The Case of the Fickle Mermaid (22 page)

“I imagine, then, a private enterprise, one that would thrive best in seclusion, well, such a business might be suited to these little isles, might it not?”

The old man sat back again slowly, both he and the chair emitting a percussive melody of creaking and popping. He sucked on his pipe again for a while, pointedly using Hans's lighter to set a fresh flame to the tobacco. After a deal of puffing he said, “You're a woman asks a lot of questions, fraulein. You want to be careful. You might get answers you don't like.”

“It's a chance I'm willing to take. I have another for you. The men of whom we speak, have you ever seen them in the company of a man named Hoffman?”

Another gummy grin rearranged the smoker's features. His glance dropped to Gretel's bosom. Although their acquaintance was new, this lascivious act seemed out of character, and she was relieved when the gentleman gestured at her somewhat sandy lorgnettes.

“That's a fine set of glasses,” he said. “The sort as which shows a person all manner of things a person wants to see.”

Gretel frowned. “And the sort of which I am inordinately fond.”

“And the sort as which might buy that same person a few answers to a few questions.”

“And the sort which I might not want to leave this place without.”

“And the sort as which might sit awhile in my possession, maturing in their value nicely for a little time, so that they might fetch a fair price later in the evening.”

Gretel gave a heavy sigh. She knew she should be pleased that she had found the old man's price, found a way to obtain from him the facts she required, were he to own them, and yet she felt curiously downhearted. Just for once it would be a pleasant surprise to meet someone, somewhere, sometime, who was willing to do something for someone other than themselves, or at least without it ultimately costing her something. She lifted the lorgnettes from round her neck and handed them to him.

“Hans,” she hissed at her brother, “for pity's sake, play well and play fast. You must win enough for me to buy back my glasses.”

“What about my lighter?”

“As I said, play well, play fast.”

She turned her attention back to the smoker, who was fondling the lorgnettes in a proprietorial manner that seemed designed to irritate her.

“Is your memory refreshed any?” she asked.

He took his time in answering. “Seems to me, I do recall, there was a fellow stood with them at the bar one night . . .”

“Was he of arrogant stance and proud bearing? A man accustomed to issuing commands and having them obeyed without question?”

“That he might have been.”

“Had he a smart waistc't, and a pocket watch he was given to consulting frequently?”

“That he might have had.”

“For pity's sake, did you hear them call him Hoffman?”

“That I might . . .” The old man, seeing Gretel's darkening expression, had the good sense to stop tormenting her. “Aye. Hoffman. That was the name. They were here together but twice, and neither time for an evening of drinking.”

“The connection was business, then.”

“They stayed only a short while. They left when it was proper dark. Took a boat out of the harbor.”

“To where?”

“That I cannot tell you.”

“Cannot or will not? I have nothing more to trade, grandfather.”

He shook his head. “They did not let slip the name of their destination.”

For a moment Gretel sat in thoughtful silence. She did not feel she was getting much for the pawning of her lorgnettes, but still it was helpful to have her suspicions regarding Hoffman's smuggling enterprise confirmed. Knowing that he was engaged in such an activity explained many things. His wish to be rid of her, lest she discover what he was about and expose him. His need to be rid of Frenchie, given that the bottle he clutched in the grip of death had once contained brandy. Clearly the chef had known of the smuggling. Gretel recalled the superior brandy he had shared with her in his kitchen. Perhaps he had discovered what Hoffman was doing and had demanded a cut of both profits and brandy. Perhaps there had been a disagreement over terms, or the cook had threatened to expose him, and perhaps that had led to his murder. Such speculation was all very well and good, but Gretel was not fond of any theory
that must begin with “perhaps.” It had a taste of doubt about it that soured the overall flavor of the postulation. Furthermore, what she had learned did nothing to support her original theory that Hoffman could be working in league with Thorsten Sommer to ruin Captain Ziegler's nascent cruise business.

“Tell me one more thing,” she asked the old man. “What say you on the matter of mermaids?”

Had Gretel voiced such an inquiry anywhere in her hometown of Gesternstadt, or while visiting, perchance, the sophisticated city of Nuremberg, she would no doubt have been laughed at, long and loud. Here, however, on the little island of Hallig Hoog, cut off from the mainland and indeed the world by the wild seas that surrounded it, existing as it did in its own strange isolation, with its own strange ways and customs, her question was greeted only with mild surprise.

“Mermaids? Ah, 'tis a fair while since I have thought of those winsome creatures. Or at least, it was a fair while, up until a week last Tuesday.”

“Oh, how so?”

“The evening was fine, the sea mist had rolled back to let the sun through, so I took my ease upon a bench on the harbor for an hour or so, watching the boats coming and going. So pleasant was the day, and so soothing the rhythm of the tide, time passed without my noticing, and I slipped into a soft and dreamless sleep.”

Gretel felt that if he made his answer any more long-winded she might nod off herself, but she resisted saying as much.

“I slept long and deep. 'Twas gone midnight when I was awoken, and the sound that stirred me from my slumbers I shall never forget.”

Gretel waited, fighting the urge to drum her fingers on the table. The expectant pause was filled with Hans's gleeful cry of “Full Flummery Flush again! Huzzah!” and still she waited.
At last the smoker judged he had built sufficient dramatic tension into his tale.

“The sound of mermaid song!” he declared. “As sweet and clear as any sound on God's earth, and anywhere else besides. Not since I was a boy in short trousers had I heard that magical singing.”

“And recently you have heard it more than once?”

“Most Tuesday and Wednesday nights, and twice last Thursday. Beginning to tire of it a little, to tell you the truth. All a bit samey, after the first half dozen times. Could do with a little more variety, if you ask me.”

“It does not frighten you? Some sailors find it intolerable and cannot be pressed or persuaded to remain aboard ship if they think a mermaid is near.”

“Ah, sailors.” The old man sucked on his pipe. “They have their little ways,” he added, as if this made everything clear.

“So islanders tend not to think that mermaids might cause, ooh, let's say madness, or shipwreck, or unexplained disappearances?”

He laughed dryly. “Such nonsense! But that's sailors for you, believe all manner of silliness they do. No.” He leaned forward, earnest once more. “If you're looking for the cause of mysterious deaths and such like in these parts, that'll be Ekkenekkepen, of course.”

“Ekkenekke . . . ?”

“. . . —pen. Aye. Nasty, wicked thing. God of the sea hereabouts, and an evil one at that. Known to swallow up sailors whole. Small boats sometimes, too. Aye, you'd best stay well clear of him.”

“Is that so?” Gretel fought the urge to say something cutting. The last thing she needed was fairy stories concerning local mythological creatures. She had quite enough to deal with as it was, what with the sprite and the mermaid.

“It is.” The old man nodded vigorously. “Ooh, yes, many's the time things strange and peculiar have turned out to be all the doing of Ekkenekkepen.”

“Thank you so very much for the advice,” said Gretel, who was starting to feel as if the lunatics might have taken over the asylum while she wasn't looking.

FIFTEEN

F
ortunately, Hans's card playing outpaced the old man's storytelling by a swift country mile. Even more fortunately, Hans succeeded in emptying the pockets of all the other card players present and filling his own. This enabled him to buy back both Gretel's lorgnettes and his own lighter, even if it was at a wince-inducing inflationary rate. There was even sufficient money left to pay for a messenger gull. Gretel wrote an urgent note to Captain Ziegler giving their whereabouts and whatabouts and imploring him to send the tender to fetch them at his earliest convenience. Or, preferably, earlier than that. She stipulated clearly that he was not, under any argument, to send Hoffman. Scarcely had their bird
flapped out of the low window at the back of the inn than Cat's Tongue and Pustule returned. They were not best pleased to discover their castaways had communicated with the
Arabella
, and hid their ire poorly. Mold, who had only woken when his fellows entered through the door he was guarding, was roundly shouted at by Cat's Tongue, and soundly beaten by Pustule for dereliction of duty.

There had been a difficult moment when Cat's Tongue had insisted that he would be happy to take Gretel and Hans and even the mer-hund back to the
Arabella
themselves. They had invited them to return to their little boat then and there, urging haste, so as to make the most of a favorable tide, and to save Captain Ziegler the trouble of sending his launch out on a wasted journey. Their insistence would have been hard to resist, given that it would most likely have soon progressed from cajoling words to arms being twisted behind backs and persons being frog-marched out of the inn, along the quay, and to, Gretel was certain, a sticky end. As luck would have it, Hans's lengthy gaming had allowed him to form something of a bond with his fellow cardsharps. So much so that they had even forgiven him for taking from each and every one of them their last shiny penny. Indeed, they seemed rather in awe of him. Hans later explained this was in part due to their never having encountered a card player of his particular complexity and guile. Gretel interpreted this as Hallig Hoog being so remote, they only ever played among themselves and were utterly thrown by the arrival of a stranger and his strange ways. Their affection for Hans was indisputably increased by his determination to buy everyone in the inn ale with his winnings. And as there were plenty of winnings, he was able to purchase plenty of ale. The resultant merriment was the perfect defense against Cat's Tongue's attempts to take them from the inn. Each new round of drinks was celebrated by yet another
sea shanty or island song, each one increasingly ribald and risqué. If at any point Pustule tried to lay hands on Hans as a prelude to removing him, he was met with howls of displeasure from the by-now-inebriated islanders, who had claimed Hans as one of their own and would not be parted from him.

By the time Captain Ziegler himself arrived to collect his errant passengers, only Gretel, Hans, and Cat's Tongue remained conscious. The rest had succumbed either to fatigue, drink, or a combination of both. The furious smuggler could only stand by and watch as they left. Knowing Hoffman as she did, Gretel did not envy the man the quartermaster's response to his failure to do away with those who now presented a serious threat to their enterprise.

On arriving back on board the
Arabella
, Gretel's dearest wish was a bath and bed, but the captain would hear of no delay. He insisted she accompany him to his quarters immediately. Once there, he resumed his customary dramatic delivery in order to berate her for taking the lifeboat—which was in a shocking state, according to him—and rant anew about the perilous condition of his business and her own lack of results. She waited for him to calm down, sufficiently familiar with the man's character by now to know there was no point in saying a word until his rage had subsided. At last he sat in his chair, plucking his tricorn from his head and hurling it across the room before fixing her with a challenging stare.

“Firstly, captain, I wish to apologize for any damage done to your lifeboat.” She experienced a vivid and most unwelcome flash of memory regarding the storm that had near swamped and sunk them, and knew that in truth the captain was lucky to have got the thing back at all. “Secondly, I thank you for your prompt response to my message, and for personally attending to my collection from Hallig Hoog. I am pleased to be able to tell you that, testing, arduous, and indeed dangerous as these
past few days have been, the risks and discomforts—most of which have been suffered by myself, I might add—were well worth the suffering. I have gleaned valuable information on two counts.”

“You have? God's teeth, woman, have you the name of the fellow who would see my business scuppered? Let's have it!” he cried, aflamed anew at the thought of knowing the identity of his persecutor.

“I ask for your patience,” said Gretel, holding up a steadying hand. “In my work, just as there is an order to discovering things, so there is an order to revealing them. That way confusion is minimized, and we are able to clearly see what is what.” Captain Ziegler looked less than convinced. She pressed on. “First, my suspicions regarding your quartermaster were accurate.”

“He murdered Frenchie?”

“It seems reasonable to suppose that he did, yes.”

“The black-hearted scoundrel! And he is about ruining me?”

“That is less certain. It may be a result of his actions, but almost an inadvertent one, for I cannot yet discern a motive.”

“Well, is he in cahoots with Sommer or is he not?”

“We must conclude not.”

“We must? Damn his eyes. I'd be happier rid of that slippery Norseman.”

“I am aware you resent his existence, but is that not, in truth, because he has what it is you crave more than anything in this world?”