Once Upon a Crime (27 page)

Gretel thought uncomfortably of the hunting knife, of Hans's plump paw, of needs-must and means-to-an-end. Even so, she would not allow such a base example of womanhood—a being so lacking in both morality, loyalty, and, as crucially, refinement—to claim sisterhood.

“The measure of a person lies, I think,” she said, “not in what they will do, but in what they will not.”

“You mistake me for someone who gives this for your measures,” Inge replied, gesticulating with her fingers in a way even the troll might have found offensive. “I don't know what your totty-headed game is,” she went on, “and nor do I care, so long as you keep your grog-blossomed nose out of my business and let me do as I will.”

“However could I stop you?” said Gretel, feigning interest in a silver platter the size of a coffee table. “I am here purely on business of my own, in regard to the cats of a client of mine, one Frau Hapsburg. It is small business, and I do not believe our aims need oppose one another. But curiosity demands I ask of you, why did you deem it necessary to put an end to poor Bechstein? What hold had he over you?”

“That fat fool! He was in the giant's employ. Sent to spy on us. We had been fetching cats for the monstrous dandyprat for long months, but never direct, you understand.”

“The troll was your go-between?”

“He was, the stinking, fartleberried wretch. The giant thought by keeping us away, we would not attempt to take his treasure.”

“He underestimated your resolve, clearly.”

“The troll, in his own stupid, blundering way, must have warned the giant about us. Muller was always letting his mouth run away with him—he most likely let something slip.”

“Herr Troll's grog has a way of loosening tongues.”

“We came to Bad am Zee again to meet him, but found Bechstein sniffing after us, serving as the giant's whiddler. So we thought to set him onto you instead. There you were, asking after the whereabouts of the troll, subtle as an avalanche.”

Gretel bridled at this. “Investigations require questioning—there is no way around it.”

“So we thought, why not? Set you toward the troll and Bechstein after you. Only he got windy. Heard we was onto him.”

“You might like to examine your own methods . . .”

“Thought we'd have to call the whole thing off and clear out of town. But then you gave us the perfect solution to our problems.”

“The hunting knife.”

“The knife. Bechstein near your room. You and that cully brother of yours, larger than life for all to see in the wrong place at the wrongest of times.”

The fierce dislike Gretel had hitherto harbored for Inge blossomed into full-blown hatred. She would not be made to feel responsible for Bechstein's death. She would not.

“While you were plunging that knife into the poor man's chest, I was wheeling Hans around the square.”

“So you were. Pity you don't have any witnesses, is it not? Pity for you, that is.”

“You say Dieter Muller lost his nerve—is that why you poisoned him?”

“I could see he hadn't the stomach to take on the giant. Not even for this.” She waved her hand at the splendor surrounding them. “He was scared. Scared to risk his miserable hide, and scared that even if he didn't assist me, the giant would reckon he must have had something to do with it and come after him anyway.”

“You were in Gesternstadt when he decided to jump ship, as it were.”

“Further unfinished business.”

“Ah yes, Herr Hund's gambling debts.”

“I have no sympathy for elbow shakers—they bring their misfortune upon their sorry selves. Another sap. Men!” She summoned phlegm from her throat and spat onto the floor at Gretel's feet. “Give me a woman any day of the week.”

There was an uncomfortable stutter in the flow of their conversation. Gretel felt panic rising, and did not care for the way
in which Inge was now letting her gaze sweep Gretel's body from furry-hatted head to clumsy-booted toe. Surely the toxic woman was not about to suggest some manner of alliance?

“And yet,” she said, “you have brought many men with you. And dynamite.”

“Such men are hired for their muscle, not their wit. At the top of the hour, if I have not reappeared, they will blow up the great doors to this nonsense of a place and gain entry.”

“The giant will resist. He is quite terrifying in his strength and size.”

“My men are armed and hungry for loot.”

“Even so, I should not want to be found here to face Herr Giant's fury.” She pulled a pin from her hair and turned quickly to the door. With a minimum of fuss and fiddling she had the lock undone and the door open. “Will you not flee while you have the chance?” she asked Inge.

“What? And leave all this?” She shook her head defiantly. “I shall remain and await my men.”

Gretel made to leave.

Inge was astounded. “Will you go empty-handed? All this treasure before you, and you quit the room without taking what you can?”

Gretel resisted touching the pearls at her throat. Clearly Inge had not noticed the necklace. Gretel refused to think of taking them as theft. There was a wrong to right, a debt, or several, to be paid. A single string of pearls was fair enough, she reasoned.

“I did not come here to rob the giant,” Gretel told her. “I may have a game to play, but it will be a fair one.”

Inge gave a derisive snort. “Such lofty ground you inhabit, fraulein. The air must be very thin up there.”

“At least I have no trouble sleeping.”

“I sleep well enough.”

“Ah, but what phantoms people your dreams?”

There was a fizzing silence. The two women regarded each other sternly. Inge stood tall, hands on hips, defiant, and yet she gave no answer to the question. Though it may have been a trick of the flickering candlelight, Gretel fancied she glimpsed fear in her eyes. Or was it regret? Gretel said no more, but left the room of wonders, closing the door softly behind her.

Retracing her steps, she found her way swiftly to the cats' room. A few steadying breaths were necessary before she could bring herself to enter. Inside, the floor pullulated with the soft, sinuous creatures. Gretel whipped out her notebook and searched back through her entries until she found the descriptions she had written down of Frau Hapsburg's cats.

“Right,” she said aloud, as much to soothe her nerves as to gain the cats' attention, “anyone here called Floribunda? Tortoiseshell. One white paw.” She searched through the ever-shifting throng. “No. Not a tortie to be seen. What else? Ah, a big ginger tom.” This was more difficult. There were several ginger cats. Her notes suggested this one should be of great size and with four white paws. “No. Nothing here like that.” She briefly entertained the idea of taking another of the cats that matched the color and simply painting its paws, but she knew Frau Hapsburg would examine each one minutely. “Right. No Lexxie. So, only Mippin left. Silver tabby, juvenile, a particularly fine example, apparently.” She scanned the room. Even Frau Hapsburg's home could not contain as many felines as she was now in the company of. Dozens, possibly hundreds of the things, purred and mewed and padded about. Some slumbered on soft cushions. Others scampered up and down branches. Still more chased each other around the ornamental pond and fountain. Many of them were indeed tabbies, and Gretel was uncertain of the precise definition of
silver
tabby.

Reasoning that any cat belonging to her client would have been well tamed and would know its name, she began to quietly call.

“Mippin? Mippin, Mippin, Mippin? Come out, come out, wherever you are?” She was on the point of giving up when she felt a featherlight body press itself against her legs. She peered down to find a small, gray, stripy cat, not much more than a kitten, staring up at her with slowly blinking green eyes. “Mippin?” she asked. The little cat meowed sweetly and flicked its tail. “Mippin!” Gretel decided. She scooped up the creature and pushed it into the canvas bag. “Sit still,” she told it, but it began to protest and squirm about, scratching frantically at the bottom of the bag. Gretel noticed a fluffy patchwork cushion and took it, pushing it in with Mippin. “There,” she said, “curl up with that.” The cat paused in its scrabbling and then settled down to purring and gently kneading the cushion, as kittens are wont to do.

With haste, Gretel secured the buckles firmly. She made for the door. As she turned to close it behind her, something made her hesitate. Hundreds of eyes, some amber, some yellow, some green, some blue, turned to fix upon her. While she had no fondness for cats, there was still something about the fate that awaited these hapless pets that gave her pause. Whatever her personal views of the things, it seemed a cruel and pointless end to so many lives.

“It's no good looking at me like that. I can't possibly take all of you.” Still the eyes watched her, pleading, pathetic, unbearably endearing.

At that moment, fate, or rather Inge's men, intervened to save Gretel the bother of formulating some sort of rescue plan for the animals. A thunderous boom shook the very mountain, throwing Gretel off her feet and sending cats fleeing in all directions. She struggled to right herself, checking that she had not entirely squashed Mippin.

The kitten wailed but seemed unharmed.

“It would appear,” she told him, “that Frau Peterson-Muller did not supply her troops with a timepiece.” She peered down the passageway. There were cats bounding for freedom in great furry leaps. From the direction of the front doors came sounds of a battle raging between the treasure hunters and the giant. Smoke plumed upward toward her. It was clear she would have to find an alternate escape route. She recalled noticing some small, high windows farther along the corridor, back toward the treasure store. She located the first, but there was no means of getting to it. The second, however, was positioned next to an ornamental alcove. Grunting with effort, she began to climb. The uneven walls were rough and painful to clutch at, but did at least provide many footholds and tiny indentations on which to cling. As she made her slow ascent, further noises of the conflict at the entrance to the cave reached her. It seemed the attackers were making headway and at least some of them were advancing toward the giant's hoard. Gretel redoubled her efforts. At last she reached the window. The glass was thick and the frame solid. Fortunately it was not locked, the giant obviously deeming it unlikely anyone would attempt entry through it. By the time she had squeezed her bulk through the narrow opening, the reason for this became clear. The winding passageway had led farther upward than backward, so that the drop from the window was sheer, long, and quite terrifying. There was a narrow ledge, however, that ran around the side of the outer wall with a promising downward slope, though she could not tell where it ended, as its conclusion was out of sight. She teetered upright so that her heels—and therefore the greater part of her weight—were against the hillside. While aiding balance, this technique did mean that, as she inched sideways, the horror of the potential plunge was all she could see. There was nothing to be gained by trying to focus in the
middle distance somewhere, as all that was revealed were further giddying hills and precipitous pathways. Gretel closed her eyes. As if sensing danger, Mippin began to wriggle in the bag.

“Now is not the moment to resist,” Gretel told him. “For both our sakes, stay calm and stay still.” Palms flat behind her against the cold stone, she made slow and shaky progress along the ledge. As she neared the turn in the wall, sounds of the fighting at the front door grew louder. It seemed the giant was still defending his home vigorously. Progress was painfully slow, but at last she wriggled far enough around to have a clear view of all that was taking place below. What a scene of chaos and mayhem it was. The exploded remains of the great doors lay about the place as if the giant himself had been passing the time in a game of spillikins. Gretel counted three bodies among the wreckage. A gaggle of rough-looking men was blasting away with muskets and mounting sporadic charges. The giant loomed on the threshold, smoke billowing around him. He roared as he snatched at his assailants, his fez dislodged, his fine jacket in tatters, one mighty foot missing its slipper. He lunged forward, knocking flat three men with one sweep of his arm.

Gretel noticed two members of Inge's small army dodge beneath him and slip through the entrance and into the cave. Seeing that everyone was fully occupied, she cast about for a way to get down. The slope of the ledge had at least reduced the distance between her and the ground. To fall now would not mean certain death, but it would involve broken bones. She needed to descend farther. The ledge continued all the way down to the top of the doorway, but to get so close to the fighting would be far too dangerous. There was a worrying lack of options. The only protuberances from the sheer face of the rock were the ornamental gargoyles, and they were too widely spaced to provide a safe descent.

A movement at the periphery of Gretel's vision caught her attention. A figure was skulking behind a thorn bush, observing the calamitous events. It was Hans. If he were to fetch the mare and position the cart beneath the most reachable gargoyle, it might be possible to drop into it without serious injury.

Gretel signaled as best she could, balance being her most pressing concern. Hans, however, was far too absorbed in what he was watching to notice her feeble flapping, so that she was eventually compelled to yell at him.

“Hans! Hans, up here!”

Despite the cacophony of the giant's thunderous roaring and the screams of his attacker, years of training meant that the singular pitch of Gretel's voice penetrated her brother's consciousness. He gazed about him, searching, looking hopelessly gormless. At last, though, he spotted her. His face registered surprise, pride, and then worry.

“Bring the cart!” Gretel instructed him. “Park it beneath me. Hurry!”