The Devil's Opera(82)

Ciclope released the knife and let his target drop. He turned from the corpse to where Pietro had dragged the accountant. The victim was almost purple in the face, wheezing and gagging, pawing at his throat with his free hand.

“What’s with him?”

“Bruised bulb of garlic in his mouth,” Pietro muttered in a distracted fashion as he tried to force the lock on the satchel, which turned out to be chained to the accountant’s wrist.

Ciclope winced in momentary sympathy. “Waste of garlic,” he muttered, then took another knife from an inside pocket. “Cut the handle out.” And he proceeded to do exactly that. It took a moment—even a very sharp knife will not slice leather like it was paper—but it was a very very sharp knife, so it didn’t take took long before Pietro was holding the satchel and the accountant was free to bring both hands up to his mistreated mouth and throat.

“Sorry,” Ciclope said to the accountant, “nothing personal. It’s just business, you understand.”

That very same very sharp knife found its way into the accountant’s heart. Ciclope released it, grabbed Pietro by the arm, and headed for the other end of the alley as the accountant slumped to the ground behind them, no longer concerned about the burning garlic in his mouth.

Pietro tried to twist around. “Your knife!”

“Leave it,” Ciclope said. “I never understood why you and the others insist on using expensive knives for this kind of stuff. You don’t need a good knife for this. Cheap and sharp works just as well, and you can leave it behind so no one ever sees you with it again.”

Pietro had no reply to that observation.

Ciclope missed the blood. He had wanted to see blood, but it wasn’t safe this time to wait for it.

* * *

Gotthilf looked up when he heard the constable whistle code for sergeant come!

He and Byron were still trolling for leads among their informers, and were walking in one of the less affluent areas of Greater Magdeburg. He noted that they actually weren’t far from where Hans Metzger lived. He was about to remark on that when the sound of the whistle registered.

Byron got it, too, and looked to his partner with a raised eyebrow. Should we?

Gotthilf responded with a shrug. Why not?

So they pivoted in lock step and walked toward the sound of the whistle. Half a block, turn left at the corner, and walk down to arrive at the watchman’s side just as the sergeant over this patrol sector rode up on his horse.

“So, Georg,” Byron said to the sergeant, a watchman who had been part of a couple of their previous investigations before his promotion, “I see you got tired of the shift sergeant’s desk. How goes the patrol sergeanting?”

The horse wasn’t much better than a nag, but Georg kept both hands on the reins anyway. He grinned as he responded, “Just fine, Lieutenant. Thanks for asking. Sergeant,” he nodded to Gotthilf.

Byron turned his attention to the patrolman. “So, you called this meeting. What’s up?”

Gotthilf took pity on the man, who was the very same Phillip with whom he had conversed about watching the Metzgers. “He means, why did you signal?”

The confusion on Phillip’s face faded. “I did not know you would be in the area, Sergeant Gotthilf, but Fraulein Metzger just left their rooms, so I thought to check with Sergeant Georg here to see if he wanted her followed.”

“Was she with her brother or that boy, Simon?” Gotthilf asked.

“No, she was alone.”

“Which way?”

Phillip pointed down the street in the direction they were facing. “That way, maybe five minutes ago.”

“My thanks,” Gotthilf said. He looked up at Byron. “Staying or coming?” Ye gods and little fishes, as he’d heard one up-timer say, he was starting to be as stingy with words as Byron was.

Byron waved a hand. “You go. I’ll keep trying to find Demetrious.”

“Right.” And with that, Gotthilf took off down the street.

* * *

Marla and Franz stopped midway between their separate destinations. They leaned toward each other for a kiss, made somewhat cumbersome by their coats. The day was colder than it had been for the past few days, and they were bundled into their heaviest garments. She lingered with the kiss, regardless, warmed inside by the intimacy of the moment with her husband, albeit they were outside in plain view of all the passers-by.

When they broke apart, Franz blinked at her. “My,” was his only comment.

She smiled at him, and pointed at the opera house. “Get to work,” she said. “Your orchestra awaits.”

They parted company, and she headed for the Royal Academy of Music building, the first of several planned for the complex around the opera house. Today, the biggest room inside was housing the rehearsal for Arthur Rex.