Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (5 page)

She was a little surprised to find that, whilst the apartment was neat and clean and the food stores apparently well-stocked, Wolfie kept no servants, but himself led her to a comfortable bedchamber. The room was pleasantly furnished with cushions and mirrors, and had as its centerpiece a handsome half-tester bed with fine silk drapery. There was a screen lending modesty to a marble and porcelain washstand, and in the corner a door to a water closet. She was pleased to find that her window overlooked the square, and therefore, the scene of the crime. She sat at the small, rosewood escritoire and contemplated her next move. It did not take many minutes of contemplation for her to decide the very first thing she must do was to present herself to her new client so that her investigations could get underway. That this would necessitate entering the warm embrace of the Grand lent purpose to her actions. She picked up a quill and flipped up the lid of the ink well, helping herself to a sheet of thoughtfully provided paper. With a confident hand, she wrote introducing herself, reassuring Herr Durer that help had now arrived, and
informing him that she would, with his leave, present herself at his suite that very afternoon. Having prevailed upon Wolfie to summon an errand boy from the street to deliver the letter, and having successfully closed her bedroom door against any further japes he might attempt to inflict upon her, Gretel fell to the serious business of preparing herself for the imminent meeting. Professional pride was at stake. She had been sent for because her reputation as a detective had traveled abroad by itself. Now she had to convince the person with the problem to solve and the money with which to have it solved that she was the person to solve it and the one to whom the money should be given. Whatever he had heard about her, first impressions would still count for something. Her eye alighted on the wig box. She leaned forwards and touched it tenderly.

“Not yet, my darling,” she cooed. “Not yet.”

She unstrapped her suitcase and pulled out the somewhat crumpled garments it contained. The speed of their departure from Gesternstadt and the necessity of traveling light had horridly compromised her wardrobe. The clothes she had on were workaday and suitable only for journeying, and had suffered from the cramped and malodorous confines of the stagecoach. She had two options now: a smart suit of fine checked wool, its golden tones shot through with summery yellow preventing the look from being too severe. It was expertly cut, and had cost a pretty penny, but it was showing signs of wear. With a sigh Gretel moved on to the alternative: a gown of silk the color of rubies. Or tomatoes, as Hans had insisted; she had countered with the slim probability that she would ever have bought anything described in such a way; he had offered the appeal of a salad; she had countered again, this time with the glamour of gems; he had played his highest card in the form of a derisive snort; and she had trumped him with you-wear-leather-shorts-and-so-are-forbidden-to-pass-judgment-in-any-case.

Gretel picked up the gown and, holding it to her, turned to view herself in the full-length looking glass that stood in the corner of the room. The rich red was softened by a little cream lace at the neckline and a little more frothing from the ends of the sleeves, which finished in the crook of the elbow. The effect was quite delightful.

So, the dress of
ruby
silk presented itself as a more striking, more daring choice with which to make her entrance. True, the fabric was a little more suited to evening, and such décolletage was not commonly seen during the modest hours of afternoon, but still it seemed to Gretel so much more appealing, so much more fittingly
grand
, than the wool suit.

But first she had to bathe. She would need hot water, and plenty of it. She opened the door, stuck her head out into the hallway, and hollered for Hans.

FOUR

B
y the time Gretel descended in the lift from Wolfie's apartment the chimes from the belfry at the southern end of the square were declaring five of the clock. She hurried down the steps of the mansion block and traversed the blond cobbles to the hotel entrance. A white-gloved doorman of exemplary unctuousness held the door open for her and bowed low as she swept past him.

Inside the Grand was every bit as marvelous as she had imagined it to be, and then quite a bit more. Gretel stood for a moment allowing herself to absorb the glamour of the place; the lofty ceiling from which dangled the largest crystal chandelier she had ever seen, the marble floor and columns, the
broad, sweeping staircase, the elegantly attired guests, and the immaculately liveried staff. The hotel was a cathedral of style, and as such, Gretel felt she had found her spiritual home.

She made her way to the reception desk, pleased that she had chosen to wear the ruby silk, and confident that she could hold her own in such surroundings. The receptionist, a tall twig of a man still sporting the pimply complexion of youth, regarded her a little nervously.

“Can I help you, Fraulein?” he asked.

“I have an appointment with one of your residents, Abrecht Durer the Much Much Younger. Would you be so kind as to tell him I am here?”

From an open door at the back of the reception area sprang a middle-aged man with a pale face and anxious eyes.

“Your name, Freulein?” he enquired, in a tone that was not altogether to Gretel's liking.

“And you are?”

“Maximilian Schoenberg, proprietor of this establishment.”

“Ah, Herr Schoenberg. I am Gretel of Gesternstadt.” She waited for some sign of recognition but none was forthcoming. “As I said, I am expected.”

“Indeed,” said Herr Schoenberg coolly. He whispered something to the youth, who scurried off up the stairs, presumably to check out Gretel's story. In the uncomfortable silence that followed Gretel felt the need to put this man at his ease, to reassure him that she belonged here, that she was
persona grata
, that she was sufficiently refined and sophisticated to appreciate her surroundings, without being over-awed by them.

“A very fine hotel you have here,” she said with a sweep of her arm. “I would be staying here myself, of course, had I not close friends living across the plaza who would be offended if I did not reside with them during my stay in your lovely city.”

“You are on holiday in Nuremberg?”

“I am here on business.”

“Oh?” Herr Schoenberg's expression seemed to suggest he doubted this.

“I have been engaged by Herr Durer in my capacity as private detective to look into the matter of his missing works of art.”

This information had a galvanizing effect on the man who stood before her. His face registered first astonishment and then alarm, before he scooted around the handsome walnut reception desk and grasped Gretel by the arm, steering her toward the lift.

“Keep your voice down!” he hissed, signaling frantically to the lift attendant to close the doors behind them.

Gretel felt his fingers digging into her arm and feared he would damage the silk of her dress. She wrenched herself from his clutches. “Is it not public knowledge that there has been a theft in the hotel?” she asked, well aware of the impact her words would have on him.

“It is not!” he insisted. “And nor do we want it to be.”

“We?”

“Consider, Fraulein Gretel,” he said, struggling to regain his composure, “how . . . unsettled our guests might be if they thought there was a thief in the city.”

“Certainly they would be unsettled; they would have every right to be. And it is more accurate, surely, to say a thief in this hotel, rather than the city. I am not aware of any art thefts elsewhere in Nuremberg, are you?”

“That is hardly the point . . .”

“I think it is precisely the point. I further think that it is a trifle underhand of you not to alert your guests to the possibility that their belongings might be targeted in a similar way.”

“Why would they?” Herr Schoenberg snapped. “Herr Durer is our only resident. Guests visiting on holiday or business are not given to bringing art works with them.”

“So you consider this a singular theft, and that the pictures were specifically sought out?”

“I do. What is more, I consider that stirring up hysteria . . .”

“Oh, hardly that, come, come.”

“ . . . about the possibility of thieves in the building, would cause unnecessary alarm . . .”

“ . . . and might also cause guests to leave and bookings to fall dramatically.”

Herr Schoenberg blanched from pale-with-worry to pasty-with-angst. “Fraulein, I beseech you . . .”

The lift came to a halt and the attendant slid wide the folding metal doors.

Herr Schoenberg continued in a low voice, “Business is slow enough as it is. The hotel, well, it appears luxury is a little out of fashion this year.”

“Or beyond people's purses.”

“Possibly. Either way, we need to keep the guests we already have. If news were to spread of the . . .
unfortunate
incident . . . well, it could be very bad for the Grand. Very bad indeed.”

Gretel stepped out onto the thick carpet of the corridor.

“It strikes me, Herr Schoenberg, that you may very well be able to aid me in my enquiries, and I should very much like to discuss the matter with you further.”

“Naturally I would wish to be of any assistance I can, but I am a busy man . . .”

“At your convenience,” Gretel assured him. “First, I must go to my client and reassure him that everything that can be done to regain his treasures will be done. I'm certain you would want me to do that, would you not?”

The hotel proprietor agreed that indeed he would. He escorted Gretel to Herr Durer's door and left her there. Gretel watched him go. As she did so she took a small notebook pencil from her pocket and jotted down his name along with
a reminder to quiz him closely about which members of staff had access to the suites on the upper floors. She would also prod him regarding the shaky state of the hotel's finances. After all, a man with money worries was a man with a motive for theft.

Her knock on the door of what declared itself in gold lettering to be the presidential suite was eventually answered by a pretty young woman with smiling eyes. She was dressed in the clothes of a nursemaid, but anyone less likely to fill such a position Gretel could not imagine. Aside from the liveliness of her gaze, the woman was curvaceous in a particularly noticeable and alluring way, seemed on the point of giggling, and wore her abundant curly red hair loosely piled upon her head beneath a snood that was inadequate to the task of containing her locks. Indeed, it seemed to Gretel, that everything about the woman sought to break free of its bonds in one way or another.

“Good afternoon,” Gretel put on her best efficient-yet-approachable voice, the one she reserved exclusively for new clients. “I am Gretel of Gesternstadt, here at Herr Durer's request.”

“Oh, come in, Fraulein, please,” the nurse stepped aside and Gretel strode into the room, which she scanned for signs of her new employer. The suite was elegantly furnished, spacious and comfortable, the decor grand but understated. There were paintings aplenty upon the walls and she spied several charming bronzes and a number of fine pieces of china. Gretel at once took in the salient details: Two tall windows on the south-facing wall; no balcony; doors off to additional rooms left and right; a fireplace with a narrow chimney breast. At first glance she thought the room empty, but a small movement by the fireplace snagged her attention. A narrow chair, which had stood with its back to the door, now turned, revealing itself to be on wheels, and in it sat the oldest-looking man Gretel had
ever set eyes upon. His skin was walnut brown, deeply lined, wrinkled as an elephant's ankle, and seemingly in danger of crumbling at the edges. Out of this ancient visage, however, peeped a pair of bright blue eyes, as full of life as any one might meet.

“Herr Durer . . . ?” Gretel found herself unable to utter the man's soubriquet. Much Much Younger seemed cruelly inappropriate now.

“Ah! Fraulein Gretel, you are come at last. Welcome! Come in, come in. Valeri, ring for some refreshment for our guest. Will you take a little glühwein, Fraulein? I find it splendidly restorative.” He sped across the floor in his chair, nimbly slaloming between occasional tables and jardinières.

“That would be most welcome.”

Herr Durer held out a hand. “It was good of you to answer my call,” he told her, shaking her hand with a surprisingly firm grip.

“I am sorry about your messenger. Please accept my condolences.”

“Ah, a sad business. Poor Gerhardt did not enjoy good health. Unlike myself!” He gave a wicked little laugh, which Valeri echoed from the other side of the room. “I am fortunate, Fraulein, in so many ways. I have achieved my great age—one hundred and five, as I know you are far too polite to enquire—I have achieved it through luck, stout parentage, good living, the protective balm of wealth, and, latterly, the blessing of a kind companion to look after me.” He smiled at Valeri who came to stand beside him. He patted the hand she rested on his chair back. “Valeri is employed as my nurse and I could not ask for better, but she is also my friend and my confidante, Fraulein. You may speak freely in front on her.”

“A few questions, if I may. Aside from yourself and Valeri, no one else resides in this suite, am I correct?”

“You are.”

“And what members of the hotel staff have access to your rooms?”

“Oh, let me see. The chamber maids—there are two of those. The boy who brings the firewood and takes away the ashes . . . another who empties the night soil . . .”

“A list would be most helpful.”

“You shall have it.”

“Those doors lead where?”

“That one,” Herr Durer waved a gnarled hand to the left, “gives onto my bedchamber and dressing room. The other goes to Valeri's room. Beyond that is a small store room.”