Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (6 page)

“And the only way in or out of the apartment is through this door here?”

“It is. No one is permitted to use the stairs or the lift without being accompanied by a porter or other member of staff. Herr Schoenberg is a stickler on this point.”

“Indeed. Now tell me, if it will not distress you too greatly, where were you on the night the prints were taken?”

Herr Durer took a steadying breath. “I had retired a little after midnight and was asleep in my room. Valeri was in hers. Neither of us heard a sound. I cannot comprehend why I did not, for I am an exceptionally light sleeper. The Grand is a charming hotel, but it has, like myself, travelled some distance from its youth. The doors squeak when they are opened and shudder when they are shut. The floorboards, as you will have noticed, creak loudly when walked upon. It is near impossible to set foot in these rooms without the building announcing one's presence.”

“And yet, whoever it was who stole into the suite was able to do so silently?”

Herr Durer nodded sadly.

A small bell sounded and Valeri moved to the corner of the room beside the fireplace. She slid open a little door and took out a tray upon which were glasses and a bottle of glühwein.

“What is that device?” Gretel asked.

“The dumb-waiter, Fraulein,” Valeri told her. “It allows food to be sent up from the kitchen without a person being required to bring it.”

“A wonderful invention,” added Herr Durer. “My meals are always piping hot.”

Gretel looked inside. The wooden cupboard that slid up and down the hotel on a system of ropes and pulleys was large enough to accommodate a tray of plates and glass, a small basket of bread, perhaps, but not a person.

“I know what you are thinking, Fraulein,” Herr Durer shook his head. “One might compel a small boy to fold himself up into that little space, but he would have to do so without the prints. They were taken in their frames and glass, and could not have fitted inside.”

They settled themselves on fatly stuffed sofas by the fire. Valeri poured the wine.

“Forgive me, Herr Durer, but I couldn't help noticing the rather poignant spaces where, I presume, the missing pictures once hung.”

All eyes turned to the patch of wall between the long windows. The silk wallpaper revealed its age subtly yet perceptibly by displaying two rectangles where its pattern was ever so slightly brighter, having evidently been shielded from daylight for a considerable time.

The old man's face lost its shine. “Ah, me,” he sighed. “It is true what they say, Fraulein, one does not appreciate the depth of one's feelings for a thing until it is taken away. Only in its absence do we come to a full understanding of how much that thing meant to us. It is so with my beloved frog prints.” He took a sip of the sweet wine and went on. “My father left those pictures to me. I recall as a boy admiring them where they hung in his library, and how as we looked at them together, and as
he spoke of them, a smile would settle on his rugged features, softening and lifting them. They had that effect, you see. They would cheer people. To look upon them was to feel one's spirits raised. Many of Albrecht Durer the Younger's paintings have a similar quality. It is why they are so loved.”

“He was your ancestor?”

“Indirectly. The great artist had no children of his own, but he came from a family of sixteen. I am the descendent of his youngest brother. The pictures have remained in the Durer family all these many generations. And now they are gone.” Hot tears spilled from his eyes. Valeri hurried to mop them for him with a lace handkerchief.

Gretel cleared her throat. Whilst she was not made of stone, and would spare the old man suffering if she could, she was never comfortable amid displays of emotion, and found tears particularly disconcerting. In her experience, brisk efficiency worked best, at least where her clients were concerned. Hans responded less well to such treatment, but then he rarely had anything to cry about, so it wasn't much of a problem.

“If I might trouble you . . . could you put a value on these art works for me?”

“How can one put a price on joy?” he sniffed.

“Quite so, and yet, I am bound to say, there are those who would merely see the pictures as assets to be traded or sold, and as such they would have some sort of market worth.”

Herr Durer nodded. “It is true. Even in my own family, though it pains me to say it, there are those who see only the riches that could be exchanged for my beloved frogs.”

“In your own family?”

“My nephew, Leopold,” as the old man explained Gretel scribbled down notes. “He is not a bad boy, you understand, but, well, youth is often ambitious, and I fear Leopold's desires often exceed his reach.”

Gretel frowned, attempting to decode her client's words, make coherent notes, and calculate the ramifications of what he was telling her. A deep swig of glühwein eased all three tasks. Valeri refilled her glass. “This is exceptionally good, thank you. Your health,” she said, downing another inch or two of the syrupy drink. “This nephew, young Leopold, tell me, do you see much of him?”

“He visits infrequently. He lives on the other side of Nuremberg and is often out of town on business.”

“Which is?”

“Buying and selling. This and that,” Herr Durer waved his hand vaguely. It was obvious even to Gretel's untrained glance that the old man was tiring. Valeri sensed the same and fetched a bottle of brown medicine, liberally dosing her employer. After this he seemed a little restored and able to go on.

“Leopold once offered to find me a buyer for the prints.”

“You were not interested in the idea?”

“I was shocked! That they should ever go out of the family? It was unthinkable. But then, I have no need of the money. I have sufficient investments for my needs.”

“I sense young Leopold does not.”

Herr Durer made a rueful gesture that at once agreed and expressed disappointment. Gretel was about to press him further on the subject of his nephew when there came a knock at the door. It was not the gentle questioning tap of a hotel staff member, nor the cheerful drumming of a friendly visitor, but rather the assertive rapping of someone with a strong sense of purpose who expected that door to be opened, and opened swiftly.

Valeri sprang to her feet and admitted a stout man in an outlandish cape and a strangely familiar green hat. Gretel recognized it, through the pleasant fog of the glühwein, as being the same style as the one worn by the messenger who had died at her feet.

“Ah! Bruno, how good of you to call on me,” smiled Herr Durer. “Fraulein Gretel, allow me to introduce to you the renowned art collector, Dr. Bruno Phelps. Bruno, a light is being shone in our hour of darkness. This is none other than Gretel—yes,
that
Gretel—of Gesternstadt, come to help me recover my darling frogs.”

Gretel rose and extended her hand. Dr. Phelps took hold by the very tip of her fingers, as if he disdained physical contact, and bowed stiffly.

“I fear you have had a wasted journey, Fraulein,” he told her. “This is clearly the work of a professional art thief. I have no doubt the pieces will be long gone from this city, most likely stolen to order, an eager buyer even now hanging them on his wall, enjoying the splendor of his ill-gotten treasures.”

“Dr. Phelps, you paint a vivid picture.” So much so that Herr Durer had become quite lachrymose once again.

“Best to face facts,” Phelps went on. “Those prints are gone, spirited away by some unscrupulous rogue, you mark my words. We will not see them again.”

Herr Durer began to wail pitifully.

Gretel did not care for the no-point-in-your-being-here direction Phelps's statements were heading in.

“Come, come, Dr. Phelps. We must not abandon hope so soon. My investigations are at an early stage, and yet already hypotheses are forming in my mind.”

Herr Durer brightened. “They are?”

“Hypotheses, bah!” Phelps was having none of this optimism nonsense. “Truth is, you are too late, Fraulein. The trail will be cold by now.”

“I have an excellent nose. It will not fail me, not even if the trail be frozen.”

“I won't have you giving poor Durer here false hope. It is cruel to raise expectation in the man when the outcome can only be heartbreak.”

“I consider myself neither false nor cruel, I promise you. I will continue with my investigations in a thorough and logical manner. I will track the scent of the perpetrator, however faint. And if, as you postulate, the prints have already been handed to a third party I will find that person.”

“Postulate, bah!” barked Phelps.

Gretel made it her practice never to form hasty opinions of people, but she found her heart quickly hardening against this bombastic know-all. She attempted to steer the conversation onto a more useful path.

“I cannot help noticing that you sport a similar hat to the one Herr Durer's messenger was wearing when he died. You shared a milliner?”

“Not a milliner, a common cause. He was a member of the Society of the Praying Hands, as am I. As is Albrecht,” he said. “We all wear the green hat with pride. It is a symbol of our allegiance to the art of the great Durer.”

“Ah-ha,” said Gretel, silently kicking herself for not making the connection sooner, and wishing she had bothered to read up a little on the subject before meeting her new client.

“Of course, I recollect the drawing now,” she said, searching the dusty attic of her mind for a forgotten sketch of hands held up in prayer. She found it leaning against a stack of similarly neglected art works that she had been obliged to study at boarding school, but had not once thought to take out of the cobweb-laced recesses of her memory to look at since.

Herr Durer recovered himself sufficiently to try to explain. “We formed the Society some years ago, and are sworn to protect the works of my forebear. We are, in fact, in negotiations with the Nuremberg Art Gallery, where we hope a new wing will be constructed specifically to house his pictures. They already have a number of his prints and sketches . . .”

“The Rhinoceros!” Phelps boomed, with such passion that Gretel felt the need for another generous swig of her drink. “It is sublime, Fraulein. Have you ever seen Durer's rhinoceros?”

“Alas, I have not. I have been in the city but a few hours . . .”

“Hours, bah! You must see it. You must!”

Gretel was tiring of being barked at. “I admire your evangelical zeal for the thing, Dr. Phelps, but I am currently more interested in frogs.”

“If you have never seen for yourself the wonder of the man's work, how can you hope to understand? If you have never submitted your will to the splendor of the draughtsmanship, the masterful interplay of light and dark, the exquisite quality of the whole, how can you expect to enter the mind of one who would stoop to theft because of it, driven by a love beyond words . . . ?”

It seemed, like a blustering squall, Dr. Phelps had blown himself out. Gretel was pretty sure it was a calm that would last only a short while, so she did not allow him time to gather force once again.

Returning her empty glass to the table she said, “You are of course right, Dr. Phelps. I must get myself to the gallery at the soonest possible opportunity. I must also set about questioning those who might be able to assist me in my enquiries. I will be speaking with Herr Schoenberg about the hotel security and access to this suite, among other things. Herr Durer, I thank you for your time. I will, naturally, keep you informed of my progress.”

“If you have any more questions,” Herr Durer told her, “if there is anything I can do to help, please do not hesitate . . .”

“Thank you. Good evening to you. Valeri. Dr. Phelps.” So saying she took her leave, grateful to be beyond the reach of Phelps, but a little concerned that he might somehow plant a seed of doubt in Herr Durer's mind regarding the likelihood of
her successfully retrieving the pictures. She must make some discernible progress quickly if he was to have faith in her. It irked her that she had been robbed of the opportunity to fix terms for her employment on the case, but she reasoned that Herr Durer was a man of integrity, fairness, and, crucially, funds, and would pretty much pay whatever she asked for, so long as there was hope.

“
Real
hope,” she muttered under her breath, to the confusion of the lift attendant. “Whatever the doom-laden Phelps likes to think.
Real
hope.”

That night sleep proved elusive for Gretel. She had drifted off, despite the sonorous duet of snores from Hans and Wolfie drifting down the hallway, but it was a fitful slumber. She managed an hour or two only before she came to consciousness once more, her mind restless. The notion that Phelps might be right began to take hold of her. She did her best to shake it off, but it became increasingly tenacious. As it did so, she started to see a short term future filled with frustration, failure, and financial collapse. What if she
was
too late? What if the wretched frogs
had
been spirited out of Nuremberg and smuggled into the impenetrable vaults of a fanatical collector?

“Oh, for pity's sake, woman, pull yourself together,” she told herself. She sat up and groped about on the bedside table for the glass of water she remembered leaving there, but it was not to be found. Her thirst became more urgent. Cursing the dryness that could only be induced by alcohol, she fumbled for a match and lit the large lamp Wolfie had provided. As the room became illuminated a fleeting movement in the shadows caused Gretel to start. She narrowed her eyes, squinting into the gloom, but could see nothing. She swung her feet out from under the goose down quilt and wriggled them into her slippers. She stopped. Once again the briefest of movements
caught her attention, as if the shadows themselves had darted forth from the corner of the room. She listened hard, but there was no sound. She rubbed her eyes, attributing the illusion to tiredness.