Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (12 page)

Gretel dressed quickly. On this occasion there was no decision to be made as to what to wear. The ruby silk was ruined, and her traveling clothes had been taken away by Herr Hobgoblin for laundering. She buttoned herself into the yellow check wool suit, lamenting the loss of the coordinating hat, wrestled with her hair until it was at least tamed, cast a longing glance in the direction of the wig, which remained untroubled by use, and left the apartment.

Outside the sun shone cheerily and the people of Nuremberg went about their business in their pleasingly sophisticated manner. Gretel knew full well that the outer reaches of the city no doubt contained the poor and the struggling, and possibly slum areas to rival those of Hamburg, but she had no interest in them. Indeed, she refused to let them grubby up her mind, which was enjoying the abundance of starched lace, shot silk, damask, linen, printed cotton, and silver buckles that currently surrounded her. That hardship and injustice existed she accepted. During her investigations she was frequently compelled to face this fact. All the more reason, then, to celebrate the finer side of life whenever the opportunity presented itself.

At the Grand she presented herself to Herr Schoenberg, who had her taken up to the presidential suite. As she ascended she attempted to engage the lift attendant in conversation, but he had clearly been employed for his abilities to crank levers and open and close doors, rather than the liveliness of his small talk. She did manage to ascertain that his name was Wilbur, and that he had been on duty on the night the pictures were taken. Yes, he had been there all night. No, he had not taken anyone up to Herr Durer's apartment. Nor had he brought anyone down from it.

In the suite she found Herr Durer and Valeri enjoying coffee. She mumbled her apologies for having missed their appointment of the previous day. They were too gracious to press her for a detailed excuse. Gretel was happy to accept coffee if she might also be permitted to examine the room.

“Please,” Herr Durer smiled, “look where you will, and ask me whatever you must. Though I fear there is little I can tell you I have not already, and nothing to be gleaned from within these walls.”

“Forgive me if I hold another view, Herr Durer.”

“I understand that you must,” he replied. His tone was one of complete cooperation, and yet Gretel detected a note of sad resignation. Had Dr. Phelps been peddling his theory of hopelessness, she wondered?

“I assure you, Herr Durer, many's the time and oft I have returned to the scene of the crime, a scene I thought I had scoured every inch of, only to find something that had earlier escaped my notice. And that something led to a line of enquiring that yielded results.” As she spoke she paced the room, first stepping back to look at the pitiful empty space where the adored prints had hung, then moving forward to study the view from the windows and the vertiginous drop to the square below. She failed to see how anyone could
successfully scale the facade, do so unnoticed, break through the fastened window, remove the paintings, still in their frames and glass, and exit and descend the same way. No, she concluded, the pictures were most definitely not stolen via the windows.

Next she inspected the door. Its locks were impressively modern and in excellent working order. Herr Durer confirmed that they had been locked on the night in question.

“But the hotel has a master key?” Gretel asked.

“Of course. At my age, I find it a comfort to know that assistance can come if it is needed. For this reason I do not use the heavy bolts at top and bottom. After all, the redoubtable Herr Schoenberg himself has custody of the master key.”

Gretel filed away these facts safely in her mental archive. The existence of a key opened a possible route for the thief, but she had to agree with her client, it was unlikely anyone would have persuaded Herr Schoenberg to part with his copy of it. Still, she had not yet ruled out his being involved himself. Not ruled out, but was reluctant to heavily ink in. Financial difficulties aside, perpetrating a theft that could, in itself, ruin the reputation of the very hotel he wished to save seemed a risk too far for Schoenberg.

Striding from room to room Gretel satisfied herself that neither of the bedrooms afforded another entrance or exit. Returning to the main living room once more she stood, coffee in hand, sipping the hot, bitter drink, forcing herself to look further, to see more. Time and again her attention was drawn to the dumb-waiter. Peering inside she confirmed what she already knew; that the space could house only a small, compliant, and indeed pliant, child. It could not, moreover, accommodate the framed, glazed prints.

Seeing her furrowed brow, Herr Durer shook his head. “It is, I fear, an enigma,” he said. “It is as if my beloved frogs have
been spirited away.” His eyes glistened worryingly. Valeri patted his hand.

“Do not despair, Herr Durer,” Gretel told him. “It was not spirits who took your pictures. No magic or sorcery is indicated here, either. We are dealing with earthbound desires—human greed, or jealousy, or desperation. And anyone who is in such a condition will, ultimately, reveal himself to be so.”

“It is true,” he agreed, “that though the prints brought such joy to those whose gaze fell upon them, they also inspired some of the baser emotions in some people.”

“A diamond of sufficient size can make a thief of a saint, so the saying goes.”

“Indeed. It saddens me to think that my illustrious relation produced such wonderful work thinking it would move and uplift, but his talent has, it seems, driven someone to corruption.”

“On this occasion, yes. But think of how much his legacy is loved and enjoyed, Herr Durer, and do not lose hope. I promise you, one day the frogs will sit happily beside the rhinoceros in the Nuremberg Art Gallery, if that is what you wish for them.” She watched his face as she added, “And that is what Dr. Phelps wants too, is it not?”

“I believe so, and to that end he has assisted me in my negotiations with the gallery.”

“Herr Durer, I sense an unspoken doubt at the end of your reply.”

He shook his head slowly. “Doubt is putting it too firmly. I trust that Bruno wants what is best for the pictures, what is best for the artist's work and his legacy. It is only that, well, on occasion Bruno has become . . . agitated on the matter, when there really is no call for it. And that agitation seems to be directed at myself, rather than any obfuscation on the part of the gallery.”

“I see. That is most interesting. Now, if it is not too inconvenient, I should like to talk to Valeri alone for a few moments.”

“Me?” The girl jumped to her feet and seemed at once anxious. Gretel was reasonably confident this was from a habit of times past and life lived, rather than any specific guilt pertaining to the missing pictures.

“No trouble at all,” Herr Durer was already wheeling himself smoothly toward his bedchamber. “You will not be disturbed by me. I shall take a short nap, I think, in the hope it will improve my humor.” So saying he disappeared into his room, deftly closing the door behind him.

“Please, Valeri, sit down, I would be most grateful if you could answer one or two questions for me.”

“But I have already told you everything I can recall of that awful night,” she said, perching on the edge of the nearest chair as if she might have to leap up and flee at any minute.

“I wanted,” Gretel kept her voice low, “more specifically, to press you further on your knowledge of Dr. Phelps. I know you dislike the man. You alluded to him having something of a secret,” she held up her hand to ward off the girl's protestations. “Fear not, Valeri. Anything you tell me will go no further. No word of your opinions will reach the ears of either your employer or the . . . singular Dr. Phelps himself. You have my promise.”

Valeri began to twist a handkerchief in her hands. Tighter and tighter she wound it until it was very clear to Gretel that the girl's nervousness had been overcome by her anger.

“Dr. Phelps is not a good man, Fraulein,” she offered cautiously.

“In what way, not good?”

“He pretends to be a man of dignity and integrity, but, well, he is not.”

“No. I don't imagine the girls of Mistress Crane's establishment see him as a gentleman, either.”

Valeri's mouth dropped open. She gasped, but quickly recovered herself, attempting to mask her shock. She averted her gaze and continued to twist the lace in her hands. “What?”

“It will no doubt surprise you to learn that I have visited the garish rooms beneath this hotel and witnessed what goes on there.”

“But how . . . ?”

“Never mind, that is not important. What is important is that whilst I was there I saw Dr. Phelps, and he was not there to appreciate the art, if such it can be termed, that hangs on those dimly lit walls.”

Valeri turned her face away, shame coloring her cheeks.

“You know of this place, don't you, Valeri? And you know that Dr. Phelps avails himself of the services on offer there?”

Valeri gave the smallest of nods.

“And am I right in assuming that it was while you yourself were working for Mistress Crane that you first encountered Dr. Phelps?”

The girl closed her eyes, as if trying to shut out the memory. Again, she gave a brief but definite nod of admission.

“I am not in any position to judge you, Valeri, rest assured. I will only say I am pleased to see that you have escaped that terrible life. What I want from you, what would assist me greatly, is if you could bring yourself to tell me more of Dr. Phelps's . . . proclivities.”

She turned to Gretel, astonished at the request. “But, whatever for?”

“Allow me my methods and my reasons. Let me put it to you thus: during your time there, you had the misfortune to entertain Dr. Phelps?”

“To my shame, I did!”

“I promise you, the greater shame is his. Now, did the doctor . . . did he treat you . . . well?”

“He did not! He was a brute. All the girls dreaded his visits. He thought nothing of raising his hand to any one of us when he was drunk.”

“He beat you? And Mistress Crane permitted this? She is certainly not a motherly figure, but I cannot conceive of her wanting her . . . forgive me, her merchandise damaged, as it were.”

“He would always be contrite afterwards and pay double in recompense. Not that she ever passed any of it on to us.”

“I see. Valeri, before you completely ruin that poor kerchief, I need to ask you one more thing.”

“You want to know how I came to be here? It's not what you think! Herr Durer is the sweetest of men and would never stoop to hiring a woman's affections. My place here is what it seems: I am his nurse and his companion and there is a genuine friendship between us. Nothing more. He advertised the post. I saw it in a newspaper one of the client's left in Mistress Crane's boudoir. I bless the day my poor mother decided to have me schooled in my letters! I resolved to change my pitiful existence, then and there. I knew there was something better for me, if only I had the courage to take it.”

“And you did.”

“I tidied myself up and slipped away. Herr Durer took to me at once and I have been here, and been happy, ever since.”

“And does he know of your . . . origins?”

“He does not. How could I tell him?”

“But Dr. Phelps knows . . . “

“He could only reveal my secret by revealing his own, so I am safe from his meddling. Though he did try to make me return. Ha! I will never go back to such a dreadful life. Never.”

“And nor should you. But, still, I have a favor to ask.”

“If I can help you to find poor Albrecht's pictures—he does so love them—I will do it.”

“I suspect you even now remain friends with some of the girls who were not so fortunate as to escape their fate as you have done. That being the case, I would like you to request something of them on my behalf.”

As Gretel spoke with Valeri and outlined her plan she experienced something of the thrill of the chase. She was setting a trap for the odious Phelps, and once he was fast in it, she was confident she would have no trouble extracting the truth from him. It might be that he was not involved in the theft, in which case his answers would rule him out from her enquiries. There was an inescapable downside to her plan, however. It was a dark, unsavory downside which even now caused her stomach to churn and her nerve to wobble, but there was no getting round it. In order to have Phelps where she wanted him, in order to press him for reliable answers, she would have to return to the employ of Mistress Crane.

This galling fact did at least compel Gretel to address the matter of finances. Her discussion with Valeri done, she recalled Herr Durer from his briefest of naps and talked to him plainly regarding expenses incurred, advances to be paid, overall estimated costs, ongoing outgoings, and so on. She quickly saw that her client might be elderly and frail but his mind was still sharp. He wrote down all her requests and the figures she gave him, and the offer of remuneration he made was generous but not rash. At the conclusion of their dealings Gretel tucked a pleasingly fat bundle of notes into a recess deep within her corset, and was satisfied by the promise of further installments as the case progressed.

She was on the point of leaving when there came a knock upon the door for which no response was expected, as a swaggering young man invited himself into the apartment without waiting for one.

“Ah, Leopold!” Herr Durer smiled affectionately at his nephew. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Uncle . . . oh, you have company.”

Gretel took in the youth who stood before her. Everything about him set her teeth on edge. The way he walked, the way he posed as he stood still, the way he regarded her, the way he disregarded his relation; everything. He was dressed as if in readiness for an audience with the king, evidently believing that when it came to fashion, nothing was too much, too shiny, too bright, too frilly, too bouffant, too lavish. His wig made Gretel pine for her own, though it would have stood several inches lower than his. His cuffs boasted more Belgian lace than the greater part of Belgium itself. His complexion and headgear were so abundantly powdered he moved as if in his very own cloud. His perfume made itself known to everyone in the room with nothing short of a violent olfactory assault. He appeared overly endowed with health, strong physique, good looks, confidence, and self-satisfaction, and singularly lacking in any quality that might have rendered him tolerable as a dining companion, much less a nephew. He offered his uncle no deference, no kiss, not any bow, nor even a smile. Valeri he looked through, rather than at, as if a servant was, without question, invisible. The gaze he turned upon Gretel was a blend of disdain and irritation, with a liberal pinch of boredom.