The Devil's Opera(33)
He held out his hand. “Let me see it.”
Frau Linder placed the paper cylinder in his hand. He unrolled it, and started scanning the text. Midway through, he stopped, went back to the beginning, and read through again slowly, letting each word register in his mind.
He looked up at the woman. “I will not insult you by asking if you know what you are asking. But do you realize the kind of storm this could raise? Especially now?”
Frau Linder returned a grin that reminded him of nothing more than a feral cat showing its fangs. “Oh, I intend for it to do that,” she breathed. “Exactly that.” Her tone was not loud, but every man at the table heard it, and Friedrich felt the hair on his neck rise.
Friedrich looked at the short length of lines on the page. He read through them again, then folded the paper and put it in his inside coat pocket.
“Where can I reach you?”
“Messages can reach me at the Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls, at the Royal Academy of Music, or at our home.” Herr Sylwester handed his wife a card, which she in turn handed to Friedrich. He looked at the address, then tucked that card into the same pocket.
“Give me a week.”
“Sooner would be better, but if it takes a week, and it’s good, so be it.”
Herr Sylwester leaned forward and whispered in Frau Linder’s ear. She nodded in response, then returned her focus to Friedrich. “How much?”
Friedrich was tempted to play word games with the woman, but in the end decided not to. “Nothing. I will do this just for the pleasure of being a part of it.”
He was surprised when Frau Linder didn’t remonstrate with him. She simply took him at his word, and nodded. “Within the week, then. Good day to you, Herr Logau, meine Herren.”
Herr Sylwester nodded, having never said a word to the gathered writers, then turned and followed his wife. Friedrich felt his mouth quirk again. With Frau Linder for a wife, why would the man need to say anything? And from what Friedrich had heard, although he followed in his wife’s wake often, Sylwester was no rudderless ship sucked along in an undertow. One could be quiet, and still be a rock of strength.
Friedrich turned back to his friends.
“Well?” Plavius demanded.
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you going to show us the English lyrics?”
Friedrich made a pretense of considering this suggestion, before letting his face settle into a grin. “No,” he said as he beamed at them. “You will hear them like everyone else, when she is ready to salvo them at the world.”
“Salvo?” Gronow caught at that word. “You infer that it will be a momentous occasion.”
“My friends, you have no idea. But you will remember that day, I doubt not.”
As those around him erupted in expostulations, Friedrich looked back down to his notebook, and crossed out “destruction.” He wrote in a simple word, so that the last line of the epigram now read “Compromise brings death.” He read the line again, nodded, and put the notebook back in the breast pocket of his coat.
* * *
Bam!
Gotthilf walked up to the counter just as Byron fired his last shot. The action in the .45 locked back; Byron ejected the empty magazine and laid it and the empty pistol on the counter.
“Clear!” he called out to the range officer as he slid the ear protectors down to hang around his neck.
The range officer blew his whistle. Even though Byron was the only shooter in the range at the moment, the officer still yelled out, “Range is cold.” After a moment, a young man ran out to grab the target off the hook, then ran back to the side and around the range perimeter to bring it to the lieutenant.
Gotthilf looked around his partner’s arm to see the grouping. “Not bad, Byron.”
Byron laid his hand on the spread. Nothing showed outside his palm. “Yeah, eight shots in a five inch diameter at thirty feet. Not world class, maybe, but good enough for the guy’s heart and lower left lung lobe to be hamburger.” He put the target on the counter, then bent over and picked up his cartridge casings. “I almost forgot these. I’ve got almost a box worth that I need to get reloaded.”
Gotthilf winced at Byron’s description of the effect of the shots on a body. He couldn’t disagree with it, but the thought still caused his stomach to lurch a bit. He covered for that by setting his case on the counter.
Byron started feeding stubby .45 cartridges into the empty magazine. Click. Click. Click. “Whatcha got, partner?” In a matter of moments, seven cartridges into the magazine, ram it into the handle, one cartridge into the chamber, release the action, throw the safety, and shove the pistol into the holster in the back of his belt, all the while looking with interest at Gotthilf’s case.