Hans looked around and spotted his walking stick over by the wall. He went over to pick it up, not moving quickly because he was starting to limp a bit himself. Between the fight with the Hannoverian in the ring and the brawls that had followed, he was starting to get worn down. When he turned back to the counter, Veit had managed to get to his feet and was staring at the two downed men with wide eyes. The Chain was not a peaceful place most days, but having one dead man and one half-crippled one on the floor before noon was unusual even for that den.
Hans tapped Veit on the shoulder, and when he turned handed him a hundred dollar bill.
“That’s for the damages. Send for the Polizei, and tell the truth. Tell them that these men attacked me, and I fought back in self-defense.”
“Will…will they believe that?”
“Ask for Lieutenant Chieske. He’ll believe you.”
* * *
Andreas Schardius slipped into a seat in the back of the auditorium. The rehearsal was well under way; toward the end of Act One, from the look of it. Yes. Here came the castrato playing the role of Nimue, dressed in a blue flowing robe; the orchestra began the flowing ripples and subtle rhythms of Nimue’s duet with Merlin. Schardius tried to focus on the music, but his mind kept straying to other topics, not the least of which was someone who would be onstage soon, Marla Linder.
And indeed, the final scene of the act opened with Frau Linder stalking onstage in a costume of red and gold, singing a bravura aria against the background of the chorus and orchestra.
What a magnificent creature she was! He took something from his pocket and sniffed at it. It left him in a curious state of tension and excitement. Heat was building in his loins, and his hands twitched at the thought of holding that long white neck.
All the while he was aware of the weight in his other pocket.
* * *
Ciclope lounged outside the fancy building. Schardius was inside, doing something masterly, Ciclope was sure. He had been watching him since he arrived at his factorage this morning. The man had come in early, had received visitors, then had left his office and strode across the Altstadt to the nearest bridge into the Neustadt, where he then proceeded to the big building, the “opera hall” he heard someone call it.
Schardius was a big man, and Ciclope had seen people step out of his way and flinch before him. But Ciclope also had a sense that while Schardius might be callous, mean, and cruel, he wasn’t hard. So while he hadn’t decided how to approach the man yet, Ciclope was pretty certain there wouldn’t be any problems when he did approach him.
* * *
Before Ursula could react, Frau Fickler had pulled the bag over and opened it up. The older woman’s eyes opened wide. She looked at Ursula, and said, “Child, how much is here?”
“With what Hans brought to me last night,” Ursula said, voice trembling slightly, “I think somewhere near sixty-five thousand dollars.”
Now Margarethe’s eyes widened in surprise, but her mother’s narrowed. Frau Fickler’s lips pursed as she thought. “Margarethe,” she said, “go find paper and a pencil. Quickly.”
As the girl darted out the door, Frau Fickler started pulling smaller purses out of the bag and setting them to one side.
* * *
“Yes, I know them,” Ernst Mann, warehouse manager at the Schardius factorage, growled as the pictures were displayed by the Polizei officer. He pointed in turn to the two pictures: “Möritz Flanns and Jochum Wessell. They worked for Master Schardius. What happened?”
“Well, we’re still investigating that,” the Polizei officer said, “but they both got into fights with another man.”
“Just one?” Mann asked. He knew what had to have happened, but he also knew he had to act ignorant of the facts.
“That’s what the witnesses are saying. Do you know what they might have been doing out so early this morning?”
Ernst steadfastly denied any knowledge of the dead men’s affairs. After a while the officer left, brushing past some more warehousemen coming in.
“What is he doing here?” Otto Rusche asked.
“He came to tell us that Möritz and Jochum were killed.”
“Metzger?”
Ernst muttered a curse, then spat and said, “Had to be. The stupid fools must have thought they could take him themselves.”
“Well, we won’t be seeing Hermann, Fritz or Max around for a while, either,” Otto said. “They must have been in the same fights, because they are all in the hospital.”
At that, curses volleyed through the air for some time before Ernst broke it off. “Will they be back soon?”
“No.” Otto ticked off finger as he spoke. “Hermann’s elbow is broken. The doctors aren’t sure his arm will heal right. Fritz has a broken jaw. They were able to do something with wire to hold it still, but it’s soup and gruel for him for months. And poor Max’s knee was shattered. He’ll never walk right again.”