Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (18 page)

Gretel thought that however badly out of shape the evening was going, at least such cries would reassure Bacon Bob that She Who Rules was doing her job.

“Really, Strudel, you get yourself in such a state. I can't believe you've come all this way after me simply because your pride is hurt. You must see I could not wait for the plodding law in our little town to run its course. There has been a serious theft here, and my job is to find the culprit. You are a man of action, a man accustomed to the ways of criminals,” she sought, somewhat desperately, to repair the pride she had evidently so severely battered, “I could not leave poor, frail Herr Durer to mourn the loss of his pictures, for some robbing scoundrel to gain by them, I had to come at once, to do my utmost . . .”

“You were not at liberty to leave Gesternstadt! Not until I said so.”

“If I did not show due respect to your authority, Herr Kapitan, I am truly sorry. But, really, you know in your heart that I am no murderer. That I had nothing to gain by inflicting violence upon a man I had never, until that day, set eyes upon before, and that time will prove my innocence.”

“But you went when I told you to stay!” he insisted, thrusting out his thin bottom lip and stamping his bony foot. In that moment he looked less like a serious man of the law, and more like a petulant five-year-old who'd been given the wrong fancy dress costume.

“Strudel,” Gretel groaned, “for pity's sake, man, be reasonable.”

“Don't tell me what to be. It may be you did not harm the victim who just happened to die in your hallway. It may be
that you are innocent of any wrongdoing. But there are procedures. There are rules. And you will be made to follow them, Fraulein
detective
, like it or not. I came here to fetch you back to Gesternstadt, and that is what I intend doing. I am going to arrest you and escort you for the entire journey myself.”

“What? With me dressed like this and you dressed like that?”

Strudel frowned and looked down at his outfit as if for the first time. He pursed his lips, frowned even deeper, so that his already narrow eyes almost closed. “First, I shall change,” he declared. He turned and wrenched open the door, causing Bacon Bob to fall through it.

“Where's you goin'?” he grunted as he picked himself up off the floor. “And why's that ‘un tied down?”

“Leave her exactly as she is, where she is,” the kingsman told him. “I will return shortly.”

“If you's finished with ‘er . . .”

“I have not. Here, take up your position outside the door. See that she does not leave.” So saying Strudel marched away, his stick-like legs squeaking as he did so. Bacon Bob did as he was told, shutting the door behind him.

Gretel gazed up at her reflection in the full-length mirror above her. It did not make pleasant viewing. She saw what appeared to be a creature from the deep, shiny and featureless, as broad as she was long, pinned and helpless. She struggled against her bonds but her efforts were futile and served only to make her hotter and sweatier. She made herself a silent promise that she would never wear leather ever again. Defeated, she let her head flop back against the bolster. How had it come to this? She had been outwitted by the second most witless man in Gesternstadt—her brother holding first position with an admittedly unassailable lead—and now faced the prospect of being hauled home in her ludicrous attire, no doubt paraded for all to see with Strudel enjoying every second of her humiliation.

Just then, a scratching sound caused her to turn her head and squint in the direction of the floorboards. A stout, gray mouse was scuttling around the edge of the room. She consoled herself with the fact that at least it was not a rat. There had definitely been some of those in the tunnel, and the notion of having them circling her whilst she was unable to move was alarming in the extreme. This was only a single, unremarkable mouse. Or at least, it appeared so at first glance.

“I wonder . . .” Gretel said to herself, and then, feeling faintly ridiculous—and then
seriously
ridiculous for forgetting that her appearance and position had moved her well beyond “faintly” some time ago, and shoved her close up to “hugely”—she called, “Excuse me, Herr Mouse. I say, excuse me!”

The mouse halted his progress and sat up, whiskers twitching, fixing his glinting eyes upon her.

“I wonder . . .” she went on, “I wonder if I might ask a favor.”

The mouse cocked its head a little on one side. “What's in it for me?” he asked.

Gretel smiled at her sudden good fortune. To find a talking mouse was lucky indeed. To find a talking mouse who was obviously to be bought showed some god or other had decided to weight the dice in her favor, at least for now.

“Well, that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not you are acquainted with a friend of mine. Handsome fellow, gleaming brown fur, lives across the plaza, name of Gottfried. Mean anything to you?”

It did. The mouse's expression changed from one of cynical interest to one of awe. Gretel had never imagined to see awe on the face of a portly rodent, but now that it was displayed, there was no mistaking it. It seemed her appraisal of Gottfried's standing in the area had not been overestimated.
Anyone—man or mouse—who could run a successful protection racket and still have time to read and debate philosophy must, she had reasoned, have many who worked beneath him. Gottfried's way of conversing, his demeanor, somehow even his appearance, all pointed toward him being at the top of his particular society. Grey-and-Stout, on the other hand, gave every impression of being very near the bottom.

“You know Gottfried?” he asked in the whispered tones of one speaking of a living hero.

“I do indeed. Why, only a little earlier this very day we were discussing the finer points of immaterialism,” she announced, quietly confident that this mouse would not know his Leibniz from his Spinoza. “And as a friend of Gottfried . . .”

“A friend of Gottfried,” G-a-S echoed reverently.

“ . . . I would be most grateful if you would be so kind as to quickly nibble through these straps and set me free.”

“Me?” G-a-S asked, as if she were choosing from numerous possible saviors in the room.

“Yes, you. If you could see your way to a swift bit of gnawing I'm sure you'd have it done in a thrice. And then I could return to Gottfried and tell him how helpful you were. You'd like that, wouldn't you? He's bound to want to thank you himself, once he hears how
quick
and how
helpful
you've been,” she said pointedly.

G-a-S shook his head. “Oh, I couldn't,” he said.

“Couldn't? Why ever not?”

“What if I nipped you by mistake while I was nibbling? It's easily done, accidental nipping. I've a bit of an over-bite, d'you see?” he asked, baring his yellow teeth. “And well, to nip a friend of Gottfried's!”

“It's a risk I am prepared to take.”

“You'd only be risking the nip. I'd be risking upsetting Gottfried.”

“You won't, I promise. Upset Gottfried, I mean. I'll square it with him, if there's any accidental whatnot. Have no fears on that score.”

“I don't know . . .” still shaking his head, G-a-S began to back away.

“But, you can't just go! What d'you think Gottfried would say if he found out you hadn't helped me? If he found out you'd left me here, helpless, when you could have saved me—what do you think he'd say to that, eh?”

The little mouse gasped, giving Gretel another opportunity to observe his dental deformity, and threw his paws over his ears as if to block out her words. “I don't know what to do!” he wailed. “I don't know what to do!”

Gretel knew she should count to ten in order to calm herself and keep any trace of anger from her voice, but there simply wasn't time. She attempted to smile as she spoke in the hope her words might be somehow colored by the gesture.

“Herr Mouse, ask yourself, what would Gottfried do?”

This caused such strenuous thinking on G-a-S's part that his whole face gurned with the effort, and for a moment he closely resembled Hans when perplexed. At last he appeared to have hit upon a conclusion to his ruminations. “He'd check!” he announced. “That's what Gottfried would do,” he nodded briskly as he spoke. “He'd make sure of his facts . . .”

“There is no-one more enamored of facts than myself, Herr Mouse, I can assure you, however, I would remind you that we are pressed for time . . .”

But G-a-S had made up his mind. “I must check you are his friend, and check that he'd want you helped, and then, if he says “yes,” and “yes,” I shall return and set you free, and then he will reward me, maybe with a promotion, or a medal, or an invitation to dinner . . .” and so musing on
the delights that awaited his already doomed mission the mouse scurried away.

Gretel tried to remain positive, but she felt herself clutching at straws. Flimsy straws. Damp, mouse-soiled straws. Whichever god it was who had provided her with possible salvation in the shape of a clueless mouse in the first place had evidently done so merely to torment her with a moment's hope. She did not see how G-a-S could conceivably travel from the underground brothel, cross the square, enter the building opposite, find Wolfie's apartment, locate Gottfried, explain himself coherently (surely the biggest obstacle), obtain the permission he sought, retrace his steps without encountering a single cat, trap, or vigilant housewife, chew through the straps that held her fast and release her, all before Strudel could change into his uniform.

As if to confirm the hopelessness of success, the door opened once again. Gretel groaned and closed her eyes. Kapitan Strudel must have found several willing helpers to have got out of the benighted leather suit so speedily. She heard the door close. She allowed herself a small sigh of self-pity. Was nothing going to go her way on this increasingly testing night? Well, if she was to be hauled away and dragged through her home town in disgrace she was determined to hold her head high and not give Strudel the satisfaction of seeing her beaten. She struggled to pull herself into a sitting position in an attempt to muster some dignity.

“Very well then, I am ready for you. Do your worst,” she said, as she opened her eyes.

But the figure that stood at the foot of the bed did not belong to Kapitan Strudel. The eyes that twinkled in amusement at the sight of her were not those of her longtime adversary. The sensuous mouth that now smiled at her, the salt-and-pepper hair that framed the handsome features, the
tall, lithe body, the dashing uniform, the burgundy cape with the gold lining of Chinese silk, the long, shapely legs—none of these belonged to the kingsman. All of these things—which were wonderful in themselves, but which together only went to prove that the whole is indeed greater than the sum of the parts—they all belonged to one Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand.

ELEVEN

G
retel did not often find herself rendered speechless, but on this occasion, so many utterances ran amok through her mind that she was unable to catch one to actually utter. To begin with, she was, as always, unsettled by the sight of Ferdinand, who frankly was better looking than any man had a right to be. This unsettling was compounded by the fact that she slightly mistrusted the idea that he should, apparently, be interested in her. Once she had admitted this to herself she became cross. What sort of self-doubting nonsense was that? She was an intelligent, attractive woman. The fact that she was large surely meant he was, as it were, getting more for his money, not less.

While all these contradictory and irksome notions were chasing each other wildly through the cluttered corridors of her mind, there was another bothersome point skulking in a corner. Nigh on every single time she was in Ferdinand's presence she ended up, one way or another, looking silly. She had no explanation for this phenomenon, but it was proving itself true time and again. How long, she wondered, could any man go on regarding a woman with a certain kind of interest when he repeatedly saw her in a light that was often less than flattering, frequently embarrassing, and nearly always faintly ridiculous? It would surely test the affections of the most ardent suitor, and she did not yet feel certain that she could describe him as such. A situation not improved by the fact that only hours ago she had run from his side, abandoning him with neither explanation nor apology, in the middle of their gallery visit. Which meant that she could not bring herself to simply be delighted to see him, and ask to be rescued. She had scant pride left and was not prepared to give it up yet.

Now, as she sweltered within her hateful leather garb, she felt another response to seeing him, and this was an altogether new one. She felt furious. What was he doing in such a place? Was he truly a man who frequented brothels? A man who used and abused women for his own pleasure? A man so inured to the suffering of others that he believed handing over a few coins absolved him from further complicity in their woes? Could it be that she had got him wrong all this time? It was hard to believe he was capable of such behavior, and yet there he stood, at the end of her bed, supposedly having purchased a portion of time with She Who Rules.

As the riot in her head reached a tipping point, the main question Gretel wanted an answer to was
does he know it's me?
And if he did, how did he? And if he didn't, could she keep her identity secret? And if she did, where would that lead? And
anyway, where the hell was Strudel? And how was Ferdinand likely to react to the appearance of a talking mouse if Grey-and-Stout made it back? And why, in the name of all that was reasonable, could not Phelps have turned up early?

“Forgive me, Fraulein,” the General spoke softly, “I appear to have interrupted something.”

Gretel considered this an unhelpful comment. Did it mean he could see she was expecting a client to return? Did it mean he had
not
, then, booked the services of She Who Rules for himself? Did it mean, as he had not addressed her by name, that he was unaware of her true identity? This last question decided Gretel on her course of action. She must somehow persuade Ferdinand to untie her, but she must do so without allowing him to discover who she was. She must do her utmost to maintain her anonymity if their friendship was to stand a hope of ever becoming Something More. To which end, she plucked from her subconscious the voice of an alter ego to assist her disguise. No one was more surprised than Gretel herself to discover that there dwelt deep within her a skittish Serbian peasant girl.