Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (11 page)

She stood up, her chair scraping noisily across the floor, but not noisily enough to stir Wolfie from his slumbers.

“I know the perfect end to a perfect day when I see it,” she told Hans. “I'm going to bed. Should anyone take it into their hung-over head to wake me for breakfast, stop them. Their invitation will not be well-received. I intend to sleep at least until lunch time, and then only move from my bedchamber long enough to eat before retiring once more. I am no use to anybody in this state.”

In her room, Gretel undressed. Not having the energy to return to the kitchen to fetch any hot water, she washed in cold
with liberal amounts of lavender soap. The smell of the brothel seemed to cling to her. She felt considerably better afterwards and put on a fresh nightdress. She looked at her ruby silk dress. It was beyond repair. With a sigh she dropped it onto the floor. Her eye rested on the wig box and, in an effort to lift her spirits, she took out the wonderful creation and set it carefully down on the dressing table. The looking glasses reflected myriad images of the expertly coiffured and decorated white hair of which it was made. As she stroked it fondly, the tiny silver bells jingled like a fairy orchestra.

“Heaven knows when I will ever get the chance to wear you, my darling,” she said. “I certainly won't be taking you anywhere near the dreadful subterranean dwelling of Mistress Crane.”

So saying she flopped into bed, blew out the lamp, and pulled the covers up to her chin. She was tired to her very marrow, and yet she knew sleep was but a distant hope. She beat the pillows and wrestled with the bed linen and quilting, but it was a struggle simply to make herself comfortable. At last she felt herself drifting, drifting, floating downwards into the blessed embrace of temporary oblivion.

Until a scratching noise in the room snagged her attention and wrenched her back to consciousness once more. She listened hard. There it was again. A faint sound, but a persistent one. She traced the noise to the left hand side of the room and listened, ears cocked but eyes still closed, as it seemed to travel along the floorboards toward the dressing table. Then came a thump and a small creaking sound.

“For pity's sake!” Gretel sat upright, fists clenched. “Herr Hobgoblin, if you must do your housework when I am in residence, would you be so good as to make less racket? I am a woman on the edge, and if I am deprived on my sleep for another minute I will not be responsible for my actions.”

“Hobgoblins only work at nighttime,” said a soft voice. “I'm surprised you didn't know that.”

Gretel opened her eyes. She had not bothered to close the shutters, and a gray dawn was indeed begin to shed a wishy-washy light through the tall windows. She scanned the room for the owner of the voice. A quick movement on the dressing table suggested a presence, but she could not discern a figure.

“Who's there?” she demanded. “Come along, show yourself, stop skulking in the shadows.”

“I refute the charge of skulking,” came the reply. “I am standing here in plain view. If you cannot see me that is because of a defect in your eyesight, rather than any clandestine activity on my part.”

Gretel sat up straighter. “Now look here,” she said, “it's bad enough being woken up by a stranger in my own bedchamber. That you might also feel entitled to cast aspersions on my vision seems the height of bad manners. I warn you, if you plan to rob me I shall scream and bring the household running. I ask again, show yourself and state your name and business here.”

There was another small scratching sound and then, as Gretel squinted into the caliginosity, she was able to see a sleek, brown mouse, whiskers twitching, sitting next to her wig on the polished top of the dressing table. She rubbed her eyes and shook her head, but when she looked again the mouse was still there. Still looking at her. Was she losing her mind? Was this what happened when you stooped to depravity? Did one's sanity loosen at the same rate as one's morals? She did her utmost to remain calm, allowing irritation at being disturbed and pinched vanity at the slight on her eyesight to lend her a little gumption.

“I am still waiting for you to introduce yourself . . . sir,” she said.

The mouse gave a low and surprisingly graceful bow. “Forgive me, Fraulein. I do not often engage in conversation with
humans. It was remiss of me not to identify myself sooner. My name is Gottfried, and I live in the floorboards beneath your bed. My family has resided in the fabric of this apartment for hundreds of generations.”

“
Mouse
generations?”

The mouse gave her a quizzical look. “Would
you
define yourself using another species as a measure?”

“Fair point.”

“As you can imagine, having lived here so long I am acquainted with the habits and singularities of the owner of this apartment, and I doubt any amount of screaming by yourself would rouse him. And if it did, I cannot conceive of him running.” The mouse studied its claws fastidiously for a moment and then added, “I have never witnessed him moving at any speed.”

“I won't scream,” Gretel said, and was relieved to find that in truth she felt no need to do so.

“I'm very glad to hear it,” said Gottfried. “Not all humans are so . . . sensible.”

Gretel smiled. “That is quite the nicest thing anyone has called me all night,” she said. “Tell me, do you all talk?”

“All mice? No. Long ago every mouse was fluent in Humanspeak, but only certain families have kept the knack. On the whole it was found to be something of a one-sided conversation: the mice would speak, the humans—particularly the females—would shriek. Or curse, possibly. It's hard to have a meaningful dialogue on such terms.”

“I see. And are you out foraging for food? I'm sure there's plenty left about in the kitchen, but you won't find much worth having in here.”

The mouse looked at once affronted and pitying. Gretel was astonished to discover such a small, hairy face could be so expressive. “We do not ‘forage,' Fraulein . . . ?”

“Gretel, of Gesternstadt.”

“Oh?
That
Gretel?”

Gretel found she was smiling for the second time in as many minutes and was rather warming to the mouse. “Indeed,” she said allowing herself a little glow of professional pride. “I am here on an investigation. But, please, do go on . . .”

The mouse nodded, thoughtfully. “I was merely clarifying the point. We do not scavenge. We order ourselves to gather food which has been supplied to us in return for services rendered.”

“I beg your pardon, Gottfried, but what services do you offer?”

“Protection.”

“Protection?” Gretel thought he would make rather an ineffectual guard dog.

“There are many problems that can beset a building—mysteriously blocked drains, tumbling candles, holes in floorboards, damp, unidentifiable bad odors—my family sees to it that owners of these buildings suffer no such . . . eventualities.”

Gretel was stunned. “You mean to say, you run a protection racket?”

The mouse flinched as if struck. “Such an ugly term. Such a pejorative concept. As I say, we protect. We are paid well for what we do, and so long as that continues . . .” he spread his paws in an expansive gesture, “then everyone is happy.”

“And is Wolfie, well, is he aware of this . . . arrangement?”

“Could you see Herr Pretzel speaking calmly to a talking mouse?”

“I could not.”

“We find it best to deal with more broadminded creatures. Ones not so certain of their exclusive right to intelligent thought. In this building, as in many others, the hobgoblin works as our intermediary.”

“Ah, yes, that makes sense. I can see that he would want the place kept clean and, er, trouble-free. Though I cannot imagine him entirely welcoming your presence.”

“We tolerate one another. It is a . . . business arrangement.” The mouse broke off the conversation to turn for a moment to look at Gretel's wig. He sniffed it carefully before reaching out a tiny paw to toward it.

“Leave that, don't touch it!” said Gretel, a smidge more sharply than she had intended. “It is powdered,” she explained. “Your relations with Herr Hobgoblin will not be improved if he finds powdery paw prints all over the place.”

The mouse, somewhat reluctantly, Gretel fancied, withdrew his paw. “It is a splendid thing,” he said.

“Isn't it, though?” Gretel agreed, wondering at his good taste.

Gottfried jumped down from the dressing table and scurried over to the bookcase, which he proceeded to scale. Gretel watched, fascinated, as he scampered effortlessly up and along. It took her a moment to realize he was looking for something. For a particular book, no less.

“Am I correct in thinking you are able to
read
also?” she asked him.

“Books are one of the unexpected bonuses of this particular apartment,” he told her as he nudged a slim, green leather volume out from its place on the shelf. “Not that Herr Pretzel is given to reading them himself. Which is, frankly, a good thing. His lack of interest means the small library his father bequeathed him remains undisturbed.”

“Until you disturb it.”

Gottfried disappeared behind the book and gave it a sharp shove, sending it hurtling to the floor. He reappeared and looked down at it a little ruefully. “I am perfectly able to select the volume I wish to read. Returning it to its place is, alas, beyond me. But, the hobgoblin likes to feel useful.”

“And to have something more to complain about.”

“That too.” Gottfried scuttled back down the bookcase, causing Gretel a small shiver which she hoped he had not noticed. The mouse opened the book and skimmed through the chapters until he came to his place. Soon he was still and silent, absolutely absorbed in the text.

“I have to know, Herr Mouse, what is it you have chosen?”

Gottfried gave the tiniest sigh of irritation. Clearly he was unaccustomed to having his reading interrupted.

“It is a tract on immaterialism by Bishop Berkley.”

“Philosophy!”

“You are surprised?”

“I find myself in a perpetual state of astonishment in your presence, Gottfried. I have not, before this night, met a mouse who could converse with me upon any subject, let alone the most contentious matters of philosophy.”

“What would you expect me to read?”

Gretel was certain she had never harbored anything so fanciful as an expectation of what a small rodent might read were he able, but she didn't think it quite polite to say so. “Well, tastes in reading are a highly personal issue. But why not philosophy, indeed? I myself have dipped into the works of . . . er, Herr Leibniz, for one.”

“You are familiar with his thesis that we inhabit the best of all possible worlds?”

“Familiar with it? Yes. In agreement? Sadly, experience has led me to believe otherwise.”

“My father was a devout optimist, hence my name.”

“Of course! Gottfried Leibniz. But you yourself do not subscribe to his theories?”

“Like you, Fraulein Gretel, I fear the truth makes cynics of us all.” The mouse shrugged, his little shoulders lifting and falling in a minute gesture of what-can-one-do-about-it.

“But Berkley interests you?” Gretel searched her mind for what little she knew of the man's writings. She pounced on a quote that seemed to fit. “Are you of the mind, then, that
esse est percipi
?” she asked. “That things only exist when they are perceived?”

“The concept has merit,” the mouse allowed. “I certainly prefer it to the notion that nothing could surpass the way things are.”

“I confess,” Gretel shook her head, “I find his musings too disturbing. The thought that the minute my back is turned a thing ceases to exist quite unnerves me. Dare I set down, for example, my beautiful wig, for fear it might vanish into nothingness and not be there upon my return?”

“His argument runs that the wig would indeed be there, precisely where you placed it, because your presence would necessarily bring about your perception of the thing. Or, were you not there, God would perceive it, so its existence would be assured.”

“Hmm, risky though. On balance I find it helps to keep thinking about the wig when I am away from it, just to be on the safe side.”

It occurred to Gretel, as she pulled the coverlet around her shoulders and settled herself for a lengthy debate with Gottfried, that one found intellectual stimulation in the most unexpected of places. She certainly had not anticipated finding it with someone in possession of four legs and a tail. And so it was, that, as the skies lightened over Nuremberg, Gretel sat on her bed in her nightdress discussing the possible non-existence of the material world with a dark brown, gimlet-eyed mouse.

EIGHT

I
t was noon before Gretel stirred. Her debate with Gottfried had been so absorbing the time had sped by, until the mouse had declared he was expected home and had taken his leave, venturing to suggest they might enjoy a similar discussion again during her stay. Gretel's sleep had been filled with colorful dreams populated by talking animals and squeaking people, some of whom were tied to beds and some of whom were not.

She went to the kitchen for strong coffee and some sort of breakfast. The hobgoblin had done his work, so that all trace of the late night feasting had been cleared away, the surfaces gleamed and the china was washed, and everything in its
rightful home once more. Gretel was relieved that neither Hans nor Wolfie was yet out of bed. Much as she would like to have returned to her own cozy den, her mind was now working feverishly, and she knew she must ready herself for work. It had come to her, somewhere in those heavy-lidded moments ‘twixt sleep and waking, that her list of suspects still did not provide a possible method for removing the prints from Herr Durer's room. She needed to return there at once and study the place more closely. She also wanted to question Valeri further. The girl, she was certain, could shed more light on the murky habits of Dr. Phelps. Gretel was eager to find a reason not to have to return to Mistress Crane's establishment, and Valeri might just have that reason hidden somewhere about her comely person.