The Devil's Opera(142)

“Okay,” Pierpoint shrugged. “We’re about done here. I’ll head for his place now.”

Hans seemed to slump a little. “Thank you.”

“Thank me by getting well. We need you back.”

With that, Pierpoint returned to where Tobias was standing by the time-keeper’s table, then took off toward the road back to the main part of the city.

Hans looked at Gus. “Will you come with us? If something happens, someone needs to get Simon home safely.”

Gus hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“Let’s go, then.”

* * *

Ciclope sat staring at the table top, brooding. Schmidt had been gone for a while, but his mind was still occupied with thoughts of how to do what Schmidt wanted. And in the back of his mind, he was still—grieving wasn’t the right word—he wasn’t sure there was a word to describe what he was feeling about Pietro. He hadn’t liked the scrawny thief all that well, but he had known him for years, and here in this foreign city he had been all that Ciclope had had from home. So, yes, he admitted to himself, he missed him. And yes, he acknowledged, he was angry about Pietro’s death, and the manner of it. He just hadn’t figured out what to do about it yet.

Someone slid onto the stool that Schmidt had occupied earlier. He looked up with irritation, but relaxed a little when he recognized the “associate” who had paid him and Pietro extra to make the bombs bigger.

“What do you want?” Ciclope snarled.

“First, to tell you that I’m sorry your friend was killed.”

The expression on the other man’s face was sober. For all Ciclope could tell, he was serious.

“We all die,” Ciclope said. “But leave it to that fool to die from something like that.” The stranger said nothing more. After a moment, Ciclope repeated, “What do you want?”

“Has Schmidt turned you loose on Schardius yet?” came the whispered reply.

The question was unexpected from one viewpoint, but given the history of Ciclope’s short relationship with the man, he wasn’t surprised.

“Yah.”

The associate nodded. “I thought he might have.” He leaned forward, and flicked something across the table so fast Ciclope couldn’t tell what it was with his eyes. It landed in his lap, though, with a chink sound and the feeling of a reassuringly full purse of coin. “Another incentive payment,” the man said. “Just to make sure that you, ah, bring the Schardius contract to a quick completion.”

Ciclope dropped a hand to his lap to heft the purse. By weight and size, he guessed it was much as the first purse had been. So, fifty additional Groschen to do something he had already promised to do? Sure, he’d take the money. And he might try a bit harder, at that.

“When that’s done,” the associate said, preparing to stand up, “I’ll meet you back here. I have another job for you, if Master Schmidt doesn’t.”

Ciclope just nodded. The associate left, and Ciclope’s mind returned to its brooding.





Chapter 55

Karl Honister sat at his desk, going over his notes again. The lamp on his desk spilled golden light out in a circle from under the shade. It was the only light in the room. Everyone else had either gone home or was out investigating some new crime.

Even after talking to all the clerks, he still hadn’t been able to put his finger on a link to the robbery cash. Someone in town had it, but they weren’t spending it. Nor were any of the major business figures in town spending more than they usually did. There just didn’t seem to be any tracks of it. It was like someone put it in a bag along with some big rocks and threw it in the river.

Okay, quit looking for the cash. Start looking for anything that was different. Anything at all.

He turned back to the beginning of the file and starting reading each report again, trying very hard not to skim them because they were familiar.

Page after page was turned over, one by one, with care to align them in a neat stack. That was mostly because he felt like wadding them into little balls or tearing them into shreds. Frustration did not do justice to his frame of mind.

It was in the report entitled “Second Interview with Johann Dauth” that Honister got his break. Halfway down the page, a phrase registered with him in a manner that had not occurred to him before. His finger tapped up and down on the page under that sentence while his thoughts raced down various different mental pathways.

It almost startled him when his hand slammed down on the page.

“Idiot!”

Wasting no more time, he bolted from his chair, grabbed his coat and hat from their pegs on the wall as he strode by, and a bare moment later was outside, trying to find a vehicle.