1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (60 page)

* * *

Byron pulled out his flashlight. “We don’t have time to look for the light switches. Come on.”

The two of them followed the dim yellow spot as it tracked across the floor. After a few steps, Gotthilf said, “Blood spots.”

“Yep,” Byron replied in a satisfied tone. “If nothing else, we can trail the bastard with that.”

Neither of them spoke more, intent on the task at hand.

* * *

Schardius heard the murmur of voices behind him, looked over his shoulder, and saw the dim little spot of light bobbing toward him down the hallway. His foot struck the first step in the stairs, and he almost fell over. He turned, held his pistol in both hands, and pulled the trigger once.

Bam!

He turned and hurried up the stairs as quickly as he could.

* * *

Amber released the hug and returned Marla to her husband.

“Now to go upstairs and break the news that we have to cancel tonight’s performance.”

Marla broke out of Franz’s embrace and faced them all with her hands on her hips.

“Amber Higham, I don’t care if you are the director, if you think that I’ve come this far and worked this hard on this part to shut down because of something stupid like this, think again! I’m not hurt, and if I don’t do something to lightning rod the mad out of me, I’ll explode. On with the show!”

Behind Marla, Franz had worry in his eyes, but he was smiling. He spotted Friedrich looking at him, and he shrugged and spread his hands in an unmistakable “What are you going to do?” signal.

Amber took a long hard look at Marla. “Well, okay, if you’re sure…”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, except marrying Franz,” Marla replied. “Trust me.”

“Okay,” Amber said after another hard look at Marla. “If you’re that certain, then let’s get upstairs and get this show on the road!”

The sound of a shot from the hallway spurred them on.

* * *

The two detectives ducked to each side of the hall at the flash from the other end of the hall. Byron turned off the flashlight.

“Black powder gun,” Byron said quietly.

“Probably H and K six-shooter,” Gotthilf replied. “Sounded like a forty-four caliber, like mine.”

They listened, and only heard the sound of steps receding.

“Slow and careful,” Byron said. He took the flashlight, turned it on and flashed it down the hall for a moment, then shut it down again. “No obstacles, looks like he’s gone up the stairs.”

“Right.”

They made their way down the hall, hugging the walls on each side.

* * *

Schardius made his way to the top of the stairs. He stopped for the barest moment to try to catch his breath, then turned the door handle. It moved, and he peered around the edge of the door. No one was near, and he slipped out of the door and across the foyer as quickly as he could.

Freedom!
was his thought as he burst through the door into the portico and started down the steps.

Chapter 67

Karl Honister looked over at the local patrolman who had shown up on his rounds perhaps a quarter hour earlier, and was hanging around the plaza watching the latecomers hurrying for the door, mostly members of the
Hoch-adel
. It was growing darker, and the moon wasn’t very high in the sky yet.

“So, Phillip,” Karl said, “have you seen the emperor yet?”

“Today?” the patrolman replied. “No, Sergeant Honister. Not yet, at any rate.”

Honister pulled out his pocket watch and held it up so the setting sun shone on it.

“It’s 6:15, so the opera is going to start late. It wouldn’t be prudent to start without Gustav in his seat.”

Phillip laughed, just as the big outside lights mounted on the front of the opera house turned on with a loud
click
.

* * *

Amber led the charge back up the stairs to the backstage. As soon as they were all through the door at the head of the stairs, she slammed it.

“I want that door bolted, barred and blocked up,” she announced to all and sundry. “Pile stuff in front of it until no one can get it open from the other side.” She pointed to the backstage crew dressed in brown. “Now! Move it, people.”

Brown-shirted stage crew coalesced from all of the backstage area, and within a couple of minutes they had moved some heavy furniture not being used in this production in front of the door.

While this was going on, Amber turned to Marla and looked at her in the better light. She lightly touched the singer’s left cheek. “Okay, your makeup is smudged, and you’ve got a small scratch that’s bled some there. You’d best get back to the dressing area and repair that, then get dressed for the first scene.”

Marla handed Friedrich’s coat back to him, and turned and moved with speed in that direction. Amber turned to the stage manager and they had a low-voiced conversation.

Friedrich looked around, all of a sudden realizing that he hadn’t seen Gronow, Seelbach, and Plavius. He looked to Franz and opened his mouth, but Franz beat him to it.

“I had your friends led to their seats before I came downstairs. Now I must get back to the orchestra, so I’ll take you with me. People will start getting restless if we don’t have something going.”

Franz’s eyes got very serious, and he placed his hands on Friedrich’s shoulders. “My friend, I have no words. What you did down there…” Franz’s voice wavered a bit, “…that means more to me than you will ever know or I will ever be able to express. Thank you.”

Friedrich didn’t try to downplay what Franz was saying. He just gave a solemn nod and placed his right hand on top of Franz’s.

They stood that way for a long moment; then Franz dropped his hands, turned, and linked arms with Friedrich. “And now, let me escort you to your seat.”

* * *

They both saw the flare of light as the door at the top of the stairs was opened.

“Come on!” Byron flicked on his flashlight, heedless of the risk, and they rushed down the hall and hurtled up the stairs.

They burst through the door in time to see one of the outer doors just settling in its door frame.

* * *

Schardius froze for a moment on the steps when the lights came on. There was so much light! He’d been counting on the darkness to hide him.

He gave his head a hard shake, and continued down the steps.

It had all gone so wrong! All his desires, all his plans, all lying in the plaster dust on the dressing room floor.

He would never survive this, he knew. Not in Magdeburg, at any rate. His name and reputation would not just be smeared, they would be burnt in the fires of gossip and ridicule, until they were nothing but a memory.

But Magdeburg was just one of many cities in Europe. If he could just get to the warehouse, he had money there, and Ernst could get him away. He had money, he had connections. He could start over. Maybe in Vienna.

He hit the bottom of the steps and started running. One part of his mind cursed Marla Linder as his feet pounded the plaza pavement; one part of it mourned her.

* * *

Honister looked around at the sound of cursing and yelling people. A man broke free from the flow of opera-goers going up the steps. It looked like—it was—Schardius. He headed that direction, holding up his hand.

“Halt! Master Andreas Schardius, I arrest you—
gun!”

The sudden sight of the pistol in the merchant’s hands being aimed in his direction tightened every muscle in Honister’s lower abdomen and groin, and raised his voice at least two octaves. His shout echoed off the surrounding buildings, and was probably heard clearly on the other side of the Big Ditch and its walls.

Schardius fired one shot, but Honister was already ducking and twisting to pull out his own pistol. And now he bitterly repented that he had not followed Sergeant Hoch’s lead and moved up from a .32 to a .44 with more shots. Five just wasn’t enough in a situation like this.

* * *

Franz released Friedrich’s arm at the end of his row. Friedrich stepped across feet to the empty seat between Gronow and Plavius.

“Where have you been?” Plavius demanded, not bothering to hold down his voice amid the other conversations going on around them.

Friedrich didn’t answer right away, settling his walking stick between his knees and punching Gronow on the leg.

“Johann, pass me your flask of schnapps, and don’t try to tell me you don’t have it.”

With a sigh, Gronow pulled a silver flask from an inside jacket pocket and handed it to Friedrich. Friedrich took off the cap and drank two big swallows before he turned back to Plavius.

“Where have I been? That’s a tale for later tonight.”

* * *

Byron and Gotthilf burst out the door onto the portico and went down the steps at a reckless rate of speed, risking falling or worse in the desire to catch up with the fleeing Schardius.

“Come on, Karl!” Gotthilf yelled as they rushed by him.

“Schardius, drop your gun and put up your hands!” Byron yelled from in front of them, his long legs shortening the distance with every stride.

Schardius responded by twisting his body and squeezing off another shot as he ran. No one saw where it went, but it slowed everyone down for a step or two.

* * *

Ciclope’s ears perked up. From all the yells, that was Schardius running toward him being chased by all those men. He burst from the shadows by the Royal Academy of Music building, then simply had to stand and watch as Schardius ran by him, with four policemen hot on his heels.

Ciclope cursed bitterly. A lost opportunity, but if he had shot at Schardius, it would have been impossible to explain to the
Polizei
later, especially since he would have been shooting in their general direction as well. He doubted that they would have been restrained about shooting back at him.

He calmed himself, and began running through his options. Okay, if the
Polizei
captured Schardius, there wasn’t much he could do about that. But if Schardius managed to elude them, where would he go? Easy answer, Ciclope thought to himself—the warehouse. The place was stout enough to be a fortress, and who knows what all he had stashed there.

Ciclope pushed his own pistol back into his pocket, and headed for the western bridge across the ditch into the
Altstadt.

* * *

“Halt!”

Captain David Beatty held up his hand, and the Marine detail around the emperor’s car stopped. This perforce caused the car to stop.

Erling Ljungberg and Baldur Norddahl stopped their horses alongside his.

“What’s toward?” Baldur asked, trying to find a comfortable position on the saddle.

“Gunfire,” Beatty said. “That way,” motioning to the north and a bit east; almost the direction in which they were traveling.

There came a few more shots, and this time they all heard it.

“Sergeant MacDonald,” Beatty snapped, “front and center!”

A large red-haired man stepped out of the Marine detail and saluted. “Aye, sir!”

“Take Private MacDougal with you, go find out what’s what up there, and bring the word back to us.”

“Aye, sir!”

The sergeant saluted again, beckoned to another Marine, then led off down the boulevard, unslinging his rifle as he did so.

“Trouble?” Ljungberg asked.

“I doubt it.” Beatty’s broadly accented tones were calm, almost serene. “But I’ll not risk the emperor or the princess. Or the prince, for that matter.”

Baldur grunted in agreement with that last.

“We will bide right here until we know what’s happening,” the captain finished. “And if I don’t hear word, or if I don’t like what I hear, then we fall back on the palace.”

Ljungberg looked back at the car. “How easy is it to turn that thing around?”

“No need.” The captain laughed. “Harold can drive it in reverse almost as fast as a horse will run.”

Ljungberg pursed his lips as more shots sounded from ahead of them.

* * *

Not for the first time in his life, Gotthilf cursed his lack of height. Schardius was running like a frightened prey animal, with long-legged Byron following like a sight hound with quarry in his gaze, even though Schardius shot back at them at least twice more. They swept east at a rapid pace, and it didn’t matter how fast Gotthilf moved his legs, he lost ground with every step.

“I didn’t ask to be short,” he panted. “It’s not fair.”

* * *

“All right, people!” Amber called out after Marla returned with makeup freshened and costume straightened. “Get in your places, and get set. We’re waiting on the emperor. I don’t know why he’s late, but it doesn’t matter. Our job is to be ready. As soon as he’s here, we begin. Break a leg!”

Amber went out the door that led to the stage right lower box seats hallway. It only took her a couple of minutes to make her way around to the front foyer, then through the main doors and down to the railing surrounding the orchestra.

“Franz!” she hissed. He turned slightly and leaned toward her from where he stood at the front of the orchestra.

“The emperor should be here soon. Keep an eye on the imperial box. When the imperial butt hits the imperial seat cushion, you start the overture. Got it?”

Franz flashed a smile, then turned back to the orchestra.

Amber straightened and looked around the house. It was filling nicely. Most of the box seats were occupied. The imperial box was the only one that was totally empty. The wine was starting to flow in some of those boxes, which worried her for a moment. But then she decided that Marla and Dieter could overpower anyone in the auditorium—could probably overpower all of them combined. A small smile appeared at the thought of someone trying to outshout Marla’s voice. Let ’em try.

* * *

Simon heard the gunshots as he stood on the east bridge from the Altstadt to the Neustadt. He had been staring at the water in the Big Ditch as it rolled under the bridge for some time. Now he looked up at the sound of the shots. It sounded like they were coming toward him. He moved off of the crest of the bridge toward the north shore, craning his neck to try and see what was going on.