Frame Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 5) (23 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
 
ALPINE IDYLL

By mid-morning, a light snow had begun falling on Graz.

This was not a normal thing. The city lay in a kind of basin, ringed about by the Fischbacher Alps, and so its winter months were generally cold, gray, somber, and snowless, the citizenry forced to travel twenty miles or so in order to enjoy the delights of downhill skiing.

But this morning was different.

Franz Beckmeier enjoyed watching the world whiten beneath him as he sat by a plate-glass window in the second floor of Café Europa and savored his ‘Grosser Brauner’ (big brown one), which had been served steaming hot to him seconds before in a coffee cup that seemed as large as half a bowling ball.

There it was, all spread out, the Christkindle Markt, which was Graz’ name for its winter market, held during the month of December on the Main Square.

Good to be back in Graz.

He preferred the summer months, of course. He preferred sitting outside on the café’s balcony, looking almost straight down on freshly-washed streets and watching the vegetable stands do their business, watching the dirndl-clad Hausfrauen laugh and chatter as they threw baskets around and carefully fingered fruit.

But the winter had its charm, too.

The small light brown wooden shacks that hawked Christmas wares, dolls and aprons and clocks and every manner of non-necessities thinkable.

There, beyond the River Mur, the ruins of Castle Gosting. Beyond that, the dark green mountains, topped by a band of snow.

And beyond that, the taller mountains, cloud-shrouded now, but sure to be there shining and glittering in the afternoon when the snow clouds had dissipated by early afternoon.

Yes, he liked Graz.

And here he would stay.

The years of travel were behind.

The last of the corporations were sold. Let others take care of running them.

Of course, he’d never needed to be a businessman in the first place. His family’s lands and fortunes had been secure by the early nineteenth century, and his fiefdom would never have been imperiled, even had he chosen to live his entire life as a recluse.

But what would have been the fun of that?

He’s always been a man who took pleasure in the chase. The hunt.

Competition.

And so he’d competed all these years in the cutthroat world of business.

Where he’d cut his share of throats.

But that was over now.

Now it was time to live. While he still had a modicum of health. While he could still ski. And shoot. And do other things that a healthy man might be expected to do.

And which he was going to do tonight.

“Mein Herr?”

The waiter, tuxedoed, silver haired.

A fixture of Café Europa.

Standing before him now, holding a silver tray.

With a card on it

“Fur mein Herr, bitte schon.”

“Danke.”

He lifted the card off the platter, turned it over, and read:

“Landeszeughaus. Dritten Stock.”

Armory. Third floor.

“Ja. Danke sehr.”

He put the card in his shirt pocket, and said:

“Ich muB momentan weg. Komm gleich.”

Have to leave for a moment. Will come right back.”

“Jawohl, mein Herr.”

So saying, the waiter bowed and left.

No point in paying
, Beckmeier told himself as he rose, taking a last sip of coffee. He’d be right back. Whatever he was to be told in the armory, he’d hear quickly.

Then he could come back.

For he had another meeting in fifteen minutes.

A meeting which promised to be much more enjoyable.

The armory was no more than a hundred yards away, just up Sackstrasse, whose cobblestones were being lightly covered by a film of snow.
He looked up the street in front of him. ‘Up’ was the correct word, since the narrow passageway climbed the castle mountain at an impossible angle, twisting its way around and through the hedges and wall remnants of the old fortress, and segmented by windows just washed an hour ago.

There, just up the hill, Herzl Backerei: people leaned out the door, wicker baskets hung from crooked elbows.

He should stop there on the way back from the armory.

Seven-thirty was a bit late in the morning for the freshest baked goods; but he’d find something.

Of course, he had his own cooks, who would be serving croissants for him and his—friend—tomorrow morning.

But it was an old habit, going to the bakery, and he would not give it up.

He trudged on.

Now he was by the Solingen Steel store, with bigger knives on the obscured shelves toward the back, and swords gleaming on racks beside the green-baized counters.

He thought back to his university days.

His dueling scar.

Inflicted with a sword just like that one, that one third from the end of the row.

He himself had used a sword slightly different from any sold now.

Older.

In subtle ways, more effective.

Crueler.

And he’d inflicted his own number of scars.

He pulled his overcoat tightly around him as he walked, wincing a bit as the wind bit into his face.

He peered into the mélange of statue work and concrete stairways, that, had the great green metal door not been opened, would have remained unseen by him as he passed.

How many other secrets, treasures, palaces, chambers, dungeons, courtyards, and mysteries, were hiding beside him?

For Graz, essentially a medieval city, would always hide its secrets, even from a native.

Here: the signboard hanging above the street, announcing in Frakture Script:

Landeszeughaus.

Armory.

He pivoted, his boots scraping on gravel which could have been poured from horse-drawn trailers by knights in the service of Ferdinand II, and stepped into the dark forechamber, through a narrow, gothic-vaulted passageway, and through another turning—where a short staircase beckoned him.

He made a quick turn, climbed five steps, ducked beneath a worn oaken archway that seemed to have been built for beings six inches shorter than he, and then straightened, a vast hall looming before him.

“Mein Gott,” he whispered.

As he always did, no matter how many times he entered this place.

He received no answer, for the chamber before him was inhabited by people made of metal.

It yawned before him, the vast and almost untouched, for centuries, arsenal of Graz.

Row upon row, row upon row, they stood gleaming silver in light filtered through beaded-glass windows: suits of armor.

There were hundreds of them, all lined along the wall so close that he could touch them, just to his right. And then, farther down, toward the end of the great hall, there were more suits of armor, just as brightly polished—but made for horses.

Metal horses, eight feet high, their heads encased in visors and every inch of flank, thigh, shoulder, upper leg, haunch––tightly covered by its own metal-segmented plate, screwed marvelously and flexibly to its overlapping plate, the whole impregnable horse-ship creating a vision unseen outside of these fine dust-infiltered walls for more centuries than could have been conceived by creatures, such as he, from the still slightly parvenu lands stumbled upon by Columbus.

“Mein Gott.”

What else could one say?

It never grew old to him, even though he’d been coming here since childhood.

He began moving along the row of breast-plated and iron-expressioned soldiers, all at rigid attention, all held upright by the straight metal rods to which they’d been bolted.

He walked on; wooden boards creaking almost imperceptibly with each of his heavy-booted steps.

He made his way along the rows, fighting the urge to reach over the green-baize rope cordoning soldier after soldier who stood, never wavering, attention eternally perfect, swords at the ready, awaiting his approval.

Fighting the urge to touch one of the suits of armor.

Just touch it.

Of course, this was forbidden.

Later on in the morning, there would be guards, sternly watching each of the visitors making their way down the aisles, admonishing them that even a slight touch could begin the process of rusting.

There were no guards here now, of course.

Too early.

His agent had taken care of having the armory opened.

So that they would be alone.

One could not be too careful.

Hopefully, the agent would have satisfactory news. Then all this secrecy could be ended.

Then he would not be at war any more.

Muskets.

There, behind Sergeant King Arthur and General Sir Galahad…were rifles like blunderbusses––and there beside them, pistols.

And so, for a time, he simply wandered, his gaze drawn away for a second or so by the huge windows through which he could see more courtyards, some serving as parking lots—and briefcased bureaucrats walking to work in municipal buildings—but then drawn back constantly to these quiet ornaments reminiscent of unthinkably brutal wars and battles.
        

Stairs at the far end of the chamber.

He climbed them: second floor.

Third floor.

He’d begun to inspect the collection of gunnery wagons and powder holders, when he noticed, on the wall to his left, a solitary chair in which sat a wax-like gnome of a figure seated and surveying the weaponry. He would almost have taken this image to be a part of the collection itself, had it not spoken to him.

“Herr Beckmeier.”

“Jawohl.”

“Bitte. Setzen Sie sich.”

And there was a chair, usually occupied by one of the guards.

He sat down opposite, who looked like nothing other than a human version of Rumpelstilzken, and was doubly useful because of this.

No one feared him.

That was a mistake.

But this was one of his most trusted men. And had been for some time.

“You are back. Im Lande.”

“Ja. Im Lande.”

They sat for a time.