1636: The Devil's Opera Read online

  “I think I agree with your mother, Gotthilf.”

  His father’s deep voice resonated in the entryway, and he looked up to see him standing in the doorway to his office, his sister Margarethe hovering behind him.

  Gotthilf took a grip on his temper and tried to sound reasonable.

  “It is a young woman not much older than Margarethe, a Fraulein Ursula Metzgerinin. In fact, Margarethe knows her. She is in danger, and may well lose the last of her near kin very soon. With her is a boy, who is a sort of ward of her family. They have done no wrong, but they need safety and protection.”

  He saw his mother wavering. Her maternal instinct was quite strong, and the thought of a young one being in distress was sure to evoke her sympathies.

  “Well…”

  Gotthilf played his last card. “She and the boy are both crippled.”

  His mother caved in. “All right. At least for tonight.”

  As his mother bustled away to see about getting a room ready, Gotthilf looked to his father, who had an amused look on his face.

  “Skillfully done, my son. I foresee a career in politics for you.”

  Gotthilf shuddered. “Do not curse me so, please.”

  He looked up and stared his father in the eyes. “I was serious, you know, when I used the word guest. I want them treated as my guests. It is important to me.”

  His father sobered, and nodded after a moment. “I will see to it.”

  “Let me bring them in, before they freeze solid out there.”

  Gotthilf hurried out the door and back to the cart. He reached up to Fraulein Ursula.

  “Come, let me help you down.”

  He lifted her from the cart, settled her on her feet, and waited for her to place her cane and stand. Byron had lifted the sleepy Simon to the ground on the other side, and picked up Ursula’s bag.

  “This way,” Gotthilf said. He kept pace with Ursula’s slow steps to and through the door. Once the door closed behind them, he turned to where his parents were standing together.

  “Father, Mother, this is Fraulein Ursula Metzgerin, a young woman of good character who is known to Margarethe from catechism class several years ago. And this is her young friend Simon Bayer.

  “Fraulein Metzger, this is my father Johann Möritz Hoch and my mother Frau Marie Rebecca Ficklerin. This is our home. Be welcome in it.”

  Ursula had a panicked wide-eyed look. His father nodded with his usual reserve, and his mother swept forward to take the young woman under her wing.

  “You poor dear, you look half-frozen. Come with me, and we’ll get you settled someplace warm.”

  She took Ursula’s free arm, and led the bewildered young woman to the stairs to the upper rooms. Margarethe moved in on the other side, already chattering.

  Gotthilf winced at the thought of Ursula dealing with stairs, but there was no help for it. The only rooms available were upstairs, and it definitely wouldn’t be proper for him or Byron to pick her up and carry her.

  Byron nudged Gotthilf, and he looked around.

  “You’d better take this,” the up-timer muttered as he passed the bag to Gotthilf. “I’ll see you in the morning. Good evening, Herr Hoch.” The elder Hoch waved a hand in response and dismissal.

  As the door closed behind Byron, Gotthilf’s father looked down to Simon, who was visibly wavering on his feet.

  “And what do we do with this one?”

  “Put him in my room for tonight. We’ll do something better tomorrow.”

  “Right.” The elder Hoch waved a hand at the stairs. “He’s your guest. See to him.”

  “Yes, sir. Come on, Simon.”

  The boy somnolently followed him up the stairs. They turned in to Gotthilf’s room. Gotthilf placed the bag on his dressing table.

  “We’ll give this back to Fraulein Metzger in the morning. Let me find another blanket or two.”

  When Gotthilf came back to the room a few moments later, Simon was sprawled in the chair, head sagging, chin dropped, mouth open. He chuckled, picked the boy up, laid him on his bed, and covered him with a blanket.

  Wrapping himself in the other blanket, Gotthilf sat in the chair and propped his feet up on a stool. Yawning, he wondered where Hans Metzger had taken himself.

  * * *

  “Herr Hans.”

  Hans heard the voice, but couldn’t move.

  “Herr Hans, wake up.”

  A hand poked at his shoulder, which stirred fleeting pains in several different locations in his body. Hans opened gummy eyes. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and to realize that he must have gone to sleep in old Anna’s bed. He started to sit up, only to drop back when pain knifed through him.

  “Aaah!”

  “That sounded not so good,” Anna remarked from where she stood holding the candle dish. “Ribs?”

  “Yah.” Hans grunted as he slowly levered himself up to a sitting position.

  “You get that jacket and shirt off,” the old woman said.

  It took him a while, as almost every movement of lifting his arms and twisting his torso also twisted the phantom knife in his side. After some doing, however, his dirty, bloody clothing was lying in the floor.

  Anna held the candle close to his side.

  “Yah, you have some bad bruises there. Broken?”

  “Probably.”

  The one word response was about all Hans could manage at that moment.

  “Bide here and I’ll wrap them.” The old woman shuffled over to another bag, and pulled out some lengthy pieces of cloth. “I knew there was a reason I hadn’t taken these to the paper makers yet.” She turned back to Hans. “Put your hands on top of your head.”

  An eternity later, a sweating Hans, light-headed, nauseated and holding his gorge down with some small difficulty, nonetheless felt somewhat better as Frau Anna tied off the last of the cloth bindings that wrapped his torso tightly.

  “That has it,” she said as she trimmed off the surplus with a pair of scissors. “Take your hands down now.”

  Hans lowered his arms, and essayed a deep breath with caution. “Better,” he admitted. “My thanks. Where did you learn to do that?”

  She gave a surprisingly girlish chuckle. “Ah, lad, when you’re married to a fisherman, you pick little tricks like this up along the way. I had to wrap my husband Nikolaus’ ribs more than once before the ague took him off.”

  A shirt landed in Hans’ lap.

  “Put that on, and then we’ll find you a coat.”

  He struggled into the shirt. It hurt, but not as much as taking the old one off had.

  It took a few more moments, but they finally found a worn baggy coat that would fit over his shoulders and his wrapped torso.

  That done, a thought occurred to Hans and he turned back to where his jacket lay. He kicked it over to where he could bend over to pick it up while keeping a hand on the wall to steady himself and help lever himself up again.

  From one pocket, he removed the small fold of bills he had taken from the prize purse. He peeled one off and gave it to Frau Anna. She smiled at the sight of multiple zeros in the bill denomination, and it disappeared into one of her own pockets.

  From another pocket, he pulled his fighting gloves. They were clammy and stiff with clotted blood, but he still pulled them on over his abused hands, wincing as he did so. He looked up at old Anna.

  “Any chance you have some old gloves that might cover these?”

  She thought for a moment, then shuffled over to a box in the corner. She dug around in it and finally surfaced with an old pair of leather fishermen’s gloves.

  “These belonged to Nikolaus. Might be they will work.”

  Nicholas must have had huge hands, as the gloves did cover his hands in the fighting gloves. Extra coverage, extra cushion, and extra disguise, all together.

  From another corner, Frau Anna produced a knobby walking stick. “Here, lad. Good oak it is, for all it looks like a piece of rotten driftwood. Lean on that and walk bent ove
r, and the devil himself would overlook you.”

  The walking stick had a satisfying heft to it, Hans decided. He gave old Anna a knowing smile, and received one in response.

  “My thanks again,” he said, laying a hand on the door. “But you’d best forget you ever knew me, and I was not here tonight.”

  “All I saw tonight were bad dreams, lad.”

  They shared another grin, then she blew the candle out. A moment later, the bar drew back and the door opened.

  Hans slipped out. He headed back into the Neustadt. There was a place or two there he might be able to stay out of the chill until morning.

  He had no illusions about his long-term survival prospects. There were enough hard men in the exurb that if Master Schardius wanted to pay a high enough price, he would be eventually be worn down and swarmed under. But—his hand clenched the walking stick and his lips peeled back in a silent snarl—before that happened he would make sure he had plenty of company when he stood at the gates of Heaven.

  Plenty of company.

  Chapter 58

  Miklos Farkas opened the door to his shop not long after the sun appeared above the horizon. He glanced out to make sure that the doorstep was clean and clear, glanced up to see that the sign shaped like a pistol was hanging straight, then closed the door to keep the heat from escaping the shop. It might be spring by the calendar, but winter didn’t seem to have received that message yet.

  A Hungarian in the capitol city of the USE, Miklos made no secret of his origin. He couldn’t—his accent would betray it every time he opened his mouth. He could speak the local dialect, and his command of Amideutsch was good enough to chaffer with the up-timers at need, but even they would remark on his accent at times, so, best to make a virtue out of necessity, as it were. He did bow to convenience somewhat, though, and often called himself Michael. That was a name the Germans could say without tying their tongue into knots.

  No customers yet. Not surprising; a gun shop, after all, would not be swarmed with customers. He’d made allowance for that in his plans. It would take some time for his clientele to build to the point where his shop would be sustained. The question was whether his money would last until that point. He shrugged. That was up to Jesus, Mary, and the saints. With maybe a little help from a certain scrawny Hungarian.

  He was in the back savoring his morning cup of coffee when the bell on the front door rang. “Just a moment,” he called out. Not wanting to appear too eager, he finished the cup in one slow draft, then turned and went back into the sales room.

  Ah. A merchant.

  Farkas made a lightning assessment of the man. Middling height, somewhat blocky, florid face. Clothes pushed the edge of the old sumptuary laws, but were not flashy. Well trimmed beard. Large gold ring on his right hand. All in all, the most affluent customer Miklos had seen for weeks.

  “And what kind of pistol are you looking for today, master? I carry only the best, the finest of pistols, all made by the masters of Hockenjoss and Klott in Suhl.”

  The merchant said nothing. Farkas affected not to notice his silence. The man might just be curious, or someone who moved on impulse. It happened, even in the gun trade. He prattled on as he pulled a light wooden case out and set it on top of the counter.

  “Take this one, now. This is a Model Forty-Four revolver.” Miklos picked it up and showed it to the merchant from various angles. It was a sizable gun, and it seemed to intrigue the man. He stepped closer.

  “Six shot, cap and ball. A guaranteed man-stopper, master. Six-shot cylinder, as I said…”

  Miklos let his spiel flow on, but he could tell from a slight crease in the forehead that the merchant had been repulsed by the “man-stopper” comment. After a moment, Miklos set the pistol back in its case.

  “But perhaps that is too obtrusive for the master. Something smaller, yes, that might be best.” He brought another case from under the counter, dark walnut this time, set it beside the first, and folded the lid back to reveal a smaller, neater pistol.

  “Behold the Model Thirty-Two.”

  Again Miklos picked the pistol up and held it in the light, making his pitch. This one seemed to look a little better to the merchant—the forehead crease was gone—but he still wasn’t caught, looking around the store and obviously thinking about leaving.

  Miklos let his mouth carry the routine speech about the gun, while he continued to measure the customer. He was concerned about something or someone. Look at the way his shoulders were tightened, almost hunched. Miklos was sure of it. So why wasn’t the man jumping at the protection the pistol could offer?

  Ah, of course. Still too big.

  “But,” Miklos said with emphasis as he laid the second pistol back in its case, “perhaps the master wants something that is not obtrusive at all, something that is, shall we say, discreet.”

  The two cases were pushed to either side, and a third case was pulled out and set between them. It was covered in black leather, and opened to reveal something that this time caught the merchant’s eye. His hand reached out and picked up the pistol almost without his thinking of it.

  Got you!

  Miklos suppressed his smile with the skill of a trained merchant, without even thinking about it.

  “See how light it is, master, and how it nestles in your hand? It is the most unobtrusive of weapons, yet it uses the same thirty-two-caliber ball as its larger brother here.”

  He rested a hand on the other .32 for a moment.

  “Very discreet, no one would ever realize one was carrying it, yet the perfect thing to have in one’s pocket if one were accosted.”

  Miklos paused for just a moment. It really was a pretty design, very striking in its lines. The customer couldn’t take his eyes off it.

  “May I?”

  Miklos took the pistol back from the man only long enough to show him how to hold it, then handed it back to him.

  “Pull the trigger, master. Slowly, don’t jerk it.”

  Click.

  Miklos almost laughed at the way the man’s eyes lit up.

  “How…how much?”

  Miklos shifted into closing mode, and the ensuring bargaining was lively; to be expected, when dealing with a merchant. But it didn’t take long for him to bring about the sale, and at a tidy profit.

  Then, of course, he had to spend a few minutes showing the new owner how to load and care for his weapon.

  “Good day to you, master,” he called out when the man left. And as the bell on the door jangled, he realized he had never gotten the man’s name. How had he managed to forget that? Or was the merchant really a very sly man, to keep that information hidden?

  Miklos shrugged as he put the paper money away and closed and stored the pistol cases. A man dressed that well wouldn’t be unknown in the city. He’d find him if he ever needed to. Besides, he’d be back when he needed more bullets and caps.

  * * *

  “…so I checked with some of the other merchants’ clerks, and most of them supported Herr Dauth’s account. It appears that Master Schmidt was paying a steep premium to acquire quite a bit of silver coinage.”

  Otto Gericke watched as Detective Sergeant Karl Honister spread his hands above the folder sitting before him at the table. The sergeant had been ordered to give this update to Captain Reilly and himself by Lieutenant Chieske. Knowing the lieutenant, there was a reason why.

  “You think there’s a connection?”

  That was from the captain. Honister lowered his hands to the table and interlaced his fingers.

  “I can’t prove it yet, but there almost has to be a connection between a large amount of USE dollars going missing, and at or near the same time a merchant doing everything he can to scrape together silver coinage, even to the extent of paying ruinous fees or converting even more valuable assets, such as gold. There is something not right there; I just can’t put my finger on it. And I don’t have a motive for it, either.”

  Ah, now it became apparent. Gericke stirred.
r />   “My brother-in-law was not a happy man when his consortium did not receive the award of the contract for the expansion of the hospital. He blamed me for it.”

  He shrugged. “If he is involved, one reason might be to buy the money from whoever stole it originally. Even paying those fees, if he got a good enough discount in buying the dollars from the murderers, then he could still make a tidy profit. And he has sufficient business connections that the money might never be seen here in Magdeburg. For all we know, it may already be split up and on its way to Hamburg, Frankfurt, Amsterdam, or Venice.”

  “But that’s still more ‘what’ or ‘how.’ The question is still why would he be involved in this?” Honister asked.

  Gericke finally put into words the suspicion that had begun to form in his mind the day of the explosion.

  “Georg Schmidt is ordinarily a very sharp man who stays within the limit of the law, but he is also what the up-timers would sometimes call petty. He will nurse a grudge until it dies, then take the bones of it and hang it on the wall as a relic. Perhaps—just perhaps—he may have crossed the line into vindictiveness.” He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, eyes closed. “He was very angry.”

  Gericke lowered his hand and looked at the two police officers.

  “Your thought that the fire, the murders and robbery, and the explosion might have a common thread? Look to Georg Schmidt. And if you find evidence, pursue it. The fire, I might have overlooked.” Gericke shook his head. “Although, with the Committees of Correspondence involved, I probably couldn’t have even done that. But the murders, and the deaths from the explosion added to it all? No, those cannot be overlooked, or we will have anarchy in the streets. He must be either cleared or indicted, and soon.”

  With that, Gericke stood up.

  “I will be in my office if you need me.”

  * * *

  Andreas Schardius opened the envelope from Grantville. He had commissioned a researcher in Grantville to identify this Johnny Depp that Marla Linder had indicated she valued so highly and provide all the information available on him. The report had arrived today. Unfolding the pages, he skimmed the cover letter with its polite language. He tossed that page aside, and moved on to the report.