Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (16 page)

Gretel shook her head. Perhaps it was a fact that some people—some beings—were born glum and remained so no matter what. She faced herself briefly in the looking glass.

“To work, Gretel of Gesternstadt. To work,” she said, and headed off in the direction of the troglodytic rooms of Mistress Crane.

TEN

O
n arriving at the brothel, Gretel was greeted with surprise by the madam, ill-concealed lust from Bacon Bob, and suspicion from one or two of the other girls. She was taken to a room where several young women were in varying states of
déshabillé
and told to get into her costume. She recognized the two girls she had first seen entering through the hidden doorway. One, a tall brunette with a prominent beauty mark above her top lip, looked Gretel up and down scathingly.

“What are you doing here?” she wanted to know.

“I should have thought that was obvious. Working, much like yourself.”

“You're no more a doxie than I'm an archbishop,” the girl sneered. “You might look down-at-heel, but you're educated. You speak more like a trick than a working girl.”

“Anybody can fall upon hard times. A woman must do what she must do to survive.” Even as Gretel spun the story she felt her own faith in it waning. It seemed wrong to dupe the girls. And yet, she did not know whom among them she might trust. To tell them the truth behind her being there could put her at real risk of discovery. “Tell me,” she asked, “are you acquainted with a lovely girl called Valeri?”

The brunette shook her head. “I know no one of that name.”

“Really? A bubbly person. Striking red hair . . . ?”

One of the other girls—whom Gretel had previously seen dressed as a serving wench, but who now appeared to be a wood nymph—stopped curling her hair with the heating tongs. “That sounds like Fifi. At least, that was what she called herself when she was here.”

The brunette nodded. “Oh, yes. Fifi. Got it into her head to better herself and took off.”

“Well,” Gretel spoke in gasps as a maid attempted to force her into her black leather, “she did. Better herself, that is. As a matter of fact—oof, steady on!—I was rather hoping she might have had a word with you. About me.”

The wood nymph shrugged, “I haven't seen her.”

Brunette Beauty Spot gave a snort. “Only visitors we get are paying ones. She'll not come down here for fear of Mistress Crane getting her claws into her again. No, if she's any sense she'll stay well clear.”

Gretel's shoulders slumped ever so slightly, causing the struggling maid to tut as she continued in her efforts with the outfit. Gretel had harbored hopes that Valeri would have been as good as her promise and alerted her friends to what was going on, helping ensure that Phelps put himself in her way, as it were.
But then, she had only spoken to the girl a matter of hours earlier. If, as Beauty Spot pointed out, she was wary of visiting these secret rooms, she might not yet have had the chance to talk to any of the girls. Which meant there was no guarantee Phelps would ask for She Who Rules. At last Gretel was strapped into her shiny encasing. The room was small and crowded and hot, and she felt her cheeks flushing unbecomingly. A looking glass showed her as ridiculous, somehow, without her mask. She wondered at the fact that the half-completed pretense could be any more ludicrous than the complete one, but so it would seem. She addressed the wood nymph.

“Valeri—that is, Fifi—she mentioned that some of the patrons of this establishment are, shall we say, less than gentlemanly in their treatment of the girls. You would have your own views on such toms, I'll wager.”

The room was briefly filled with bitter laughter. At last Wood Nymph replied.

“I could give you a list!”

Beauty Spot agreed. “Men don't come here to be gentlemen, whatever face they may present to the rest of the world. They must have a different breed of man in Hamburg for you to think otherwise.”

“Of course, but I was thinking of more specific . . . brutality. Valeri was reluctant to name names, naturally, but she gave me to understand that Dr. Phelps was such a person.”

The mood in the room cooled perceptibly. Beauty Spot spat elaborately into an empty flower vase. Wood Nymph rubbed her skinny arms as if cold. “That man . . . he is . . .”

“Valeri was not wrong?” Gretel suggested.

“She was not,” Wood Nymph agreed.

Gretel weighed up the risk against possible gain of taking the girls into her confidence. The prospect of having to entertain several clients without getting at Phelps was not an attractive one.

“Ladies, may I speak candidly?”

“Why not?” Beauty Spot asked. “We are not easily offended.”

Gretel lowered her voice to a whisper. “You were astute in your assessment of me. This is not, I confess, my usual line of work.”

“I knew it!” Beauty Spot was triumphant. “Just as I said, you might look like one of us . . .”

“Yes, thank you for that.”

Wood Nymph frowned. “But if you are not one of us, why are you here, wearing that, doing whatever it is you do in that room with your clients?”

“I would point out that to date I have had only one client, who spent the whole of his allotted time asleep and remains to this day untainted by the attentions of She Who Rules. I have not, so far, applied my whip to anyone, and would be delighted if that could remain the case. With the possible exception of Dr. Phelps.”

“You're out to get Phelps?” Now Beauty Spot was properly interested. The girls crowded closely around Gretel, eager for an explanation.

“I aim to get the truth from him.”

“Truth about what?”

“You may have heard, there was a theft from the hotel a short while ago. Some works of art were taken. Works of great value.”

“Oh, that!” Beauty Spot rolled her eyes. “Phelps has spoken of nothing else. I'm almost glad to oblige his demands just to shut him up on the matter.”

Wood Nymph was attempting to put the pieces of the puzzle together. “But, how does any of that bring you here?”

“My name is Gretel of Gesternstadt. I am a private detective, and my services have been engaged by Albrecht Durer the Much Much Younger to investigate the case and retrieve the missing pictures.”

There was a collective ooh of surprise. Gretel continued.

“I believe Dr. Phelps to be implicated in the theft.”

“You think he stole the pictures?”

“I believe it possible. I wish to question him . . . severely on the subject. It is my considered opinion that She Who Rules might be more successful at getting answers from him than myself. Which is where I require your assistance.”

Beauty Spot smiled. “Phelps branded a common thief and left to rot in jail somewhere! I'll be a party to that any night of the week.”

The others nodded.

“Excellent,” said Gretel. “All I ask of you is that you see to it Phelps asks for me. He has met me—well, me as Gretel, you understand—so the less I have to speak to him before he is tied to the bed in my room the better. I cannot risk him recognizing me, or the game would be up.”

“And Mistress Crane would not be best pleased at being taken for a fool,” said Wood Nymph. “She is sore enough at losing Fifi, you know. Considered her one of her best girls. She'd not be above using foul means to get her back working here. No, she wouldn't like to know she'd been duped by someone trying to help another who got the better of her.”

“Nor having one of her best customers taken from her,” Beauty Spot added.

“Precisely. So, if you ladies could see to it that Phelps allows himself to be, perhaps, escorted to my room . . . ?”

“Leave it to us.” Beauty Spot put her hands on her hips, still smiling. “You'll not find a girl here who wouldn't be glad to see that man brought low.”

The door was flung open and without so much as a by-your-leave, Bacon Bob flicked his fingers at Gretel.

“You's got your first customer. Come on with you. Mustn't keep ‘im waiting.” He jerked his head to indicate she should
get going. Gretel stood up and walked with as much dignity as her loathsome costume would allow, given that her every step was accompanied by a small squeak as leather rubbed against leather. She was conducted to the same room she had been put in on her previous visit. The lights were low, but she could see all too clearly the large form tied to the half-tester bed. Bacon Bob helped himself to a lingering leer before leaving. Gretel heard the key turn in the lock. She felt her mouth dry, and her stomach churn. Taking a steadying breath, she stepped toward the bed. The figure that lay before her, entirely encased in black leather to match her own, was very plainly not Phelps. Mistress Crane had sourced from somewhere suitable attire for the client, but had clearly struggled to find one capacious enough to fit this man. Some of the stitching looked worryingly strained. Gretel swore beneath her breath, but knew that it would have been fortunate beyond what life had led her to expect to find the very man before her without having to first deal with other hopeful clients. This one was twice Phelps's size, a veritable mountain of a man. His balloon of a stomach rose and fell with a slow rhythm and a wheeze which could only be induced by sleep. Peering closer, Gretel could see the huge man was indeed asleep. She recalled that her only other client had been in a similar condition when she had found him. Was this something normal in such circumstances, she wondered. Was it common to all those with a taste for correction to arrive in her room on the point of losing consciousness? She was surprised to find her pride a smidge bruised at the notion that she was insufficiently exciting, even in theory, to keep her clients awake. She shook the thought from her mind. It was ridiculous to care. Much better for her, and in fact the men, if they were all prone to narcolepsy. As if to underline this point, the figure on the bed set up a resounding snore. A rumbling, galloping snore. A snore that shook the bed and
shuddered through the very floorboards beneath her feet. A snore that was startlingly, unmistakably familiar. She leaned over the acres of black leather before her. She had to listen for only seconds more before she was certain.

“Hans!” she barked.

The figure jolted from its slumber with a snort. “What? What's that?”

“Hans, what in the name of all that is sensible are you doing here?”

“Gretel?”

“What possessed you? How did you even discover that this place existed?”

“Oh, good old Wolfie . . .”

“Wolfie comes here?”

“He said it was just a bit of harmless fun. Lots of Nurembergers visit. Quite the thing, so I'm told. Not sure about all this leather though, does get awfully hot. Don't you find?” he asked squinting through the eye-holes in his mask.

Gretel made a note to ask Wolfie by what measure he could possibly deem Mistress Crane's enterprise to be one of “harmless fun.” She also resolved to have a stern talk with her brother about his questionable morals, not to mention the way he saw fit to use the money she had given him to see the sights of the city. She had most definitely not imagined the sort of sight presented at that moment by the overhead mirror. But now was not the time.

“You have to leave. This minute. And if anyone asks, tell them you are a very satisfied customer.”

“Best not to mention you're my sister, then, I suppose?”

Gretel was forced to close her eyes for a moment to shut out the banner headlines she could see splashed over the front of hundreds of gossip pamphlets. Such things could be circulating the city in a matter of hours if so much as a sniff of her situation
got out. Bad enough that Strudel would already have the word put about that she was an absconded murder suspect. Add to the charges prostitution, correction, and possible incest and her reputation would never recover. She would be forced to move somewhere far away. Somewhere where no one knew her, and no one gave a tinker's cuss about such things. She could not imagine such a place—if it existed at all—would be anywhere she would enjoy living. If a people cared nothing for moral turpitude, why would they care about things that mattered to her, such as a well-stitched seam, or an elegantly cut gown, or a bolt of Chinese silk?

“On second thought, Hans, say nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“You have been struck temporarily dumb by the intensity of your experience with She Who Rules.”

“I have? Oh, I see, I have. But, hang it all, Gretel, what are you doing here? And dressed like that? Bit off-putting for a chap, you know, to find his sister engaged in something so . . . unsavory.”

Gretel worked quickly to release her brother from his bonds, and then shoved him off the bed. “I have a perfectly legitimate reason for being here. I am working on a case. I often have to resort to a disguise in the course of my investigations, you know that.”

“Well, yes, but I don't see how dressing up like a black pudding and whipping some poor man . . .”

“Poor man?”

“ . . . how does that help you find those pesky pictures? I know you'll say I'm being dim . . .”

“Perish the thought.”

“ . . . but I simply can't see it.”

“Which is why I'm the detective and you are not,” she said, snatching the mask from his face. “Now listen to me, brother mine. Keep your mouth shut and leave this terrible place as
quickly and quietly as you can. But, if you are stopped and questioned, if anyone asks—
anyone
, you understand?—you have never seen me before in your life. And you are a satisfied customer and would recommend me to your friends.”

“I can't say that! What sort of a brother would that make me? Honestly, Gretel, I think this work of yours is having a bad effect on you, I really do. I mean to say, you can't expect me to tout for business for you. I'm not some sort of plimp.”

“Hans.”

“Yes?”