* * *
Byron spoke again, drawing Metzger’s attention. Gotthilf thought the man tensed even more. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Metzger’s hands had drawn into fists and raised before his body. Whatever his perception of Byron, he was definitely at least wary of him.
“We’re looking into several corpses found floating in the river, remember?”
“Yah.”
Metzger obviously wasn’t going to volunteer anything.
“We’ve received tips…” Gotthilf began.
“Tips?” Metzger looked confused.
“We’ve heard rumors,” Gotthilf started over, “that someone influential in the city is having people killed who are…not meeting his expectations.”
“Murdered because they disobey or won’t keep their mouths shut.” That was Byron’s contribution. Gotthilf reminded himself that being blunt might work to their advantage with this guy.
“So? You think I had something to do with it?”
Metzger’s face was giving nothing away.
“No,” Gotthilf said. “Not that we know of. But your boss, on the other hand…” He let the pause build until Metzger’s eyes shifted. “We hear rumors that Schardius is the one ordering these killings.”
That wasn’t an out and out lie, Gotthilf rationalized to himself. It did, however, stretch the truth to the point of dismemberment. If it got the man to talk, well, it was worth it. But his hopes of Metzger’s lips unlocking were quickly dashed.
“I know nothing about anything like that.”
“Word on the street is you do.” Byron being a blunt object again. Gotthilf watched Metzger’s face pale, and his fists did clench this time, for all that his features otherwise didn’t change.
“Then the street lied.”
“Look,” Gotthilf intervened before the two big men went toe to toe and nose to nose, “we are looking for the truth. If the rumors are wrong, fine. Tell us what is the truth, and we will move on.”
“I have nothing to tell you,” Metzger insisted.
“Now who’s lying?” Byron jumped back in.
Metzger’s face went red, and his fists started to rise, but he stopped them before they got waist high. He looked at Byron, then he looked at Gotthilf.
Gotthilf could see how hard his partner’s face was. From the tension he was feeling in his facial muscles, he suspected that his own face was similarly aligned, and his hand wasn’t far from the butt of his pistol.
Metzger broke. His fists dropped and his shoulders slumped.
“I can’t tell you anything,” he said in a weary tone of voice.
“Can’t?” Byron said in a stern tone. “Or won’t?”
Metzger shrugged. “Does it make any difference?”
“Not really.” Gotthilf offered that. “But give me this much—is there something to tell?”
Metzger hesitated, then realized that his hesitation was answer enough, so he nodded.
“What are you afraid of?” Byron demanded.
Metzger remained silent.
The silence grew to a long moment. It was finally broken by Byron.
“All right, we can’t make you talk. But you hear me, and hear me well, Herr Metzger: if one more person dies because you kept your silence, I will be all over you like stink on a knacker. I’ll be the first face you see when you leave your rooms in the morning, and the last one you see when you close your door at night. I’ll be picking your change up off the bar when you order a drink. I’ll take the last swig out of your bottle of gin. I’ll be watching you load and unload at the Schardius warehouse. I’ll hand you your towel at your fights. And all I need is one mistake on your part; just one, and you’ll be so deep in trouble you’ll need a miner’s lamp just to figure out how deep you are.”
Gotthilf almost stared at his partner. That was more words than he’d heard out of him at one time since the beginning of their working together.
Metzger stared at Byron, then shifted his gaze to Gotthilf.
Gotthilf gave a firm nod. “Believe it.”
The big down-timer shifted gaze between the two partners several times. His mouth tightened and twisted. “You do what you have to do,” he said. “Are we done now?”
Gotthilf looked at Byron, who shrugged.
“Yah, we are done.” Gotthilf waited until Metzger had started to turn to leave their confrontation. “But do not be surprised if we call you in for more discussions.”
Metzger turned back. “If you keep this up, it will be my body you find in the river.”
“Your choice,” Byron said coldly.
* * *
The band began pouring out the strains of Thomas’ work. He had entitled it the “Vasa March” in honor of the emperor’s dynasty. His explanation for that was he was honoring the emperor’s valor on the field of battle. Franz was a little skeptical that that was the reason; or at least, that it was the only reason. Musicians had for generations flattered those in power in order to reach positions of security and support. Franz had done something similar almost two years ago, when he had renamed the up-time Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 to be the Vasa Concerto No. 3. It was a custom, even a fact of life, for musicians. Looking through Marla’s eyes, he thought that might change in the next generation. He hoped so, but right now he wasn’t holding his breath.