Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (10 page)

“Mistress Crane, you should know that where I come from . . . that is . . . Hamburg, I am considered an expert in my
specialty, and such expertise does not come cheap. Do you have a clientele sufficiently wealthy to pay for my services?”

“Maybe we do. Would all depend on how
special
them services turned out to be.”

“Oh they are quite singular, and have proved profitable and popular.”

Bacon Bob, revealing more wit than Gretel had hitherto attributed him, saw the way the deal was going, did not care for it, and stuck his trotter in.

“So why's she ‘ere, if ‘er services was all so prof'tble and so on? Why's she skulking down our back passage, eh? Tell me that.”

“Aye,” Mistress Crane raised her chin and viewed Gretel down her narrow beak. “Tell us that.”

“I give you my answer in a word: obsession,” Gretel told them, her mind scarcely a step ahead of her utterances. “A number of my clients became so obsessed with me that they fought over my attentions. Such was their inflamed desire for my services they grew troublesome, and I thought it best to move to a more enlightened city.” She paused to glance about her. “In Nuremberg I had hoped to find a better class of customer.”

Bacon Bob made a noise mid-way between a grunt and a snort.

“Ha!” laughed Mistress Crane. “Men's the same the world over, if you ask me. So, what is this speciality of yours then?”

Half an hour later Gretel was locked in a small but lavishly cushioned room, the central feature of which was a high half-tester bed. She had been given a jug of beer and some black bread and left to wait. The humiliation of being measured for her costume still made her cheeks burn. The seamstress had not, she felt, needed to holler out the figures for all to hear, as her assistant sat not three paces from her writing them down.
Still, she consoled herself, it was as well to have the thing done right. An ill-fitting outfit, given its purpose and her delicate situation, would not help matters.

Gretel climbed onto the bed and lay down, exhausted by the morning's events already. She was startled to see her reflection staring back at her from the broad mirror on the ceiling. The looking glass was not of the best quality, so that her features wobbled slightly, her outlined blurred and shifted. She thought, with horror, of what she might be forced to regard there later. She reminded herself that, if things went to plan, she would not so much as sit on the bed when there was a client in the room. The plan that had come to her was not without its risks, but it was the best she could come up with in the time given.

Even Mistress Crane had seemed impressed at her name: She Who Rules. Gretel felt it left little room for misunderstandings. Her costume was to be made entirely of black leather (she had stipulated nothing less than the finest kid) and would include a headdress and mask, so that her true identity would remain protected. She was to be supplied with stout bonds with which to tie her customer to the bed, and an assortment of whips. Gretel had never cracked a whip in her life, but was fairly certain it would come naturally to her. She had been very clear on the point that she would neither touch nor be touched during any of her sessions. Her forte was correction, and she would deliver it with gusto. She had also insisted that all her clients must be similarly clad and remain so throughout. Fortunately, the brothel seemed to be unfamiliar with Gretel's supposed speciality and did not question the necessity of this. The idea of acres of pasty flesh trembling beneath her whip made her feel queasy.

Gretel closed her eyes. It would take several hours for the seamstress to run up the costume, and until then she must rest and prepare herself as best she could. She was here, she
reminded herself, to further her enquiries into the missing art work. She must remain focused. Phelps used this place, and with luck she would be able to see to it that he sampled her services. The man clearly coveted Herr Durer's pictures, as well as his position in the art world. He had to be a prime suspect. But then, if he
had
taken the prints, what would he do with them? He could hardly show them to anyone, so what would be the point? She had already got him pinned as a man who enjoyed the respect and approval of his peers and society above all else. What benefit could there be to him merely enjoying the art works in secret? What was more, the prints would not then ever find their way to the Nuremberg Art Gallery. There was always the possibility, of course, that he had stolen them to sell. Was he a man of wealth, she wondered, or someone whose finances could do with the sizeable windfall the frogs might yield?

In any case, he needed questioning. Gretel might not be what she had claimed to Mistress Crane to be, but she knew men well enough to be sure that she could extract honest answers from the bumptious doctor if the questions were put in the right context, i.e., with him tied helplessly to the bed. The man was easily sufficiently odious for her to be able to bring herself to whip him if necessary.

Gretel ran through her list of suspects. There was Valeri. The girl had the best opportunity, it had to be said. Herr Durer trusted her, and she could come and go from the hotel without arousing suspicion. But Valeri as a thief did not seem a good fit. Gretel always applied logic, of course, and facts were paramount in her deductions, but instinct told her there was a basic goodness and sincerity about Valeri, for all her clearly not being a real nurse and having a past. Gretel simply could not see her as the sort of person who would so betray Herr Durer. Unless, perhaps, she was manipulated by someone else. Her hatred of
Dr. Phelps had been startling, and hinted at a secret. And the girl was pretty and young, would her loyalty to her employer withstand the madness of love?

Which led Gretel to considering the third suspect—Herr Durer's nephew, Leopold. Without ever having met him, she felt she knew him all too well. A boy, rather than a man, spoiled and indulged all his life, indolent and sulky, believing the world owed him everything, whilst he, in return, would give only sneers and complaints. It was clear he visited his uncle to obtain money from him. And Valeri had said he was unhappy about not being in line for the prints. Might he have decided to simply help himself? Could he have charmed Valeri into assisting him?

And then there was the beleaguered Maximilian Schoenberg. A hotel manager with too many rooms and too few guests, who had recently been meeting with owners of a well-known hotel chain. What lengths would he go to in order to keep the Grand afloat? He had motive, then, and certainly opportunity. Did he also have the appropriate connections to sell the prints? Gretel had seen no sign of a green hat, and somehow could not imagine him as a member of the Society of the Praying Hands. But then, didn't hotel people necessarily have wide ranging contacts? One could surely know an art dealer with scant scruples without oneself being an art aficionado.

With such thoughts swirling in her head, the beer softening her mental acumen, and the black bread sitting heavy in her stomach, Gretel gave way to the irresistible force of sleep.

SEVEN

B
y the time Gretel staggered back down the cobbled street and into the square the clock in the tower was striking three in the morning. She was glad of the lateness of the hour, for it meant her disheveled state and ruined red dress were obscured by darkness, and there were few people abroad to see her. Head down, she hurried to the apartment block without so much as a backward glance in the direction of the Grand, and took the lift up to Wolfie's flat. She had planned to creep directly to her room, but she heard sounds of ribald laughter coming from the kitchen. Upon investigation, she found Hans and Wolfie, both clearly the worse for drink, feasting upon their usual all-encompassing selection from the store cupboard.

“Ah, sister mine! We have had the most marvelous time. We are just back from a night of revelry in this splendid city and found we were a mite peckish. Join us, do!”

“Sugar Plum!” was all Wolfie could manage before dissolving into a fit of hysterical giggles.

Gretel sighed. Her night had been testing enough without having to contend with drunken dolts, one of whom she was related to, and the other being her host, preventing her from beating them about the head with the nearest soup ladle. Which is what she felt like doing.

“If you'll excuse me,” she said, turning to go, “I'm for my bed. I'm rather tired.”

“Yes,” said Hans, “you do look a little . . . frayed around the edges.”

Wolfie took a swig of beer from a singularly ugly toby jug before wiping his dripping moustache with his sleeve. “Oh dear, what have you been up to, naughty, naughty Sugar Plum?” he asked, before descending into gulping hilarity once more. He laughed with such vigor, throwing his head back, his whiskers billowing in the gales of his guffaws, that he almost tipped his chair off its legs. Gretel silently wished he would. Anything to shut him up.

“Dash it all, Gretel,” Hans gesticulated vaguely at the food, “party's in full swing, night yet young, an' all that. You can't go to bed now.”

“I can and I must. I am weary to my bones.”

“What you need is a good feed. Ain't that so, Wolfie?”

But Wolfie, having tipped forward with some force, was now face down in his plate of sauerkraut and, though breathing, was beyond speaking. Gretel hesitated. Perhaps a slender slice of salami. A pickled egg, maybe. It had been many hours since the stale black bread. It didn't do to go to bed on an empty stomach, experience had taught her that.

“Very well,” she said, sitting at the table. “Ten minutes and a little bite of something . . .”

“That's the spirit!” Hans toasted her with an overflowing stein.

Gretel helped herself to some of the more tempting morsels on offer. She was relieved to find her appetite returning properly as she ate. There was a point in the preceding few hours when she wondered if she would ever be quite herself again. When Mistress Crane had come into the room to tell her she had her first eager client waiting, her courage had near deserted her. Mercifully, the seamstress had proved ponderous, so that several long hours ticked by before the costume was ready. It took three maids to heave, lace, button and buckle Gretel into the slinky leather creation. True to her design stipulations, she was indeed entirely encased, save for her eyes, nose and mouth. She had had little time to consider how she looked, however, as the by now slightly less eager client was bundled in. He had evidently not been idle during the long wait, but had busied himself drinking. A maid and Bacon Bob strapped him to the bed and left, though not before the latter had paused to blow a slobbering kiss in Gretel's direction. She had steeled herself, testing out her whip gently against her hand. She cleared her throat and stepped forward to address the shape on the bed in the best no-nonsense tone she could manage. She was saved the trouble. The tom, for all his earlier eagerness, was deeply asleep before he ever felt so much as a tickle from Gretel's cat o'nine tails. Hugely relieved, Gretel sat on a chair, where she remained for the next two hours, occasionally barking out commands lest Mistress Crane should send somebody to listen at the door. Just before her client's time was up she shook him roughly awake and whispered in his ear that if he valued the reputation of his virility he would tell everyone what a thoroughly glorious time he had had, and extoll the talents of She
Who Rules to anyone who asked, particularly Mistress Crane and Bruno Phelps, should he come across him.

She had been released from her trial due to there being no more takers, but only after she had promised to return in two nights' time for further probationary work. Gretel knew it would be easy enough to simply stay away. She doubted anyone would come looking for her, and after all, she would be out of the city in a week or two. But her detective senses told her the place held answers. All she had to do was come up with the right questions, and put them to the right people.

“I say,” Hans jolted her from her reverie, “you'll never guess who I saw striding across the square last evening.”

“Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand?”

Hans stared at her, mouth open for a moment. “Oh, you saw him too?”

“Saw him, spoke to him, rather hope to bump into him again. At least, when I'm feeling more . . . respectable. He's here to prepare for a royal visit. Seems you aren't the only fan of gargantuan weisswurst. The princesses are coming to see it.”

“You don't say! Well, there's a thing. Isn't that a thing, Wolfie?” Wolfie answered with a snore. “We shall have to do our level best in our efforts to build the sausage, no half measures if royalty will be here to witness the unveiling. I expect that's why Kapitan Strudel is here too. Extra security, shouldn't wonder. Matter of fact, Wolfie and I are due to start work in the butcher's tomorrow afternoon. It's a huge job. We'll be on onion chopping duties for at least a day. My poor eyes will suffer. I hope their knives are sharp. Can't abide blunt knives when working with vegetables . . .”

“Hans, shut up, and tell me again what you just said.”

Hans's face registered hurt, confusion, then defeat. “Well, which do you want? I can't do both.”

“That name. You mentioned someone . . . I just want to be sure I heard correctly and that it wasn't simply my mind playing devilish tricks because of my state of near exhaustion. Whom did you say you saw striding across the square earlier?”

“Uber General von Whatsit . . .”

“And?”

“And . . . Kingsman Kapitan Strudel. They were together, checking buildings, looking up at windows, cetera, cetera.” Hans paused to hiccup, rub his tummy, and belch loudly before adding, “Point of fact, they appeared to be checking our building, looking up at our cetera, cetera . . .” He tailed off and settled back to nibbling a piece of Edam.

Gretel tried to convince herself that her brother was right, but it happened so rarely it was a big ask. Much as she wanted to believe that Strudel was here to assist with the royal visit she suspected that Nuremberg had a perfectly able security force of its own. Whilst it was standard practice that Ferdinand, as a soldier of the royal court, an aide to the king, and charged with protecting the royal family, should be here, Strudel had no such regal connections. No, Gretel was forced to conclude, it was far more likely he was here because of the messenger who had died in her hallway, and was, therefore, in all probability, looking for her.