The Devil's Opera(92)
“Sounds kind of like what Mrs. Dreeson went through a couple of years ago,” Marla said.
“Yeah, similar set of circumstances. Just dawned on me, there’s probably been a lot of that happening all over, between the fighting and the plagues. Anyway, you’ll have to sit down with Frontilia and get her to give you the whole story over a glass of wine someday. Suffice it to say that while her adventures with her husband on the trip here weren’t quite as exciting as Ronnie Dreeson’s, they exacted their toll. They got here a few months ago, and they no sooner arrived and got settled into a rooming house than he dropped dead from a heart attack. He was standing talking to her one moment, the next he was lying on the floor, gone.”
“That’s terrible,” Marla said, horrified at the thought of anyone losing a mate like that.
“Yeah. And to top it off, after the funeral, when she finally tracked down someone who could tell her where the property was actually located, it turned out it was one of the lots that Gericke condemned in the emperor’s name to build one of the big fancy boulevards in the Old City. She had to hire a lawyer—some guy named Lentke, if I remember correctly—but she did screw some money out of Mayor Gericke as compensation for the loss of her husband’s rights.”
“She sounds tough,” Marla said.
“Believe it. She might not knock Ronnie off her throne as Queen of the Tough Old Broads,” Marla could hear the capital letters in Amber’s tone, “but I’d say she’s a candidate for Crown Princess. Anyway, the money she got wasn’t enough to go back home on or even live here for very long. She had worked with a school back in her home town, so when she somehow found out about Desfig”—that was how Amber pronounced the acronym for the Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls, where Marla taught music—“Lady Beth hired her right away.”
“And then you poached her before I could even meet her at the school,” Marla grinned.
“And then I poached her,” Amber agreed with her own grin. “And it’s a good thing I did, too. The woman is an organizational genius. Even at this late date she’s going to make my job easier.”
“Cool.”
Marla leaned back against the wall again. Frontilia, huh? Well, it wasn’t the prettiest of names, but one thing was for certain; if someone called it out, there wouldn’t be half-a-dozen or more heads turning around like there would be if you called out Anna or Elizabeth. More power to her.
* * *
Schardius flicked his light across the sign on the door. Women’s Dressing Room.
Aah.
He stepped into the room, and shone his light around. Several small shallow tables with mirrors on the wall. A few of them had placards with names on them. He walked down the room, reading them, until he found one in particular.
Marla.
* * *
“Georg Schmidt?” Ciclope murmured to Pietro as they approached the work site that morning. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Pietro muttered back. “This guy came out of the same place of business that the boss went into after he changed his clothes in that other house. I followed him to a tavern and got him drunk. He was a cheap drunk, too.” Pietro spat to one side in emphasis, but the redness in his own eyes indicated that the clerk may not have been all that wimpy.
“Georg Schmidt,” Ciclope murmured again. “Well, we’ll just have to see what we can make out of that.”
Someone tugged on his jacket and he spun around, fist cocked to level what he suspected was a pickpocket. Instead, he saw a skinny boy holding up a folded piece of paper in his left hand. There was something odd about the boy’s stance.
“What do you want?” he snarled, lowering his fist.
“Man paid me to give this to you.”
The boy’s voice wavered a bit, but Ciclope had to give him points for standing his ground.
“You sure it’s for me?”
“I don’t see any other one-eyed men around,” the boy replied cheekily.
Ciclope snatched the paper out of the boy’s hand.
“Man have a name?”
“No.”
“What did he look like?”
“Old…almost as old as you, a little bit fat, soft hands.”
Ciclope exchanged glances with Pietro. That fit Schmidt. He turned back to the boy, but he was gone, weaving through the press of workers heading for the construction site. He crammed the note into his pocket.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” Pietro nagged.
“Later,” Ciclope muttered. “Not out here in front of everyone. Get to work.”
He took his own advice and headed into the gate.