The Doctor Dines in Prague (16 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Dines in Prague
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Once back on the street, he thought,
That was all very interesting, but it doesn't bring me any closer to finding Jen.
A poster on a nearby kiosk advertising Redik's puppet show gave him an idea.
F
BI geeks are good at tracking down felons via the Internet. Within twenty-four hours Rafferty had Redik's e-mail address on his desk, and from that he was able to locate his street address: 16 Loutka Uli
ka, Prague, Czech Republic. He called Mrs. Doyle to find out where Fenimore was staying so he could relay the message to him by phone or e-mail. The nurse provided the information. But there was no answer to Rafferty's repeated phone calls. And Redik's address lay unknown in his cousins' computer inbox. The detective began to grow concerned.
So did Mrs. Doyle. She had sent a number of messages to the doctor, telling him about their exploits at the zoo, and received no answer. And now Rafferty was having the same experience. Perhaps the Borovys' computer had crashed. Being a novice, maybe the doctor had busted it. But why didn't he answer the phone? Was he afraid it was being tapped?
Horatio, a sensitive youth under his seemingly tough exterior, sensed something was wrong. When he came in at the usual time, he took one look at Mrs. Doyle and said, “Heard from the doc?”
She shook her head.
Marie, hearing Horatio's voice, ran out from the kitchen. “Look,
Rat! We made cookies.” She handed him a sugar cookie that bore a vague resemblance to a rabbit. Horatio bit off one ear. Although it tasted like cardboard, he grinned and licked his lips. “Yum,” he said.
Marie glowed.
Mrs. Doyle remained preoccupied.
“How 'bout gettin' me another?” The boy nudged Marie. She ran back to the kitchen.
“He doesn't answer the phone or his e-mail,” she confided to Horatio in a low voice.
“He's probably having a good time—seeing the sights. And now that his girlfriend's over there—maybe he's staying at her place.” He winked.
Doyle, her romantic instincts stimulated, smiled. That was possible. But, no—he was on a mission. The doctor would never abandon his cousins in pursuit of pleasure. She frowned. “I don't think so.”
Marie came running back.
Doesn't that child ever walk?
Mrs. Doyle thought irritably.
Marie handed Horatio an elephant, complete with trunk and tail. “Pat-a-drum,” she said confidently.
“Pachyderm,” the boy corrected her.
You tell that boy something once, and he never forgets it,
Mrs. Doyle noted with envy. Her own memory wasn't as good as it used to be.
Horatio bit off the tail of his cookie, munched, and raised his eyebrows.
Marie giggled.
Before he began on the trunk, Mrs. Doyle went in search of an aspirin.
J
ennifer dozed fitfully on her kitchen chair, awakened sporadically by the muffled groans of Vlasta, reminding her of his suffering. As soon as Ilsa appeared the next morning, Jennifer faced her. “That man belongs in a hospital!”
Ilsa frowned. But she did not deny it. When they went in, Anna was sitting on the edge of her cot, looking pale and drained. Her eyes were fixed on Jennifer—obviously wary: Who was she? Where did she come from? And most important, whose side was she on?
Jennifer attempted to reassure her with a tentative smile.
Encouraged, Anna spoke up, looking directly at Jennifer. “My husband needs his medicine. The prescrip-sh—”
“Ja, ja,”
Ilsa cut in impatiently. But she picked up a handbag from the floor and brought it to Anna. Anna rummaged through it and pulled out a piece of paper. Ilsa snatched it from her and went into the kitchen. Jennifer and Anna listened silently to Ilsa's side of the phone conversation. Anna recognized the word
“lékárna,”
and her face brightened. “Pharmacy,” she translated for Jennifer.
But do they deliver?
Jennifer wondered.
“Ich bin freund von Dr. Fenimore,”
she whispered to Anna.
Her eyes widened. But Anna was inclined to believe her, because
Jennifer's German was tinged with an American accent.
Ilsa came back. She glanced nervously at the man lying on the cot. He had not stirred since she left. Her gaze passed to Jennifer and Anna. “What have you two been plotting?” She glanced at the knife still in Jennifer's hand.
The women didn't answer.
“Well, I've ordered the medicine. It will be here soon.”
There was the faint sound of a bell in a distant part of the house. Ilsa looked startled. Too soon for the medicine. She was obviously uncertain what to do next and didn't want to leave Jennifer alone with Anna. But she had to answer the door. “Come with me,” she ordered Jennifer.
Jennifer looked at Anna. The woman nodded. She followed Ilsa to the door that opened to the back stairs. They both went up. Ilsa glanced back to make sure Jennifer was there, before opening the door at the top. They stepped into a dim, lofty room smelling of must and camphor. Bulky, shrouded furniture rested on an Oriental rug. In one corner stood a grand piano. From the ceiling hung a crystal chandelier, badly in need of a wash. Blinds covered the tall windows. The heavy front door—of oak, probably—bore an ornate wrought-iron lock.
“Stay here.” Ilsa stopped Jennifer at the head of the stairs and moved silently toward the window. Pulling the blind-cord, she opened the slats a sliver and peered out. The bell rang again—sounding much louder this time.
“Open up! It's me.”
Ilsa rushed to undo the lock. Redik darted in. “What took you so long?” he asked.
“Hush.” She directed his gaze at Jennifer.
“Kdo?”
(
“Who?”
)
“Dr. Fenimore's
Mädchen
,” Ilsa said.
“Oh,
M
j Bo
e!
” (
“Oh, My God!”
)
Jennifer almost smiled at his obvious consternation. But it was not a situation for smiling. She fingered the knife. Would she be able to hold off the two of them with such a small weapon? The
odds were against it. They had moved away from the door, over to the piano, and were conferring in low tones.
“There's a sick man downstairs,” Jennifer said impatiently. “He needs medical attention.”
Ignoring her, they continued their conference.
“Where is Dr. Fenimore?” she asked loudly.
Redik glanced up, annoyed by the interruption. Ilsa came toward her. Redik followed. And Jennifer knew they were going to try to take the knife.
T
he theater was closed, of course. The sign in the ticket window read: OTEV
ENO—3:00 P.M. It was only one-thirty. But there must be a watchman. Fenimore looked for a buzzer or bell. He found one beside the ticket office door. After a long wait, he heard footsteps and an elderly man appeared.
Zav
eno
, he mouthed through the glass:
Closed
.
Pohotovost,
Fenimore mouthed back:
Emergency
. “I left an important notebook in Redik's dressing room,” he said in English.
The man shook his head, indicating he didn't understand English.
Fenimore took out his wallet. The man's eyes brightened. But to Fenimore's dismay, his wallet was empty. The super had cleaned him out. And he had never made it to the American Express office to cash more traveler's checks. “I'll be right back,” he shouted through the glass.
The man turned away.
Fenimore returned with the cash in less than fifteen minutes. He had run all the way. He hit the buzzer again. This time the wait was much shorter. The man let him in. Fenimore gave him three hundred korunas, the equivalent of ten American dollars. The man
actually smiled, revealing three teeth. Dental care in the Czech Republic still left much to be desired.
Fenimore passed through the dim lobby into the darker theater. The door, through which Ilsa had led him the night before, was not locked, and he easily found Redik's dressing room. Now, if it would only be open. He tried the knob. It wouldn't turn. Damn. More money. More time lost. He hurried back to the lobby. It was empty. The smell of cigar smoke drew him behind the cloakroom to the watchman's lair. Slouched in a battered armchair, he was reading a newspaper and puffing on a cigar.
Fenimore explained about the dressing room door in pantomime—as if acting out a charade.
The man showed no interest, engrossed in his newspaper.
Sighing, Fenimore again reached for his wallet.
Once inside the dressing room, Fenimore waited until the watchman's footsteps faded away before he began his search.
He yanked the pillows off the couch and felt in the cracks. All he came up with were a piece of hard candy, some coins, and a bit of purple ribbon. The drawer in the table contained a pack of stale cigarettes and three matchbooks. He studied the matchbooks. All from the same place—Café Slavia. Redik must be a regular customer. If all else failed, Fenimore could hang out at the café every evening until Redik came in. He moved on to the closet. This looked more promising. It was crammed with wooden cases and boxes. But, after carefully examining each of them, the only address he found was that damned box number. He returned everything to its place and scanned the room one last time. Nothing. Discouraged, he closed the door behind him.
He was starting up the dark aisle, past the rows of empty seats, when he remembered something.
“The puppets are kept in a cupboard behind the stage,”
Redik had said.
“They are so fragile, we don't like to move them any more than necessary.”
Fenimore bounded onto the stage and slipped through the heavy velvet curtain. At the back of the stage hung another, lighter curtain. He pulled it aside. There was the cupboard. Was it locked, too?
Yes, but the key was in the lock. Fenimore turned it. There they were. Hanging side by side from pegs, staring blankly at him with their gargantuan eyes.
There is something eerie about a puppet hanging limp and lifeless after a performance. Once the animation and the animator are gone, it is like a little death. Unlike a live actor who merely leaves his costume and makeup behind, the puppet leaves his heart—and soul. In turn, the puppeteer gets a false sense of power. Not only does he make his puppets perform, he infuses them with life—like God.
No help there, Fenimore decided. Abruptly, he changed his mind. Taking out a miniature flashlight attached to his key ring, which Jen had given him, he began to examine each marionette minutely—one by one. He stared intently at their finely carved faces, their miniature hands and feet. He felt their silk dresses, velvet cloaks, and suits. Of course, the most exquisite puppet was the emperor Charles IV. He wasn't wearing his crown. That was too delicate; it had to be carefully packed away after every performance. But he was wearing his beautifully crafted leather boots and his velvet robe of midnight blue trimmed with ermine. Fenimore admired the fur collar and cuffs. Then, like a voyeur, he peered under the cloak. Something white caught his eye. Sewed to the center seam at the back was a tiny label. He shined the flashlight beam on it, and read:
16 Loutka Uli
ka PRAHA
Elated, he jotted the address down in his notebook. Then he had doubts. Was this the address of Redik's home—or just some puppet shop?
“What are you doing?”
The shrill treble voice sliced through the theater.
Fenimore turned. Ema, Redik's intern—face flushed, lips trembling—was bearing down on him.
“I'm sorry. I'm afraid my curiosity got the better of me. I had to see these magnificent—”
“How did you get in here?” Her voice pierced the air like a stiletto.
“How did
you
get in?” Fenimore stalled her, trying to come up with a plausible excuse.
“The stage door. I have a key.” Her voice dropped a notch—from stiletto to dagger.
“I was passing by and I had to see these beautiful objects up close. I knew I wouldn't have another chance. I leave for America soon.”
Squinting at him in the poor light, she said, “You're the man who was in the dressing room.” Her expression softened and her gaze shifted to the puppets. “Yes, they are beautiful.” She lifted Kasparek from his peg. “He is my favorite. Always into mischief, aren't you, my pet?” She patted his rump. Her voice, when speaking to the puppet, was quite different, Fenimore noted. Like a moth brushing the ear.
“Well, I must be going. I'm sorry I upset you.”
She smiled. “I'm sorry I lashed out at you. They are very delicate, you know.”
“By the way,” he turned back, “could you give me Mr. Redik's address? I'd like to write and tell him how much I enjoyed his performance.”
“You can send it to the University. That's the only address I know.”
He left her conversing with the puppets—as if with her friends.

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