Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (13 page)

“Leopold, this is Gretel from Gesternstadt, she is here at my request to . . .”

“Oh yes,” he interrupted. “I heard you had engaged a
detective
.” He made the word sound less than respectable. “At what cost, I wonder? Everyone knows such people charge to excess if they think they can get away with it. Be assured, Fraulein, my good uncle is not alone in this world. Any who seek to take advantage of him will have me to answer to.” The youth thrust
forward his chin and struck his topaz-topped cane against the floor to underline his point.

Opposing forces battled inside Gretel. One force was driven by her ever present desire to make money, and therefore presented the best course of action as a courteous if cool reply, so that neither the obnoxious fop nor Gretel's client could take offense, thus minimizing the risk of her source of income being abruptly stopped up. The other force within her was propelled by the natural repulsion the dandy so effortlessly caused to rise, bile-like, from her stomach. This visceral response dictated that she defend her apparently slandered character and put the young pup firmly in his place. She focused on the warming roll of bank notes pressed against her flesh and allowed caution to be the victor. At least, for now.

“Have no fear,” she did her utmost to smile as she spoke, “in the matter of the stolen prints, your uncle's best interests and my own are allied.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“We are both desirous of a speedy recovery of the pictures.”

“Uncle is, certainly. You, however, may find it more profitable to draw the matter out.”

“The matter will take as long as it takes. In fact, to move slowly might allow the perpetrator to travel further or sell the art works on, and so would not be helpful to me, ultimately, as I would risk losing the finding fee Herr Durer has just agreed to pay me upon their recovery.”

“Uncle, I beg of you, promise nothing more without consulting me.”

“Oh, Leopold, do not concern yourself. Fraulein Gretel's reputation has its foundation upon her integrity.”

“You are too trusting,” Leopold insisted, strutting about the room, polluting the air with his fragrance and his demeanor, both of which Gretel found to be increasingly unpleasant.
“There are sharp people in this world. People who prey upon the weak and the simple. Such people cover themselves with a veneer of respectability.”

Gretel seethed, her hold on her temper slipping by the second.

“Come, come,” Herr Durer wheeled himself to a point between his nephew and Gretel. “As Fraulein Gretel says, we are all in search of the same thing; the return of my darling frogs. She is a detective of renown. She is here to help us.”

“She is here to make money, Uncle, be under no illusion. She has no more love for the revolting toads than do I.”

Herr Durer flinched, Valeri laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, and something inside Gretel snapped like overstretched knicker elastic.

“Now look here: I refuse to be accused of sharp practice and have my character questioned by a youth who clearly does not have the wit even to recall what the missing pictures depict.” Leopold opened his mouth to protest, but Gretel had done some strutting of her own and was now close enough to prod him in his puffed out, silver-buttoned chest, so prod she did. Hard. Driving each point home with an angry jab so that the youngster was compelled to stagger backwards. “You, sir, are too young, too arrogant, too stupid, and by all accounts too indolent to lecture your elders and betters in such away, and if you ever again in my presence treat Herr Durer with such disrespect and so carelessly cause him pain I will take that ridiculously outmoded cane of yours and insert it firmly . . .”

“Fraulein!” Herr Durer squawked. “Be at ease. My nephew meant no offense. It is only the boldness of youth, and his eagerness to protect me that make him speak so. We must forgive such folly as juvenile passion, surely?”

Leopold flicked at Gretel with an embroidered handkerchief and curled his lip.

“I need no lessons from you, Fraulein.”

“It seems someone must improve your manners.”

Herr Durer was forced to reposition his wheeled chair once again to come between the two.

“Let us take some small refreshment, a little schnapps maybe. A quarrel will help no one.”

Gretel was ashamed to see how distressed the old man looked. He seemed suddenly every one of his one hundred and five years, and she felt in part responsible. Whilst Leopold clearly needed to be told what he did not want to hear, it was too vexing for his uncle to witness.

“My apologies, Herr Durer,” she said, directing her words to her client. Leopold seized the apology for himself, however.

“Accepted,” he said, pouncing.

Gretel ground her teeth but allowed herself to be steered toward a sofa by Valeri.

“Will you take a glass of schnapps, Fraulein?” she asked.

“Thank you, no. I must press on with my investigations. I will take up no more of your time.”

Valeri squeezed her arm and whispered. “I will do as you ask, Fraulein.”

On the steps of the hotel Gretel stood and inhaled welcome gulps of fresh air, attempting to rid herself of Leopold's sickly scent. The sun was still shining brightly, and there was a sense of activity in the square. Ornamental shrubs in large pots, as well as flags and bunting were being slowly assembled and put up in preparation for the start of the festival. Everyone moved with purpose, creating a growing atmosphere of bustle and anticipation. Gretel closed her eyes for a moment and let the sun dance dapples on her lids. She took another deep breath, and as she released it she tried to send with it the tension Leopold had stirred in her. Much as she would like to accuse him of a crime and see him clapped in irons, she doubted very
much that he had stolen the prints. For all his bravado and swagger, he was obviously far from being the brightest star in the firmament. She could not conceive of him having the resourcefulness to spirit away the pictures, secretly sell them, and then effect such indignity at their having been taken. No, she concluded, if Leopold had, by some freak alignment of circumstances, succeeded in taking the prints, he would be away at this very minute spending the proceeds, no doubt on purple silk paisley, and not here admonishing his uncle for trusting her to find them.

Gretel opened her eyes to the unwelcome sight of Kapitan Strudel standing on the steps of Wolfie's apartment block. She froze. Could he have found out where she was staying? Whom had she told? She watched him, and saw that in fact he was not reading the name plates on the front door, but merely using the steps to gain a better view of the square, which he was scanning slowly, his narrow eyes, habitually set to scowl, reduced even further as he squinted against the sun. Gretel had no choice but to slink back inside the hotel. She tucked herself into a corner and peered out of a window. How long was the dratted man going to stand there? There was no chance of her leaving the hotel without being spotted as long as he held his vantage point. It would be just like Strudel to arrest her and drag her all the way back to Gesternstadt. Something to be avoided at all costs, if she was to continue with the case and make some more much-needed money.

“Are you waiting for someone, Fraulein Gretel?”

A familiar voice simultaneously caused Gretel to jump and to break out in goose bumps. She turned to find General Ferdinand standing, suave and gorgeous as ever, watching her.

“Ah, waiting for . . . no,” she said, cursing the way her customarily sharp and nimble wits seemed to dull and bump into one another in this man's presence.

“Oh,” he peered past her through the window, “looking out for a likely art thief perhaps?”

“Something like that. Though of course, I am not at liberty to divulge . . .”

“Indeed not. And are your investigations progressing well?”

“Well enough.” She resisted the urge to look out of the window and see if Strudel had moved. She wanted him gone from those steps, but not if it meant he was about to appear through the doors of the hotel. She stepped sideways behind a pillar in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner. Ferdinand tilted his head to one side a little but said nothing. Gretel thought this worrying, as it suggested he expected strange behavior of her.

“And your own work?” she asked, seeking to deflect attention from herself. “How are preparations for the royal visit coming along?”

“All will be ready for the princesses in good time for their arrival.”

“Excellent,” said Gretel, effecting to turn away in order to blow her nose, whilst in fact stealing a glance around the pillar. Strudel was nowhere to be seen. She took another pace around the marble column. Ferdinand followed her, the pair now engaged in a ponderous dance.

“I was wondering,” he told her, “if you were not too busy . . .”

“Not too busy . . .” Gretel repeated distractedly, snatching a peek at the entrance but seeing no sign of the elusive kingsman.

“If you would like to accompany me on an outing of some sort. A moment's recreation amid your work load.”

“A moment's recreation,” Gretel echoed, craning her neck in search of Strudel.

“Of course, if you have other plans, or if you do not wish to interrupt your business . . .”

Gretel's mind belatedly registered what was on offer. All thoughts of the kingsman vanished. In fact, all thoughts of
anyone and anything other than Ferdinand and the possibility of what was beginning to sound very much like a rendezvous, disappeared. She stared at him. “Business needs interrupting from time to time,” she assured him. “An overworked mind does not yield the best results, in my experience.” Gretel's head was quickly filling with visions of moonlit walks, arm in arm; of feasting on haute cuisine beneath the chandeliers of the dining hall at the Grand; of being gently punted along the river, peeping fetchingly from beneath a lace parasol; of Ferdinand's strong arms around her as they whirled about a dance floor; of her hand in his as they rode through Nuremberg in an open-topped carriage pulled by white horses with silver ostrich plumes atop their bridles and pageboys blowing shiny trumpets, and, and, and . . .

“I was hoping you might accompany me to the Nuremberg Art Gallery later this afternoon.”

Gretel heard a flat popping noise as her bubble of fantasy burst, and the dry voice of her long-dead grandmother reminding her
blessed is she who expecteth nothing
.

“Gallery?”

“Yes. I've heard it is very good. They have one or two pieces by none other than . . .”

“Albrecht Durer, yes, I've heard that too,” she said, mentally returning her wig to its box and sulkily slamming the lid.

“So, you'll come?”

She recovered herself sufficiently to be graceful. A plod round a couple of rooms looking at pictures was not the most exciting prospect, but it was a start. And after all, she had stood him up by not attending the ball; she could not expect too much too soon. She would dress smartly and be her most charming and attentive self, and surely a more romantic occasion would soon follow. Besides, she reminded herself, it would give her the opportunity to see Durer's wretched rhinoceros.

“I should be delighted,” she told him.

“Excellent. Then I suggest we meet here at two?”

Gretel agreed, and, having satisfied herself that Strudel had taken himself off somewhere else to look for her, she hurried out of the hotel and across the square. It might only be a very demure and proper outing, but she refused to entertain the idea of meeting Ferdinand in her tired yellow check again. She had money beneath her corset. There was a dress shop on the square. As she pushed open the door of the House of Fashion she heard her tired heart sing just the teeniest tiniest bit.

NINE

I
n a matter of minutes Gretel was in a dressing room to the rear of the shop, stripped to her undergarments, enjoying having two shop assistants and the owner of the establishment fussing around her. Soon she was stepping into the petrel blue dress with the black velvet collar. Her desire for the thing was only increased by the discovery that it came with a matching jacket.

“Oh, yes, Fraulein!” the proprietress clapped her hands in delight. “The cut is most becoming.”

“Or will be, when certain adjustments have been made,” Gretel corrected her, taking in the size of the gap between buttons and hooks.

“A simple matter.”

“I need something for this afternoon.”

“We can have the alterations completed within the hour and delivered to you.”

Gretel ran her hands over the crisp fabric of the dress. It was perfect: sophisticated, yet simple. Understated, yet of unmistakable quality. Even half dressed in the thing she felt more efficient, more professional, and more attractive. “I'll take it. And pass me those to try, would you?” She gestured at the lorgnettes. The shop girl looped the chain over Gretel's neck. The ornate glasses hung decoratively against her bosom. She took the handle, enjoying the cool silver beneath her fingers, and held the eyeglasses in place. At once all things close sprang into sharp focus. “Marvelous!” she exclaimed, moving about the room to read labels on scarves and study stitching on gloves. “Quite marvelous. I'll take these too.”

“An elegant choice, Fraulein,” said the shop owner.

Gretel remembered the fur cloak she had seen in the window. A small thrill of excitement jolted through her at the thought of it. “I wonder,” she said cautiously, as if to persuade herself, “I wonder if I might take a closer look at that rather attractive fur . . .”

“The Swedish Silver Wolf?”

“Oh? Is that what it is?” She did her best to sound unimpressed, but her pulse was racing. Swedish Silver Wolf! Nobody in Gesternstadt would have so much as a tuft of the thing. She doubted there was even any to be found at the Summer Schloss, for all Queen Beatrix's considering herself a woman of high fashion. But then, if it were truly such a rare and far-fetched fur, it would have an equally stunning price. It was too late for second thoughts, however. In a thrice, the blue dress was taken away for remodeling, and the Gretel felt the whispering kiss of fur upon her bare shoulders. She turned to the looking glass,
allowing the cloak to swirl and billow softly as she moved. It really was the most breathtakingly beautiful creation she had ever worn. She still clutched the lorgnettes and put them to her eyes once more, snatching at the tag that dangled from the fur. The sigh of pleasure she had released at the feel of the garment was quickly sucked back in with a gasp of shock. She must have done a good job of not letting her horror show, as the shop owner was evidently hopeful of a sale.