The Devil's Opera(146)

Simon stuffed the purse back in his jacket, and stepped forward to take Ursula by the arm. He turned her toward her room, nodding to the sergeant to bring the candle.

By the time they had shuffled their way to the door, Sergeant Hoch had lit another candle and brought the one on the table to them. Simon opened the door, took the candle and passed it to Ursula.

“Fraulein Ursula.” He spoke to her calmly. “Get dressed. Get your money, all of it, and then come out so we can go to Hans.”

She stepped forward into the bedroom.

* * *

Marla sat on her dressing stool. Franz was brushing her hair; long, slow strokes through the ebon tresses, stopping every minute or so to pass the fingers of his crippled left hand over the almost liquid fall of the hair.

This was almost a ritual for them. They didn’t do it every night, but at least once or twice a week Franz would pick up her brush as they readied for bed. He didn’t even have to say anything anymore. Marla would smile and sit with her back to him as he sat on the edge of the bed behind her.

He claimed it relaxed him. She knew it definitely relaxed her.

It was always a time of deep intimacy; a communing without words, a mutual submission and service that was both an offering of love and at the same time a celebration of it. And if such a moment at times led to deeper intimacy still, well, did not Solomon say in his Proverbs, “Rejoice in the wife of your youth…and be thou ravished always with her love”?

Normally Marla just sat there, still, eyes closed, simply enjoying the sensuality of the experience. Tonight, though, she stared at the mirror hanging over her small dressing table, watching Franz. His own eyes were half-closed, there was a small smile on his face, and he seemed to be moving with a languor.

It was funny, she thought to herself. He wasn’t the handsomest man she’d ever met. She wasn’t even sure he could be called attractive; pleasant might be about the best that could be said for his description. She remembered having school girl passions over Johnny Depp and Leonardo DiCaprio, dreaming of being caught up by one of them. It had been years since she had thought of them, and she couldn’t even remember what they really looked like. Every attempt to recall how they looked morphed into Franz’s features.

She knew this man. She knew his heart, his goals, his passions. She knew his fire. She knew his love. And she knew that no one was his equal. No one was a better match for her than the violinist with a crooked tooth, a small mole high on his cheekbone, a hand with crippled fingers, and a smile that turned her insides to warm goo.

Her thoughts went back to Herr Schardius. She would be just as happy if she never saw the man again, but living in Magdeburg and moving in the circles around Mary Simpson, that was probably a futile hope.

Franz reached past her to lay the brush on the table, and lifted handfuls of the shining ribbons of night of Marla’s hair to breathe deeply of it. She smiled a bit and banished the unpleasant thoughts; the frown line went away. She leaned back against his chest and he wrapped his arms around her. Intercepting his scarred left hand, she raised it to her lips and kissed the palm.

They stood together and she moved into his arms. Tonight was a time for celebration.

* * *

Schardius looked at Ernst. “You know what I want.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Hans Metzger, alive or dead, here in the warehouse.”

That was what Schardius had always liked about Ernst. He was so matter-of-fact about everything. Nothing seemed to stir him.

“Right. Now get after it.”

The handful of men standing behind the overseer stirred, and they all went out the back door.

So, that was Metzger dealt with, Schardius thought to himself. And soon he would know who to blame for the destruction at the construction project. He didn’t care that much about the people who’d been killed, but he deeply cared about the loss of money. That would be repaid by someone, one way or another.

But what to do about Marla Linder? That was the burning question on his mind at the moment.

* * *

Ciclope looked at the building that housed the Schardius grain factorage. Like most such operations, it had a small office space at the front of the large warehouse, which was close to the river for easy access to boats and barges bringing grain shipments. Seemed big enough.

He knew where it was, now. He’d come by tomorrow morning and see it in the daylight.

* * *

The door to the bedroom opened and Ursula came out, dressed and with her coat on. She had a bag in one hand that, from the way she was carrying it, had some weight to it.

She stopped after clearing the doorway and beckoned to Sergeant Hoch with the hand that held her cane.

“Take this, please.”