Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (21 page)

The senior kingsman put a hand on Gretel's arm and questioned her as to her whoabouts and whatabouts. She drew herself up, knowing that she looked elegant and business-like in her new blue outfit, lorgnettes resting at the ready on her bosom.

“I am here at my client's invitation. That is, Herr Durer the Much Younger. I am currently in his employ,” she explained.

The kingsman, who was clearly not given to Kapitan Strudel's obstinate methods, put up a feeble argument against letting her in, but was soon silenced by her own stony stare, and the cries of Herr Durer, who had at last spied her through the blur of his tears.

“Oh! Fraulein Gretel, thank heavens you've come. Such a terrible business. Poor, poor Bruno. To meet such an end, and here, in my own home.”

Gretel threaded her way through the bustle of people in the room and allowed her client to take her hand in his. He
looked painfully frail, and his fingers felt cold and weightless in her palm.

“My condolences, Herr Durer. I know you considered the man your friend.”

“And so he was. Oh, he could be difficult at times, it is true. I am aware others found him a little overbearing, perhaps. But he was a true lover of art. We shared a passion for my illustrious relation's work. And now he is gone. The life beaten from him with such . . . anger!” Valeri passed the old man a fresh linen handkerchief and he pressed it to his eyes as if he might blot out the memory of the sight of his dead friend.

“You returned from an early perambulation and found him thus?” Gretel asked.

Herr Durer could only nod. Valeri said, “It was such a lovely morning. Albrecht . . . Herr Durer . . . does not sleep long when it is light. We like to take the air before the city becomes busy.”

“You were not expecting a visit from Dr. Phelps?” Gretel addressed her questions to Valeri now.

“We were not, but then, it was not unusual for him to arrive unannounced and uninvited.”

“I see. And Herr Schoenberg would have admitted him to the rooms?” She glanced at the hotelier, who continued to pace about muttering to himself.

Valeri frowned, the uncharacteristic expression altering her features entirely. “That man could talk his way into anywhere. Huh, he's most likely barking at St. Peter even now.”

Not for the first time, Gretel was struck by the vehemence of the girl's opinion of the man. She also recalled Herr Schoenberg telling her that Phelps had failed to persuade Herr Durer to let him in on one occasion. Would the manager then, have simply allowed him entry to the suite to await his return? Or, perhaps, he had not realized the suite was unoccupied.

“Tell me,” Gretel lowered her voice, “if it is not too distressing for you, tell me how Dr. Phelps met his end.”

“He was bludgeoned,” Valeri informed her, “his head staved in as an eggshell beaten with a spoon,” she added with not a little relish.

Herr Durer wailed. “Who would have done such a thing?”

Gretel felt that at any given point there would have been a queue standing in readiness to do Phelps an injury. In identifying his murderer, the difficulty was not that there was no suspect, but that there were so many. Valeri hated the man. As did most of the girls working for Mistress Crane. Leopold was at odds with him, their intentions for Herr Durer's artwork in direct opposition. Indeed, the very nature of the man set people against him. Who knew how many others had harbored grudges or ill-feeling?

“And as if things weren't dreadful enough,” Herr Durer went on, “I am informed that poor Leopold, my own dear nephew, has been arrested.”

“For Phelps's murder?” Gretel was incredulous.

The old man nodded and then shook his head so vigorously Gretel feared for the flimsiness of his neck. “That they could even conceive of such an idea! Leopold is not a man of violence.”

“Indeed not,” Gretel agreed, confident the youth was too vain and too lazy to risk sullying his chalk-white cuffs.

Herr Durer had more to tell. “Apparently the two were heard arguing last night. In the street. It seems such an altercation, so near the hour of the crime, is sufficient to send my darling nephew manacled to the gaol house.”

“Fear not, Herr Durer. I promise you, they have the wrong man.” Gretel mentally listed the reasons it could not have been Leopold, starting with his fondness for expensive lace, working through the fact that his cane was too slender to inflict such
imprecise wounds, taking in the point that the young man was too fey, too spineless, and too useless to take on Phelps in full bluster, and finishing on the particular that no one had mentioned him being anywhere near the suite when the victim was killed. “Tell me, has anything been taken from your suite? Is anything missing?”

Albrecht shook his head. “It was the first thing our wonderful kingsman checked,” he told her, causing said kingsman to turn a little pink with pride.

“It is often hard to tell at first,” Gretel said. “In the aftermath of such drama it is the small, seemingly insignificant things that pass one by, that go unnoticed, but that later transpire to be of immense importance. I implore you, study your rooms and contents minutely, Herr Durer. I strongly suspect you will find at least one thing has gone.”

“Of course, Fraulein, if you think it will help. Anything I can do that might rescue poor Leopold.”

“No doubt he will be able to supply an alibi and all will be well,” she told her client, who by now looked entirely worn out by the events of the morning. Valeri was quick to notice the deterioration in her master's vigor.

“I believe Herr Durer should rest,” she said, wheeling him about.

“I heartily agree,” Gretel said, following on swiftly, “and that being the case I will accompany you to the quiet of the bedchamber so that we might conduct the irksome but pressing matter of further funds for the investigation.”

Herr Durer handed over a sizeable wad of notes without protest, and Gretel was soon heading away from the apartment, the payment nestling in her corset, her mind racing. She needed to find a quiet place to think. Ordinarily, had she been at home in Gesternstadt, she would have taken to her daybed, bolsters plumped, and instructed Hans to feed her something palatable
and sustaining while her detective's brain set to work. But she was in Nuremberg, and Hans would be busy with the monster sausage. She recalled the cake shop she had passed on her way to the gallery with Ferdinand. She resolved to take herself there and feast upon the finest pastries and gâteaux the place had to offer, the better to fuel her insights and deductions.

By now the city was properly awake. Any concerns Gretel might have had in regards to being seen by Kapitan Strudel were quickly dispelled. This was the first day of the Uber Weisswurstfest proper, and the square was already full of tradesmen setting up their stalls, entertainers of dazzling number and variety taking up their positions, and festival staff applying the finishing touches to the stage at the far end of the plaza where the giant weisswurst was to be displayed upon its completion. According to Hans, the thing would be manhandled onto the dais early the following morning, with no small amount of ceremony and fanfare. Reasonably confident, therefore, that the melee would keep her hidden from the wretched kingsman—and also fairly certain he did not have her address, else he would have been hammering on her door before now—she elbowed and nudged her way through the crowd, down a wide street that bore her westward for a few moments, before she came upon the place she sought. The Toasted Almond was both Kaffee Haus and bakery, producing its own fine cakes, biscuits and confections to go with freshly roasted and ground coffee beans. Gretel hurried inside and took a seat at a table in the window, so that she might observe the activities without, but be partially concealed by the window dressings and such like.

An efficient waiter in a spotless white apron down to his ankles took Gretel's order and sped away to fetch it. The cozy little space began to fill with shoppers and festival goers, for the most part a good natured and carefree clientele, intent on harmless enjoyment and the respectable daytime pleasures
on offer. All was comforting and genteel in a way that soothed and restored body and soul. The brass lamps and bar fittings, the steaming coffee pots, the polished mirrors, the soft leather chairs at the tables or high stools at the counter all gleamed reassuringly. The aromas of fresh coffee and expert baking lifted both spirits and appetite. Gretel recalled with a shudder the oppressive, gloomy confines and frou-frou furnishings of Mistress Crane's subterranean business. At least with Phelps dead she had no cause to ever attempt to set foot in the place again.

She would have been happy to sit in her place all morning, but her order arrived only minutes later. The waiter wordlessly set out a fine china cup and saucer—icing-white with a gold rim—with matching sugar bowl and creamer. The sugar tongs and coffee spoon and cake forks were ornate in an understated way, and looked convincingly silver, even if they were not. From the spout of the tall coffee pot wound an enticing twist of aromatic steam. With a flourish, a second waiter delivered a laden cake stand to the table, bearing Gretel's eagerly selected fancies. She tucked a linen napkin into the low collar of her jacket and sat forward, letting her eyes feast upon the delectables before her. There was a generous slice of Kirschtorte, with glistening black cherries; a stout square of Honiglebkuchen, dripping with honey; a lavish helping of Zwetschgenkuchen, with its spicy, jewel-like plums; a wide swirl of a Pfannkuchen, as sticky as any donut cake should be; three modest but exquisitely fashioned and still warm Bavarian hazelnut biscuits; and, naturally, a deep dish of luscious Bavarian cream. The very sight of such a cornucopia revived Gretel's somewhat beleaguered powers of deduction. She poured herself some coffee, enjoying a tiny shiver of anticipation at the
plip-plip
of the sugar crystals as they fell from the tongs, moved (with something approaching reverence) the plum cake to her plate, and began
her banquet. With each forkful her mind sparked and fizzed. With each gulp of strong, sugary coffee her brain sped after ideas and notions, connecting or severing, gathering or discarding, leaping this way and that along the stepping stones of progress that would lead her, ultimately, to an epiphany. To that moment of clarity, where all her fragmented hypotheses would fit seamlessly together to form the perfect, indisputable, shining truth.

Or not.

After an initial burst of energy and what seemed like sound thinking, her ideas became muddled again. They would not take proper shape. Each time she thought she had the measure of the problem, had it exposed and held up, vivid and clear, it slipped from her grasp into the oleaginous swamp of confusion and doubt that lurked in the darker reaches of her mind. It was as if something were dragging it down. Something that weighed heavy upon her psyche and could not be shaken off. With a sigh, Gretel was forced to admit to herself that she knew what it was. She knew why she could not bring the full force of her considerable intelligence to bear upon the problem of the missing frog prints and the murder of Dr. Phelps.

Ferdinand. Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand. Or, as she must now think of him, Ferdinand the Disappointment. She had done her best to excuse him, to rationalize, to find a perfectly-good-reason-and-why-wouldn't-there-be? for him turning up at the house of Mistress Crane. But she remained unconvinced. Even by herself. The plain fact was, Ferdinand had turned out to be a man who went to brothels. A man who used women in such a way. A man, like so many others Gretel had met in her life, who lay claim to being one thing, and then was revealed to be quite another. If the Ferdinand she had believed him to be was a pleasant distraction from her work, the Ferdinand she must now accept that he was clouded her mind horridly.

Gretel started on the Black Forest gâteau.

She should not be surprised. After all, most men in her experience had let her down, one way or another. Her father, by abandoning her to please his new wife. Hans, for having to be rescued rather than doing any rescuing himself. And a subsequent string of unworthy suitors, all of whom promised much and delivered little.

And now Ferdinand.

Gretel cleaned her plate, dithered over what to choose next, hesitated, then pushed her plate away and pulled the cake stand closer, thus cutting out an unnecessary step. The honey cake was particularly wonderful. The Pfannkuchen sublime. She signaled to the waiter for a spoon so that she could use it in her left hand to scoop up the Bavarian cream. She chomped, she slurped, she chewed, she munched, she chumbled. The flavors of sweet fruit and baked loveliness burst upon her tongue. The sounds of the coffee house grew distant and faint, background music to her banquet. Icing sugar drifted down her cleavage and clung to the velvet of her collar. A plum dropped into her lap. Honey stuck to her chin. Sponge crumbs found their way up her sleeve. Finely chopped nuts gritted her damp throat. A wayward sultana flicked up and came to rest in her hair. Sugar and fat coursed through her veins. She felt a familiar, comforting warmth settle upon her. She was at once uplifted and calmed. Pausing only to wash down the confections with more coffee, Gretel ate on. And on. Until at last the cake stand was empty and she was full. She allowed Ferdinand's handsome face to swim before her eyes one last time. She frowned, summoning all her resolve.

“Dung heaps!” she expostulated, startling an elderly couple to her left. She leaned back in her chair and dabbed at her mouth, chin, throat, and frontage with the napkin before flinging it onto the table. She would not allow herself to dwell on the man one second more. She would turn her
attention to the case to the exclusion of all and everything else. Someone stole the pictures. Someone broke Phelps's head. The first someone might be the same as the second someone, or might not. Just because Phelps was dead did not mean he wasn't the thief, but it did make it harder to get him to admit it. Just because the second someone murdered him did not mean they were after the pictures. There seemed to be a lot of possibilities, most of which were surrounded by an even greater number of impossibilities. The greatest of which was surely the as-yet-unsolved puzzle of how the thief managed to get into Herr Durer's rooms unseen, and leave with equal stealth, taking the pictures in their frames and glass with him.