The Devil's Opera(46)

“Good day, Lieutenant Chieske, Sergeant Hoch.” Hans’ voice sounded pleasant to Simon’s ear, although the firmness of the grip on his thigh told him that Hans was not especially pleased by this encounter.

“And a good day to you as well, fraulein…” That was the down-timer sergeant. Simon startled to bristle again, only to feel Hans’ fingers clamp almost to the bone on his thigh.

“Metzger,” Hans growled. “My sister, Ursula Metzgerinin.”

Lieutenant Chieske nodded politely to her, but Sergeant Hoch stepped forward, gently lifted her hand where it lay on the table, and bowed over it, almost but not quite drawing it to his lips. “A pleasure, fraulein.” He straightened with a pleasant smile on his face.

Simon bit the inside of his cheek to keep from gasping as Hans bore down on his leg. He’d have bruises in the morning, that was certain.

The sergeant stepped back, and Simon gave a sigh of relief as Hans released his leg.

“Just so you’ll know, Herr Metzger,” the lieutenant said, “we’re looking into some odd events that have occurred near the river in the last couple of months.”

Hans grunted.

“If you happen to think of anything unusual you’ve seen or heard, you might let us know.”

Hans grunted again. Simon saw the lieutenant’s mouth twitch a bit.

“Well, we’ve got to get back to work. Enjoy the rest of the day Herr Metzger, fraulein, Simon.” The sergeant started when his partner tapped him on the shoulder. They both nodded, then turned away. Simon looked to see Hans following their departure with a hard-set mouth and narrowed eyes.

“A nice man, that Sergeant Hoch,” Ursula said with a bit of a smile. “The other one was a bit brusque, though.”

Hans grunted. Simon looked to him, then said to Ursula, “He is an up-timer. They are all a bit odd; some more than others.”

“Ah. An up-timer. I see.” Ursula looked toward the door. “Do you know, I think that is the first up-timer I have met?”

“And please God, it will be the last,” Hans muttered. “They are nothing but trouble.”

Simon had no reply to the last statement.

The whole encounter had cast a pall over the afternoon. They soon arose to return to their rooms.

* * *

“What was that all about?” Byron asked, disturbing Gotthilf’s thoughts.

“What was what all about?”

“You made a big deal over Fraulein Metzger back there,” the up-timer pointed out. “You don’t normally do that. So what was it all about?”

“Two things,” Gotthilf answered distractedly. “First, it occurred to me that leaving her with a positive memory of us might be to our advantage. And second, I think I’ve met her before, or at least seen her…but I cannot remember where or when.”

He staggered a bit when he was unexpectedly clapped on the shoulder by his partner. “Ah, you’ll remember it sooner or later,” Byron said. “You always do.”

Gotthilf hoped so. This was like having an itch in the middle of his back—he couldn’t reach it.

* * *

The rest of the day passed in a fog for Simon. He knew they had to have returned home, because he woke in his usual place the next morning. He knew he had to have changed clothes, because he was wearing some of the new clothing. He knew that he had to have gone to Frau Zenzi’s and swept, because a loaf of her bread was on the table. But all he could remember was the sheer joy of having new-to-him clothes. And shoes. Especially the shoes.





Chapter 21

“Good morning, Frau Simpson,” the man waiting in her parlor said as Mary Simpson entered the room. She made a lightning assessment with a single glance, a skill that had served her well since early in her days in Pittsburgh. The man was of middling height, middling years, middling size, dressed well but not with ostentation.

“Good morning, Herr Schardius,” Mary responded. She waved to a chair opposite the small settee she preferred for her seat. “Please, sit with me. Coffee will be here in a moment.” She could hear Hilde coming down the hall with the tray.

Hilde entered the room and set the silver coffee service on the low table in the center of the seats. Then, after looking to Mary for direction, retreated to a corner.

Mary leaned forward, poured the coffee, and offered a cup to her visitor. “What can I do for you, Master Schardius?”

“Perhaps it is more what I can do for you, Frau Simpson.” He took a sip from his cup, smiled, and leaned back in his chair. “I understand from some of my friends and associates that you, or rather, the Royal and Imperial Arts Council, intend to produce a new opera soon.”