Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (26 page)

“Tunnels?” The mayor was again astonished. “Who built these tunnels?”

“Mice. Clever, avaricious, highly organized mice. Built for their own nefarious purposes. The passageways are not of sufficient size to admit a human, but a hobgoblin could indeed pass through.”

“You know,” Herr Durer wore a wistful expression, “now that I understand why the sorry creature took the pictures, well, I cannot find it in my heart to despise him. After all, he wanted only to bask in their loveliness. To be uplifted. I am fortunate to have the opportunity to gaze upon my darling frogs whenever I wish. Others must live without this solace. Fraulein Gretel, I am resolved. I am determined on two points, and will not be moved on either.”

“And these are?”

“First, that the frogs must, as planned, go to the Nuremberg Gallery, and as soon as possible. They will hang there for all to enjoy. Second, and Mayor I very much hope you will allow my wishes to come to bear on this matter, I want all charges against the hobgoblin dropped.”

Strudel leapt to his feet. “You can't do that! It goes against everything the law is about. He is a criminal, he must be punished!”

“Was his crime really so dreadful?” Herr Durer wanted to know. “The pictures are returned. He has looked after them well. We can soon have them reframed and put in new glass. What real harm has been done?”

“What about the murdered Phelps?” Strudel's agitation was clear. “You can't let murderers go running around free.”

“But, as I understand it,” said Herr Durer gently, “there is no reason to suppose that the hobgoblin had anything to do with poor Bruno's death.”

There was a thoughtful silence while most in the room sought to ponder this point. As one they turned their expectant faces toward Gretel.

“The murder of Dr. Phelps was entirely unconnected with the theft of the pictures. My hypothesis is this: Phelps came here to see Herr Durer. Finding him out, he was not inclined to wait outside. He had just, by several accounts, run into Leopold—who was leaving after extracting yet more money from his uncle, no doubt—and the two had argued. There was no love lost between them. We can only guess at the nature of their disagreement, but it was enough to leave Phelps in need of a glass of something in a quiet place while he waited for his friend to return. He had little difficulty, I would guess, persuading Wilbur, the lift attendant, to admit him. He was not an easy man to say no to, and Wilbur knew him to be a close friend of Herr Durer. It was, as it turned out, Phelps's bad fortune to be here when the next caller arrived.”

Strudel was aghast. “How many people did this useless lift worker admit, for heaven's sake?”

“Only Phelps. This visitor would have used the tradesman's entrance and the service lift at the rear of the building. A lift that goes, in point of fact, from the upper floors to the basement. I have not yet had the opportunity to see it myself, but I am certain there is a hidden doorway there that leads to Mistress Crane's brothel.”

“You mean to say,” the mayor was sitting up very straight now, “this . . . establishment beneath the hotel, it has been supplying girls to residents of the Grand, secretly, for . . . well, for how long? Does Schoenberg know about it?”

“On that point, I remain to be convinced either way,” Gretel told him. “Certainly the route is a well-used one, I should imagine, and it is hard to think that the manager of a hotel would not know all its little secrets. But, and I find this compelling evidence of Schoenberg's ignorance of the connecting doorway, a man who
did
know of it, had he a head for business, would surely not be a man on the brink of bankruptcy.”

Valeri dared to speak out now, as if she knew in which direction Gretel's tale was taking them. “Who was it, Fraulein Gretel? Who was it who came here that night, and why did they come?”

Gretel smiled at the girl, hoping it would lend her a modicum of courage. “It was Mistress Crane's henchman, Klaus. Or as I think of him, Bacon Bob.”

Valeri gasped. “He came for me!”

“He did. He was sent to retrieve you, like a bundle of lost luggage, to take you back to that terrible life you so cleverly and deservedly escaped.”

Valeri began to weep. Herr Durer patted her hand. “Fear not, my dear. No one will make you go anywhere you do not wish to go ever again. You have my promise.”

“So,” the mayor was doing his best to follow the story. “This Bob fellow comes here looking for Valeri, but instead finds Phelps. That must have been a bit of a shock.”

“I'm sure it was,” Gretel agreed. “For both of them. After all, they knew each other, Phelps being a regular visitor to the unfortunate girls Mistress Crane has so enslaved.”

“But, how did he end up killing him?” Strudel asked.

“The ‘how' is clear. The ‘why' we can only surmise. Picture the scene. One bombastic man, already highly disturbed in his manner from arguing with Leopold, near grief-stricken at the loss of the prints, no doubt gazing at the pitiful gap on the wall where they once hung. I should imagine he had helped
himself to more of Herr Durer's brandy than was good for him. Enter Bacon Bob, out of place, nervous, expecting to find a frail, elderly man and a terrified Valeri, instead being confronted with a furious Phelps. The two clashed. Perhaps Phelps cried ‘thief' and would have had Bob charged with stealing the pictures. Perhaps the thug threatened Phelps with blackmail or exposure. Once he is questioned, we will have our answers. The result is not in doubt. Phelps was bludgeoned to his death.”

“With what?” Strudel wagged a finger at her. “No murder weapon was found. Is the man given to carrying a cudgel?”

“Not that I know of. And anyway, it is unlikely he would have thought it necessary to arm himself to scare Valeri. No, he found his weapon here, to hand, at the moment he needed it.”

“The paperweight!” Herr Durer was ahead of her.

“The paperweight.” Gretel agreed.

“Tell me, Fraulein,” the mayor wanted to hear, “how did you know it was the bawd's henchman? I do believe you are correct in your deductions, but I wonder how you came to suspect this man? He left no clues. I was told there was no evidence to help identify the murderer left in this room.”

“You were misinformed, mayor. There was ample evidence, if you had a nose for it. When you and your kingsmen arrest him I urge you to take a deep breath. My meaning will at once become clear to you.”

“His stink!” Valeri was laughing now. “Of course! I had so put it from my mind that I did not recognize it, but you are right, Fraulein. There is no one other on this earth who smells as that man does.”

The mayor got to his feet. “I shall have the fellow taken to the gaol house for questioning at once,” he said, extending his hand to Gretel. “Fraulein, your assistance in this matter—in both these matters—has been invaluable. Nuremberg is in your debt.”

“Happily,” she told him, “that is an account Herr Durer is able to settle.” As the mayor turned to go she said, “There is one thing . . .”

“Yes? Any request it is within my power to grant I shall be most glad to do so.”

“Not a request so much as, let us say, a suggestion. Why not have Kingsman Kapitan Strudel here do the actual arresting?”

Both the mayor and Strudel looked nonplussed. Gretel elaborated on her idea.

“It seems to me, with these crimes having been committed coincidentally with the royal visit, it might be politic to have a Gesternstadt kingsman seen to be working with your local boys. His Majesty King Julian has a soft spot for the Summer Schloss and the little town it overlooks. He might look favorably upon a city, so large and sophisticated as Nuremberg, which is pleased to see the value of such a place and its people. The princesses' visit has been a success, I believe. The more good things the king hears about it, the better for all, I would think.”

Strudel nodded, but could find no words to sort the muddle that must have been going on in his mind. It would be a few hours before he saw that, far from an unlikely gesture of friendship and altruism on Gretel's part, her suggestion was entirely directed at her own interests. She was, for the next week or two at least, the darling of the city, having returned the frog prints to their home. She would be further praised, no doubt, when news that she had caught Phelps's murderer got out. What she did not need was to have to submit to Strudel's petty charges, tainting her whole trip with a whiff of foul play of any sort. If, however, the Kapitan was also heralded as something of a hero by arresting Phelps, he would hardly want to tarnish his own moment of glory by lowering himself to be seen charging Gretel with minor offenses, all of which she would most
likely be let off anyway. His pride would be satisfied, honor reclaimed, and he would at last leave her in peace.

When the others had left, Herr Durer trundled over to Gretel.

“You have surpassed all expectations, Fraulein. No one else could have unraveled this tangled mystery. You have returned my precious pictures to me. You have seen to it that Leopold will be released. You have rid dear Valeri of a dangerous shadow from her past. I cannot thank you enough. I can never repay you.”

Gretel rubbed her hands together, smiling as she did so. “Oh, I don't know about that,” she said.

The next morning Gretel was up early for her appointment at the House of Fashion. She had requested an hour of the proprietor's undivided attention before the shop opened, so that she might try on as many garments as possible and select something suitable for her final hours in the city. In the dressing room to the rear of the building, two attendants danced in attendance, fetching this new fashion of corset, and that new style of shoe, and these silk stockings, and those pearl buttoned gloves. Gretel was in an ecstasy of shopping. She shivered as a silk nightdress was dropped over her head. She sighed at the purr of velvet beneath her fingers when she tried on a scarlet evening gown. She gasped as the stays of the Lose-six-inches-in-a-minute Corset were tightened about her. She giggled as the feathers of a broad-brimmed hat tickled her face. She oohed and ahhed and generally thrilled to the myriad delights on offer. Inevitably, she chose to try the exquisite Swedish Silver Wolf fur cloak on once more. Stripping down to her linen slip, she bid the girls drape it around her shoulders. She hugged it to her, and her reflection in the looking glass beamed back, swathed in its snowy, shimmering folds.

“Oh! It suits the fraulein perfectly!” exclaimed the dressmaker.

“It does,” Gretel agreed. “Sadly, the price does not.”

“But, Fraulein, this is a signature piece. Something timeless that will never go out of fashion. It will give years of wear. Years of pleasure.”

“You should take it,” a male voice in the doorway made them all start.

The shop assistants rushed forward, shooing him back. “You cannot come in here, sir!” they insisted. “Please, remove yourself at once.”

“It's all right,” said Gretel, meeting Ferdinand's amused smile somewhat sternly. “Let him come in.”

The shop owner and her team were evidently accustomed to the delicate nature of the relationships of many of their clients. They said not another word, but backed away silently, closing the door of the dressing room behind them as they went. Ferdinand walked forwards, slowly taking in the sight of Gretel in the fur.

“It really is rather splendid,” he said.

“It really is rather expensive,” she replied.

“Surely, after such a successful case, you deserve to reward yourself.”

“Herr Durer proved to be a generous client, it's true. But, well, a woman on her own has to be careful with her money.”

“You're not on your own, you've got Hans.”

“Where finances are concerned my brother brings only a minus to the equation.”

Ferdinand took another step. He was now so close that Gretel could feel his breath on her bare neck and smell his spicy cologne. She gritted her teeth, determined not to be seduced, reminding herself of the true nature of the man.

“I'm surprised you haven't better things to do than browse in dress shops,” she said.

“I was in the square, checking all is in order before the royal party are out and about. I saw you come in here. I hoped to speak with you.”

“You did? Can't think why.”

“Can't you?”

“Well, I mean to say, a man of your . . . appetites. Your habits. I would have thought your interests lay elsewhere.”

“In Mistress Crane's brothel, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. So it seemed. Seems.” Gretel fidgeted with the clasp on the cloak, staring at it as if it were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. Anything so as not to have to look Ferdinand in the eye. Who did he think he was, going about looking so dangerously charming before most people had even had their breakfasts? Her stomach rumbled loudly to remind her that she was one of those people.

Ferdinand reached out and touched the fur, letting his fingers run lightly down, tracing the line of Gretel's arm beneath it.

“Is that what you think I was doing in that ridiculous place? Pursuing my own . . . interests?” he asked.

“Wasn't it? Weren't you?” Gretel rather wished he hadn't used the word “ridiculous,” bringing to mind as it did her ludicrous black leather costume and the fact that he had found her trussed up, bound to the bed. Not to mention her atrocious Serbian accent.

“I was pursuing something,” he said. “Or at least, someone.”

“Oh. Who?”

“You.”

“Me?”

He nodded. “I was inspecting the rear of the hotel—the tradesman's entrance, the stables and such—when I saw your brother emerging from what appeared to be a secret door in the wall.”

“Ah.”

“Always so friendly, your brother. Always so chatty.”

“How much did he tell you?”