The Devil's Opera(132)

“Maybe they didn’t care who found out,” Byron replied, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. “Or maybe they thought the explosion would destroy or cover up the evidence.”

They were still discussing that topic when the police photographer showed up with his assistant. Sergeant Honister was on his heels.

“Lieutenant! Sergeant!”

Honister brandished a knife before them.

“Watch where you’re pointing that thing,” Byron said as he leaned back out of the way.

“Sorry.”

Honister lowered the knife, but pointed at it with the other hand. “This was in the belongings of Peter-Pietro-whoever he was. Erhard Misch, the blacksmith I consulted, says it was also made in Venice—but by a different smith from the one who made the other knives. He said there was blood on the blade, so I took it back and compared it to the stab wound in Svenson’s back. It’s a good match.”

“Good work,” Byron said warmly. “Now, catch up to what we’ve found here.”

A couple of minutes of intense conversation ensued, the end of which left the three of them staring at each other.

Gotthilf was the first to break silence.

“The captain was right.”

“Yep,” Byron agreed.

“The payroll theft and murders definitely seem to connect to this,” Honister added. “So, where do we go from here?”

“We have two leads to trail,” Gotthilf replied, pulling out his notebook and flipping pages to the one he remembered. “The money, and the friend that Gunther Bauer said was Pietro’s—the man with one eye.”

“Right,” Byron said, straightening from the wall. He pointed to Honister. “You keep chasing the money; we’ll search for the man with one eye. Hopefully there won’t be very many of them in Magdeburg.”

Gotthilf fervently agreed with that thought, but had a sinking feeling it would prove to be otherwise.





Chapter 52

The capital was shocked and horrified at what had happened. But life goes on, even in the midst of calamity, and Magdeburg was a city that had a history of clawing its way back from the brink of cataclysms. It had survived the great sack of 1631, after all.

After a week most of the city’s populace was working like normal, with the explosion beginning to recede to the backs of their minds. The late breaking news from other parts of Europe began to crowd the stories about the explosion off the front pages of the newspapers. Only the immediate family and friends of the dead were still feeling the raw wounds of having their loved ones and friends ripped out of their midst so suddenly. And only the detectives searching for clues were still searching for meaning.

Simon found himself heading for the boxing ring one evening. The weather had warmed just a little that day, enough that there was slush in places in the streets. He splashed through a puddle and felt the water seep through the seams of his boots.

The sun had set, and the last of twilight was fading. He was glad to see the lights of the arena ahead of them.

He looked up at Hans. “Are you ready?”

A fist landed in a palm with a smack. “Yah. I don’t know who it is at the other end tonight, but I’m ready. I’ve been ready for days.”

“I know,” Simon muttered. Hans had been edgy for some time. It had taken Simon a while to figure out that he wanted a fight.

They walked into the lighted area together. Men in the gathering crowd looked around and began making way when they saw who it was approaching. The murmurs of “Stark Hans” began moving through the crowd.

Hans had been looking around as he always did when he came here. When he spotted Tobias, he changed directions. Simon followed.

“Tobias,” Hans said, wrapping a hand round the man’s upper arm. Tobias winced when Hans squeezed. “Eighteen hundred dollars tonight, right?”

“Sure, Hans.” Tobias nodded rapidly. “Eighteen hundred dollars for ten rounds.”

“Good.” Hans dropped his hand. “I’ll see you after the fight.” This time when they walked away it was Hans who muttered, “Ferret-face,” and Simon who laughed.

“Hans,” they heard another voice call out. Hans stopped still. It was a moment before he turned toward the speaker. Simon stepped behind his friend.

“Master Schardius,” Hans replied, voice even. “I did not expect to find you here tonight.”

“Oh, I have become quite the…what is the word the up-timers use? Fan, I believe. Yes, I have become quite the fan of these contests. To see men striking at each other, wanting to see who is the stronger, the better, but not knowing who will win is really quite exhilarating.” The merchant brushed his mustache back with a finger. “I know you always win, Hans.” There was stress on always. “It’s almost boring watching your fights. But I keep watching, thinking that someday you might be surprised.”