by Eric Flint
Gus helped Hans into his shirt and jacket. Hans plucked his hat off of Simon’s head, rolled it into a bundle and stuffed it in the front of his own jacket. After a moment, Simon understood; Hans wanted people to think he still had the money. After another moment, the reasons why Hans might want that started to scare him.
Hans sat on the bench. Simon’s worry increased. His friend was just staring at side of the ring; not moving, not speaking, just staring. He laid his hand on Hans’ shoulder.
“Hans?”
The big man turned his head in slow motion and looked at Simon.
“What do I do now?”
The question confused Simon. Hans sounded serious, but how could he answer him?
“What do you mean?” he responded.
“You’re my luck. What do I do now?”
Simon sat down beside Hans. How was he supposed to answer that question? He was just a boy. Then he remembered something.
“I talked to Pastor Gruber at St. Jacob’s the other day,” he said.
“That old man?” Hans asked. “I thought he was dead.”
“No. He’s still helping out there. Anyway, he told me something about consequences, about how the things we choose to do always have consequences, and we need to think about them.”
“Consequences, huh?” Hans took the towel from Simon and rearranged the blood on his face. “Well, I can’t go back to work for Master Schardius after tonight. That’s one consequence.”
“Truth,” Gus muttered from behind them.
“You got hurt tonight,” Simon said, remembering a long-ago conversation with Lieutenant Chieske. “Bad hurt. You may not be able to fight like that again.”
“Umm,” Hans said, without agreeing or disagreeing.
“And I think Master Schardius is going to be mad,” Simon finished, remembering Ahithophel.
“Truth,” Gus said in a very worried tone.
That got through to Hans. “He’s likely to send someone to take the money back, either on the way back to…the…rooms…Ursula!”
Hans tried to shoot to his feet, but dropped back on the bench with a stifled groan, clutching his right side. He rose more slowly, and stayed on his feet this time.
“Gus, go ask Herr Pierpoint to come here right now, please.”
Gus asked no questions, but took off looking for the fight manager. In less than a minute Simon could see him returning, Pierpoint in tow.
“What’s up, Hans?”
“First, I took a lot of punishment tonight. I won’t be fighting for a while.”
Pierpoint looked a bit relieved. “Good. You need to rest and heal. Take as long as you want. After that fight, I’ll have fighters coming from all over to step in the ring here. But if that’s first, what’s second?”
“How well do you know Lieutenant Chieske?”
Pierpoint looked mystified. “Byron? Pretty well. Why?”
“I need you—not someone else, just you—to take him a message without saying anything to anyone else about it. Right now. It’s very important.”
Pierpoint’s mystification increased. “Can you tell me why?”
“No. Tell him he needs to come to my rooms in the city as soon as possible. I will meet him there. It is not a joke when I say it really is a matter of life or death.”
“Okay,” Pierpoint shrugged. “We’re about done here. I’ll head for his place now.”
Hans seemed to slump a little. “Thank you.”
“Thank me by getting well. We need you back.”
With that, Pierpoint returned to where Tobias was standing by the time-keeper’s table, then took off toward the road back to the main part of the city.
Hans looked at Gus. “Will you come with us? If something happens, someone needs to get Simon home safely.”
Gus hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
“Let’s go, then.”
* * *
Ciclope sat staring at the table top, brooding. Schmidt had been gone for a while, but his mind was still occupied with thoughts of how to do what Schmidt wanted. And in the back of his mind, he was still—grieving wasn’t the right word—he wasn’t sure there was a word to describe what he was feeling about Pietro. He hadn’t liked the scrawny thief all that well, but he had known him for years, and here in this foreign city he had been all that Ciclope had had from home. So, yes, he admitted to himself, he missed him. And yes, he acknowledged, he was angry about Pietro’s death, and the manner of it. He just hadn’t figured out what to do about it yet.
Someone slid onto the stool that Schmidt had occupied earlier. He looked up with irritation, but relaxed a little when he recognized the “associate” who had paid him and Pietro extra to make the bombs bigger.
“What do you want?” Ciclope snarled.
“First, to tell you that I’m sorry your friend was killed.”
The expression on the other man’s face was sober. For all Ciclope could tell, he was serious.
“We all die,” Ciclope said. “But leave it to that fool to die from something like that.” The stranger said nothing more. After a moment, Ciclope repeated, “What do you want?”
“Has Schmidt turned you loose on Schardius yet?” came the whispered reply.
The question was unexpected from one viewpoint, but given the history of Ciclope’s short relationship with the man, he wasn’t surprised.
“Yah.”
The associate nodded. “I thought he might have.” He leaned forward, and flicked something across the table so fast Ciclope couldn’t tell what it was with his eyes. It landed in his lap, though, with a chink sound and the feeling of a reassuringly full purse of coin. “Another incentive payment,” the man said. “Just to make sure that you, ah, bring the Schardius contract to a quick completion.”
Ciclope dropped a hand to his lap to heft the purse. By weight and size, he guessed it was much as the first purse had been. So, fifty additional Groschen to do something he had already promised to do? Sure, he’d take the money. And he might try a bit harder, at that.
“When that’s done,” the associate said, preparing to stand up, “I’ll meet you back here. I have another job for you, if Master Schmidt doesn’t.”
Ciclope just nodded. The associate left, and Ciclope’s mind returned to its brooding.
Chapter 55
Karl Honister sat at his desk, going over his notes again. The lamp on his desk spilled golden light out in a circle from under the shade. It was the only light in the room. Everyone else had either gone home or was out investigating some new crime.
Even after talking to all the clerks, he still hadn’t been able to put his finger on a link to the robbery cash. Someone in town had it, but they weren’t spending it. Nor were any of the major business figures in town spending more than they usually did. There just didn’t seem to be any tracks of it. It was like someone put it in a bag along with some big rocks and threw it in the river.
Okay, quit looking for the cash. Start looking for anything that was different. Anything at all.
He turned back to the beginning of the file and starting reading each report again, trying very hard not to skim them because they were familiar.
Page after page was turned over, one by one, with care to align them in a neat stack. That was mostly because he felt like wadding them into little balls or tearing them into shreds. Frustration did not do justice to his frame of mind.
It was in the report entitled “Second Interview with Johann Dauth” that Honister got his break. Halfway down the page, a phrase registered with him in a manner that had not occurred to him before. His finger tapped up and down on the page under that sentence while his thoughts raced down various different mental pathways.
It almost startled him when his hand slammed down on the page.
“Idiot!”
Wasting no more time, he bolted from his chair, grabbed his coat and hat from their pegs on the wall as he strode by, and a bare moment later was outside, trying to find a vehicle.
*
* *
“Why are we out here in the cold night again?” Gotthilf asked as he climbed into the police cart that Byron had brought the house.
“Todd Pierpoint came by, told me that Metzger apparently took a beating in a fight tonight, and says he wants to talk to us. Now. At his place.”
Gotthilf mulled that over as the cart started moving and Byron gave directions to the driver.
“You think maybe he got some sense knocked into his head?”
Byron snorted. “As hard-headed as he is, I’m not sure that’s possible. Would take a pretty hard tap to the noggin to do it. But I guess it could happen.”
Gotthilf yawned, and the conversation lagged as the horse moved on down the street. After a minute or so he asked, “How is Jonni taking this?”
There was enough moonlight that Gotthilf could see Byron shrugging.
“She doesn’t like it much. No wife does. Keep that in mind, if you ever get serious about a girl.”
“Or if my mother does,” Gotthilf muttered.
Byron chuckled, then continued, “But she knows what to expect. I was a policeman in Shinnston for a while, back in the old West Virginia before the Ring fell. And I was trying to get on with the sheriff out of Morgantown. We do this work, you and me, and we’re right to do it, but we’re not the only ones who pay the price for it. Jonni handles it okay, though, and I try to make it up to her in other ways.”
“A good wife, then.”
“One of the best.”
* * *
Simon worried all the way back to the rooming house. Hans wasn’t walking at his normal rate. He’d speed up, then he’d slow down, then he’d speed up again. A couple of times he stopped and held his hand against his right side. But every time Simon tried to help, Hans would wave him off and start walking again.
Gus didn’t say anything. He just walked along, and kept looking around.
It didn’t help any that Hans didn’t walk the straightest route. Once they got closer to their own neighborhood, he started taking turns and twists seemingly at random. After the fourth such, Simon spoke up.
“This isn’t the way home.”
“Yah,” Hans responded, his speech still sounding a little slurred. “Want to make sure no one is following us.”
So Simon bit his tongue and trudged on after his friend.
After a few more jaunts, Hans seemed satisfied that they were alone, and set a straight course for their rooms. Just before they arrived, he pulled Simon under a stairway for a moment.
“Give me the purse,” he said.
Simon handed it to him. Hans fumbled with it for several moments, then Simon heard the sound of paper crinkling. After another moment, Hans pushed it back to him.
“I took a little for me,” he said. “Tell Uschi the rest is for her.”
Simon stuffed the purse back in his jacket, and they walked the short remaining distance to their own stairway. A horse-drawn cart was coming down the street from the other direction, and they all melted into the shadows under the eaves of the house, out of the moonlight. The horse drew up in front of their stairs, and Simon felt that cold hand of fear make a fist in his belly again.
“Wait here,” Simon heard a familiar voice say as two men got down out of the cart, one tall and one short. He sagged in relief as the moonlight confirmed that it was Lieutenant Chieske and Sergeant Hoch.
Hans apparently recognized them, too, as he lurched away from the wall. Both the Polizei men turned to face him, pistols appearing in their hands almost like magic, but their tension eased as soon as Hans walked into the moonlight.
“Herr Metzger,” Lieutenant Chieske greeted him. “You’re lucky we didn’t shoot you.”
“I have my luck,” Hans mumbled, pulling Simon forward to stand by him.
“So I see,” the up-timer said, putting his pistol back under his coat. “Todd’s message was pretty urgent. Life-or-death, I believe you said.”
“Yah. Mine.”
Hans walked closer, and they got a good luck at his face. Chieske whistled, and Hoch exclaimed, “Mein Gott, man, you’re beat half to death. How are you still walking?”
“You should see the other guy,” Hans said with a rasp that might have been a dying chuckle.
“So, we’re here,” Lieutenant Chieske said. “Talk to us.”
“First, you have to take Ursula some place safe. Really safe. Take Simon, too.”
“Hans!” Simon protested.
“You can’t stay here,” Hans said in a gruff tone. “They’ll come here for the money, and anyone who’s here will get hurt or killed. Nobody crosses Master Schardius and gets away with it. Remember the guy in the river.”
Simon shivered.
“Money?” Sergeant Hoch asked.
“Big fight tonight,” Hans rasped. “Brought in a man from Hannover. Schardius ordered me to lose. I won.”
“How much?” Chieske asked.
“Fifty thousand dollars,” Simon said after Hans didn’t answer right away.
“Fifty thousand!” Incredulity overflowed from the sergeant’s voice.
“Dollars,” Simon responded.
A moment of silence reigned, broken finally by the up-timer.
“So, you’ve broken with Schardius, then?”
Hans rasped again, then said, “Yah, I suppose you could say that.”
“Give us what we want, and we’ll see to their safety.”
Hans seemed to soften a bit at that, as if up until this moment he had been holding himself rigid.
“Don’t know as much as you think I do.”
“Tell us what you do know,” Sergeant Hoch encouraged as he pulled out his notebook and pencil.
“The guys found dead in the river, at least the ones I heard about, had all crossed Schardius in some way. You seem to already know that. I don’t know anything about any of them except the last one, Delt.”
Hans paused and took a slow deep breath, hand at his side again.
“He sent me out to find Delt that night. I brought him back to the warehouse, and Schardius sent me out again. But I listened at the back door.”
Another slow breath.
“He talked to Delt for a minute. I couldn’t hear exactly what he said, but his tone was angry. Then he went out the front door. I’m sure that they killed Delt after Schardius left, and threw him in the river.”
Chieske pounced. “Who is ‘they’?”
“I don’t know if they all did it, or just one or two. It was the regular warehouse crew in the room. But the man you want is Ernst Mann, the warehouse foreman. If anyone knows Schardius’ secrets, it’s him. But he won’t talk.”
“We’ll see,” Chieske said. He looked over at the sergeant. “Got all that?”
He got a nod in response as Hoch put the notebook away.
Simon’s head was spinning with all the revelations. He was slightly horrified that Hans had had anything to do with the body he had found in the river months ago. But he was also glad that his friend’s involvement in the confirmed-murder of the man had been very minor.
“Right,” the up-timer said. “Go get your sister. I hope she travels light.”
“Simon, tell her to get dressed, bring all her money, and leave everything else,” Hans said. “Sergeant Hoch, would you go up with Simon and get her? The stairs…”
“Ah,” Hoch responded. “Pain?”
“Broken rib, maybe,” Hans muttered. “Cracked for sure.”
Both the Polizei men winced.
“You need to see a doctor,” Hoch said.
“In the morning,” Hans rasped. “Now, my sister?”
“Right.”
Sergeant Hoch beckoned Simon, and they started up the stairs together.
* * *
“Who is it?” a voice called from the other side of the door that Karl Honister had been pounding on.
“Detective Sergeant Karl Honister, Magdeburg Polizei. I need to speak to Johann Dauth.”
“Who?”
“Johann. Dauth.
” Honister spoke slowly and distinctly, when what he wanted to do was ram his fist through the door and yank Dauth out to meet him.
There was a long moment of silence, but just as Honister was about to start pounding on the door again, it opened and young Dauth slipped out to face him, closing the door behind him. He had the look of someone who had just thrown on some clothes. His shoes not being fastened reinforced that idea.
Honister wouldn’t have cared if he had appeared naked and painted scarlet to ape the demons of Hell. He wanted information, and he wanted it now.
“Sorry, my wife’s in bed,” Dauth muttered.
Honister brushed that aside. “This won’t take long, Herr Dauth. I need you to remember something for me. It’s very important.”
“All right,” Dauth said, his tone a bit uncertain.
“The last time we talked, you said something about one of the merchants in town buying up silver coin.”
“Yah, that happens sometimes, usually when someone has to deal with a customer or a vendor outside the USE who won’t take USE dollars.”
“Was there anything unusual about this time?” Honister pressed.
Dauth’s youthful face wrinkled in thought.
“Well, there were a couple of things.”
“What?”
“There is usually a small discount charged in those kinds of transactions. The person asking for the exchange usually receives somewhat less than full value of what they’re exchanging.”
“Go on,” Honister encouraged.
“Well, this time the merchant agreed to a steeper discount than usual.”
“Much steeper?”
“More than I would have ever let my boss pay.”
Aha!
“Anything else?”
Another moment of hesitation, then, “They even exchanged some gold coin for silver.”
Honister started at that. Even in the current state of economic fluctuations, people with gold almost always held on to it. For someone to let go of gold coin indicated a serious need.
“Okay. Last question: who was this merchant?”
“I never saw him. I only dealt with an underling; but it was Master Georg Schmidt.”
Master Georg Schmidt. Honister knew that name. Hardly anyone of the merchant or patrician class or of the political structure of Old Magdeburg didn’t know it.
