The Devil's Opera(153)

* * *

Franz watched as Marla paced, eyes shining.

“Dress rehearsal today. One more day, and we do it for real.”

He rejoiced to see her like that. So far she had come, so much she had endured after the stillbirth of their daughter Alison. The thought that Marla was back to her old self almost made him want to throw a party. And he just might do that, after the opera.

The fire was there in her eyes for everyone to see. And she was ready—past ready, as was he—to show the world—or at least Magdeburg—that Marla Linder was back.

* * *

Reilly looked at Honister after the mayor left.

“Sounds to me like the mayor knows something we don’t.”

“Yah.”

“Also sounds to me like you have your orders.”

Honister closed his folder. “Indeed.”

* * *

Schardius stood, slightly hunched over, staring through the slight crack in the lath and plaster wall that gave him a view of the Women’s Dressing Room from inside a storage closet on the other side of the wall, a closet that opened from another hallway.

His attention was so riveted on what he was seeing in the other room, he wasn’t aware of the door into the closet opening slightly.

He also wasn’t aware that he wasn’t the only person who had a copy of the custodian’s key.

* * *

“Metzger.”

Hans heard his name growled as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He turned in the direction of the pull, throwing whoever was behind him off balance, and brought the walking stick around and jammed the knobby head of it into the other man’s solar plexus.

“You always were a fool, Hermann,” he said to the now-almost-paralyzed warehouseman. He looked over Hermann’s shoulder. “Möritz, Fritz.”

They said nothing, just spread their arms and tried to rush him.

Hans shoved Hermann toward Möritz’s feet and turned to face Fritz as the other two men went to the ground. He swung the walking stick at the other man’s head. Fritz raised his arm to block the stick, and as he did so, Hans kicked him in the groin.

Fritz shrieked and bent forward to clutch at his abused manhood, only to meet Hans’ fist as it crashed into his jaw.

Crack. The jaw was broken, and Fritz collapsed unconscious. Hans took a two-handed grip on the walking stick and turned to face the other two men. Möritz had almost regained his feet when the walking stick slammed into the side of his head. The knob on the end of it shattered the skull in the left temple, right behind the eye. Möritz’s eyes rolled up in his head and he fell onto his back.

Hermann had managed to roll onto his knees. He held his hands up, pleading, as Hans turned on him.

“Don’t…don’t…do…”

Hans was sorely tempted to crush his skull also. But Hermann suffered more from stupidity than outright malice. It would be enough to cripple him for a few weeks.

Or maybe permanently—a club was not exactly a precision instrument—but Hans didn’t care much. He swung the walking stick down and smashed Hermann’s left elbow. The man shrieked and then passed out.

Turning to leave, Hans paused for a moment to stomp on Möritz’s throat to cut off the wounded man’s stertorous breathing.

He’d never liked Möritz. He was a sneak as well as a bully, a man who wouldn’t be above stabbing someone in the back just to do it. He was a good match for Master Schardius, and Hans would shed no tears over the death Möritz had brought upon himself.





Chapter 59

Gotthilf awoke suddenly, aware that someone was in the room with him. He opened his eyes the merest slit, and relaxed when he realized that it was Simon’s sitting up in bed that had awakened him. Then he became aware of being stiff and sore; and no wonder, since he had spent what was left of the previous night sleeping in a wooden chair with his feet propped up on a stool.

“Mmm,” he grunted, dropping his feet to the floor and standing. Muscles in his back complained about the change in position for a moment, then subsided. He took the blanket that had been wrapped around him, folded it twice and draped it over the chair.

Simon was looking around with a frown on his face. It wasn’t hard to deduce what was on his mind. Gotthilf walked over to the odd-looking piece of furniture in the corner and flipped up the lid to reveal the chamber pot.

“You go first,” he said. He turned to his wardrobe to give the boy a bit of privacy, and soon the sounds and smells of a healthy boy relieving his system filled the room.

Gotthilf tossed his jacket on the bed, took off his shoulder holster, and stripped off his shirt. Then he reached into his wardrobe and picked up a fresh shirt. Hearing Simon stirring around again, he turned as he pulled the shirt on over his head.