1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (49 page)

“The guys found dead in the river, at least the ones I heard about, had all crossed Schardius in some way. You seem to already know that. I don’t know anything about any of them except the last one, Delt.”

Hans paused and took a slow deep breath, hand at his side again.

“He sent me out to find Delt that night. I brought him back to the warehouse, and Schardius sent me out again. But I listened at the back door.”

Another slow breath.

“He talked to Delt for a minute. I couldn’t hear exactly what he said, but his tone was angry. Then he went out the front door. I’m sure that they killed Delt after Schardius left, and threw him in the river.”

Chieske pounced. “Who is ‘they’?”

“I don’t know if they all did it, or just one or two. It was the regular warehouse crew in the room. But the man you want is Ernst Mann, the warehouse foreman. If anyone knows Schardius’ secrets, it’s him. But he won’t talk.”

“We’ll see,” Chieske said. He looked over at the sergeant. “Got all that?”

He got a nod in response as Hoch put the notebook away.

Simon’s head was spinning with all the revelations. He was slightly horrified that Hans had had anything to do with the body he had found in the river months ago. But he was also glad that his friend’s involvement in the confirmed-murder of the man had been very minor.

“Right,” the up-timer said. “Go get your sister. I hope she travels light.”

“Simon, tell her to get dressed, bring all her money, and leave everything else,” Hans said. “Sergeant Hoch, would you go up with Simon and get her? The stairs…”

“Ah,” Hoch responded. “Pain?”

“Broken rib, maybe,” Hans muttered. “Cracked for sure.”

Both the
Polizei
men winced.

“You need to see a doctor,” Hoch said.

“In the morning,” Hans rasped. “Now, my sister?”

“Right.”

Sergeant Hoch beckoned Simon, and they started up the stairs together.

* * *

“Who is it?” a voice called from the other side of the door that Karl Honister had been pounding on.

“Detective Sergeant Karl Honister, Magdeburg
Polizei
. I need to speak to Johann Dauth.”

“Who?”

“Johann. Dauth.” Honister spoke slowly and distinctly, when what he wanted to do was ram his fist through the door and yank Dauth out to meet him.

There was a long moment of silence, but just as Honister was about to start pounding on the door again, it opened and young Dauth slipped out to face him, closing the door behind him. He had the look of someone who had just thrown on some clothes. His shoes not being fastened reinforced that idea.

Honister wouldn’t have cared if he had appeared naked and painted scarlet to ape the demons of Hell. He wanted information, and he wanted it now.

“Sorry, my wife’s in bed,” Dauth muttered.

Honister brushed that aside. “This won’t take long, Herr Dauth. I need you to remember something for me. It’s very important.”

“All right,” Dauth said, his tone a bit uncertain.

“The last time we talked, you said something about one of the merchants in town buying up silver coin.”

“Yah, that happens sometimes, usually when someone has to deal with a customer or a vendor outside the USE who won’t take USE dollars.”

“Was there anything unusual about this time?” Honister pressed.

Dauth’s youthful face wrinkled in thought.

“Well, there were a couple of things.”

“What?”

“There is usually a small discount charged in those kinds of transactions. The person asking for the exchange usually receives somewhat less than full value of what they’re exchanging.”

“Go on,” Honister encouraged.

“Well, this time the merchant agreed to a steeper discount than usual.”

“Much steeper?”

“More than I would have ever let my boss pay.”

Aha!

“Anything else?”

Another moment of hesitation, then, “They even exchanged some gold coin for silver.”

Honister started at that. Even in the current state of economic fluctuations, people with gold almost always held on to it. For someone to let go of gold coin indicated a serious need.

“Okay. Last question: who was this merchant?”

“I never saw him. I only dealt with an underling; but it was Master Georg Schmidt.”

Master Georg Schmidt
. Honister knew that name. Hardly anyone of the merchant or patrician class or of the political structure of Old Magdeburg didn’t know it.

He nodded slowly. “That will be all for now, Herr Dauth. Thank you for your help. If I need anything more, I’ll try to talk to you during the day.”

Dauth slipped back inside his door, and Honister turned away, thinking furiously.

His father had had dealings with Master Schmidt, and didn’t have much kind to say about him, so in and of itself he had no problems with making the merchant a suspect in his investigation. But Master Schmidt had connections, he did. To be precise, he was Mayor Otto Gericke’s brother-in-law. And that may have just put Honister’s investigation into a new light.

* * *

Hans drifted back to stand by Gus. He took one of the bills he had taken from the purse and jammed it into the other fighter’s coat pocket.

“For you. Now get out of here. I don’t think you want to be involved in what’s coming.”

“Truth,” Gus muttered.

As the other man started to turn away, Hans said, “And Gus? Thanks. You didn’t have to stand with me tonight. If I survive what’s coming, I’ll remember this.”

Gus hesitated. “I hope you do survive,” he said, and moved off.

Hans’ answering thought was dark.

But that’s not the way to wager, is it?

Chapter 56

Ursula was still awake when Simon walked in the door, followed by Sergeant Hoch. The candlelight was wavering on her face; her long hair brushed out and flowing over her shoulders.

“Simon…Sergeant Hoch!” One hand flew to grasp the closures of her robe, the other to grope for her cane where it rested against her table.

“Fraulein Metzger,” the sergeant said, setting his back against the door and not moving.

“Where is Hans?” She asked, struggling to her feet with panic and worry plain to see on her face. “Is he hurt? Is he…”

Dead
was the word Simon knew would have completed her sentence, if she could have brought herself to say it.

“He is downstairs waiting for us,” Simon replied. “He said that you should get dressed, bring all your money and leave everything else.”

Ursula stood up straight. “I will not take a single step until you explain what is going on!”

In the flickering candle light, she looked positively regal. Simon’s heart was drawn to her even more than it ever had been.

Simon ducked his head. She wasn’t going to be happy.

“Some bad things happened tonight.”

“What?” Ursula’s tone was sharp.

“Hans was offered fifty thousand if he fought a man from Hannover and beat him.” He didn’t want to say any more.

“So Hans took the offer.” Ursula’s voice was heavy. “I assume he won. What happened? Why isn’t he here?”

Simon swallowed, still looking at his feet. “The other man was bigger than Hans, and meaner. It was a hard fight.”

Ursula sighed. “How badly was he hurt?”

“Cuts, black eyes, sore ribs.” Simon swallowed again. “He got hit in the head a lot.”

Ursula put her hand to her mouth. Simon could see tears in her eyes. “Why did he do it?”

“For you,” Simon squeezed out. “He wanted you to have the money.”

He pulled the purse from inside his jacket and tried to hand it to her. She ignored it.

“I don’t want the money,” she almost wailed. “I want to see Hans.”

“He is downstairs. He said for you…”

“To get dressed, bring my money, and leave everything else. I remember that. But why should I?”

Sergeant Hoch stirred, and said, “Because there are some very powerful men who want that money, Fraulein Metzger, and probably want your brother dead. They won’t stop at hurting you to get to him. We’re here to take you someplace safe, where they can’t get to you.”

“Dead? Hurt…me?”

Ursula seemed to have trouble taking that last in.

Simon stuffed the purse back in his jacket, and stepped forward to take Ursula by the arm. He turned her toward her room, nodding to the sergeant to bring the candle.

By the time they had shuffled their way to the door, Sergeant Hoch had lit another candle and brought the one on the table to them. Simon opened the door, took the candle and passed it to Ursula.

“Fraulein Ursula.” He spoke to her calmly. “Get dressed. Get your money, all of it, and then come out so we can go to Hans.”

She stepped forward into the bedroom.

* * *

Marla sat on her dressing stool. Franz was brushing her hair; long, slow strokes through the ebon tresses, stopping every minute or so to pass the fingers of his crippled left hand over the almost liquid fall of the hair.

This was almost a ritual for them. They didn’t do it every night, but at least once or twice a week Franz would pick up her brush as they readied for bed. He didn’t even have to say anything anymore. Marla would smile and sit with her back to him as he sat on the edge of the bed behind her.

He claimed it relaxed him. She knew it definitely relaxed her.

It was always a time of deep intimacy; a communing without words, a mutual submission and service that was both an offering of love and at the same time a celebration of it. And if such a moment at times led to deeper intimacy still, well, did not Solomon say in his Proverbs, “Rejoice in the wife of your youth…and be thou ravished always with her love”?

Normally Marla just sat there, still, eyes closed, simply enjoying the sensuality of the experience. Tonight, though, she stared at the mirror hanging over her small dressing table, watching Franz. His own eyes were half-closed, there was a small smile on his face, and he seemed to be moving with a languor.

It was funny, she thought to herself. He wasn’t the handsomest man she’d ever met. She wasn’t even sure he could be called attractive; pleasant might be about the best that could be said for his description. She remembered having school girl passions over Johnny Depp and Leonardo DiCaprio, dreaming of being caught up by one of them. It had been years since she had thought of them, and she couldn’t even remember what they really looked like. Every attempt to recall how they looked morphed into Franz’s features.

She knew this man. She knew his heart, his goals, his passions. She knew his fire. She knew his love. And she knew that no one was his equal. No one was a better match for her than the violinist with a crooked tooth, a small mole high on his cheekbone, a hand with crippled fingers, and a smile that turned her insides to warm goo.

Her thoughts went back to Herr Schardius. She would be just as happy if she never saw the man again, but living in Magdeburg and moving in the circles around Mary Simpson, that was probably a futile hope.

Franz reached past her to lay the brush on the table, and lifted handfuls of the shining ribbons of night of Marla’s hair to breathe deeply of it. She smiled a bit and banished the unpleasant thoughts; the frown line went away. She leaned back against his chest and he wrapped his arms around her. Intercepting his scarred left hand, she raised it to her lips and kissed the palm.

They stood together and she moved into his arms. Tonight was a time for celebration.

* * *

Schardius looked at Ernst. “You know what I want.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Hans Metzger, alive or dead, here in the warehouse.”

That was what Schardius had always liked about Ernst. He was so matter-of-fact about everything. Nothing seemed to stir him.

“Right. Now get after it.”

The handful of men standing behind the overseer stirred, and they all went out the back door.

So, that was Metzger dealt with, Schardius thought to himself. And soon he would know who to blame for the destruction at the construction project. He didn’t care that much about the people who’d been killed, but he deeply cared about the loss of money. That would be repaid by someone, one way or another.

But what to do about Marla Linder? That was the burning question on his mind at the moment.

* * *

Ciclope looked at the building that housed the Schardius grain factorage. Like most such operations, it had a small office space at the front of the large warehouse, which was close to the river for easy access to boats and barges bringing grain shipments. Seemed big enough.

He knew where it was, now. He’d come by tomorrow morning and see it in the daylight.

* * *

The door to the bedroom opened and Ursula came out, dressed and with her coat on. She had a bag in one hand that, from the way she was carrying it, had some weight to it.

She stopped after clearing the doorway and beckoned to Sergeant Hoch with the hand that held her cane.

“Take this, please.”

Simon was pleased to see that Ursula had returned to her senses. Her face was alive, and her voice sounded normal to him, with a put-upon tone that was perfectly normal for the moment.

The sergeant stepped forward and took the bag from Ursula’s hand. His eyes widened as he hefted it. All things considered, Simon was glad the
Polizei
man had it rather than leaving it to him to carry.

Ursula looked around the sitting room, sighed, and moved toward the door at her slow pace.

“If Hans says go, we had best go.”

“Wait,” Simon said. He pulled the purse from his jacket. “Put this in the bag.”

Sergeant Hoch looked to Ursula, who hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He placed the bag on the table and opened it up, whistling when he saw the coins filling the bottom of it. Simon handed him the purse, and a moment later it the bag was closed again around the addition to its load.

The sergeant picked the bag up again and looked at Ursula with a nod. She opened the outer door without a word and stepped out onto the landing. Simon hesitated for a moment, then grabbed Ursula’s old Bible and her embroidery from the table and stuffed them inside his jacket before following her.