1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (45 page)

Gotthilf followed the line of reasoning. He couldn’t disagree with it.

“Okay, I’ll buy that much. But why was Svenson’s body left behind?”

“Maybe they didn’t care who found out,” Byron replied, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. “Or maybe they thought the explosion would destroy or cover up the evidence.”

They were still discussing that topic when the police photographer showed up with his assistant. Sergeant Honister was on his heels.

“Lieutenant! Sergeant!”

Honister brandished a knife before them.

“Watch where you’re pointing that thing,” Byron said as he leaned back out of the way.

“Sorry.”

Honister lowered the knife, but pointed at it with the other hand. “This was in the belongings of Peter-Pietro-whoever he was. Erhard Misch, the blacksmith I consulted, says it was also made in Venice—but by a different smith from the one who made the other knives. He said there was blood on the blade, so I took it back and compared it to the stab wound in Svenson’s back. It’s a good match.”

“Good work,” Byron said warmly. “Now, catch up to what we’ve found here.”

A couple of minutes of intense conversation ensued, the end of which left the three of them staring at each other.

Gotthilf was the first to break silence.

“The captain was right.”

“Yep,” Byron agreed.

“The payroll theft and murders definitely seem to connect to this,” Honister added. “So, where do we go from here?”

“We have two leads to trail,” Gotthilf replied, pulling out his notebook and flipping pages to the one he remembered. “The money, and the friend that Gunther Bauer said was Pietro’s—the man with one eye.”

“Right,” Byron said, straightening from the wall. He pointed to Honister. “You keep chasing the money; we’ll search for the man with one eye. Hopefully there won’t be very many of them in Magdeburg.”

Gotthilf fervently agreed with that thought, but had a sinking feeling it would prove to be otherwise.

Chapter 52

The capital was shocked and horrified at what had happened. But life goes on, even in the midst of calamity, and Magdeburg was a city that had a history of clawing its way back from the brink of cataclysms. It had survived the great sack of 1631, after all.

After a week most of the city’s populace was working like normal, with the explosion beginning to recede to the backs of their minds. The late breaking news from other parts of Europe began to crowd the stories about the explosion off the front pages of the newspapers. Only the immediate family and friends of the dead were still feeling the raw wounds of having their loved ones and friends ripped out of their midst so suddenly. And only the detectives searching for clues were still searching for meaning.

Simon found himself heading for the boxing ring one evening. The weather had warmed just a little that day, enough that there was slush in places in the streets. He splashed through a puddle and felt the water seep through the seams of his boots.

The sun had set, and the last of twilight was fading. He was glad to see the lights of the arena ahead of them.

He looked up at Hans. “Are you ready?”

A fist landed in a palm with a smack. “Yah. I don’t know who it is at the other end tonight, but I’m ready. I’ve been ready for days.”

“I know,” Simon muttered. Hans had been edgy for some time. It had taken Simon a while to figure out that he wanted a fight.

They walked into the lighted area together. Men in the gathering crowd looked around and began making way when they saw who it was approaching. The murmurs of “
Stark
Hans” began moving through the crowd.

Hans had been looking around as he always did when he came here. When he spotted Tobias, he changed directions. Simon followed.

“Tobias,” Hans said, wrapping a hand round the man’s upper arm. Tobias winced when Hans squeezed. “Eighteen hundred dollars tonight, right?”

“Sure, Hans.” Tobias nodded rapidly. “Eighteen hundred dollars for ten rounds.”

“Good.” Hans dropped his hand. “I’ll see you after the fight.” This time when they walked away it was Hans who muttered, “Ferret-face,” and Simon who laughed.

“Hans,” they heard another voice call out. Hans stopped still. It was a moment before he turned toward the speaker. Simon stepped behind his friend.

“Master Schardius,” Hans replied, voice even. “I did not expect to find you here tonight.”

“Oh, I have become quite the…what is the word the up-timers use? Fan, I believe. Yes, I have become quite the fan of these contests. To see men striking at each other, wanting to see who is the stronger, the better, but not knowing who will win is really quite exhilarating.” The merchant brushed his mustache back with a finger. “I know you always win, Hans.” There was stress on
always
. “It’s almost boring watching your fights. But I keep watching, thinking that someday you might be surprised.”

“Not yet,” Hans said. Simon was surprised at the lack of anger in his friend’s voice. He himself was ready to scream at the merchant.

“Not yet,” Schardius agreed. “But all things come to an end, don’t they? And true wisdom might lie in recognizing the end when it comes.” He cocked his head to one side for a moment, then without a word turned back to his companions, who burst out laughing at something he said.

Simon moved back to Hans’ side and looked up at his friend. “What was that all about?” He was pretty sure that the merchant had said something more than what the words alone would convey.

“I don’t know.” That was all Hans would say, but Simon thought his friend looked more concerned than usual.

They walked around to their usual bench and went through the ritual of stripping off shirt and jacket and the placing of the hat on Simon’s head. Then they turned and watched the other end. That night’s opponent came into view at that moment.

Hans grunted. Simon peered up at him from under the brim of the hat. “I know this one,” Hans said, grinding a gloved fist in the opposite palm.

“Is he good?”

“Sometimes Konrad is tough.”

“Tougher than you?” Simon’s stomach flip-flopped.

Hans grinned. “No. Especially not with you for my luck.” He patted Simon on the shoulder.

“Hans! Konrad!”

They looked up to see Herr Pierpoint waving to them from the desk where the timekeeper usually sat.

“Come over here. There’s been a change in plans.”

They looked at each other. What could have changed? Hans shrugged and pulled his shirt and jacket back on. Simon tagged along behind Hans as he strode toward where Tobias and Herr Pierpoint were standing.

“What do you mean there’s a change in plans? I’m supposed to fight Konrad, right?”

“Wrong. Your plans for the night are changed, Hans Metzger.”

Simon knew he should know that cold voice, but he could not remember whose it was. He turned with Hans to see a face from the past.

“Karl…” Hans said. It was Barnabas’ cousin Karl from Hannover. “Barnabas never said your surname.”

“Elting.”

“So. And what has brought you back from Hannover, Herr Elting?”

“Why, you have, Herr Metzger.” Karl’s voice seemed tinged with sarcasm. “We have unfinished business, you and I. I have brought a challenge for you. Face Hannover’s champion fighter tonight for a purse of fifty thousand USE dollars.”

Fifty thousand dollars! Simon’s jaw dropped and his mind reeled. That sum was almost lordly. It made the eighteen hundred Hans would have won in the fight with Konrad almost seem like a beggar’s wages. Fifty thousand dollars!

Simon’s eye caught sight of someone standing behind Elting—Master Schardius, smiling. His mind snapped out of its shock and leapt to the conclusion that the merchant was involved. That meant… He turned to Hans and pulled on his sleeve with urgency. “Crows, Hans! Crows!” He hoped Hans remembered their conversation from a few weeks ago.

After a moment Hans dropped a hand on Simon’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Very well, Herr Elting.” Hans’ voice was calm. When Simon looked, his face was still. It was the way he was around Master Schardius. He had taken Simon’s warning. The boy almost sagged in relief. “Let me make sure I understand you. You want me to fight this ‘champion’ from Hannover—tonight—and you will pay fifty thousand dollars to the winner.”

“Correct.” Elting almost snarled.

“Winner take all?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see it.”

“What?” A bewildered expression crossed Elting’s face.

“Show me—show all of us—the money.” Hans pointed to Tobias and Todd Pierpoint. “Let them count the money.”

Elting’s face grew red. “You doubt me?”

Hans’ face could have been carved from stone. “They count the money, or you’ve made a long trip for no reason.”

Elting’s face grew even redder, but he pulled a large purse from a coat pocket and handed it to Tobias. Simon watched with the others as the up-timer referee and the down-timer fight organizer pulled out five stacks of cash, put their heads together and counted the bills.

“Fifty thousand, just like he said,” Herr Pierpoint announced after they restored the money to the purse and drew the strings closed. Tobias nodded in confirmation, ferret eyes wide. As the up-timer moved to hand the purse back to Elting, Hans held up a hand.

“Keep the purse, Herr Pierpoint.” Hans turned to Elting. “Here are my terms.”

“You can’t set terms on a fight,” Elting tried to bluster.

Hans’ gaze was steady and cold. “You came to me with this challenge. Here are my terms.

“One—that man,” he pointed to Herr Pierpoint, “is in charge of the fight. His rules apply. And his rulings are final.

“Two—no one in the ring except for me, Herr Pierpoint and your ‘champion.’

“Three—Herr Pierpoint will deliver the purse to the winner of the fight at the end of the fight.”

“Four,” Elting spat out, “the fight continues until one of you is unable or unwilling to continue.”

Hans considered that addition with a tilt of his head. “Or until Herr Pierpoint calls the fight over.”

The two men exchanged nods, then Elting’s face flashed a vicious smile. “Meet your opponent, ‘Herr’ Metzger. Meet Elias Recke, champion fighter of Hannover.” He gave a shrill whistle. From the back of the crowd someone began pushing forward out of the shadows. A murmur grew in the crowd as the man came into the light.

Simon’s first impression was “big.” Recke was a good two inches taller than Hans, his shoulders were a good hand’s span broader, and his head was like a block atop a neck like a tree trunk.

The more Recke moved into the light, the more Simon’s heart sank. His face could have served as a model for Michelangelo’s Judas. Every edge was hard; eyes were set close together and deep-set, with black hair drawn to a widow’s peak over his forehead lending a demonic cast to his visage. The lights seemed to dim as he passed by them.

Recke’s arms were long, his hands were huge, and his fingers were constantly flexing. The thought of those hands gripping him made Simon feel faint.

When Recke stepped through the last of the crowd, he said nothing; just smiled cruelly and pointed one long, hard, thick forefinger at Hans, who muttered, “Now I understand.”

* * *

Ciclope sat at his usual table in the tavern, as far away from the bar and anyone else as he could manage. He nursed a mug of the noisome ale. That same kid with the weird arm had found him and delivered a message from Schmidt that they needed to meet. So here he was, waiting. He ought to be used to that by now, he thought to himself. After all, the man had always made them wait.

Them. Thinking that word was like hitting a bad bruise, only in his mind. He still had trouble dealing with Pietro’s death. It wasn’t that he particularly liked the scrawny thief, but they had been working together for months now, so he was used to him. Maybe kind of like an old married couple, who take each other for granted; not that that was an idea that gave him much comfort. And Pietro was the only person in all of Magdeburg that he had trusted at his back—mostly—as much as he ever trusted anyone.

The ringing had finally left his ears a couple of days ago, and he was walking straight without a constant feeling that he was going to fall. Best of all, his appetite had returned, so he knew he was doing better. Except for the pitiful excuse for ale that was currently slopping in the bottom of his mug as he swirled it. The only thing that would make that enticing to him would be if he was literally about to die of thirst—and then he was sure he’d have to gag it down. He honestly thought that the tavern keeper had managed to liquefy compost and was serving it from his ale barrel.

Someone slid into the seat opposite him. He looked up into Herr Schmidt’s eyes.

The man was still wearing the same ill-fitting clothes he’d worn at every one of their assignations, but he looked different somehow. His eyes were shadowed, and his face had a haggard look to it. He looked about as bad as Ciclope had felt right after the explosion, which was bad indeed.

“Where’s your partner?” Schmidt said in a low voice.

“Dead,” Ciclope muttered.

“The explosion?”

“Aye. We should have been clear of it, but something hit him in the head…” Ciclope shrugged.

“Too bad.”

“Aye.”

Ciclope tensed as Schmidt placed a hand inside his jacket, but he drew it out only far enough to show the top of a purse.

“I have some of the money I owe you,” the merchant said.

“Keep it for now,” Ciclope muttered in reply. “When we leave, I’ll go first, then you can catch up to me and pass it to me then.”

Schmidt relaxed a little and pushed the purse back under his jacket. “I’ll have more for you later.”

* * *

“Lieutenant.”

The barely whispered word floated out from the mouth of the alley. It was evening, and dusk was closing in on the streets. The alley was already enshadowed in darkness. Gotthilf looked, and could barely make out a presence standing in the darkest part of the alleyway.

Byron didn’t even hesitate. He turned smoothly and walked into the alley as if that had been part of his intent all along. Gotthilf followed on his heels, but his hand was inside his jacket on the butt of his .44 where it rode in the shoulder holster.