurted. "Schmidt, I left cat food for her."

"Aber natürlich/, but I have talked of this with Gerda, and she has told me that the fresh fish is best. Also the small tins. I did not realize that the cat food was /sehr teuer," he said wonderingly, "but it is good. Clara is loving it very much."

"I'm certain she is," I said grimly. Schmidt might be rolling in money, but I sure as hell wasn't. Now Clara would never give me a moment's peace if I didn't offer up fresh fish and gourmet cat food, too. This one had all the makings of a stand-off that I couldn't win.

"Liebchen, just now you were laughing? Tell Papa Schmidt what is drollig."

"Not me, Schmidt." No, the last laugh this time definitely hadn't been mine. I sighed. "At any rate, I probably won't be around, so don't worry if you call and they tell you I've checked out. I'll try to wrangle some overnight invitations," I added, saintly, "/to conserve the museum's money/." As long as that money stayed available, I'd be above petty expense account padding.

"I still think it best if you come back," Schmidt said. "She will be stopping by for lunch today, and will be in Munich all week. If you come back now --"

"Then time's a-wasting, Schmidt -- you shouldn't be on the phone with me!" I said. "You should be getting ready! Right now! Gosh, I hadn't realized, I'm so sorry for taking up so much of your time here. I know you're anxious about all this, so you'll want to get right on that. Absolutely. Right now. I'll, uh, try to check in again later if I'm free." Poor Schmidt never got a word in, and I was off that phone in record time, huffing a little from the effort.

Behind me I heard the applause. "That door was locked," I pointed out unnecessarily, going back to my packing. One sour glance told me that the scruffy student from earlier in the week had returned for an encore performance.

"Nicely done," he said. "I'm relieved to know that Our Man in Munich won't be boarding the next plane to save you from your perilous fate and barge in at awkward moments."

"Oh, but Schmidt adores you," I said in a syrupy tone. "He's going to be crushed if he figures out that he's missed meeting his idol." Schmidt had convinced himself that "Sir John" was some sort of secret agent leading a thrilling life of danger and intrigue. I'd yet to figure out how Schmidt worked the whole antiquities angle into this fantasy, but I had no doubt the reasoning was suitably weird and convoluted.

"I can hardly object when my merits are appreciated as I justly deserve." I rolled my eyes, and he said wonderingly, "Is there anything left in your home that you didn't manage to fit in?"

I ignored that, and likewise he deflected my strong hints that I wouldn't object if he were to carry the suitcase in question; instead, he shoved his hands in his coat pockets, rocked back on his heels, and said, "No no, comrade, I support your cause of liberation, and wouldn't dream of oppressing you in such a fashion."

So I stumped down to his mobile tin can with purse, overnight bag, and suitcase, looking for all the world like a beleaguered slave following her indolent rajah. I discovered that my faithful suitcase -- scuffed, battered, and covered with peeling stickers -- would have to share the back-end with an elegantly understated dark green case with gold latches. No baggage handler would have dared to mar that finish with a sticker, much less bounce it off the tarmac.

His suitcase was sneering at mine, I swear it. This trip seemed to be off to a typical start.

"I've an errand before we leave town," he informed me. This turned out to be a visit to a second-hand shop on the outskirts of the city. The proprietor behind the counter roused herself just long enough to rattle out the perfunctory sing-song of "Bonjour-Madame-bonjour-Monsieur" before lapsing back into torpor.

"So is this what you do in your spare time?" I hissed at him, "you aren't . . . one of those flea market aficionados?" I wasn't certain how I felt about this horrifying revelation. My Aunt Erminetrude was physically incapable of driving by a flea market or a rummage sale sign without stopping. A simple run to the grocery had the potential to become a grueling day-long expedition into the Minnesota wilds.

"Well," he said diffidently, "the stock at the Fergamo shop owed not a little to my own contributions."

I recalled Rome and the antique shop in the Via delle Cinque Lune where I'd first encountered him. It had been filled with rococo gewgaws and heavy baroque furniture. "I thought most of it was tacky."

"Carefully selected to appeal to the passing tourist," he said in an offended tone, "even those who take after the proverbial bulls in china shops." I didn't regret damaging that lamp -- it had been incredibly ugly, after all -- but I graciously refrained from pointing that out. Instead, I concentrated on the contents of a glass case, opaque with dust, that contained a stuffed squirrel. Or it could have been an iguana. I still hadn't decided when he nudged me on the arm.

"Here you are," he said, handing me an object that he'd rooted out from the back of a shelf of assorted knickknacks. "Go, pay our lovely hostess."

At that, the proprietor of the shop stirred to sudden life. I hastily lowered my voice. "Me? This is your shopping trip. Pay for it yourself."

"Tragically, I find myself short of francs. I cannot even afford this modest treasure." After eyeing the price tag, I decided that it wasn't worth an argument. I paid.

John snagged the receipt the instant I'd signed, and he tucked it away into his own wallet (which was blatantly not empty). I turned his latest acquisition over in my hands, a cylinder-shaped leather case with a hinged top and a latch to hold it in place. It must have been made to hold a spyglass or something similar. It was a lot heavier than it looked, but I wasn't inclined to pick at the leather to see what was underneath it because the interior was lined with a ragged, repulsive velvet that smelled strongly of rotted horse glue, one of those unlovely odors you get used to in my line of work.

"It reeks," I pointed out, dropping it back into the bag then scrubbing my hands on my jeans.

"Well, never mind," he said cheerfully, "we'll simply toss it in the boot with the baggage." And he proceeded to do so, while I watched open mouthed.

"So was there an actual point to buying that?" I demanded.

"Supporting the local economy is every tourist's duty," he pointed out piously. "You never know when you'll need a . . . er, whatever that is. I've no idea." He shrugged and opened the passenger door. I looked at the door; I looked at him. Sudden chivalry on top of mysterious purchases wasn't suspicious, oh no, not at all.

"You're up to something again," I said. I resolved not to budge an inch until I had some answers. "What is it?"

"'Avez-vous vu Fougères?'" he said.

"Huh?" I gaped at this apparent non sequitur.

"That was Balzac's question. Like others, he was fascinated by Fougères. The castle -- or perhaps fortress would be more accurate. Once the frontier between France and Brittany, it was taken after a prolonged siege and razed by Henry II, rebuilt over the twelfth to fifteenth centuries, then subsequently captured at some point by -- oh, everyone. Perhaps we should give it a go as well." He leaned over the door, and rested his chin on his hands. "You could climb the seventy-five steps of the Mélusine Tower and gaze down upon the city. However, the first step must take you to the car."

"I'm not that easy," I said. An obvious decoy like that didn't make my knees buckle. Well, not quite.

"We could, of course, stand here, grow ever damper, and discuss the matter at tedious length, but Fougères will take up a great deal of our morning, and after that is . . . hmm, what was it that came next?" He paused to contemplate his immaculate nails. "Oh, that's right. Mont Saint Michel."

John never fights fair. "I'll get it out of you eventually," I said, trudging over to the car.

"I've every confidence in your ability," he said, swinging the door shut after me. "Guidebook there on the floor -- take care to fasten the seatbelt."

Once we'd escaped the city's traffic and had merged out onto the highway, I had to concede that the car's appearance was deceptive. "Eppur si muove," John had commented -- and move it did, fast and smooth with an oddly quiet engine.

"As one would expect of a professional," John said, pulling back on the gearstick jutting from the dash, "which is why I took the trouble to request the loan."

"A professional what, exactly?" When I didn't get any answer to that but a raised eyebrow, I decided to sulk for a while and survey the scenery.

"So how was the conference?" he asked at length.

"I wouldn't have minded staying," I admitted. "Everyone from out of town got a guided tour of the museum, the old town, and the cathedral. Their museum has more emphasis on culture than ours, but it's a nice change of pace." Then it struck me what the next question would probably be. To head it off, I immediately grabbed my purse and started digging. "Actually, I got quite a few business cards, I can show you --"

"My apologies for missing your presentation," he cut me off smoothly. I should have known it wouldn't work. "What was the topic?"

"Strategies for Enhancing the Museum Experience for the Modern Youthful Visitor," I mumbled. I ignored the way the corner of his mouth began to twitch. That had been all I could slap together at the last minute, but I had no intention of going into that. After a few moments of silence, I added lamely, "I had slides."

He said, tone perfectly bland, "In other words, your paper was a discussion of how to keep the little fiends from pawing the paintings and scaling the statuary when their doting mums refuse to control them."

"It was well received, you know," I said defensively.

"Dear girl." He grinned. "Unfortunately, I can well imagine."

"As we all realize," I said, folding my hands primly, "the youth of today are the contributors of tomorrow, making this a relevant, timely topic."

"Yes. Indeed." Then he mused aloud, "As it happens, I spent many hours in museums myself as a lad. One might even go so far as to say I felt the first frissons of my true calling amongst those quiet corridors."

That kind of contribution we could all do without. Based on this new data, I suddenly had no compunctions about banning children outright, and I was just about to share my new scholarly insight when he pointed ahead. "There we go, our next target in view. You can see the steeple of Saint Sulpice, which is hard by the castle."

Further reflections on museum management could wait for another day. I had a granite fortress to besiege. I'm a professional myself, which means when I'm the one doing the climbing and the pawing it's not the same at all.