Once Upon a Crime (10 page)

“The cats?” Gretel heard herself ask.

“Ha! Not cats!” The troll clearly thought the idea ridiculous. “Troll not like cats.”

“No, no, of course not. Silly of me,” said Gretel. “Then, these are . . . ?”

The troll smiled and then, very gently, took Gretel's hand in his. Her neatly manicured fingers lay in his bristly, malformed palm, his own two fat digits dwarfing her comparatively slender ones.

“Fingers,” whispered the troll. “Beautiful fingers.”

Gretel felt an urgent need to urinate. She looked again at the box and could see now that what it contained was a collection of finger bones. Some were elegantly long, others jointed, some were thumbs, and others in three longer pieces, but they were all very definitely human fingers. Gretel slowly withdrew her hand from the troll's grasp.

“Ah,” she said. “The thing is, Herr Troll, I am, myself, rather attached to my fingers.” The troll snatched up the wooden box, snapping shut the lid, and clasped it to his chest protectively.

“Big-fat woman want name—big-fat woman find finger for Troll,” he said.

Relief flooded Gretel's body. This was not a bargain she would ordinarily have thought a fair one, but in the circumstances it seemed completely sensible. All she had to do now was make sure the troll didn't get any other ideas into its knobbly head.

Silently thanking Hans for the quantities of drink he had inured her to, she smiled at her host.

“That,” she said, “sounds like a deal we should drink to, Herr Troll. Any more of that delicious grog of yours going, perchance?”

Once safely back at the Bad-Hotel, Gretel rewarded herself with as many pampering treatments as were on offer. It took a full
twenty-four hours for her to clear the stink of the troll from her nostrils and the memory of his looks of lustful longing from her mind. She lay on a fluffy-toweled couch while a young masseur worked on the screaming muscles in her calves and did a mental tally of what her efforts had yielded. The gains were few, but important. She now knew that someone
was
snatching the cats, or, more accurately, having the cats snatched. She knew also that this person lived over the mountains one day hence. Furthermore, she knew that the troll knew who this person was. In addition, she had a rare insight into the life, habits, and singular desires of trolls, but she decided against counting this as a plus of any sort. She had also deduced that the troll was more involved than he was letting on, given the missing finger on the corpse at Hund's yard. She was convinced the unknown man's death and the catnapping were connected. On the minus side, her body ached terribly from all the clambering up and scrambling down the mountain she had done; her insides had not yet recovered from the toxic brew she had been required to drink in dangerous quantities; there was a very real chance that one day Herr Troll would appear on her doorstep clutching a bunch of flowers; and the only way to discover the identity of the cat collector was to obtain a human finger and take it to said troll.

“Argh!” she cried, as the masseur found a particularly sensitive spot.

“Fraulein, you have been overworking these muscles. It is important to build up stamina before attempting any serious activity.”

Gretel groaned. “Needs must. Besides, I'm not sure what the recommended training would be before encountering trolls.”

“I would be happy to provide you with a program of exercises.”

“Thank you, but that won't be necessary. After your expert attentions I intend to return home and spend considerable amounts of time on my daybed.” She paused to gasp as the pitiless young man probed deep into her protective layers of plumpness and located another painfully knotted muscle. When she had recovered her breath, she went on. “I do, however, have one task I need to perform.” She shut the image of what she knew she must do from her mind. “Tell me, does Bad am Zee boast such a thing as a hunting shop?”

“Fraulein is thinking of joining the chase? Oh, please consider your condition! Such strenuous activity . . .”

“I'm thinking of no such thing. I merely wish to acquire one inexpensive but very sharp knife.”

A shop was duly recommended, and later that day Gretel purchased a fearsome weapon, which she insisted be wrapped well so that she could take it to her room without arousing curiosity. She sat on her bed, took the thing out of its paper, and held it up to the light. It had a bone handle (an unnecessary expense, but Gretel had been keen to get the knife bought and escape any questioning from the overeager salesman) and a long blade, which was smooth on one side and jagged on the other. It felt heavy in her hand. She tried a little swiping motion, then a jab or two, and then, with more purpose, chopping and sawing actions. Her stomach began to turn over.

She checked the clock on the mantel. Five thirty. It would be several hours before Hans would be suitably drunk. She knew her nerve must not fail her. Where else was she to obtain a finger, for heaven's sake? Hans would be much too full of ale and schnapps to feel any pain, she reasoned. She had even given him extra drinking money, which he had been very happy about indeed. It wasn't as if he couldn't manage without a finger, after all. He would still be able to lift a Toby jug or
liqueur glass without difficulty. The little finger of his left hand, she had decided, was the one to go for. And of course, he need never know who it was who had denuded him of his digit. Gretel would invent a story of a shadowy intruder and insist some of her money had been stolen. The fuss would soon die down. With a bit of luck, the hotel might even waive their bill. Yes, it was the best solution all round, there was no doubt in her mind about it.

FIVE

G
retel decided to wait for Hans in his room. Since finding him asleep in the hallway, she had persuaded him to allow her to look after his key, so was able to let herself in and get comfortable while she waited for him to return from the inn. She was so comfortable, in fact, that she slept soundly, not waking until the clock in the square struck midnight. She came to groggily, cursing Hans for keeping such hours. But this was late even for him. The thought crossed her mind that, once again, he might have keeled over before reaching his bed. Muttering oaths, she stepped into her shoes, secreted the knife about her person, and made her way out of the hotel in search of her brother. On the doorstep of the hotel she collided with
a small stout fellow whom she recognized as her traveling companion of a few days earlier.

“Good evening, Herr Bechstein,” she said in as normal and casual a voice as she could muster.

The businessman stared at her, clearly at a loss.

Gretel tried to help him out. “The stagecoach from Gesternstadt?”

Bechstein nodded, seemingly reassured by this information. He muttered a greeting, glanced nervously over his shoulder, and scuttled inside. Gretel recalled the bombastic man who had bored everybody so loudly on their journey. He was barely recognizable as the anxious creature she had just encountered. No, she decided, not anxious—scared. Very scared, in fact.

The night was clear and still but chilly, and she quickly regretted not pausing to fetch a warm cloak. The square was deserted, save for an elderly waiter taking in chairs from outside the Kaffee Haus. There was a good moon, and the glow from the windows of the buildings around the plaza threw down small patches of light. Gretel paced around the square, trying not to look furtive. A movement in one of the flowerbeds caught her eye. She went closer. The raised stone bed was thickly planted with spring bulbs, which were now waving and twitching as if an army of moles were on the move beneath them. Stepping nearer, she found Hans flailing among the blooms.

“Hans?” she hissed at him, testing his level of inebriation.

He did not answer. “Hans!” she tried again.

Hans's only reply was a tuneful fart.

Gretel scanned the area. She and Hans were quite alone now. She pulled out the knife. Moonlight glinted on the blade. A cold wave of nausea washed over her. She reached down and took hold of Hans's flabby paw. She first arranged it this way, and then that, searching for the ideal position for chopping. It must
be a clean cut. She found a large, flat stone and slid it under the hand. Her breathing was ragged and irregular. She reminded herself why she was taking such drastic action. There was no other way to obtain the vital information she required to solve the case. And without a solution, no further funds would be forthcoming from Frau Hapsburg. And, what with the cost of staying at the spa and the various bribes and expenses she had been forced to pay out, they were utterly skint. Hans had to understand, drinking was an expensive pastime, and he did nothing whatsoever to bring any money into the household. She was doing what she had to do for both of them. She must act. She must!

“Fraulein! Good evening to you.”

The sound of Herr Peterson's voice forced a small scream from Gretel. Startled, she dropped the knife among the tulips, straightening up to give what she prayed was a nonchalant and cheery wave.

“Ah. Herr Peterson, Frau Peterson. Lovely night, is it not?”

“Indeed it is. Inge and I were just enjoying a stroll before turning in.”

“What a coincidence!” Gretel laughed, a little too loudly. “My brother and I were doing the very same. Come along now, Hans. You'll get a much better look at the flowers in the morning.” She heaved on the hand she had, until seconds ago, been planning to fillet. Hans snorted and opened his eyes.

“Gretel? I was having such a pleasant nap. So comfortable.” With her assistance he hauled himself to his feet. “Now I know why they're called flower
beds
.” He chuckled. “Quite. One more lap of the square is in order, I think.”

She gave the Petersons a shrug and a what-can-you-do-with-'em sort of smile. The couple nodded and smiled back. She wheeled Hans about and steered him onto the cobbles.

“Come along
now, Hans. A little more fresh air for you,” she said as she struggled under his great weight, determined to put as much distance between herself, the knife, and her unwanted audience as she could. Her brother was a horribly unstable partner so that they performed a lopsided waltz across the square, veering into a side alley. It took Gretel a full fifteen minutes to get them back on course. Once she was certain the Petersons had gone, she pivoted Hans on his heel and aimed him at the hotel. There was no way she could let go of him to retrieve the knife. It would have to wait until morning.

They made their lumbering progress up the stairs and at last, both wheezing like old bellows, turned into the corridor that led to their rooms. Hans, who had until this point been fully occupied with the businesses of breathing and staying upright, suddenly found it in him to produce a nerve-shredding shriek. Gretel followed the direction of the trembling hand he extended before him. There, slumped against the wall, beneath a picture of two Grecian maids with an oversize urn, was Herr Bechstein, his staring eyes devoid of life, his pale skin indicating severe desanguination, and, sunk deep into his chest, an expensive, bone-handled hunting knife.

The painfully hard wooden bench that passed for seating in the front of the wool wagon made Gretel think wistfully of the stagecoach. Every stone, every rut, every hole jolted and jarred her until she feared permanent damage might be done. Hans had opted for a recumbent position in the back, and was dozing happily among the woolsacks. She had been thankful no one was about to witness their undignified departure, so early was the hour. After a grueling interview with three zealous kingsmen, followed by a restless hour in her bed, she
had decided they should leave at first light. A waiter had been employed to find someone heading in the right direction, and Gretel had parted with yet more money to secure two seats to Gesternstadt on the rickety cart. The first two hours staring at the rear ends of two flatulent mules had been a trial; the remainder of the journey had at least been improved by the addition of the wool merchant's wife, who joined them farther down the valley, and brought with her plentiful supplies of fresh bread, wurst, and cheeses. Gretel snacked glumly and tried to organize events, and their possible consequences, in her head.