1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (44 page)

All three of the officers shook hands with Bauer before he left.

“Maybe,” Honister said fervently, “just maybe I have a bit of a lead on the robbery murder case.”

“Go for it,” Byron said. “Meanwhile, Gotthilf and I need to talk to the captain about this Nils fellow. It’s starting to look like the captain’s idea might have legs, as much as I hate to think about it.”

A thought with which Gotthilf wholeheartedly agreed.

* * *

Schardius looked up, a snarl on his face, as his secretary opened the door.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Master Schardius,” the man said, “but there is a merchant here from Hannover who insists on seeing you.”

Schardius sat back. “Hannover, you say?” That piqued his interest. He wondered if it was one of the Praegorius family, the corn factors that had been rumored for over a year now to soon be establishing an office in Magdeburg.

“Send him in.”

The secretary withdrew, and a moment later a stocky man in fine clothes entered.

“Good morning, Master Schardius. My name is Elting, Karl Elting. We had a mutual acquaintance in Herr Lubbold Vogler before his untimely death.”

Schardius was stunned for a moment. He had been thinking earlier about the loss of the Hannover contact. Now it appeared the families from the other end were reaching out to him.

They shook hands, and the master merchant gestured to a chair.

“Please, be seated.”

After they took their seats, Schardius steepled his fingers. “What can I do for you, Herr Elting?”

The Hannoverian smiled. “It’s more a case of what I can do for you, Herr Schardius. I bring you greetings from my employer, who wishes to resume the relationships you previously enjoyed through Herr Vogler. But before we discuss that, I have a proposition for you…”

Chapter 51

It took Dr. Schlegel another day to finish his examination of the three bodies that hadn’t been blistered. Lieutenant Chieske and Sergeants Hoch and Honister were invited to the morgue to receive the results.

Gotthilf sniffed when he entered the corpse storage room. Even with the advantage of the outside cold, there was a certain aroma of decomposition in the room. He’d smelled worse before, though, and doubtless would again.

“What’s up, Doc?”

From the smile on Byron’s face, Gotthilf suspected that he’d just heard something that was funny in an up-time way. Sigh. Another question to ask his partner later.

Dr. Schlegel tilted his head at Byron’s quip, then shook his head and moved to the wall with all the cabinet doors in it.

“First victim,” the doctor began, opening one door and sliding out the tray with the body on it. “Male, Heinrich Kleist, thirty-five years old according to his wife. The injury to his neck, no surprise, was the cause of death. Instrument of death was the metal door found near the corpse.” He pointed to the door, labeled, lying on a nearby table. “Confirmed by marks on the neck matching marks on the door.”

“So, death from effects of the explosion. Nothing unusual about the corpse, Doc?”

“Correct.” Dr. Schlegel didn’t seem to be insulted by Byron’s nickname for him, Gotthilf observed as he made notes. Of course, the doctor had been around up-timers for some time, both here and at Jena before.

“Any questions?” Dr. Schlegel asked.

Byron looked at the two sergeants, and when neither spoke, he replied, “Nope.”

“The family has asked for the body to be released to them.”

Byron looked around again. Honister shrugged. Gotthilf thought about it for a moment, then nodded. There was nothing more to be gained there.

The doctor pushed the tray back into the cabinet, closed that door, opened the one next to it and pulled out the next body.

“Second victim: male, tentatively identified as Peter or Pietro, approximately thirty years old, unclaimed by family, friends or church. As Dr. Nichols suspected, the cause of death was a piece of debris that penetrated the frontal bone of the skull, lodging approximately two inches behind it.”

Dr. Schlegel reached over and picked up a small object off of the nearby table.

“From the looks of it, it might have been a broken rivet or bolt. It is iron, not lead, so it’s not a bullet.”

He passed it to Byron, who scrutinized it and passed it along to Honister, who passed it to Gotthilf, who looked at it, shrugged, and handed it back to the doctor.

“Death by explosion effects?” Byron asked.

Dr. Schlegel nodded. “Nothing particularly unusual about it.”

“This was the guy that might have come from Italy,” Honister spoke up. “Did you see anything to support that?”

“Nothing obvious in his belongings,” Dr. Schlegel pointed to a paper envelope on the table. “I will say that his physical type—shape of the skull, for example—is more consistent with the Mediterranean peoples than it is with the Germanic folk. But that and a pfennig will get you a cup of coffee at Walcha’s Coffee House.

“Any more questions?”

No one spoke. Gotthilf made more notes as that body was closed away and the third body was brought out.

“Third victim, identified as Nils Svenson, unclaimed by family or church, approximately forty years old. There is no question,” the doctor said, “that this man was not killed by the explosion.”

That statement grabbed Gotthilf’s attention. “But he was found in the explosion scene,” he said.

“Yes, and much of the damage to his body was caused by the explosion, no doubt,” Dr. Schlegel responded. “But it was all post-mortem. The actual cause of death was a stab wound in the back.”

He rolled the body onto its side, gesturing for one of them to hold it there. Byron reached a hand out. Then the doctor pulled a light closer and picked a probe up off of the table.

“See here?” He pointed to the lower back. “Right above the left kidney. Penetrated the kidney, severed the main artery to the kidney. Fatal within moments due to internal hemorrhaging. Quite painful, as well, for the short time he had left to live.”

“So if he was the boiler attendant on shift that morning…” Gotthilf started.

“He would have been in the wagon watching the gauges and tending the firebox,” Byron finished.

“So when the boiler exploded, of course he would have caught more of the blast force than the men out in the yard,” Honister said.

“Except that he was already dead.” Gotthilf frowned. “Why?”

“Ockham’s Razor,” Byron said. “The simplest explanation is mostly likely the correct one.” He noticed the sergeants staring at him. “What? I went to school, too, you know.”

Byron lifted a hand and ticked off fingers as he spoke.

“One: if he was on shift in the wagon, then someone either killed him for a personal reason, or he was killed because he was in the way. We can’t figure out an unknown personal reason, but…

“Two: if he was killed because he was in the way, someone probably wanted access to something in the wagon.

“Three: there wasn’t anything in that end of the wagon except gauges, the boiler tank, and the firebox.

“Four:…” Byron stopped ticking fingers and looked at Dr. Schlegel. “Doc, could you estimate time of death?”

“The saturation of his clothing by the superheated steam means I cannot estimate to within an hour,” the doctor replied, “but my opinion is that he died not long before the explosion.”

“Four:…” Byron resumed, “the boiler explosion occurred not long after he was killed.” He looked at the sergeants. “Still think the captain’s idea is crazy?”

Gotthilf wondered if he looked as stunned as Honister did.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door to the room, and a
Polizei
messenger stuck his head in.

“Lieutenant Chieske, Sergeants, the Schiffer people want to see you back at the hospital project site. They say they’ve found something you need to see.”

“Right. Be right there.” Byron turned to Dr. Schlegel. “Keep this one on ice as long as you can, Doc. We may not be done with him yet.” He turned to Honister. “You coming with us?”

“No, I’m going to go through this and see if anything helps.” He picked up the envelope of Peter/Pietro’s belongings.

“Right. We’re gone.”

Gotthilf was on Byron’s heels.

* * *

Honister headed back for his desk, by way of a bakery where he bought a roll for his lunch. Once inside the station, he bit off a large piece of the crusty bread, and chewed on that while he unsealed the envelope and dumped the contents on the desk.

Jacket—check.

Shirt—check.

Pants—check.

Shoes—check.

He looked them over carefully, but found nothing distinctive about them, other than a strong indication that Peter/Pietro hadn’t bathed in quite some time.

Belt—check. Honister also examined this item with care. Alas, there was nothing significant here either; just a worn and stretched-out strip of leather, so grimy its original color couldn’t be discerned.

So, what about the other contents? His finger pushed around the rest of the items from the envelope: a couple of small coins, a glass marble, a leaden amulet, and—hiding in the envelope with just the tip of the sheath poking out—a knife.

Honister unsheathed it and thumbed the edge; pretty sharp, it was. He stood so suddenly he almost over-turned his chair and hurried out, grabbing his hat off its wall peg as he rushed by.

A quarter-hour later he was talking to his consultant smith, Erhard Misch. “What can you tell me about this knife?” he asked, handing it over.

“This related to the same case?” The smith unsheathed the knife and walked over to the window to examine it in the best light.

“Yah.”

“Much better made than those first knives you brought me. Made by a different smith, too. Nice work.”

“Okay, so it’s a more expensive knife,” Honister said. “Is it from Italy? Venice? Genoa? Rome?”

Misch took the knife over to his work bench and bent over it with some small tools. A minute later he was back at the window examining the uncovered tang of the blade from which he had removed the hilt.

“Ah.” There was a very satisfied tone in the smith’s voice.

“What? What?” Honister demanded.

“Definitely made in Venice. I recognize the master’s mark.”

Honister felt his heart jump to a faster rhythm.

“That is what I wanted to hear!”

The smith peered closely at the blade and tsk’d. “Blood on the blade.” He started to wipe it off.

“No! Wait, Erhard!” Honister jumped forward as a thought burst forth in his mind. “That may be evidence. Just put the knife back together for me. I’ve got to check something else out.”

Moments later he was outside looking for a cab. And less than ten minutes later by his pocket watch he was jumping off in front of the morgue.

“Wait for me! I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Bursting through the doors, he looked around. “Is Dr. Schlegel here?” he demanded of the attendant on duty.

“No, but I can have him called in if you like.”

“I don’t have time for that. You’ll do. Take me to the corpse storage room again and pull out the body of Nils Svenson.”

In just a few moments, he was closely examining the stab wound in Swenson’s back and comparing it to the knife. Same shape, no wider than the width of the blade. He felt the glow of conviction increasing.

“That’s all I needed. Thanks.”

Hurrying to the cab, he shouted, “Get me to the hospital project site, as fast as you can!”

* * *

Gotthilf was nonplussed. He and Byron arrived at the construction site not long after leaving the morgue. Gunther Bauer met them and said tersely, “Got something you guys need to see. Come on.”

He led them across the site where the few workers Schiffer still had were trying to clean up the debris of the disaster, until they arrived at the side of the existing hospital. He pointed at something sticking out of the wall.

“That,” he said, “was not there before the crane exploded.” Then he crossed his arms and waited.

So now the two of them were staring at a limb of wood that at first glance was just growing out of the side of the building. They looked at each other. Gotthilf drew some consolation in the fact that Byron appeared to be just as bemused as he was.

“So, a tree limb,” Gotthilf said.

“Yep.”

“Sticking out of the hospital building.”

“Yep.”

“Hole in the middle of it.”

“Yep.”

Byron was being especially laconic this morning.

Gotthilf looked at the piece of limb, and realized that it was darker on the outside than bark would normally account for. He ran a finger across the top, and raised it to display a smudge. He sniffed his finger.

“Soot.”

Byron’s eyes snapped open wide.

“Oh, God, no.”

The up-timer bent over and smelled the hole in the limb. Gotthilf was now very bemused.

Byron straightened with a look of mingled disgust and nausea.

“Send for the police photographer.”

Gotthilf looked at Bauer, who nodded and took off to do that very thing.

Gotthilf looked back at his partner. “So, what is it?”

“Bad news.”

“Will you stop with the excessive terseness?” Gotthilf demanded. “Just tell me what it is, and keep talking until I understand it.”

“That,” Byron leveled a forefinger at the obtrusive tree limb, “is a bomb. Or, I should say, it was supposed to be a bomb, but it misfired and became a rocket instead. Smell the hole.”

Gotthilf bent and smelled an unmistakable scent.

“Burnt gunpowder.”

“Yep.” Byron whistled tunelessly for a few seconds. “Didn’t you say something earlier about some gunpowder being stolen?”

“Yah,” Gotthilf said with a grimace. “From Farkas’ gun shop.”

“Well, we may have just found it. Too bad we can’t do the chemical analysis to prove it.” Byron shook his head, then continued, “Now, if that thing was filled with gunpowder, and it ended up there,” he pointed to the wall, “where is the most likely spot for it to have come from?” He pointed out.

Gotthilf followed the finger’s line, and became nauseated himself.

“You think the boiler’s firebox…”

“That’s what I think. I think we now have direct evidence of sabotage, and we now also know why Svenson was killed.”