City of Dark Magic (12 page)

Eleanor, having worked in the library before, had a rough sense of which boxes corresponded to the period she was studying. She moved off into the labyrinth. Meanwhile Sarah looked for anything with Sherbatsky’s handwriting on it. As she walked through the narrow aisles of boxes, headlamp on, feeling like a miner, she couldn’t help thinking that if there were an earthquake they would literally be buried in Lobkowicz papers. All for a fistful of dollars from that shit Max, who may have drugged Sherbatsky and convinced hid chere were m to step out a window.

Feeling resentful and wondering how many hundreds of strains of mold she was breathing, Sarah picked a random box off the top of a column and took it down. The ancient tape disintegrated in her hands. The writing on the box was in German. On top was a shipping list of items that were sent to a warehouse at Prague University to be cataloged for “use of the Führer reserve.” A chill went up Sarah’s spine. The memo was dated May 28, 1942. Sarah was holding a genuine Nazi document in her hands. She sniffed it. Dust, age, and what? Cigar smoke? Evil? She scanned the memo, but didn’t find anything relevant to her search. She put the top back on the box and labeled it as Miles had instructed: today’s date, her initials, the contents of the box, and its location in the library according to numbers someone had duct-taped to the floor. The next box she grabbed had clippings from the social pages of various newspapers in several languages from 1934 to 1937. Wedding announcements, it looked like. Sarah labeled and recorded again. After a couple of hours, she finally came across a box labeled with Sherbatsky’s handwriting, and marked with his signature double asterisk. Sarah opened it up. There were piles of handwritten sheet music, mostly not identified, all of which seemed to be out of order. Sarah groaned at the difficulty of the task: to read the scores, attempt to date them, figure out what music belonged to which piece, who it was composed by, and for what occasion.

Sarah squatted down and began to go through the sheet music. Most of it appeared to be nineteenth century, amateur work, not particularly important or worthy of the double asterisk. At the bottom of the pile she found a leather-bound book, badly damaged, containing woodcut drawings and crabbed text in Latin. Was this important? It didn’t seem to have anything to do with music. Sarah peered at the gruesome drawings. In between two pages she found a letter in German, dated October 3, 1974. Sarah skimmed it, and caught the phrase
Aztec Amulett, ein Geschenk von Ludwig van Beethoven
. Excited, she began to read more carefully from the beginning. Maybe this was a clue to where the Aztec amulet had ended up. A scholarly thrill ran through her.

The letter, however, was frustrating. It was written by a Herr Gottlieb, who seemed to be a 1970s Miles-type equivalent at Nelahozeves. The letter was addressed to a functionary at the National Museum in Prague. It complained, with East German fastidiousness, of a number of items being removed from the Nelahozeves storage facility without proper documentation. The Aztec amulet was listed as one such item. Also a gold, sapphire-encrusted cigarette case, very valuable, which had once belonged to the 6th Prince Lobkowicz. Herr Gottlieb began the letter in a spirit of outrage, then seemed to lose heart halfway through, assuring the recipient that he did not mean to accuse their esteemed director, Herr Bespalov, of unethical practices. Herr Bespalov was a man of great integrity, etcetera, etcetera. The items—idolatrous and decadent—were not appropriate for display at Nelahozeves. The National Museum in Prague was, no doubt, a more suitable place.

The letter was yellowed but not creased. She wondered if it had ever been sent or if Herr Gottlieb had decided that he didn’t want to risk annoying his superiors. She made a note to research a “Bespalov” who was connected to the National Museum. Well, she had tracked the amulet to the 1970s at least.

“Eleanor?” she called out.

“Yes?” she heard from a long way away.

“Nothing. Just checking to make sure you haven’t lef haion Pro">t me here.”

Sarah set the box aside and continued her search. Just before dark, the silence they had worked in all afternoon was interrupted by the sound of a car horn honking in the courtyard.

Brushing a few centuries’ worth of dust from her jeans, Sarah met a cobwebbed Eleanor at the library door. From the glassed-in loggia they saw Miles, and a blue Renault, below.

“Heard you had some car trouble,” said Miles when they reached the courtyard.

“I hate driving in Europe,” Eleanor wailed. “It’s so stressful.”

“It was partly my fault,” began Sarah. “I should help pay for the damage.”

Miles nodded. “That’s very correct of you, but not to worry, it’s been taken care of. I’m just glad neither one of you was injured. Where’s Max?”

“We haven’t seen much of him,” Sarah said. “We’ve been in the library all day.”

“I’m feeling rather triumphant,” said Eleanor, producing a box. “Apparently the Lobkowicz family not only purchased Ernestine’s paintings, they also collected some of her letters. I can’t wait to read her correspondence with her dressmaker!” Miles smiled somewhat mechanically.

“What about you?” he asked Sarah, gesturing to the box she was carrying.

“I actually did find a mention of the Aztec amulet.” She handed over the box. “It’s in the letter on top. And there’s a book, incunabulum of some kind. The rest is sheet music, nineteenth century. I’ll need more time with it to see if it’s interesting.”

Miles opened the door of the car, and Eleanor made for the passenger side.

Sarah thought how easy it would be to get in the car, go back to Prague, and just be the Beethoven scholar she was hired to be. But what Douglas Sexton had told her of the strange goings-on at Nelahozeves was weighing on her mind. She really needed to get some answers out of Max as to what he and Sherbatsky were up to. She had chickened out earlier, which wasn’t her style.

“You know what? I kind of want to keep working,” she said. “I think I’ll stay over and take the train back tomorrow.”

“Really?” Eleanor sounded disappointed. “But I’m making fresh pesto tonight.”

Miles frowned. “There’s no electricity or running water.”

“I’m a good camper,” Sarah countered with confidence she didn’t feel. “I’m not sure when I’ll get a chance to come back here and I want to make use of the time.”

Miles looked skeptical.

“Is Max okay with you staying over?” Miles said. “He’s usually very squirrelly about people being out here.”

“He said it was fine,” lied Sarah. “I’ll do my thing and he’ll do his. I just want a few more hours to try and track down some of these things Sherbatsky mentioned in his notes.”

“Bring whatever you find directly to me tomorrow,” Miles reminded her. The Renault crunched over the cobbles and disappeared from sight.
si-1" face

•   •   •

“N
ow, if I were a prince, where would I be?” Sarah murmured, turning back to the castle. She didn’t relish the thought of searching through dark corridors for Max. But she still had the letter Jana asked her to give to him. The letter she had steamed open in a palace bathroom like some kind of Renaissance Nancy Drew. She wondered idly what it was that Max needed to keep in a maximum security safe in Venice. Was he planning on trying to quietly sell off a family heirloom? Maybe it had something to do with the drugs.

Happy to be out in the fresh air, Sarah decided to take a stroll around the garden and plan the best way to approach Max. She followed a flight of stone stairs down into a path through a grove of trees. These had finished blooming, but there were petals forming a carpet on the ground, and it was all rather magical. Sarah strolled along a walkway lined with a tall hedge. It was a lovely evening, and the weird, violent
events of the day seemed less frightening in the soft light.

She rounded a corner and saw a small pond.

And Max, leaning over and kissing someone who was stretched out in the tall grass.

Max was kissing a man.

Sarah was about to turn away, smiling, when she realized that Max wasn’t making out with the man lying on the ground. He was giving him CPR.

FIFTEEN

“M
ax,” Sarah called, running. She dropped down to her knees next to the two men.

With a shock, she recognized the man Max was trying to revive. He was the policeman who had showed up at the accident earlier. Although now he wasn’t wearing his cop’s uniform.

Max continued to perform CPR, not stopping to acknowledge her presence. Sarah leaned over the man’s face and looked into his open eyes. Her memory suddenly skipped back to childhood and how she and her father had found the neighbor’s dog lying still and quiet in their backyard. Her father had knelt over Annie, testing her corneal reflex to make sure she was really gone. Sarah took her index finger and pushed it gently into one of the policeman’s eyes. Her heart missed a beat.

“Max,” she said, gently putting her hand on his arm to stop his frantic motion as he pumped the man’s chest. “You can stop. It’s too late. He’s dead.”

Max sat back on his heels and ran his hands through his hair. “Sarah,” Max said. “I didn’t do it. I swear. I didn’t do it.”

She looked at Max. His eyes were clear, and he seemed focused. But scared. It actually hadn’t occurred to Sarah that Max had killed the man, probably because he had been performing CPR. But now she thought of Max’s wild attack on her earlier.

“What happened?” Sarah asked, trying to stay calm.

“I don’t know,” Max shook his head. “I was trying to find that stupid Chihuahua. There’re things around here that could e si-12em"at that kind of dog. And instead I found . . . he was just lying here. I didn’t hear him call out, I don’t . . .”

“Max,” Sarah said, levelly. “I have to ask . . . were you on some sort of . . .”

“No!” Max said. But he didn’t sound belligerent or defensive this time. He grabbed Sarah’s hand. “Look, I know what you must be thinking. I was . . . earlier . . . look it’s not what you think, but I wasn’t myself. I mean, I was myself, but I wasn’t seeing what you were seeing. I can’t explain.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Sarah said.

“I don’t blame you for thinking I’m crazy,” Max said, looking at the dead body bleakly. “But I swear to you I didn’t freak out and kill him in some sort of LSD blackout. It’s not like that. I’ve been totally . . . normal all afternoon.” His hand was trembling in Sarah’s. Something about his voice, his face . . . she realized she believed him. She looked at the body.

“Maybe he had a heart attack?” she suggested. “He seems kind of young for that. I don’t see any kind of wound, or . . .” Sarah leaned forward slightly over the body, and her hand came down against something in the long grass. She pulled it up.

It was an old-fashioned film camera with a telescopic lens. And it was flecked with blood.

“Okay. Not good,” she said, dropping it back in the grass.

“Oh Christ,” growled Max. He flipped the man over, and they could both now see a jagged hole in the back of the man’s jacket, in between the shoulder blades. Max plucked at the cloth and his hand, too, came away stained with blood. Max recoiled and the body flopped back in the grass with a wet thunk.

“What is it? Was he shot?” Sarah rubbed the grass with her hands. Max reached into his jacket pocket and with absentminded politeness offered a large snowy white handkerchief. My God, Sarah thought. Who is this person?

“I . . . think so,” Max said slowly. “And he’s cold. He was cold when I touched him. He’s been dead for a while maybe.”

“Well, not for very long,” Sarah said, handing the handkerchief back. “Maybe for a couple of hours. I saw him this morning.”

“You saw Andy this morning? Where?”

“Wait, you know him?” Sarah spluttered.

“I do.” Max rocked back on his heels. “So do you apparently.”

“Well, I recognize him,” said Sarah. “He’s the policeman who stopped us earlier. When Eleanor smashed the truck.”

“He’s not a policeman.” Max stood up and looked at Sarah strangely. “What are you talking about? What policeman? Eleanor smashed the truck?”

“Who is Andy?” Sarah demanded. “What are
you
talking about?”

“Andy Blackman . . . he works at Sternberg Palace,” Max said, pointing at the body.

Sarah looked">S the po at the dead man’s face. Then at his uniform—a Nehru-style jacket with some sort of insignia over the right breast. Sternberg Palace, now an art museum, was located just outside Prague Castle’s gates. She hadn’t been inside yet, but she had seen uniforms like this around the castle grounds.

“This man,” Sarah said, trying to keep her voice calm. “This man stopped Eleanor and me earlier today. He was on a motorcyle. Eleanor backed into a tractor on our way over here, and this man came along. He was wearing a policeman’s uniform. He was speaking Czech. He took the truck away.” Max blinked at her.

“This man,” Max said, “is installing the new security system over at the Sternberg. I’ve been consulting with him about ours. He is definitely
not
a policeman. He’s not even Czech. He barely speaks it. He’s from Philadelphia.” Max looked around at the trees and hedges surrounding them.

“Sarah,” Max said. “Whoever did this to him. They might still be here. You should go. Go back to Nela. Call a cab. Take a train back to Prague.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Sarah said firmly. “And I’m not wandering off by myself if there’s a killer loose on the grounds.” At this, they both scanned the hedge and the pond anxiously. It was all very quiet, absurdly pastoral and lovely.

They turned back to the body—Andy—and then looked at each other.

“I suppose we’d better call the police,” Max said. “My cell is at the house.” The sound of a branch snapping somewhere nearby startled them both. Max grabbed Sarah’s hand and pulled her facedown into the long grass, covering her body with his own longer one.

“Max,” hissed Sarah.

“Quiet,” Max hissed back, into her ear. They lay there for several minutes, listening.

Sarah, her head crushed by Max’s elbow, turned her face, which brought her nose directly into contact with Max’s throat.

The scent of him was overpowering. For a moment it seemed as if the ground was tilting underneath their bodies. She forgot that there might be some sort of deranged lunatic lurking in the hedges. She inhaled greedily. Adrenaline was coursing through her body; she felt like running, like rolling over and over in the grass, like playing the piano. Playing the piano really, really loudly.

“Sarah?” Max said, his voice thick in her ear, as if he could read her thoughts. And then it seemed to come to both of them, at the same time, that they were about two feet away from a dead body and potentially in grave danger from becoming dead bodies themselves. They separated themselves.

“Let’s get back to the house,” Max said, in a somewhat dazed voice. “We can call the cops from there.”

Sarah nodded.

“Should we take this?” She picked up the camera.

“Leave it,” Max said, and then, “No. Wait. Give it to me.” They began walking quickly back to the castle.

“Here’s the story,” Max said, his eyes sweeping the landscape. “I will say I found him—Andy—who is known to me in his professional capacity at Sternberg Palace. I found him here, on my grounds. I attempted to perform CPR. I did not PR.l say have a cell phone with me. When I realized that he was beyond medical help, I ran back to the house to call for an ambulance and to inform the police. You did not see me, or this. You were working in the library and saw nothing.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sarah said. “I’ve touched him. My fingerprints are all over him. And the camera. We should tell the police we found him while we were out walking together.”

“I’m trying to protect you,” Max said, frowning. “This isn’t . . . you’re not involved in this.”

“What is
this
?” Sarah asked. “Do you know why somebody would want to kill him? Or why he would pretend to be a Czech policeman? Unless he really
is
a Czech policeman and was pretending to be an American security installation guy at the Sternberg Palace? I mean, which is it?”

Max stopped walking and Sarah, who was slightly behind him, collided with his shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Max said. “But I think someone is trying to frame me. I think someone dumped his body here and was going to make it look like I killed him. Or maybe someone thought he was me.”

As if on cue, a heavy rain began to fall.

•   •   •

S
arah wasn’t sure why, but she insisted Max adopt her version of finding the body for when they talked to the police.

“That way we both have an alibi,” she said. She wasn’t sure if she trusted him entirely, but she trusted that he wasn’t a murderer. She knew that her trust was a little illogical, and probably owed a lot to the way Max smelled, but there it was.

Max called the police. When he was done, Sarah pointed to the camera still slung from his shoulder. “What are you going to do with that?” she asked.

“I want to look at the film,” Max said. “God knows what’s on it. Maybe it will give me some sort of a clue as to what he was doing here.”

“Give
us
a clue,” Sarah said firmly. “Give me the camera. I’ll put it in my backpack.” It was a challenge, and after a moment Max accepted it and handed the camera over. Sarah made for the stairs.

“Maybe you should hide it until the police leave,” Max said.

“Hide it where?”

“Are you kidding?” Max folded his arms. “Look around you. My family’s been hoarding crap for six hundred years. Where
can’t
you hide it?”

•   •   •

I
t had stopped raining by the time the police finally arrived. Max explained the situation in Czech, which he seemed to speak well, to a set of dourly efficient policemen. At least, Sarah hoped that he was explaining the situation. Then the two officers, plus Max and Sarah, all trooped down with flashlights to where Max and Sarah had left Andy’s body.

Only it wasn’t there.
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Max swore. Sarah dashed back and forth in the muddy grass, ineffectually. Andy Blackman had disappeared.

One of the officers made a call, and soon the castle grounds were being swept by half a dozen police officers while Sarah and Max were taken back inside the house. They sat on packing crates—the only furniture—and repeated their statements over and over again. Sarah heard her own voice say, “But I’m positive he was dead,” and thought that she sounded like she was lying. Soon she began to doubt herself.
Had
Andy been dead? There was blood. Didn’t the officers see the blood?

But of course the rain had washed that away.

The policeman interrogating Sarah received a call on his walkie-talkie and disappeared. Max and Sarah exchanged a glance but didn’t speak. After a few minutes, an impressively wide and lantern-jawed female officer appeared in the doorway.

“Mr. Anderson,” she said. “You have been, how you say, punked?”

“Punked?” Max repeated, faintly.

“I have been speaking with director of National Gallery. Andy Blackman was at work all day today at Sternberg Palace. He is clearly not as dead as you thought.” She rolled her eyes and issued sharp orders to the officers present, one of whom began barking into a radio.

Sarah’s mind raced. Was Max mistaken in identifying the man? Did Andy have a twin?

“We do not appreciate time wasting,” said the policewoman. “But I think you are not being clever. I think you are perhaps a little stupid.” Sarah expected Max to begin shouting and protesting, but he was strangely silent. His face was impossible to read.

One of the cops came back in carrying something. Sarah saw it was a violin. “This was in the stables,” he said gruffly. “I do not think it should be left out there.”

“No,” said the policewoman, obviously angered by the mistreatment of the musical instrument. “I would expect that Mr. Anderson would not want these treasures, which have been conserved for so long by others and are now in his sole care, to be treated suchly.” Her voice dripped with loathing.

Sarah took the violin carefully from the cop and nodded. As the cops were leaving, Max assumed his princely role. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I am very ashamed to have wasted your time. We’re having a hunt here in the fall. I hope you’ll be my guest.”