1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (58 page)

“Aha!” came the muffled voice from under the desk.

“What did you find?” Gotthilf bent over and tried to see.

“Another drawer, only it opens out here. Now, if I can only figure out how to…” There was a
click.
“Gotcha! Come to papa.” Gotthilf heard the sound of a drawer sliding out, then Byron held it out to him. “Take it.”

Gotthilf took the other drawer and laid it on the desk top as well. Byron slid his body out from under the desk, then flipped up onto his feet and turned to examine his prize.

“Oh…my…God.”

* * *

Something—some slight change in the light falling on the wall before him, or perhaps a slight noise—caught Schardius’ attention. His head started to turn. There was a sudden rush of footsteps behind him, and a hard shoulder rammed into his shoulder blades, sending him into and through the laths of the wall.

For one very short sharp instant Schardius bewailed in his mind the loss of his splendid viewing point.

Then he was through the wall and falling.

* * *

The two detectives spread the papers out on the desk. Gotthilf couldn’t believe his eyes. Every piece of paper from the hidden drawer connected to Marla Linder in some way. There were copies of newspaper articles that mentioned her or her performances that went back to when she first appeared in Magdeburg in late 1633. There were copies of broadsheets with her song lyrics, including the latest one, the one that had made the CoC run their printing presses almost nonstop for a couple of weeks.

The last two items were in Byron’s hands, and had been the cause of his exclamation. One was a picture of Marla, from a sketch that had been printed in one of the newspaper articles. The other was the article that announced the performance schedule for the new opera, with today’s date circled in red ink.

The papers were trembling a bit in Byron’s hands. Gotthilf looked at his partner’s face. His jaw muscles were bunched, and the muscle tic in his left cheek was twitching, which sent Gotthilf’s sense of alarm soaring.

“What is it, Byron?”

“We need to find this scumbag, and now.”

* * *

Simon had been waiting outside the Schardius factorage for what seemed like forever. It had been at least two hours, judging by the movement of the sun in the sky. If they didn’t come out pretty soon, he was going to have to run to Frau Zenzi’s to sweep. He didn’t want to do that until he knew what was going on. Obviously something was, or they wouldn’t have spent all this time inside the building when Schardius wasn’t even there, according to one of the clerks.

He finally started walking back and forth across the front of the building, counting steps. “…thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty.” Turn about and walk the other direction. “One, two, three, four…”

It was in his third circuit that he saw something. It was lying in a low spot right beside the steps up to the front door of the building. He stopped counting and walked over to pick it up.

A glove. Pink, with purple and green bands across the back of it. Made for a right hand, so it wouldn’t fit him. No luck there.

Simon was still standing there turning the glove this way and that when the door burst open and he was almost run down by the two detectives.

* * *

Byron had barely let Gotthilf stuff the papers into an envelope and put them in his jacket before he hurtled out of the office.

“Hermann,” Gotthilf ordered the patrolman as they ran by, “no one in the office until we say differently.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” followed them out the door.

Gotthilf barely avoided running over the person standing outside the building, then he did run into Byron who had stopped short.

“Simon!” Byron barked as he grabbed something out of the boy’s hand. “Where did you get that?”

The boy pointed to a spot beside the steps leading to the building entrance. “Right there.”

“Great find, kid. I’ll tell you how great later.” Byron twisted and whistled shrilly, then yelled, “Cab!”

A one horse light cart pulled up. The two detectives bounded up into it. “The new opera house, now, and
schnell!
”

* * *

Simon stared after the rapidly moving cart, jaw agape. What had that all been about, and what did the glove mean? Did it have anything to do with Hans?

Well, if they were in such a hurry to get to the opera house, maybe that’s where the answers were.

Simon started trotting down the street, headed for the nearest bridge into the Neustadt.

* * *

“Can’t this thing move any faster?” Byron demanded of the driver. He began cursing in a stream, seemingly without breathing.

“You going to tell me what is going on that has you so worked up?” Gotthilf asked.

Byron broke off the curses long enough to say, “That bastard Schardius has been stalking Marla. That’s what all those papers are about. They’re his collection on her. And this,” he held up the glove, “this is her glove. I recognize it. No one else in Magdeburg has anything like this, and there’s no way she would have been anywhere near his office to drop it. So he had it, a trophy, which is also part of a stalker’s pattern. Somehow he lost it outside his office, and we’re just lucky that Simon found it for us.”

“So why are we going to the opera hall?”

“Because Schardius bankrolled the opera production, according to Marla. He won’t miss the premiere performance. And if he’s stalking her, he for sure will be there tonight.”

“Point,” Gotthilf replied. “He will want to see what his money bought.”

“In more ways than one,” and Byron resumed cursing.

A horrible thought occurred to Gotthilf. “Peltzer’s dead streetwalker…”

The same thoughts ran through both their minds. Long dark hair…was asked to sing.…

Now the curses were being uttered antiphonally from both sides of the cart.

“Can’t your horse move any faster?” Gotthilf demanded of the driver.

Chapter 65

Friedrich and the others stood outside the Royal and Imperial Opera Hall for some time, making themselves visible to the incoming select premiere night crowd, posturing and engaging in what could only be called witty repartee. Their breath frosted as they spoke, and they laughed at that, accusing each other of being filled with nothing but hot air.

Before long the sun began to dip below the horizon, and the air definitely began to chill. The four friends looked at each other, and with nods they moved as one up the steps and through the central door of the opera hall.

The foyer area, what Friedrich had heard an up-timer call a lobby, ran the full width of the building. Foyer was not a grand enough word to him to describe the room. It seemed more of a gallery, with doors all along the west side into the various seating areas of the auditorium, high ceilings, and three large crystal chandeliers.

The four of them milled around a bit, until Franz Sylwester literally stumbled over Friedrich’s walking stick with an “Oof!”

“Steady, there,” Friedrich said as he grabbed Franz’s elbow to keep him from sprawling on the floor.

A moment later, Franz was stable again, brushing his hands down the front of his royal blue short-waisted jacket. “My thanks,” he said.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in there?” Friedrich motioned to the auditorium with his head.

“In a few minutes, perhaps, but Frau Amber has me out here greeting all the big name guests,” he leaned over and lowered his voice, “especially those who gave money for the hall or the production.”

“Ah,” Friedrich said, as they all exchanged knowing smiles. The power of gold, indeed.

“But listen,” Franz said, “would you like to see behind the curtains for just a moment or two?”

Friedrich didn’t need to look at his friends. “Of course!”

Franz shared a conspiratorial grin. “Then come with me.”

* * *

Gotthilf threw a couple of bills to the driver and tumbled off the cart in Byron’s wake. He was surprised to see Honister walking toward them across the opera house plaza.

“Hey, Karl,” Byron said.

“Lieutenant,” Karl responded with a nod. “I was on my way to find you when I saw you pull up here. What’s to do?”

“According to our informant,” Byron said, walking fast, “our one-eyed dude is around here somewhere. Seems he’s been tailing Schardius, who we think is inside.” He jerked his head at the opera hall.

“Schardius? Why?” Honister seemed mystified by that revelation.

“We were hoping you could tell us,” Gotthilf replied, trotting to keep up with his long-legged partner.

“I have no idea,” Honister said, “unless…”

The detective fell silent for about three steps, mind obviously racing.

Honister finally looked up again. “Only one thing makes sense,” he began. “The fire, the murder and robbery, and the explosion were all aimed at the hospital expansion project. We could never come up with a motive for trying to destroy the project itself. It is popular, and it is needed; destroying it just didn’t make any sense. But what if they weren’t aiming at the project? What if they were aiming at the backers of the project?”

Gotthilf turned that thought around and over and around in his mind, examining it from every angle. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that Honister was right.

“And Schardius is involved with the group that got the contract for the hospital expansion?” Byron asked.

“His name is not on any of the proposals or contracts, no,” Honister admitted, who was starting to sound winded keeping the pace. “But it appears to be common knowledge that he provided much of the initial financing for it. I heard that from more than one source, including Mayor Gericke himself.”

“If he is the ‘money man,’ as up-timers might put it,” Gotthilf said, “then taking him down would probably destroy the consortium that has the contract for the expansion.” Byron gave him a questioning look. “If Schardius dies, his money gets tied up in his estate. The committee that oversees execution of wills will allow expenses to be paid to keep his household solvent and for day-to-day expenses in his business. Whether a project like this would be included in that day-to-day category would depend on the decisions of the committee. And the committee monitors the estate until the heirship is determined and validated, which could take anywhere from weeks to months.”

“Even if he’s contractually bound to provide it?”

“That depends on how the contract is written and on how the committee would interpret the contract. But even if it was ruled that the money had to be provided under the terms of a contract,” Gotthilf finished, “just a significant delay in receiving it could be enough to take the project down.”

“Lawyers.” Byron said the word like it was a curse. Gotthilf decided that now was not the time to tell Byron that his older brother was studying at Jena to become a lawyer.

Byron turned back to Honister.

“Makes sense to me. Keep an eye out for One-Eye, and arrest him if you see him.” Honister stopped at the bottom of the steps to the opera house portico. “And arrest Schardius if you see him, too.” That was thrown over Byron’s shoulder as he started up the steps two at a time. Gotthilf huffed and puffed as he trailed behind.

* * *

Franz unlocked a single door set off to one side of the foyer, motioned Friedrich and the others through, and closed it behind them.

“This way,” Franz said.

Friedrich fell into line behind the others as they went down some stairs and then along a dimly lit hallway with doors appearing along either side. “Where are we?” he heard one of his friends ask.

“This runs along below the lower bank of the box seats,” Franz replied from the front of the line. “It will take us to the service area under the stage, and from there we can climb up to the backstage area without being seen by the audience.”

And so it proved. The hallway opened into a very open space, with pillars interspersed across it that supported the massive beams that underlay the stage. Various pieces of equipment could be seen around the perimeter of the space, most shrouded in canvas. Stairways could be seen in various locations.

“This way,” Franz repeated. He led them to a stairway at the side of the space. The door at the top opened to the backstage.

The four of them just stopped in amazement to watch. Several people in bright costumes stood in front of them, chattering away in low tones. Young men and women dressed in muted brown bustled around, adjusting scenery and furniture, or carrying items from one side of the stage to the other while the curtain remained down.

One very large fellow in a resplendent costume and holding what appeared to be a very large sword stood near a small podium-style desk, laughing with Frau Amber and a short down-timer woman wearing some kind of contraption that covered one ear and had a short arm that curved around in front of her face.

“That’s the stage manager’s headset,” Franz muttered in his ear, obviously having noticed his interest. “It connects to the auditorium intercom—kind of like radio, only with wires. She gives instructions through the microphone to the people running the lights and curtains.”

Interesting. First electric lights, and now this.
Friedrich wondered what other innovations were coming to theatres because of Grantville.
Electric trap-doors, maybe?

* * *

Crash!

All the actresses jumped and several screamed when one of the side walls seemed to explode and a man landed on one of the makeup tables. Everyone moved back as the man struggled to get to his feet.

Marla stepped forward. “Herr Schardius! What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious, ladies?” a mocking voice said from inside the space Schardius had been in. Then came a shrill, high-pitched laugh. “He was peeping through the wall at you!”

Chapter 66

Angry voices began to rise. Schardius was very shaken. For just a moment after he gained his feet, he stared around at the angry women who were starting to shout at him. He gave his head a sharp shake, and, knowing he was exposed now, pulled his pistol from his jacket pocket.