The Devil's Opera(135)

Byron didn’t even hesitate. He turned smoothly and walked into the alley as if that had been part of his intent all along. Gotthilf followed on his heels, but his hand was inside his jacket on the butt of his .44 where it rode in the shoulder holster.

“Ah, Demetrious,” Byron said in a low tone. “You’ve been a hard man to find lately.”

A wry chuckle sounded from the darkness.

“There needed to be some distance between me and the likes of you. A few of the people in the streets had remarked on how often you seemed to come looking for me.”

“Ah.”

That was not a good thing, Gotthilf thought to himself. If the people of the city decided that old Demetrious was a stooge and informer, not only would his ability to find information for them end, someone might take it into their head to end Demetrious as well.

No, not good at all.

“So, you’re here now. You have something for us?”

“I hear you look for someone new,” Demetrious said, moving closer to them. “Someone perhaps not from Magdeburg, perhaps not even from this part of the world.”

“You hear right,” Byron said. “A one-eyed man, maybe came here from Venice, maybe with another man.”

“Ah,” Demetrious sighed. “Him.”

“Him?” Gotthilf asked. “You know him?”

“I know of someone who may be the man you seek.” Demetrious stepped up to them. “There is a man who wears a patch over his left eye who rode into Magdeburg from the south some time ago. This is a very hard man. No one likes him; most fear him, but do not know why. And he has a friend, a companion, who would go out at night from time to time, and always the next day someone in Magdeburg would discover they no longer possessed something that used to be theirs.”

“A thief?”

Demetrious’ shoulders shrugged in the gloom.

“Perhaps. It is but a word, after all, when there is no proof. But that friend has not been seen of late.”

Gotthilf and Byron looked at each other, and shared a surmise.

“There is a man,” Gotthilf said, “who on the day of the great explosion was standing not far from the steam boiler. A rivet or bolt from the boiler struck him in the head like a bullet. His body now occupies a drawer in the city morgue.” It was funny, Gotthilf noticed, how his voice seemed to fall into the patterns and cadences of Demetrious’ voice. There was something about the old man’s voice that was just impelling.

“This man, it is the friend?” Demetrious asked in an off-handed manner.

“Had a knife made in Venice in his pocket,” Byron replied, up-timer speech cutting across the rhythms.

“Ah.” Demetrious rubbed his hands together. “So the one-eyed man is now alone.” That wasn’t a question, Gotthilf noted.

“Unless he’s made friends here,” Byron said.

“Not this one,” Demetrious replied. “He does not reach out, not in friendship.” He rubbed his hands together again. “But you want him?”

“Yah,” Gotthilf replied. “We want him. He may not be the murderer we suspect he is, but either way we need to talk to him.”

“Murderer,” Demetrious said as if tasting the word. “That, he could be.” The informant said nothing for a moment. “I will look for him, but there is risk. You will remember this.”

“You find him and he turns out to be involved in what we suspect he’s part of, and there will be a reward.” Byron was very definite.

White teeth flashed in the dark alleyway.

“A man always appreciates being appreciated. I will find you before long.”

* * *

Hans’ shoulders started to sag. Simon started to panic. But then the big man’s back stiffened, and he looked forward at Recke. He nodded. “I’m ready.” The crowd started chaffering among its members. Simon could hear the bets being made.

Herr Pierpoint spoke up. “Well, I’m not. If I’m going to referee this fight,” the up-timer pointed at Recke, “he needs to understand the rules. And since he’s your man,” Pierpoint pointed at Elting, “you’d better make sure he understands them and abides by them, because I will call this fight in a moment if he breaks them.” The up-timer pulled the two Hannoverians together facing him and starting lecturing them, counting things off on his fingers.

“Come on,” Hans said to Simon. For once the crowd ignored them as they pushed back toward their usual bench. Everyone was craning their necks trying to see the mystery fighter. They got to the front bench by the pit and Hans started taking off his jacket again.

“Hans!” Simon hissed. “What are you doing?”