Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (8 page)

“Yes. Here you are.”

“And here you are.”

“And here I am.”

An awkward little pause nudged its way into the conversation. Gretel attempted to crush it beneath her kitten heel.

“I owe you an apology, Herr General,” she said. “I was called away on urgent business . . .”

“So I understand.” He stepped a little closer and lowered his voice. “You were missed at the ball, Fraulein.”

Gretel could not help thinking that this was Quite a Good Thing.

“Not only by myself, unfortunately,” he went on. “Queen Beatrice saw your absence as something of a personal snub.”

Gretel could not help thinking that this was Quite a Bad Thing. It had pained her on a personal level to miss the ball. It was salt in the wound that her absence had done nothing to improve the rather tense relations between herself and the Findleberg royal family. Her previous case had not, she feared, left the queen with the very best of impressions of the town's most fabled private detective.

“Is the queen also coming to Nuremberg?” she asked.

“She is not. The three princesses are being allowed to travel with their chaperone, the Baroness Schleswig-Holstein.”

“An iron guard indeed. Their virtue is in safe hands.”

“Quite so.”

The awkward silence wriggled out from under Gretel's foot and shoved its way between her and Ferdinand once again. She searched her mind for the right thing to say, the thing that would make him realize she was sorry she had not danced with him at the ball, and that she was exceptionally pleased to see him, without risking making herself look ridiculous. Or desperate. Or possibly both.

No words came. The awkward silence yawned. She must say
something
.

“I've bought a new wig,” she declared at last.

This announcement was met with a baffled raising of the eyebrows on the part of the general.

Gretel blundered on. “A most splendid creation. Impressively tall. Quite the thing. Silver bells . . . Not that I have had a chance to wear it yet, of course, being here on urgent business.”

“Which is?”

“What? Oh, a new investigation,” she explained, relieved in this instance to be able to drop the wig. “Art theft, difficult case.” She could not help glancing in the direction of Herr Schoenberg. He would no doubt have hysterics if he knew she was discussing the matter in the middle of the foyer surrounded by his precious guests. At that moment a flurry of new arrivals increased the noise levels of the place considerably.

The general had to raise his voice to make himself heard.

“I must attend to my duties, Fraulein,” he told her, stepping away. “I hope that we will have the opportunity to speak again. Soon.”

“Yes, soon!” she called after him as he was swallowed up by the crowd. With a sigh she turned her attention back to Herr Schoenberg. He was still behind the reception desk snapping out instructions and orders to his minions. Gretel tapped him on the shoulder.

“Ten minutes of your time, Herr Schoenberg?”

“Out of the question. You cannot have failed to notice how busy the hotel is this morning.”

“I have certainly noticed. Lots and lots of lovely guests all eager to install themselves in your lovely rooms. I wonder how eager they would remain were they to know that one of the best of those rooms was burgled only a matter of days ago?”

The hotel proprietor stopped directing his staff and scowled at her.

“Five minutes. Not a second more,” he said, striding into the little room at the back of the reception area.

Gretel followed, closing the door behind them. The office was small but neat and beautifully furnished. She settled herself onto a fine rosewood chair. Herr Schoenberg sat behind his desk, impatiently drumming his fingers on the burr walnut. “Your brevity would be appreciated, Fraulein,” he told her.

“Then tell me, how long has Herr Durer the Much Much Younger been residing at the Grand?”

“A little over seven years.”

“And the prints had been hanging on his wall all that time.”

“As far as I know, yes.”

“As far as you know?”

“I am not in the habit of inspecting the guests' rooms while they are in them, particularly a gentleman of good standing such as Herr Durer. Whenever I had cause to enter his suite I saw that the pictures were on display.”

“And had you cause recently?”

Herr Schoenberg hesitated, then said, “As a matter of fact, yes. Twice within the last month. On the first occasion the lift attendant alerted me to a disturbance.”

“The nature of which was . . . ?”

“Raised voices coming from the apartment. Crying. Clearly an altercation. I knew, of course, who was visiting Herr Durer. It is hotel policy not to allow anyone to the rooms unless we
have their name. On this day it was Leopold Durer who had come calling.”

“Ah, the frustrated nephew.”

“I think the angry nephew would better have described him. When I was admitted to the suite I found Herr Durer in a state of great agitation . . .”

“That's Herr Durer the Much Much Younger, or Herr Durer, the younger man?”

“The older man who is the Much Much Younger. The younger was himself disturbed, his face full of rage. And the nursemaid . . .”

“Valeri?”

Herr Schoenberg nodded. “She was also weeping.”

“I see. And the art works were still in place?”

“They were. The second time, about a week later, I was called to assist when Dr. Phelps was refused entry.”

“Refused? But, he is a member of the Society of the Praying Hands,” Gretel watched her interlocutor closely for signs this meant something to him, but it appeared not to. “Surely he is always welcome.”

“On this occasion not. Valeri had turned him away, saying Herr Durer was indisposed.”

“And Phelps was not best pleased at being dismissed so, and reluctant to leave, I should imagine.”

“You have clearly met the man. In which case you will know that he is not the sort of person accustomed to being refused anything, or at least, he does not hear it when he is.” Herr Schoenberg looked Gretel squarely in the eye. “I am aware you think me mercenary in my dealings with guests, Fraulein, but I will not see them bullied. Herr Durer is an old man, and rather frail. Whilst he is a resident of the Grand he falls, so to speak, under my protection. I sent Dr. Phelps away and satisfied myself that Herr Durer was quite well. The pictures were still on the wall.”

“And on the night of the theft, could you tell me where you were?”

“I was here, in my office, tallying the takings of the restaurant for the evening. It is my habit to do the accounts daily. The door was open, affording me a clear view of the stairs. No one used them the whole hour I was here. The night porter took up duty when I left. The lift attendant that night was Wilbur, a reliable employee of many years' service. He swears he took no one up during that entire night. The first we knew of the theft were the pitiful cries of Herr Durer when he discovered the absence of the prints the next morning.”

There came a knock at the door and a nervous receptionist appeared.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, Herr Schoenberg . . .”

“Yes, yes, what is it Kibble?”

“There are two gentlemen here to see you, sir. They say it is a matter of some urgency.” He trotted in and handed his employer an embossed calling card. Gretel leapt to her feet under the guise of leaving so that she was able to read what was written. The names of the individuals did not mean anything to her, but the heading on the card clearly read “Beste Haus,” which she knew to be a prestigious group of hotels with premises as far flung as Munich and Hamburg.

“I will keep you no longer, Herr Schoenberg. Thank you for your time,” she said, knowing that he would be only too happy to bring the interview to a close. As she left the room she passed the visiting businessmen in the foyer and watched as the anxious hotel proprietor somewhat reluctantly let them into his office. Gretel asked the receptionist to announce her presence to Herr Durer so that she might be taken up to him, but was informed he had gone out to take the air.

“Rats.” she said to herself. The matter of money had to be addressed. But, she could not beard the lion in his den if he
had gone out to saunter about the city. Instead she would press on with her investigations, the better to convince him of her worth when eventually she did corner him.

Deciding she needed to view the situation on a broader canvas, Gretel stepped outside into the morning sunshine. The bright light of the Bavarian day made her red dress look a little brash, but there was nothing to be done about it. Until she had received an advance payment from her client she could not afford to go shopping. As soon as she had though—well, the dazzling displays in the dressmaker's windows had already caught her eye. She walked across the square to peer in. Gowns of breathtaking beauty and exquisite tailoring were arranged upon mannequins that knew precisely how delicious they looked. There was a dress suitable for day wear made of a sophisticated petrel blue, smartly set off by a black velvet collar. It struck Gretel as just the sort of thing a woman of business might wear. Over a damask screen was draped a sumptuous fur cape. Even in her wildest imaginings, Gretel could not come up with an occasion that would warrant her buying such a thing. She tried hard, but could bring nothing to mind, short of marrying Ferdinand and being taken on a winter honeymoon somewhere. She shook the foolish notion from her thoughts, but it didn't stop her squinting at the price tag. It was only when her nose bumped against the glass that she realized she could not get close enough to the thing to make out the figures. The fact irked her. She had never before failed to read such important details, but today the numbers were a blur. Gretel gave a loud tut of annoyance. Not only was this minor incapacity an inconvenience, it was a sign that her sight might be on the wane, which was an unwelcome reminder of how the years were passing. What she was still capable of seeing clearly, however, was the beautiful pair of lorgnettes the model held in her lap. The glasses were trimmed with filigree
silver, the long handle worked in a similar style, with a lacy chain on which to hang them around the neck when not in use. It occurred to Gretel that there might be some benefit to failing vision, after all, if one could then justify purchasing such a lovely thing.

“Good morning, Fraulein Gretel.” A cheerful female voice dragged her from her daydreaming. She turned to find Valeri behind her, pushing a wheeled chair containing a sleeping Herr Durer.

“Ah, Valeri. This is fortuitous. I was hoping to have a word with Herr Durer.”

“As you can see, Fraulein, he is taking a nap.” The old man was wrapped cozily in soft woolen blankets and looked wonderfully peaceful and not quite his full one hundred and five years whilst in repose. It would be sinful to disturb him. “Why don't you come to the suite a little later on? For coffee, perhaps? I am certain Albrecht . . .” Valeri smiled and corrected herself, “. . . Herr Durer, would be delighted to see you and to hear what progress you are making with your investigation.”

“Oh yes, a deal of progress, I promise you. I am even now examining the exterior of the hotel,” she waved a hand vaguely in its direction. “The windows, walls, that sort of thing. The front is, of course, very grand, and very public. Not likely anybody could scale the facade without being noticed, even at night. I shall, in a moment, proceed to the rear of the building.”

Valeri nodded attentively.

“And naturally I have begun to interview people, starting with Herr Schoenberg. I should very much like to talk to Herr Durer's nephew as soon as possible.”

“Oh, Leopold is very distressed that the pictures have gone,” said Valeri.

“No doubt, as he must likely have stood to inherit them, Herr Durer having no other heirs, as I understand it.”

“Oh no,” Valeri shook her head, glancing about to see they were not overheard before continuing in a whisper, “Herr Durer never intended to leave the frog prints to Leopold. He wanted them to go to the Nuremberg Art Gallery.”

“And Leopold knew this?”

“He did. He was most unhappy about it and tried many times to persuade his uncle to change his mind.”

“I'm sure he did. Just as I'm sure Dr. Phelps would have put pressure on your employer to see that they
did
go to the gallery.”

“Ha, that man!” Valeri's face darkened in a way that astonished Gretel. The girl seemed in possession of the sunniest of dispositions, and yet the mention of the art collector's name changed her in an instant.

“You do not care for him?”

Valeri chose her words with caution. “He sets himself up as an example to others. I will say no more than that he is not the upright citizen he claims to be.”

Gretel wanted very much to press her further, but she saw by the determined set of the girl's mouth that she was not ready to talk more. Not yet. What could Phelps ever have done to turn the girl against him so? Surely Herr Durer would not permit her to be misused or even offended whilst she was in his employ. It must then be something in the past, or at least, something in Valeri's past. There was a story there, Gretel knew it, and any story that wrought such an alteration in the girl was worth looking into.

“Forgive me, Fraulein, but I had best get Herr Durer back to his rooms.” Valeri was quickly her smiling self again, as if she refused to let whatever darkness it was she associated with Dr. Phelps cloud her sunny day for a second longer than she had to. “We will see you at eleven, then?”

“As the clock strikes,” Gretel assured her.

She watched the unlikely pair wheel away, and then, good as her word, headed around the side of the hotel to examine the rear. The unremarkable street that served the tradesman's entrance to the building was, much to Gretel's chagrin, cobbled. Cobbles and kitten heels were not a happy match, so that her naturally confident stride was reduced to a mincing wobble, which was as inefficient as it was unattractive. She soldiered on. The route was entirely bordered on one side by the hotel. On the other were the hotel stables, what looked to be a storehouse, possibly also belonging to the hotel, and a row of workaday shops, including a butcher's, a baker's, and a candlestick maker's. The tempting fumes from the bakery reminded Gretel that breakfast was some time ago. She must resist, however. With luck, Herr Durer would continue to prove himself a man of good sense by offering her pastries with her coffee in a little while.