The Devil's Opera(176)
Amber led them across the stage behind the main curtain, into a loud crowd of actors and stage hands. It took some time to get everyone to settle down and get a coherent story out of the shaken women who had been in the dressing room.
“You’re sure it was Herr Schardius?” Byron at length demanded.
Universal agreement from all the women, loud, and in some cases obscene.
“Where’s Marla?” was his next question.
It didn’t take long to determine that she wasn’t in the crowd. Someone ran back to the dressing room. Gotthilf could see both Byron and Amber becoming more and more unhappy that Marla was not to be found.
“Now what?” Byron demanded. “Where else do we look?”
“I don’t…” Amber began.
* * *
Desperate, Friedrich grasped the only idea that had come to him. He took a firm grip on his walking stick and twisted a metal collar that circled the shaft of the stick just below the handle, then thrust a hand into a pocket, pulled out a big USE fifty cent piece, and tossed it off to his right. It struck a wall and fell to the floor, where it clattered around for a bit.
Schardius reacted to the noise by swinging the pistol that direction. Friedrich drew the narrow-bladed sword from the stick that was its sheath and flowed around the pillar with it raised. He slashed the sword down on Schardius’ wrist.
Schardius cried out and the pistol fired. Friedrich interposed between himself between Schardius and Marla, sword raised and ready to slash or stab as needed.
* * *
They all heard the muffled sound. Most looked around curiously, but Byron and Gotthilf both jerked.
“That was a shot!” Byron hissed to Amber. “From below us. Basement?”
Amber didn’t say anything, but hurried over to a door near the back of the wall and flung it open. Byron and Gotthilf drew their weapons and started down the stairs into the dimly lit basement. Byron wasted no time, but hurried down as quickly as he could. Gotthilf followed at a slower pace.
* * *
“You…you…” Spittle was running from Schardius’ mouth, as he wrapped his left hand around his right wrist and started to lift the pistol again. Friedrich prepared himself to lunge.
At that moment, the door to the stairs banged open, and feet thundered on the stairs.
“Marla!” a man called out urgently. “Marla!”
“Down here, Byron!” Marla called back from behind Friedrich. He didn’t take his eyes from Schardius, whose own eyes where shifting right and left. As the feet hit the basement floor, Schardius darted into the hallway opening through which Friedrich and the others had come not many minutes before.
Friedrich lowered his sword and spared a quick glance for Frau Marla.
“Are you all right?”
“I am now,” she said, standing up straight and relaxing her hands from the claws they had formed.
* * *
“Marla!” Byron called out. “Marla!”
“Down here, Byron!” they heard the answer.
At that, Gotthilf hurried down to follow his partner to the pool of light where Marla was standing, alongside a man with a sword.
“You, drop the sword,” Byron barked, zeroing his automatic at the bridge of the man’s nose.
“Byron, don’t!” Marla said. “He’s a friend—he was protecting me!”
It took a moment, then Byron lowered the pistol.
“Okay. It was Schardius, then?”
“Yes.” Marla sounded a bit shaken, and Gotthilf didn’t blame her. “He went that way.” She pointed to an opening.
“It’s a hall that will bring you out in the foyer again,” the man added.
“Great. You stay here. We’ll be back.”
* * *
Amber shut the door behind the two policemen, and turned to face the crowd of actors and stage hands. “All of you, just shut up and get back to your places. Now!”
Such was the force of her personality and the habit of obedience that most of them did so.
Amber beckoned to Frau Frontilia. “Is Franz Sylwester backstage?”
“I think so,” the stage manager replied.
“Send him here.”
* * *
Schardius made his way down the hall. He still had his little flashlight, but he didn’t think he could crank it up and hold his gun with his wrist cut, so he trusted to his memory. From his recent excursions in the basement, he knew the hallway had no obstacles before he reached the stairs. Once he made it to the foyer, he was well on his way to freedom.
* * *
“Franz!” Marla shouted. She flew to her husband’s arms, and he enfolded her in a hug so tight and strong that Friedrich almost expected to see them merge into a single body.
Frau Amber Higham appeared at Friedrich’s side. She was cursing bitterly and with great fury, a mixture of American, German, and it sounded like Spanish. She wasn’t repeating herself, which impressed him. She also rattled off some curses he had never heard before, which also impressed him. Those he made mental note of.