The Devil's Opera(178)
* * *
Amber led the charge back up the stairs to the backstage. As soon as they were all through the door at the head of the stairs, she slammed it.
“I want that door bolted, barred and blocked up,” she announced to all and sundry. “Pile stuff in front of it until no one can get it open from the other side.” She pointed to the backstage crew dressed in brown. “Now! Move it, people.”
Brown-shirted stage crew coalesced from all of the backstage area, and within a couple of minutes they had moved some heavy furniture not being used in this production in front of the door.
While this was going on, Amber turned to Marla and looked at her in the better light. She lightly touched the singer’s left cheek. “Okay, your makeup is smudged, and you’ve got a small scratch that’s bled some there. You’d best get back to the dressing area and repair that, then get dressed for the first scene.”
Marla handed Friedrich’s coat back to him, and turned and moved with speed in that direction. Amber turned to the stage manager and they had a low-voiced conversation.
Friedrich looked around, all of a sudden realizing that he hadn’t seen Gronow, Seelbach, and Plavius. He looked to Franz and opened his mouth, but Franz beat him to it.
“I had your friends led to their seats before I came downstairs. Now I must get back to the orchestra, so I’ll take you with me. People will start getting restless if we don’t have something going.”
Franz’s eyes got very serious, and he placed his hands on Friedrich’s shoulders. “My friend, I have no words. What you did down there…” Franz’s voice wavered a bit, “…that means more to me than you will ever know or I will ever be able to express. Thank you.”
Friedrich didn’t try to downplay what Franz was saying. He just gave a solemn nod and placed his right hand on top of Franz’s.
They stood that way for a long moment; then Franz dropped his hands, turned, and linked arms with Friedrich. “And now, let me escort you to your seat.”
* * *
They both saw the flare of light as the door at the top of the stairs was opened.
“Come on!” Byron flicked on his flashlight, heedless of the risk, and they rushed down the hall and hurtled up the stairs.
They burst through the door in time to see one of the outer doors just settling in its door frame.
* * *
Schardius froze for a moment on the steps when the lights came on. There was so much light! He’d been counting on the darkness to hide him.
He gave his head a hard shake, and continued down the steps.
It had all gone so wrong! All his desires, all his plans, all lying in the plaster dust on the dressing room floor.
He would never survive this, he knew. Not in Magdeburg, at any rate. His name and reputation would not just be smeared, they would be burnt in the fires of gossip and ridicule, until they were nothing but a memory.
But Magdeburg was just one of many cities in Europe. If he could just get to the warehouse, he had money there, and Ernst could get him away. He had money, he had connections. He could start over. Maybe in Vienna.
He hit the bottom of the steps and started running. One part of his mind cursed Marla Linder as his feet pounded the plaza pavement; one part of it mourned her.
* * *
Honister looked around at the sound of cursing and yelling people. A man broke free from the flow of opera-goers going up the steps. It looked like—it was—Schardius. He headed that direction, holding up his hand.
“Halt! Master Andreas Schardius, I arrest you—gun!”
The sudden sight of the pistol in the merchant’s hands being aimed in his direction tightened every muscle in Honister’s lower abdomen and groin, and raised his voice at least two octaves. His shout echoed off the surrounding buildings, and was probably heard clearly on the other side of the Big Ditch and its walls.
Schardius fired one shot, but Honister was already ducking and twisting to pull out his own pistol. And now he bitterly repented that he had not followed Sergeant Hoch’s lead and moved up from a .32 to a .44 with more shots. Five just wasn’t enough in a situation like this.
* * *
Franz released Friedrich’s arm at the end of his row. Friedrich stepped across feet to the empty seat between Gronow and Plavius.
“Where have you been?” Plavius demanded, not bothering to hold down his voice amid the other conversations going on around them.
Friedrich didn’t answer right away, settling his walking stick between his knees and punching Gronow on the leg.
“Johann, pass me your flask of schnapps, and don’t try to tell me you don’t have it.”
With a sigh, Gronow pulled a silver flask from an inside jacket pocket and handed it to Friedrich. Friedrich took off the cap and drank two big swallows before he turned back to Plavius.