Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (17 page)

“Please stop speaking now, else I shall be forced to put this whip to use.”

For a full two minutes after Hans had gone, Gretel stood facing the door, listening, waiting, fully expecting to hear first Mistress Crane's screeching laugh, then Bacon Bob's porcine utterances, followed by stamping feet, door wrenched open, accusations hurled, game up, ruse debunked, and things generally falling apart. After the third minute she surmised that none of the above was, in fact, about to happen. By the time Wood Nymph arrived to take her back to the dressing room for a hot toddy she had cramp in her calves from standing so still.

She downed her drink, feeling her nerve steady a little, as the girls spoke of their plan to bring Phelps to her.

“The sooner the better,” Gretel implored them. The shock of seeing Hans, wrapped and bound to the bed, and of having him see her . . . Gretel was beginning to question the wisdom of her chosen course of action.

“Have no fear,” Beauty Spot told her, “the second Phelps sets foot through the door we will reel him in.”

“You mean to say he's not even here yet?”

“It is early for Phelps,” Wood Nymph explained. “But he will not miss a Tuesday night. Of that you can be certain.”

“Let's hope you're right,” Gretel returned her empty glass to the table.

The girls took themselves off to do their work leaving Gretel alone. She did not have long, however, to ponder her fate or consider making her escape, as a light whistling behind one of the damask screens interrupted her thoughts. The tune was too merry to be made by any of the unfortunates employed by Mistress Crane, and too soft to be that of a customer. Gretel stood up and walked across the room, peering around the screen. A brown, cheerful face beamed back at her. It was a strangely familiar face, and yet . . . not. The creature before her was indubitably a hobgoblin. His features, his size, even mode of dress were near identical to the hobgoblin who inhabited Wolfie's apartment. What was markedly different was the countenance of this one. His whole visage shone with happiness, his eyes bright, his grin wide, the tilt of his head and the raising of his eyebrows, all suggested a being content with his lot and possessed of a naturally cheery disposition.

“Good evening, Herr Hobgoblin.”

“Fraulein,” he bowed low, adding a flourish with the bright yellow duster he held in his tiny right hand. “I am so sorry if I have disturbed you. I thought the room empty. I will give you your privacy,” he said, backing away toward a small door in the wood paneling behind him.

“Please,” Gretel held up her hand, “do not leave on my account. I am sure you have work to do. I would not wish to be the cause of any inconvenience.”

The hobgoblin's smile widened still further. “You are kindness itself, Fraulein. I was hoping to have the woodwork in here polished before the evening gets properly started. Beyond eleven o'clock all is bustle and noise and I would only get under foot. Can't have the lovely girls being tripped up by the likes of me, now, can we?”

Gretel watched him work, astonished at how closely he resembled his neighbor, and yet how different they were. “Tell me, Herr Hobgoblin, have you a cousin living hereabouts? A brother perhaps?”

The creature paused in his cleaning, his duster hovering for just a fraction of a moment, as if the question caught him unawares, as if he was considering his response carefully. Then he continued polishing, smiling all the while, and said, “All hobgoblins are but a single family. Everyone is a brother, a cousin, an uncle.”

“But you live solitary lives?”

“We do. For us it is enough to have a residence and its residents to care for.”

“You do appear most contented, I must say. One might have thought this particular residence—not to mention these particular residents—would encourage a downbeat demeanor. And yet you whistle and smile. Conversely, I have recently encountered one of your brethren who inhabits a fine set of rooms with a resolutely bouncy employer, and yet that hobgoblin is maudlin to the point of despondency.”

“Is that so? And in which building, may I ask, did you meet this hapless kin of mine?” The hobgoblin worked determinedly at a stubborn ring of red wine on an occasional table, not looking up, as if wishing to avoid meeting Gretel's eye. Gretel found his behavior odd. She also reminded herself that she was incognito, so that divulging her address might not be wise. After all, presumably this hobgoblin's loyalty lay with the owner of his residence, as tradition dictated.

“Oh, never mind, I do not recall the precise location. As you say, your breed has family members hither and yon.”

The door was flung open, causing the diminutive cleaner to scamper away, and Bacon Bob appeared to summon Gretel to work again.

As before, by the time she entered the shadowy room, a willing customer was already atop the bed, bound at wrists and ankles, clad
tête et pied
in squeaky black leather. And this one was not asleep; a fact demonstrated by the amount of wriggling and squirming he was doing. Evidently new to this particular entertainment, Gretel decided. Once he realized he was no longer alone, however, he became still, his head turned to her, small, mean eyes scrutinizing her through the narrow apertures in his mask. Gretel felt weary. She knew this could not be Phelps, as she had just been informed he was not yet in the building. Moreover, the shape before her was slight and scrawny, with legs so skinny in their shiny black covering that she was put in mind of two twists of licorice. With knots for knees. He looked for all the world as if one stripe from the riding crop she was now tapping against her palm would break the spindly creature in two. She knew she should do something, say something, to keep up the pretense and maintain her cover. Bacon Bob was most likely still outside the door and listening. Somehow, though, the way this one looked at her, coupled with the extreme flimsiness of his frame, inhibited her. She cleared her throat noisily and did her best to sound stern.

“Now then, all this lying a-bed . . . er . . . a fine young man like you should be up and . . . well . . . doing. You bad person.” It crossed Gretel's mind that if she were the one paying richly for this nonsense she would expect better.

The client appeared not to care. In fact, at the sound of her voice, a sly smile tugged at the mask and narrowed his eyes further.

“Why don't you make me?” he asked.

Gretel's blood chilled. Her mind was screaming at her an impossible truth. A truth that she did not want to countenance. A truth that called for swift, decisive and immediate action. Alas, at that moment Gretel felt the polar opposite of swift, as
far from decisive as it was possible to be, and without the ability to act at all, let alone immediately. The man had spoken only a few words, but they were sufficient. The voice that uttered them was as thin and reedy as the man himself, delivered in a sour, cynical tone that was as irritating as it was singular. There could be no doubt. She was all too well acquainted with the voice and its owner. At last she was forced to listen to the shrieking of her mind and admit to herself that the figure in front of her was none other than Kingsman Kapitan Strudel.

Gretel rummaged through the muddle of options her Self Preservation was offering, much as she might rummage through her linen drawer in search of the right piece of small clothing. Only faster. She could try to run. This was an appealing line of action, but doomed to failure, given the solid, porky person guarding her door. She could take the opportunity to give Strudel a sound thrashing, which had its own attractions, but which would, in the longer term, reap a small, Strudel-shaped whirlwind. Alternatively, she could attempt to play out her role, keep her identity hidden from Strudel, and get rid of him as quickly as possible. She silently cursed the fact that it was too late to try to disguise her voice, for the kingsman had already heard her speak. If she succeeded in retaining her anonymity, however, not only would she remain at liberty to pursue her case, but one day in the future, she would have the satisfaction of using the fact that Strudel was a frequenter of brothels against him. She was not sure how she would do it, but she knew that do it she would.

“Well, Fraulein,” Strudel questioned her, “what are you waiting for?”

“Ah, yes. That is, if I say you shall wait, then you shall. Wait. I am the one in charge, remember?”

“I remain unconvinced.”

“Oh.”

“You're not very good at this, are you?”

“Perhaps you have more experience of such things than I,” she snapped, wishing the words unsaid the moment they were out.

“But surely,
leibling
, I was given to understand you are a professional of great skill and many years practice . . . is that not the case?”

“Well, yes, of course . . .”

“Are you not here to please me?”

Gretel felt her stomach lurch. How had it come to this? That she should have put herself in a situation where the odious Strudel had paid for her to . . . entertain him. Had he recognized her voice as she had his? Did he know she was here before he booked the services of She Who Rules? Was this all part of an elaborate trap? Gretel's revulsion and rising panic were replaced with anger.
She
was the one who was supposed to be setting a trap. A trap that was part of her investigation. A trap that would take her closer to solving the case and earning her much-needed money. There was no room in her plans for Strudel. She had evaded him at the gallery. If he
did
know who it was that now stood over him with a whip in her hand, then he was choosing not to admit it. Whether he had happened upon her here by design or by chance, she would continue to play her role until she could be rid of him. After all,
he
was the one tied to the bed. She was the one in control of the situation. As long as the status quo was maintained, surely she could come out of the predicament unscathed, and, crucially, un-arrested.

Strudel, unfortunately, had other ideas.

“Would you like to know, Fraulein?” he went on, beginning to wriggle once more. “Would you like to know what would please me?”

“Certainly, I would,” she said, her voice, she feared, betraying a marked lack of sincerity.

“More than anything, I long to sit beside you, hold your hand, and talk,” he said.

“Really? Just . . . talk?”

“I would like that
very
much.”

“No touching, mind you?”

“None whatsoever,” he assured her, “aside, of course, from the hand holding.”

Gretel shrugged. It seemed a rather pathetic and timid request, given what he could have demanded. “Well, we aim to please,” she said, unstrapping the leather bonds at his wrists and ankles.

Strudel shook his legs and arms a little, cajoling the circulation in them, before perching neatly on the edge of the bed. He patted the coverlet beside him. “Please,
leibling
, sit with me,” he said, treating her to a thin, leather-clad smile.

She lowered herself gingerly onto the bed next to him. Her costume was becoming horribly hot and was inclined to squeak with every movement now, however small.

“Well, this is . . . pleasant,” she said at a loss to know how the scene could play out. If Strudel did know her true identity he seemed determined not to let on. If he did not—if his being there was mere chance and her disguise had protected her—then presumably he would simply use up the time he had paid for and then leave. She must not lose her nerve.

Suddenly she felt leather rub upon leather as the Kingsman's bony fingers slid over her hand and held it tightly. Of all the strange things Gretel had done in the course of her work as a detective, of all the peculiar creatures she had met, the dangerous spots she had found herself in, the perilous paths she had trodden, never in all her years, nor in her wildest imaginings, could she have dreamt that she would do anything so bizarre as sit on a bed holding hands with Kapitan Strudel. In previous cases she had been pawed by a troll, tied to a rack,
chased by a lion, and shot at by a giant. None of these came close to generating the repulsion she was now experiencing—despite two layers of the finest kidskin—due to physical contact with the most loathsome man in Gesternstadt.

Her torture came to an abrupt and brutal end when without warning Strudel yanked hard, almost wrenching her hand from her wrist, as he hauled her to the bedpost and, before she had a chance to resist or react, strapped her to it.

“Hey!” she protested. “What are you about? This wasn't part of the arrangement. Untie me this instant!” she demanded, sounding much more like She Who Rules than ever she did before.

But Strudel acted with startlingly swift movements, catching her off guard and off balance so that in the blink of a baffled eye he had snatched up her left hand, too, and secured it to the other bedpost.

“Release me at once!” Gretel squawked.

“I think not, Fraulein Gretel!” he crowed, whipping off his mask to reveal his horridly familiar, somewhat pink and sweaty, face. It was in no way improved by the disgustingly self-satisfied expression he wore.

“Congratulations, Herr Kapitan,” Gretel spoke through clenched teeth, “you have succeeded in tying me to a bed. Now what do you propose—torturing me until you extract a false confession? For false it would be. I had nothing to do with that wretched messenger's death, and you know it.”

“Maybe you did and maybe you didn't. The cause of death has yet to be ascertained.”

“I should tell the coroner to get a move on. The hapless man's corpse will be nothing but goo if he leaves his examinations much longer. The fact is, he was of compromised health. Ask his employer, Herr Durer.”

“I intend to. Though, of course, now that he is also
your
employer his declarations may not be as objective as they
could be. And besides, there is more at stake here than a murder charge. There is the matter of you, once again, acting as if you are above and beyond the reach of the law. As if Gretel of Gesternstadt may do as she pleases, no matter that she is under investigation by the King's own men!” Strudel screeched.