Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (25 page)

“Gottfried!” she called again, but answer came there none.

The thundering of boots in the hallway heralded the arrival of Kapitan Strudel and two young kingsmen.

“Seize her!” he commanded.

The subordinates did as they were told.

“Wait!” Gretel grabbed hold of the bedpost to prevent them marching her from the room. “Just give me a minute.”

“You've led me a dance long enough, Fraulein,” Strudel told her. “Take her away.”

Fortunately for Gretel, they were unable to do so as Wolfie and Hans had just arrived. They were still only half dressed, their jackets open, chests steaming, faces glowing. Their pungent bodies effectively blocked the doorway.

“I say,” Hans was indignant at the sight of his sister being so manhandled. “What's going on here? Let her go.”

“Oh, Sugar Plum!” Wolfie hurried to her side. “Don't worry, we will rescue you. I am very good friends with the mayor of this city. He has jurisdiction here, not these silly kingsmen.”

“You are?” Hans was impressed. “He does?”

Gretel rolled her eyes. “He probably does,” she told Hans, “but sadly, Wolfie is no more a bosom buddy of the mayor of Nuremberg than am I.”

“Not?” Hans's eyes began to cross.

“Am so!” Wolfie insisted.

“Not
now
, Wolfie,” Gretel begged.

“Enough!” barked Strudel. “Stand aside there, she's coming with us.”

Shouts from the hallway, however, indicated further arrivals. There were cries of, “Thief!” and, “Diamonds!” Gretel put a hand to the gems at her throat, which she had briefly forgotten she was wearing. Wolfie and Hans were compelled to step further into the room to admit Baroness Schleswig-Holstein, Princess Charlotte, two members of the king's guard, and Ferdinand. By the time everyone had forced their way into the bedchamber the room was properly filled.

“Well
really
.” Gretel felt her temper getting the better of her. “Can I remind you all that this is, currently, my bedchamber? And a woman's bedchamber must surely be considered her own private space.”

Strudel shook his head. “Not if she steps beyond the law it isn't.”

“Oh, do be sensible. You know I had nothing to do with that poor messenger's death, and your pursuit of me is not driven by a love of the law but by spite and professional jealousy.” The kingsman attempted to protest but Gretel would not be silenced. She had had enough. “I came here at the request of Albrecht Durer the Much Much Younger to help him, to solve the case of the missing frog prints. I am neither a murderer nor a thief—thank you for the loan of the necklace, Your Highness, I shall be returning it momentarily—nor am I going out of my way to make my local kingsman look like an idiot. Frankly, he does that very well himself. I have worked hard on Herr Durer's behalf, at no small cost to my own health, nerves, and wardrobe, and I can now tell you that my investigations have concluded. I have solved the case, and if everyone would just stand back a bit and be quiet for two whole minutes, and if these oafs would take their hands off me, I will reveal the thief to you all, here and now, this very moment.”

“Bravo!” Hans had started clapping.

Wolfie beamed. “Baby Plum, you are magnificent!”

Strudel started screeching again, insisting she should not be allowed to do anything but must face the consequences of evading the law. The baroness was adamant Gretel had been trying to steal the diamonds. Soon the room resounded to the squabbling and shouting of all present. The cacophony was only brought to an end by an ear-splitting, nerve-shredding whistle.

There was silence.

Everyone turned in the direction from which the shocking sound had come. Slowly, calmly, Gottfried emerged from the shadows and leapt up to sit, whiskers twitching, on the top of the bedpost.

“Good of you to join us,” said Gretel.

Gottfried gave one of his most elegant bows. “As sleep had become an impossibility with all this noise, I thought I might as well see what it was that was so important as to disturb me and my entire family in the middle of the night,” he said.

Princess Charlotte screamed. The baroness implored someone to “kill the hideous thing!” Hans, one kingsman, and a member of the king's guard fainted, landing heavily heaped, as space was scarce. Strudel managed to grow even paler than normal. Wolfie stepped forwards cautiously, his face showing a childlike wonder.

“A talking mouse!” he gasped. “In my house! Imagine. If you'd simply told me, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears, I'd never have believed it.”

Gretel turned to Gottfried and looked at him levelly.

“Again, my apologies for disturbing you, but this is important. And before you start, I have nothing left to barter and I refuse to part with any money. I am trusting to your honor and your good nature that you will do me this one final service. Now, would you be so kind as to tell me where in this apartment I might find the hidden area in which the hobgoblin dwells?”

“Hobgoblin?” breathed Wolfie.

Gottfried gave one of his elaborate shrugs. “Why not?” he said, before hopping down and scampering over to the far corner of the room. He signaled to Gretel. “This panel,” he told her.

While the rest of the company looked on, too stunned by the talking mouse to move or speak further, Gretel slid the dark wooden panel open. Behind it was a low-ceilinged space almost half the size of the room they were in. A lamp sat on a small table, giving sufficient illumination for all to see the tidy dwelling of the hobgoblin. The polished table and stool. The
carefully swept floor and dust-free rug. The extensive collection of cleaning equipment and materials. The neatly made bed. The cozy armchair. And, on the facing wall, safe and sound and lovingly dusted, two intricately detailed and exquisitely drawn pictures showing a family of plump, green frogs.

FOURTEEN

I
t was a little over an hour later by the time all who should be present were installed in the living room of Herr Durer's suite. Albrecht himself was in his wheeled conveyance, smiling; Valeri on a velvet sofa next to him; Kapitan Strudel occupied a suitably spindly wooden chair; the mayor of Nuremberg, who, against all expectations to the contrary, turned out to indeed be a very good friend of Wolfie's, took up most of the small, striped chaise. Two local kingsmen guarded the door. Gretel stood front and center. Behind her, returned to their rightful place, if lacking frames or glass, hung the fabled frog prints.

Herr Durer was the first to speak.

“Oh, Fraulein Gretel, I cannot thank you enough . . . to have my beloved frogs home once more. I confess I never thought to see them again.”

“To think,” said Valeri, “that they were so very close, all this time.”

“Yes,” Strudel agreed, narrowing his eyes pointedly at Gretel, “that fact interests me too. That they should be found in the fraulein's very own bedchamber . . .” he left the thought unfinished so that others could supply their own conclusions.

Gretel ignored the implication he was struggling to make. She would shortly deal with him in her own way. She would not, in the meantime, give credence to his fantasy that Gretel herself might somehow have been involved in the taking of the prints. Before anyone else could follow his line of thinking further, she cleared her throat and presented her findings.

“To begin with, I was inclined, as you know, to favor Dr. Phelps as the prime suspect in this crime. Indeed, even his sudden death did not rule him out.”

“Poor Bruno,” Herr Durer's smile faded. “At least now his reputation will not be tainted by accusations of theft.”

“Reputation!” Valeri could not help herself. Her employer was surprised by her outburst, but was not permitted to question her, as Gretel went on.

“The facts are these. Phelps had a motive for taking the pictures—his adoration for the works of the original Albrecht Durer bordered on obsession. This was well known. However, he had not the means. He was not a physically lithe or agile man, so climbing in and out of high windows would have been beyond him. His noisome personality also made it unlikely he could have both entered and left the suite entirely unnoticed. Leopold, who I also briefly considered a suspect, was similarly handicapped. Forgive me, Herr Durer, I know you are fond of your nephew, but it has to be said the man lives only to be
noticed. It became clear to me that someone stealthy, someone accustomed to going unseen was far more likely to have taken the prints.”

“Which is what led you to suspect the hobgoblin?” asked the mayor. He had come direct from his evening appearance at the wurstfest, and was still in the full regalia of his office, complete with tricorn hat, feathers, robe, and heavy chains. Gretel briefly wondered if mayors in Nuremberg were selected solely for their size, so that they might be able to bear the weight of it all.

“A hobgoblin is indeed well practiced at being invisible. What is more, he could have fitted in the dumb-waiter device that services these rooms.”

“Is that how he got in?” Herr Durer asked.

“It is. What had me stumped for some time was how he had got out again with the pictures. They would not have fitted in the small space the dumb-waiter provides, not in their frames and glass. As neither of these were left behind in the room we all naturally assumed the prints had been removed intact. In fact, they were not. The frames were most probably dismantled, and so easy to transport. The glass, having been wrapped in something—quite possibly those very curtains—was smashed up with little sound to wake anyone. The shattered pieces were swept up by someone diligent and fastidious, as these creatures most certainly are. This allowed the hobgoblin to use the dumb-waiter lift for his escape with the prints furled beneath his arm.”

“What I don't understand,” said Herr Durer, “is how this hobgoblin ever knew the pictures were here in the first place. I mean, I'm told he inhabits a building on the other side of the square. When would he have seen them?”

“He was told of their existence by another hobgoblin. The one who lives in the brothel situated beneath this very hotel.”

“What?” roared the mayor, with such genuine shock that Gretel was satisfied he must be one of the few well-to-do
gentlemen of the city who did not avail himself of the services of the place.

“Beneath this hotel, you say?”

“Indeed. Kapitan Strudel will vouch for the truth of this, won't you, Kapitan?”

Strudel squirmed, “In the course of my own work I found it necessary to follow a lead, from an informant, you understand, not that I would ever have ventured into such a place myself, were it not for the fact . . .”

The mayor lost patience. “Is there a house of ill repute hidden below the Grand or is there not?”

Strudel nodded.

“This subterranean hobgoblin,” Gretel continued, “would have known of the existence of the prints because he was privy to all and any conversations in his place of work. Which meant at some point he would have heard the wondrous virtues of the art works being extolled by none other than Bruno Phelps.”

“Phelps used the place?” Herr Durer was aghast.

“He did. As Valeri will attest.”

“Valeri?”

The girl dropped her gaze, worrying a handkerchief in her hands.

“I'm sorry, Valeri,” Gretel explained, “I would have kept your secret if I could, but Phelps's death must be explained, and I cannot ensure Leopold regains his liberty without revealing the truth.”

“That's all right, Fraulein. I understand.” Valeri turned a tearful face to Herr Durer. “I want you to know, Albrecht. Really, I have hated keeping such a secret from you. I am ashamed of what I was, but I was alone in this harsh world with no one to care if I lived or died. No one until I came to work for you.”

Herr Durer took her hand in his and squeezed it firmly. “Valeri, you are very dear to me, and you have a good heart. Do
you not know that there is nothing in your past which could alter my opinion of you?”

Gretel was horrified to find her own eyes welling up. She sniffed loudly and forged ahead.

“The hobgoblin who lives in this building is as cheerful as any of his kind, happy with his lot, a contented fellow. Wolfie's hobgoblin, on the other hand, is a study in melancholy and misery. All these creatures, though solitary in their habits, are related. The brothel hobgoblin took it upon himself to bring the other here, to this very room, to view the pictures, knowing that, such is their effect on all who see them, he could not fail to be cheered.”

“It is true,” Herr Durer agreed, “my ancestor's talent was not only for draughtsmanship. There is a quality about his work, something indefinable, which lifts the heart and is a balm to troubled spirits.”

Gretel nodded. “Why, even a serious minded fellow such as Kapitan Strudel has felt the force of the artist's magic. Isn't that so, Kapitan?”

Again, all eyes turned on the flustered kingsman. “Well, yes, I did visit the Nuremberg Gallery to see Durer's rhinoceros, and it was very fine, very fine indeed . . .” he faltered. His face twitched for a moment, and then, involuntary as a hiccup and quite as unstoppable, a smile rearranged his surly features.

“There!” Gretel pointed at him. “Even the mere memory of the thing is enough to make this man of stone smile. I saw him. I saw Kapitan Strudel standing before that rhinoceros, transformed by joy. Later, when I witnessed that exact same emotion light up the grim visage of Wolfie's hobgoblin, I knew why he had taken the prints.”

Strudel had a question of his own. “But how did he take them from the Grand to the apartment block without being seen? Answer us that, Fraulein. Maybe he did descend to the
basement in that waiter device, but he still had to cross the square.”

“He would have used the system of tunnels that thread beneath the area, connecting all the buildings from one end of the square to the other.”