Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (19 page)

“Ah, darlink!” she purred, “Ees such pity, I am little tied up right now. Ha, ha, ha! Vhy don't you come back later,
moja ljubav
?”

To his credit, if Ferdinand was surprised he gave no indication of being so beyond a slight raising of his eyebrows.

“Tuesdays ees buzy night,” the Balkan Gretel felt compelled to explain. “Tomorrow ees better for you, darlink.”

“Will I find you here tomorrow, Fraulein?” he asked.

“Tomorrow, next day . . . I vill vait for you,
ljubav
. But better you go now and find other girl. Plenty pretty girls here,” she told him, attempting to wave her hand, but managing only a flap of the fingers due to the straps at her wrists. “But before you go, pleeese, I begs you, vill you release me from these
terrible bonds? I have been left too long, and pain is like the knives in my flesh!”

“You poor thing,” Ferdinand stepped around to the side of the bed and put his hand on Gretel's. “Here, allow me to help you, Fraulein.” He began to work at the buckle on the first strap and Gretel began to wonder why she suddenly felt tearful. She blinked rapidly. The last thing she needed was to appear lachrymose, she told herself. After all, she had faced much worse situations than this. Greater discomfort to be borne. Trickier problems to solve. Somehow, though, having Ferdinand be kind to her, feeling his gentle touch, was more than she could stand. She stifled a sniff and a sob. Ferdinand glanced at her, and for a moment his eyes held hers.

Into this intimate moment burst the unwelcome personage of Bacon Bob, his pungency preceding him into the room.

“What's you doing?” He demanded of Ferdinand. “This ‘un's booked. You'll ‘ave to wait your turn.”

“The fraulein appears to be in some distress.”

Bacon Bob's expression suggested that this was a point of no significance. “Like I said, she's booked. Now, leave ‘er to it and come away, else Mistress Crane'll ‘ave you thrown out!”

Ferdinand straightened up, letting go of the strap. “Oh, I very much doubt that,” he said mildly.

“A person doesn't interfere with another person's time. Them's the rules.”

“But what if that second person was willing to pay far more than the first person?” the general asked.

“Yes,” Gretel could not help herself, “much,
much
more,” she insisted, entirely forgetting she was still supposed to be Sonja from Serbia.

Bacon Bob let out a grunt that could have been an expression of scorn or delight, it was hard to tell. “‘ow
much
much more?” he wanted to know.

Gretel saw the man's resolve weaken. Ferdinand saw it too and walked over to him, slipping his arm casually around Bob's shoulders, presumably holding his breath so as not to be overcome by the fumes.

“Let's you and I step outside for a moment,” he steered him gently toward the door. “I'm certain that if enough coins were to change hands, some of them might find their way into your own pocket, don't you think?”

“Wouldn't it be best to release me first?” Gretel called after them, but the pair had disappeared, the door was firmly shut once more, and she was alone again. She wriggled her hands, but they were still tightly secured. What was Ferdinand playing at? Surely he could have stalled Bacon Bob long enough to free her. Or did he have a plan?

“Fraulein!” A piping voice called to her from the far corner of the room and a panting Grey-and-Stout waved a trembling paw at her. “I . . . I . . . I . . .” was all he had breath to say.

“You, you, you, yes . . . did Gottfried tell you to help me?”

“He, he, he . . . ha, ha, ha . . .”

“Good grief, are you mouse or donkey? Spit it out for pity's sake!”

“He has come with me!” G-a-S staggered sideways and Gottfried emerged from the hole behind him.

“Fraulein Gretel, I am saddened to see you in such . . . reduced circumstances.”

“Things are not always what they seem—isn't that about the nub of what your blessed Berkeley was saying, when you boil the thing down? I am not, I am happy to be able to tell you, so fallen on hard times that I must resort to selling my body.”

“I am relieved to hear it.”

“You and me both. However, my investigations have caused me to impersonate a woman who earns her living thus, which is why you find me here.”

G-a-S had recovered a little wind by now. “You see, Herr Gottfried? I told you she was a strange one.”

“You were right to fetch me,” Gottfried told his fellow mouse.

“I assured your . . . friend, that you would wish me to be assisted.”

“Indeed, I do. So much so, that I determined to come here and help you myself.”

“You are a true gentleman, Gottfried. If I might trouble you to hurry . . . ?”

“But of course.”

He scampered across the floor and up onto the bed. Gretel forced herself not to flinch as he scurried over the coverlet beside her. He sniffed at the leather that held her, his whiskers a blur of movement, his bright eyes darting this way and that.

“Hmm, there is fine workmanship here. These are stout bonds. They will require a deal of nibbling.”

“I do not for a moment doubt your suitability for the job.”

Gottfried tested the first strap with his sharp, white teeth. He bit hard, two or three times, and then nodded. “Yes, there is a fair amount of work to be done.”

“Then I urge you to begin.”

Instead of settling to the task, however, Gottfried turned almost apologetically to Gretel and asked, “But Fraulein, do you not think that work—any work,” here he waved his paw at her current position as if to emphasize the point, “deserves to be paid for?”

Gretel gasped. “You mean to say you intend bargaining with me? Whilst I am at such a disadvantage?”

Gottfried shrugged expressively. “In my line of work, Fraulein, I strive always to have the advantage over
mes patrons
.”

“Well, really!” Gretel reined in her exasperation as quickly as she could, reminding herself whom it was she was dealing with. Not for nothing was Gottfried held in high esteem among
his compatriots of the underworld. He must surely have, after all, built his reputation on being a successful opportunist. And at this precise moment he saw an opportunity. And Gretel knew, from the aching in her shoulders and the threat of the imminent reappearance of Strudel, that she was in no position to argue.

“Very well, name your price. Though before you do so, I might ask you to recall the matter of the slim volume of Bishop Berkeley's works that I assisted you in obtaining only a few hours ago . . .”

“That act of kindness is indeed the reason I am here at all, Fraulein,” he told her. “But be assured, I am not here to make unreasonable demands. In fact, it is not money I desire.”

“Not?”

“You have something,” he paused, a modicum of discomfort flitting across his furry features, “something that I confess I covet.”

“I do? You do?” Gretel was at a loss to think what it could be.

“Your wig,” he told her.

“My
wig
? But, it is far too big for you. What could you possible want with it?”

“I have examined it closely.”

“Checking . . . you told me you were
checking
,” she reminded him, not a little peevishly.

“Indeed, and my . . . checking . . . revealed that it would make a superlative home for myself and my good wife.”

“A home!” The thought that her beloved wig—which she had
still
not had occasion to actually wear—might be destined to spend its days as a mouse house filled her with revulsion. The image of the tiny rodents scuttling and burrowing in and out of the thing caused her real pain, and for once she was grateful to be wearing her mask, so that Gottfried might not see the disgust written plainly on her face.

“Yes,” Gottfried clearly felt the need to elaborate, “for many months now my wife has been complaining that we do not have a dwelling befitting our position in society. She is a mouse of, shall we say, grand tastes, not always practical, often, in fact, beyond good sense. But,” he shrugged again, and Gretel could swear she saw him blush, “she is my sweetheart, and I love to please her, and I know the beautiful wig with its tiny silver bells would make her so very happy.” He finished with a smile.

Gretel decided the world was full of loathsome people but none whom she hated more, at that particular moment, than Gottfried. “Very well. I have no choice. Only do, please, hurry. I must not be here when the Kingsman returns.”

“Fear not,” said Gottfried. He signaled to G-a-S, who jumped up beside him and together the two set about gnawing through the leather, while Gretel closed her eyes and her ears to shut out the pictures and noises, the flashing rodent teeth, the tiny sucking sounds, that would otherwise wake her in the night for some time to come. Quicker than she could have dared hope, the strap gave way and her right hand was free. The pair chased around the bed, working on one ankle, then the other, and finally her left wrist, until at last she was able to stagger to her feet.

“Thank heavens for that,” she said, rubbing at her numb wrists. “Now, if you will assist me one step further, Gottfried, I must leave this place at once. If I am discovered by a certain Kapitan of the King's men from Gesternstadt the game will be up, and I will be taken away before I have a chance to hand over your . . . payment. If I were you I would not want to be relying on the co-operation of either my brother or Herr Pretzel to see you get your due.”

“On this point, Fraulein, we are in complete agreement. I will create a diversion whilst you make good your escape.” The diminutive mobster put his paw to his mouth and let out
the shrillest of whistles. Within seconds, dozens of his followers had appeared, tumbling into the room from hidden cracks and crevices. Gretel's stomach lurched at the sight of them, but she did not have long to tolerate their company. At Gottfried's signal she wrenched open the door and the mice flooded through it. It seemed that, however hardened to life's sadnesses, however toughened by the hand fate had dealt them, the women in Mistress Crane's employ had not lost the innate female loathing of all things given to scuttling. Soon the entire complex of rooms was filled with shrieks and squeals and screams and the chaos of women, and men, in states of undress—and indeed dress-up—running wild, barreling into one another, and generally charging about the place as if in pursuit of their fleeing wits. Somewhere in it all Gretel glimpsed the sober uniform of a kingsman, and the broad shouldered, slim-hipped silhouette of General Ferdinand, but she could not risk pausing. Still clad in her shiny disguise, she ran, her breath loud in her ears beneath her headdress, her heart pounding. Ignoring the startled stares of those still up and about in the square, she galloped up the steps of the mansion block, flung herself through its doors, and did not stop until she was safely returned to her own room. She leant against the door, as if to repel anyone who might have followed her, though she was reasonably certain Strudel had not given chase. It was not many moments before Gottfried appeared, looking not in the least bit out of breath.

“How did you get here so quickly?” she asked him.

“We have an extensive underground system, tunnels and what-have-you. Traveling between buildings above ground can be hazardous for us.”

“Are all the buildings on the square similarly connected?”

“Most. At least, the ones worth bothering with.”

“The ones with wealthy residents or patrons.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, that explains how Grey-and-Stout was able to fetch you so speedily. He did not give the appearance of one ordinarily in the habit of moving swiftly.” A thought occurred to Gretel. “These tunnels, how big are they?”

“There is ample space for us to move about in numbers should the necessity arise.”

Gretel quelled a shudder. “But a human could not pass through them?”

Gottfried shook his head. “We have no wish to make them usable by those who might, shall we say, bear a grudge of some sort, you understand?”

“All too well.”

They both glanced in the direction of the wig box, their eyes irresistibly drawn to the thing. Gretel sighed crossly.

“Gretel of Gesternstadt is always as good as her word, Herr Mouse. You shall have your spoils. But first, I insist on getting out of this ridiculous outfit. I vow never to wear leather next to my skin again. Wretched stuff. Won't be easy, getting it off. Took three people to get me into it, as I recall.”

“Do you require more nibbling?”

Gretel frowned. “I'm not sure I could afford it. I only have . . .
had
. . . one wig. In fact,” she added, shaking from her mind the thought of those mousey teeth working so close to so many parts of her body, “. . . as I don't plan to use it again I shall go to the kitchen and avail myself of the biggest pair of scissors I can find. I shall take some pleasure in destroying it utterly. Upon my return I will hand over the wig and even go so far as assisting you in installing it wherever you desire. If I am to part with it, I would rather it gone from my sight completely.”

For once the kitchen was empty, for which Gretel was exceedingly grateful. She felt shaken and exhausted. Her stint at Mistress Crane's establishment had proved testing beyond
reason, and had apparently yielded no results. There was no possibility of her returning there, given the way she had left, so that there would be no opportunity for her to question Phelps in the way she had hoped. She rummaged in a cupboard until she found a fearsome pair of shears.

“Perfect!” she declared to herself, and to any mice, hobgoblins, or other unseen creatures who might just be listening. She worked the blades of the scissors, snicker-snack, snicker-snack, testing them out. They had a pleasing action and gleamed in the lamp-light. “Perfect,” she repeated. Sliding the point beneath her cuff she gasped at the touch of cold metal against her skin. Cautiously at first, she opened the handle and started to snip. The scissors were wonderfully sharp, and Gretel grew more confident, so that soon the entire sleeve was opened to the armpit. She repeated the procedure up both legs. Now the garment flapped about three of her limbs ludicrously, but she was no nearer getting out of the thing. It was simply too awkward—and too dangerous—for her to insert the point anywhere near her torso or neck. She was on the verge of reluctantly returning to Gottfried when she heard the front door open and Wolfie and Hans return. She stood, waiting, steeling herself for the ridicule she knew she must endure.