The Skin Map (24 page)

“Not yet. But I hope to before the week is out.”

The waiter returned with a bowl of plump purple olives, pitted and stuffed with a white pasty substance. “Taste these and know what a delight an olive can be,” said Hakim, offering the dish.

Burleigh took one and popped it into his mouth. “Very good.” He chewed a moment. “Are they finding anything? Anything worthwhile?”

“They are digging up the entire desert. It is all very hush-hush. . . .” He smiled, reaching for a fistful of olives. “But, naturally,” he continued, tossing stuffed olives into his mouth, “I have my sources.”

“Naturally.”

Hakim swallowed, then leaned forward, dropping his voice, although there were no other diners within earshot. “Rumour has it that they are on the very brink of a major discovery—a royal tomb, no less.”

“Is that so?” wondered Burleigh thoughtfully.

Hakim nodded. “Any day now—so my sources inform me.”

“It seems I have come at the right time.”

“Most fortuitous,” agreed the broker. “Trade will flow again soon,
Insha’allah
!”

Three kaftanned waiters trooped to the table bearing armloads of plates and platters. Without a word, they began laying down the food: honey-glazed quails stuffed with plums and pine nuts on a bed of delicate jasmine-scented rice flavoured with coriander. This was accompanied by dishes of pickled slices of Nile perch and tiger fish with onions and whole peppercorns, pale green slices of melon, and figs in wine.

Hakim Rassoul smacked his lips and, tucking his white linen napkin into the neck of his robe, fell to with gusto, never once resorting to the use of knife and fork. His pleasure in the meal outstripped enjoyment and proceeded well on the way to rapture. Burleigh, whose appetite had been annihilated by the heat, watched in amazement, his own efforts feeble by comparison.

It was some time before Hakim could speak again. “Heaven should have such food,” he announced, pushing his plate away at last. “You have been in the presence of greatness, my friend.”

“I do not doubt it,” agreed Burleigh mildly.

Coffee was brought, and they finished their meal in amiable conversation about the international trade in antiquities, then returned to the warehouse to resume their business. It was late afternoon when Burleigh took his leave; the taxi was still waiting—he had to wake the driver—and Burleigh settled into the back, deep in thought. Upon reaching the hotel, he roused himself, paid the driver a substantial tip, and went in. Three paces inside the lobby, he spotted his quarry: a tall, slender, impeccably dressed man standing at the front desk, drumming his fingers on the marble counter.

Burleigh paused, straightened his jacket, then strode forward, coming up behind the man, whose back was turned to him. He gave a little cough to announce himself and said in a firm, resonant voice, “Excuse me, but is it Lord Carnarvon?”

The man turned, took him in at a glance, and offered a polite smile. “Yes? Whom do I address?”

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, offering his hand. “I am Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland. I was informed you were staying here. We have mutual friends, I think. May I offer you a drink?”

CHAPTER 21
In Which Social Climbing Is Indulged

I
’m sorry, Etzel,” Wilhelmina said, clasping the big man’s hands in both her own. She gave them a squeeze for emphasis. “I should have talked to you first. I know that. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to think, and before I knew it, we had agreed.” She watched the wide, round face for any flicker of forgiveness; but the pale blue eyes remained downcast, the mouth pressed firmly together.

“We are partners,” he said, without raising his head.

“I know,” Mina assured him. “I know—and that’s why I feel so terrible about this. I just . . . please understand, I just saw the opportunity and took it. It was wrong of me to do that, and I am sorry. I really am.”

She felt herself caving in under her friend and partner’s unhappiness. Her lower lip quivered, and her voice became shaky. A tear rolled down her cheek. “Please, say something, Etzel. Tell me you forgive me. I’ll never do it again.”

Englebert drew a deep breath and heaved his round shoulders. “Ah,
mein Shatz
,” he sighed. “How can I say no? We are partners, you and I.” He looked at her sadly. “Of course, I forgive you.” He raised a hand and rubbed away her tears with his thumb. “Do not cry. I am not angry with you.”

“Then you do forgive me?” she sniffed.

“I have already said that I do,” he replied. “How could I stay angry with you? If not for you, Mina, I would be back in Rosenheim trying to please my father and brother. I would not have a
Kaffeehaus
at all. Of course, I forgive you.”

She took his hand and kissed it. “Thank you, Etzel. It will all work out fine. I promise.”

He pursed his lips and nodded, thinking to himself. In a moment, he said, “I have no doubt it is for the best. To be in business with Master Arnostovi—who could have imagined such a thing?”

“He is giving us a refund on the rent of this place,
and
we get first pick of his best properties as soon as any become available. Oh, Etzel, we’ll have the finest coffee shop and bakery in all of Prague—in all of Europe!”

At this, his good-natured face broke into a cherubic smile. “We already have this, I think.”

“But the new shop will be better, still. And it will have a proper bakery for you—with big ovens and a good kitchen. We’ll even get some kitchen staff to help us. It will be wonderful. You’ll see.”

He laughed, then, and as low as Wilhelmina’s heart had been at hurting her friend, her spirits revived and took wing on that happy sound. “You are a good man, Etzel,” she told him, and planted a big wet kiss on his round cheek.

His smile swelled to bursting, and his face turned red.

A few days later, Arnostovi made good on his promise. “
Fräulein
Wilhelmina, come,” he said, striding into the coffeehouse with his little black book tucked under his arm. “I have something to show you.”

“Would you like your
Kaffee
first, Herr Arnostovi?”

“Not now. We must hurry. Come along.”

He turned and stepped back out the door and into the street, beckoning her to follow.

Mina turned and called to Englebert, who was just then taking a tray of pastries from the oven. “Yes, go,” he replied. “I will watch things here. Go. I trust you.”

“What is the rush?” Mina asked, catching up with him a few steps later. His heels clicked along at a fair pace, making the long white plume in his green hat ripple in the breeze of his passing.

“There are people coming to meet me at the property,” he told her. “They will have it, unless you take it first.”

“Oh,” replied Mina, not quite understanding. “I see.”

They proceeded at pace to the Old Town Square. “There!” declared Arnostovi, pointing across the market area to the north side and a row of fine shops that shared a copper-faced awning that shielded the doorways to the shops from wind and rain. The shops were south-facing and fronted with large glass windows the likes of which were enjoyed by very few buildings on the square. “That one,” he said, indicating the rank of shops with the point of his spade-shaped beard.

“Which one?”

“The one on the end nearest the clock tower.”

Wilhelmina’s eyes widened at the sight. “That one?”

“Yes.” He bent his head around to look at her, slowing his pace only slightly. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing! It is . . . the best property on the square!”

“So some would say.” He started away again.

“And you are giving it to us?” she asked, scrambling to catch up with him again,

“I am giving you nothing,
Fräulein
. I am offering it to you for rent, as we agreed.” Once across the square, he moved quickly to the door of the shop and withdrew a large iron key from the leather satchel at his side. “Come. Hurry. We have not much time.”

As if to lend urgency to his words, the clock in the great stone tower began to chime the hour. Herr Arnostovi unlocked the door of the shop and opened it wide for Mina to enter. She stepped in.

The single large room was bare of furnishings, but what she could see spoke of luxury and quality—all brass and crystal, with white marble on the floors, and walnut wainscoting on the walls, and rows of expensive blue tiles around the windows and door. A three-tiered chandelier hung from a painted ceiling over the centre of the room, and the eastern wall featured an ornate
Kachelofen
, a ceramic stove of glittering white and blue tiles.

“Well?” said Arnostovi. “What do you think?”

“It is beautiful!”

“Good. Then it is settled, yes?”

“I’d love to have it, of course, but how much is it?”

He took out his book and began flicking through the pages. “The men who are coming have offered twenty-five
Guldiners
a month in rent. You will agree to thirty.”

“Oh, Herr Arnostovi,” said Mina, “it is too much. We will never be able to afford that.”

“Maybe not today,” he allowed. “But you will—and very soon.”

“But how—?”

“On the increase of business this place will bring. Also, you will raise your prices. You charge too little.”

Wilhelmina bit her lip. She looked around doubtfully. “I cannot think what Englebert would say.”

“He said he trusted you to make the decision,” replied the shrewd man of business. “Now I ask you to trust
me
.” He fixed her with a fierce, demanding stare.

“What about storerooms and apartments?” she wondered. “What about a kitchen?”

“On the floors above,” answered Arnostovi, “you will find everything you need. I will build and furnish any kitchen you desire.”

Wilhelmina looked around, a frown of concentration creasing her forehead. Did she dare risk so much?

“My dear girl,” said the landlord gently. “Think what I am offering you. This place will be the talk of all Prague. The best people will come. Your clientele will pay any price to be seen here. It will be an unrivalled success, but please hear me when I say you must agree at once.”

Gazing around the empty space, Mina could see it filled with gleaming, polished tables where fine ladies and gentlemen sat, conversing and laughing, drinking coffee and eating Etzel’s fine pastries. It was an attractive picture the landlord was painting, and she wanted it. “I agree.”

Arnostovi closed his book with a snap. “Good.”

A shadow darkened the doorway. “They are here. Go in the back and decide where you wish the kitchen to be. Say nothing. These men will be disappointed and angry. I will deal with them.”

Mina nodded and moved to the rear of the premises, where she did as the landlord had suggested and began planning how best to organise the space to accommodate the ovens and work surfaces she envisioned. At the far front of the shop she heard a rap at the door and Arnostovi answering it. There were voices, greetings exchanged, and then things grew quiet. She allowed herself a glance over her shoulder to see what was happening. Arnostovi and three men in loden cloaks and plumed hats were standing huddled just inside the entrance.

Then, even as she watched, one of the men gave the floor an angry thump with the end of his walking stick. Words were exchanged. Voices sharpened. Herr Arnostovi spread his hands and shrugged. Holding open the door, he ushered the men from the building, returning a few moments later, smiling and humming to himself.

“Well, what was
that
about?” Mina could not help asking.

“The truth is I do not own this building,” he confessed. “As much as I would love to own such a place, my means do not yet extend to such a height.”

“Who does it belong to, then?”

“A building so grand . . .” He gazed around appreciatively. “It belongs to Archduke Mattias.”

Wilhelmina took a moment to consider this. In her relatively short time in Prague, she had begun assembling a rough working knowledge of court affairs. “The archduke—you mean the emperor’s brother?”

“The same,” confirmed Arnostovi. “The archduke owns many properties in the city—in addition to his country estates, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed Mina, perplexed. “But if that is so . . . then how—?”

“How did I rent it to you just now?” Arnostovi indulged in a crafty, conspiratorial smile. “Naturally, Archduke Mattias does not manage these properties himself. Far from it. He employs ministers for that. Chief of these is one Herr Wolfgang von Rumpf, very high up in court. As it happens, Von Rumpf is a gambler and cardplayer. He spends many an evening at the card tables of the more fashionable houses in the city. I also play cards.”

“You do surprise me, Herr Arnostovi.” Mina tutted. “Go on.”

“Do not tell anyone—I am a terrible cardplayer,” admitted Arnostovi cheerfully. “Nevertheless, I am better than Von Rumpf. I have been trying for months, years perhaps, to be invited to his table. Last night, it happened. We were both at dinner together with mutual acquaintances and we played.” His smile spread wide. “I won.”

Wilhelmina’s eyes grew wide. “You mean . . . ?”

“No. He may be a bad cardplayer, but he is not a fool.”

“Then what did you win exactly?”

“I obtained from him the promise to allow me to manage this property for him—and for the archduke, it must be said—for a small share in the profits.”

“I see.” Wilhelmina frowned.

“No, no! It is not like that. For me it is not the money. I want only to use this as a means of gaining access to court. It is all to the benefit of my business interests—yours, too, I might add.”

“Mine?”

“Venetian shipping. The archduke owns ships.”

“Oh, I think I am beginning to understand.”

“But Von Rumpf did not make it easy for me,” continued Arnostovi, pacing around the room. “The terms of our agreement were such that I had to find a tenant—someone other than myself, understand—and before the others came to take possession this morning—”

“Those men just now.”

“The same. Do this, Von Rumpf said, and I would become manager of the property.”

“Otherwise, it would fall to them,” concluded Mina. She nodded with appreciation. “You used me, Herr Arnostovi.”