Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (22 page)

Gretel was about to call for the bill when she noticed a middle-aged woman enter the shop. She seemed familiar. Staring at her for a moment, Gretel was able to place her as the mother of the bride at the wedding she had inadvertently witnessed after her flight from the gallery. She recalled the sweet young couple, hand in hand, eyes bright with happiness. And thinking of them brought to mind the curious ritual of stamping on the wine glass.

“That's it!” Gretel shouted, leaping to her feet. “I have it!” she declared to the room of bemused coffee drinkers. She knew what she must do. She must return to Herr Durer's suite and minutely examine the carpet beneath the spot where the frog prints were once displayed. She was certain, now, that she would find there a clue vital to her investigations. But Phelps had fallen on that very place, and she remembered that the cleaners were on the point of cleaning the carpet. Or possibly removing it all together. She must make all haste.

She thrust several notes into the hand of the nearest waiter. It was more than sufficient to settle her account, but she could not spare the time to wait for change. She hurried into
the street, fuelled by sugar, if somewhat slowed by the sheer quantity of food she had just enjoyed. Puffing, she barreled her way through the milling throng of festival goers, every one of whom seemed intent on slowing her progress.

“Excuse me, please. If I might just . . . Let me through, I beseech you. Oh, hell's teeth, stand aside, won't you!” she cried as she pushed and shoved and jostled across the square toward the Grand. She was on the point of entering the hotel when a fanfare blared from the entrance to the square, quickly followed by heralds appearing, trumpets held high, their horses prancing across the pale stones. Behind them came a standard bearer with the flag displaying the sigil and colors of King Julian the Mighty, and a royal procession of impressive proportions.

“For pity's sake—the princesses,” Gretel groaned. “Not now!”

But now they came. People surged forwards and sideways, eager to get a better look, corralled by the attendant guards and soldiers who were charged with keeping the hoi polloi at a respectful distance. Soon uniformed men, bristling with weapons, formed an avenue down which the royal carriage—pulled by six snowy-white horses—wheeled serenely, its pale purple paintwork picked out by gilt trims, with matching drivers and footmen atop.

Though the carriage was covered, it was cleverly constructed with ample windows and a largely glass roof so that the occupants might be viewed by their adoring public. The three princesses—all now grown young women—Charlotte (the youngest and prettiest), Isabella (the small middle-one-that-everyone-overlooks) and Christina (the eldest, tallest, and most obviously Findleberg, with her somewhat ferociously hooked nose) sat together facing forward, waving expertly this way and that, practiced at looking dignified and graceful, through Gretel knew an innate naughtiness and selfishness bubbled beneath
the surface. Opposite them, working her fan as if the air of the city might be poisonous, Baroness Schleswig-Holstein perched straight-backed and straight-laced on the edge of her seat, never for one instant taking her shrewd, bird-like eyes off the trio she had been challenged with chaperoning.

“Stand back! Make way!” yelled a captain whom Gretel recognized from an earlier encounter at the Summer Schloss during a previous case. The man could not utter a word without bellowing, and was clearly enjoying his work as he commanded his men to push back the spectators who longed to see the princesses.

“Well,
really
!” Gretel huffed as she continued to force her way forward. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ferdinand, looking maddeningly handsome in full dress uniform, riding a proud black stallion, keeping close beside the carriage. He was scanning the crowd, presumably for potential assailants. Instead his gaze fell upon Gretel. For the briefest instant their eyes met. He smiled. Gretel scowled, turned away, and, with gargantuan effort and full use of her hard kitten heels on many a hapless toe, shoved her way through the doors of the Grand. She narrowly missed blundering into Strudel, who was exiting as she was entering. Such was the furor and press of bodies that, fortunately, he did not see her. Like everyone else, his attention was taken by the royal party. He stood on tiptoe the better to see them, though he still wore his habitual scowl. The Kapitan was an ardent royalist, yet not even the close proximity of the offspring of his adored monarch could soften his expression. A thought occurred to Gretel. A memory in the shape of an image of Strudel, standing rapt, enchanted almost, and, yes, there was no mistaking it, he had been wearing a smile. It had been a flimsy thing, wobbly and uncertain, as an infant taking its first steps, but smile it was, she remembered vividly, in striking contrast to his everyday
glum visage. As Gretel was borne further into the hotel by the crush of people jostling for better positions along the route the princesses might take, she lost sight of Strudel, but the memory of him actually showing joy upon his scrawny face stayed with her. She struggled to remember where she had seen him thus, and what it was that had caused this unprecedented transformation, but the recollection slipped from her as further fanfares and enthusiastic cheers followed her into the foyer.

Wilbur was manning the lift.

“Up! Herr Durer's rooms at once!” she instructed him.

The poor man had probably seen more drama and had more excitement in the past few weeks than in the rest of his working life, but he recognized the urgency and determination in Gretel's voice, and did not pause to obtain Herr Schoenberg's say-so that she should be allowed up. A fact that Gretel would later realize was pertinent to the business of Phelps's death. Now, however, she was entirely taken up with the matter of the carpet.

Valeri answered her brisk hammering on the door, in time for Gretel to see a chambermaid and a porter on the point of rolling up the floor covering.

“Don't touch that!” she barked, rushing through the room to stand on the thing, which was an effective way of stopping them in their work.

“Fraulein Gretel,” Herr Durer sat up in his chair, “the rug is ruined. These kind people were to have it replaced for me.”

“I beg you, Herr Durer, bid them wait until I have scrutinized it.”

“Again? But I thought you had completed your search of the rooms.”

“I must look once more, now that I know what it is I seek. If the carpet is moved, crucial evidence may be lost.”

The cleaners hesitated and looked to Herr Durer for instructions. When he nodded, they stepped back.

Phelps's body had been removed, leaving only dismal stains. Ignoring these, Gretel fell to her knees, scouring the floor through her lorgnettes. When even these revealed nothing, she began patting the floor gently with her palms. The assembled company looked on, bemused. Slowly, Gretel worked her way methodically over the entire area, taking great care not to miss an inch. She began to fear she had been wrong, and that she would find nothing, when suddenly she gave a yelp of pain.

“Fraulein!” cried Valeri and Herr Durer in unison.

Gretel sat back on her haunches. “‘Tis nothing, fear not,” she told them, putting her finger briefly to her mouth to suck clean the trickle of blood from it. In the other hand she held a tiny object triumphantly up to the light, studying it through her lorgnettes.

“What is it?” Herr Durer asked. “What have you found?”

“Proof, that's what. Proof that the pictures were removed from their frames and their glass before they were taken out of this room.” She proffered her find, a tiny shard of glass, no longer than a fingernail and half its width.

“But,” Valeri shook her head, “I don't understand. Herr Durer is a light sleeper. If the glass had been smashed it would have made a terrible noise which would have woken him from his sleep. It would have woken me too, I should think.”

“Not if it was done in a certain way.”

Herr Durer said, “But surely, there is no way of breaking glass silently.”

“Silently, no. But
quietly
, yes. Quietly enough so it would not disturb a sleeper in the next room.” Gretel clambered to her feet, her knees protesting loudly. “The thief could have removed the prints from their settings and quickly dismantled
the wooden frames, rendering them nothing more than a pile of sticks. He would then have wrapped the glass in thick cloth of some sort—a tablecloth, perhaps, or bed linen. So cocooned, the sheets of glass would have smashed with nothing but a muffled protest beneath foot or hammer. The tiny pieces could then be swept up and put in, say, a small bag.”

“What you suggest is indeed possible,” Herr Durer agreed. “But what would it signify? Do you now know who took my precious frogs?”

“I cannot tell you that. Not yet. But I can tell you that whomever it was, by destroying the glass, faced a much simpler task of concealing the prints. He would have been able to roll them up and tuck them under his arm, or down his trouser leg, maybe. Whatever his modus operandi, his escape must have been considerably easier than I first thought. His options greater. I also know now the manner of person we are dealing with. Someone meticulous. A planner, with a cool head and a steady nerve. Someone able to work quietly and stealthily. All of which, I have to say, rules out both Dr. Phelps and Leopold from my list of suspects. No, it could not have been either of them.”

“But, do you have a notion, a theory, an idea, then, of who could have done it?”

“I do.” She held up a hand. “Do not press me, Herr Durer, I implore you. I will not reveal the name of the one I am now somewhere near certain committed this crime until I have further evidence, proof positive of his guilt. But, I promise you, that moment is near. Very near indeed.” Gretel was about to leave when Valeri stepped forwards.

“Fraulein,” she said, “we did as you asked. We scoured the suite, counting every object, to see if something was missing, and yes, you were right.”

“Was it a heavy object?”

Valeri and Herr Durer stared at her, quite astonished. “Why yes,” Valeri nodded, “it was. A paperweight. Glass, from Italy. Quite pretty.”

“But not of significant value,” Herr Durer put in. “There are far more expensive items here. I can't understand why a thief would bother to take it.”

“We are not dealing with a thief. We are dealing with a murderer. And the value of the item lies not in its monetary worth, but in its weight. I shall return the moment I have definitive proof for you, on both matters.”

THIRTEEN

I
n order to confirm her suspicions, Gretel needed to return to Wolfie's apartment. However, on leaving the hotel she found she could go no further than the front steps. The royal party had come to a halt in the square, and Ferdinand's men had set about cordoning off the area so that they might walk safely among their people for a time. The crowd had already doubled in size as word had spread of the regal visitors, and there was an air of excitement bordering on the hysterical in some quarters. Young women sought to emulate the elegance of the princesses. Children regarded them with wide-eyed wonderment. The elderly watched wistfully, no doubt recalling the time when the king and queen were young and
shared their own youth. And every man between the ages of eighteen and thirty-eight puffed himself up imagining winning the hand of one of the royal daughters, proving himself the very best of men, and ensuring a future of ease and privilege.

Gretel might have known King Julian would not miss an opportunity to put his daughters to good use. Taxes were rising, and anything that could be done to endear the monarchy to the nation must be done. Three decorative princesses parading and smiling sweetly, offering a gloved hand here or there to a carefully selected subject, could do no harm to the popularity of the royal family. As the young women made their charming progress about the square, Baroness Schleswig-Holstein dogged their steps, a presence infinitely more forbidding and off-putting than the elite royal guard itself.

Employing her elbows to assist her, Gretel pressed through the melee, but still she could see no way across the square. She came upon a soldier of the king's guard and tapped him on the shoulder.

“How long is this going on?” she asked. “I need to get over there.”

“Their Royal Highnesses have expressed a wish to mingle. There is no set time for how long that mingling might continue,” he told her, the manner of his speech suggesting he was simply repeating what he had been told to say verbatim, so that Gretel knew she would get nothing more succinct or helpful from him. At that moment she heard her name being called and turned to find Hans and Wolfie forging their way toward her.

“Isn't it splendid, sister dear? Royalty! In our very midst!” Hans was quite pink-cheeked with excitement.

“And the princesses are so pretty,” Wolfie put in. “Especially the little one. Just now she caught my eye and she smiled at me,” he giggled, “you know . . . one of those
special
smiles.”

Gretel sighed. That Hans was so starstruck came as no surprise, but to hear Wolfie taken in so completely as well wearied her. Was there no one inured to the combination of a title, a trumpet, and a few horses in ribbons?

“The princesses are trained to smile at everyone,” she told him. “It's their job. It's what they are required to do.”

“Oh yes,” Wolfie agreed, “and they do it so splendidly. But still, that
special
smile . . .” he wrinkled his nose, causing his moustache to flip upwards and forwards. Never had Gretel encountered facial hair with such a variety of attitudes.

“The little one, you say?” she raised her eyebrows. “That would be Princess Isabella, whose hobbies include stag hunting, fencing, and poker. Do not be deceived by her diminutive size or refined manner. She would eat you for breakfast and feed the bones to her hounds.”