by Blake Pierce
“You sure do ask a lot of questions,” Gunther Raab snarled.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
London tried to scream, but she couldn’t even breathe. She also couldn’t move. The man holding her down was much too big and strong for her to escape his grip.
Then Raab let out a scream of pain, and the pressure on London’s throat was gone. Still lying on her back amid what was left of the chair where she’d been sitting, she pulled herself up onto her elbows to see what was happening.
Raab was scrambling to his feet, holding one hand to his mouth. She was startled to see that the hand was bleeding.
She became aware of furious, ferocious barking and realized that her tough little Yorkshire Terrier had bitten her attacker, puncturing a pinky finger with his sharp teeth.
“Sir Reggie, no,” London cried, terrified that at any moment the angry man would harm her little dog. But to her amazement, Raab backed away and climbed up on a chair, looking utterly terrified.
As Sir Reggie bounced around him barking and growling and snarling, London remembered sensing when she’d gotten here that Raab didn’t much like dogs. Now she could see that he really didn’t like dogs. Not even little ones.
“Get him away from me!” Raab shouted. “Get him away from me!”
London didn’t feel inclined to do anything of the kind. The man seemed truly terrified, and the situation was vastly better than when Raab still had his hand around her throat.
But how long could Sir Reggie keep him at bay?
Suddenly there came a pounding on the door.
“Police!” called a familiar voice. “Open this door!”
Even Raab looked relieved to hear that voice.
“Help! Police! I’m being attacked!”
London rolled over and struggled to her feet, then staggered toward the door and opened it. Polizeidirektor Tanneberger strode inside, followed by two police officers.
Raab yelled at Tanneberger, “Help me! Get this animal away from me!”
Tanneberger crossed his arms and glared at the scene. He didn’t even crack a smile, although London was sure she saw him catch his breath as if to contain his amusement. Then the Polizeidirektor turned and looked sternly at London.
“Fraulein, would you be so kind as to save this gentleman from this … vicious animal?” he said dryly.
London picked up the leash that had fallen to the floor and was now trailing behind Reggie.
“That’s enough, Sir Reggie,” she said, tugging on the leash. “He can’t hurt me now.”
With one last warning grumble, the dog fell silent and joined her at her side, looking quite happy with himself.
Tanneberger inspected the broken chair where London had been sitting when she had been attacked.
“Perhaps someone would like to tell me what’s going on here,” he demanded.
Raab climbed down off his chair and sat there panting.
“This woman burst into my apartment just now,” he said, pointing at London. “She sicced her dog on me for no good reason at all. It actually bit me!”
He held out the wounded pinkie, which had stopped bleeding.
“Look what this animal did to me!” he said.
“So I see,” Tanneberger said. “So this whole incident is the fraulein’s fault?”
“Absolutely,” Raab said.
“Why do I find that a bit hard to believe?” Tanneberger asked.
London found it easier to talk now.
“You know why I came here, sir,” she said to Tanneberger. “I left you a message about it. Herr Raab let me into the apartment, and I asked him some questions, then suddenly he grabbed me by the throat and threw me and this chair to the floor. I thought he was going to strangle me.”
London opened her collar to show Tanneberger the fresh red marks Raab had left on her neck. Tanneberger pulled out his cell phone and snapped some pictures of the marks, and then some of the broken chair and the open suitcase on the bed.
“Placed this man under arrest,” he said to his colleagues.
Gunther Raab growled and struggled as the two policemen put him in handcuffs. London was afraid he might break away from them and escape down the stairs. But between the two of them, the officers had enough strength to subdue him, and they managed to lead him out of the apartment.
Tanneberger stood staring at London silently for a moment.
He’s not happy with me, she realized.
“I suppose I owe you some kind of an explanation,” she said.
“Oh, I think I can fill in a few of the facts,” Tanneberger said, still without a trace of a smile. “As I believe you proved back in Gyor, you’re really quite out of your mind. You have no idea how to just tend to your own business, and you have an almost uncanny way of getting yourself into trouble. Am I correct so far?”
“I’m afraid so,” London said, looking sheepishly at the floor.
Tanneberger began to pace a little.
He continued, “Your ill-advised little investigation led you to believe that Gunther Raab killed Olaf Moritz. As it happens, my colleagues and I were verging on the same conclusion ourselves. But we had no proof of his guilt—certainly not enough evidence to make an arrest. So I let Raab believe he’d been cleared of suspicion to lull him into a false sense of security. I figured we could trip him up before long.”
He stopped pacing and glared at her again.
“Then I received your phone message. It wasn’t hard to guess what sort of danger you might be getting into. My men and I came here at once.”
“I hope I didn’t spoil your plans,” London said.
Tanneberger let out a reluctant sigh.
“I hate to admit it, but the truth is probably quite to the contrary.” He pointed to the open suitcase and continued, “It appears that Raab was more of a flight risk than we’d supposed. If you and your dog hadn’t poked your snouts in where they didn’t belong, he might well have slipped through our fingers before we could gather sufficient evidence to apprehend him.”
He tapped on his cell phone and added, “That shouldn’t be a problem now that I’ve got photographic evidence that he attacked you. We’ll keep him in custody while we gather proof that he’s the killer. I expect we’ll be able to do that very shortly. Meanwhile, I need to take a statement from you concerning just what happened here.”
The Polizeidirektor took out his cell phone to record London’s statement. He kept nodding throughout her account.
“Yes, everything you say is consistent with what I’d already come to believe,” he finally said. “Raab killed Olaf Moritz because he considered him a rival for Greta Mayr’s affections. Hopefully we’ll be able to determine soon whether the murder was premeditated or was a truly impulsive crime of passion. Meanwhile …”
He scratched his chin as he looked at London.
“I suppose you must decide whether to press charges against Raab for attacking you. I’d much rather you didn’t. The whole thing would most likely turn into an international incident, with the U.S. Embassy involved, and you’d have to stay right here in Salzburg for quite some time. I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Fraulein Rose, but …”
He paused for a moment.
“I’d really like to see the last of you as soon as possible,” he said.
Wagging his finger at Sir Reggie, Tanneberger added, “And that goes for this attack animal as well.”
Sir Reggie let out an approving growl.
London couldn’t help but chuckle a little.
“The feeling is absolutely mutual, sir,” London said.
“Excellent,” Tanneberger said.
*
Tanneberger called Captain Hays to tell him that the Nachtmusik was free to set sail as soon as was convenient. Then the Landespolizeidirektor gave London and Sir Reggie a lift back to the Nachtmusik in a police car.
London was feeling good as she and Sir Reggie walked across the barge and up the gangway to the ship. Despite the red marks on her neck, s
he hadn’t really been injured, and now the man who had killed Olaf Moritz was in police custody. Best of all, the tour could continue on its way.
When she entered the reception area, she was glad to see three familiar faces—Cyrus Bannister, Amy Blassingame, and Bob Turner.
“I’ve got good news,” she told them eagerly. “The murderer has been caught. We can leave for Regensburg as soon as the boat is ready and everybody is aboard.”
“So we’ve heard,” Cyrus said.
“The captain announced it just now,” Amy added.
London wondered why all their expressions looked so ominous.
“We’ve got some news too,” Bob said to London. “We’ve found out who has been stealing the musician dolls.”
London gasped aloud.
“Who is it?” she asked.
For a moment Bob, Amy, and Cyrus all just stared at her.
“It’s you,” Bob finally said.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
London gaped back and forth between Bob Turner and Amy Blassingame. They both looked perfectly serious. Then she focused on Cyrus Bannister. As usual, he appeared to be darkly amused by the situation.
Finally, she couldn’t help but laugh.
“This is a joke, right?” she sputtered.
Staring at London with a reproachful expression, Amy said, “If it is, it’s not a very funny one.”
“Well, I’d like to know how you came to such a ridiculous conclusion,” London said.
“I wish it were ridiculous,” Amy said. “You might have even gotten away with it if it weren’t for our shrewd security man here. I’m certainly glad Mr. Lapham decided to bring him aboard. It was very wise of him.”
Bob chuckled with satisfaction.
“It’s like I told you before, missy—nobody can pull the wool over my eyes.”
Tapping his forehead he added, “Like a steel trap, I tell you.”
London was starting to feel impatient and annoyed.
“I think somebody had better explain to me what this is all about,” she said.
“You’re the one who should do the explaining,” Amy said. “Honestly, London, I’d thought better of you.”
London looked straight at Bob and said, “I really want to know how you got this crazy idea.”
Bob jabbed his finger at her.
“Are you going to deny that you went to the Weavers’ stateroom this morning?”
What’s that got to do with anything? London wondered.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” London said. “Steve and Carol had a small musical emergency. It was kind of comical, really. The sound system in the room got stuck playing heavy metal. I got it to play Baroque music again, the way they wanted.”
Bob nodded and said, “And are you going to deny that you were the only person in that room today aside from the Weavers?”
London struggled for a moment to make sense of his question.
“How could I even know whether I was the only person in their room?” she asked. “It’s not like I’ve been keeping watch over who comes and goes there.”
Bob chuckled again.
“A clever answer,” he said. “A very clever answer. But Steve and Carol Weaver told me the truth—that you were the only other person in their room today. Nobody even from the cleaning crew has been in there.”
“Steve and Carol told you …?” London began.
“They came to me to report the theft of one of their musician dolls,” Bob said.
“The little clarinetist,” Amy added.
“And the first thing I asked was who else had been in their room,” Bob said. “Mind you, missy, I’ve had my eyes on you for some time. Everything about your behavior suggests criminal tendencies—for example, the way you avoid making eye contact with me.”
London glared at her own reflection in his glasses.
“How can anybody make eye contact with you as long as you’re wearing those mirrors?” she asked.
“Another clever answer,” Bob replied.
London’s mouth dropped open.
“So you think I stole the doll?” she asked incredulously, still trying to get her head around what was happening.
“Mr. Turner here certainly thinks so,” Cyrus Bannister said with a wry grin.
A small group of passengers was starting to cluster around, curious about the increasingly agitated discussion.
Great, London thought. As if I didn’t already have trust issues with the passengers.
“Well, of course I didn’t steal anything,” London said. “All I did was fix their music selection. I didn’t bother to even to take a look around their room. I didn’t notice where they were keeping their musician dolls. I didn’t even see them.”
Bob drew himself up proudly.
“You can’t escape pure deductive logic, missy,” he said. “I’ve worked the truth out with the sort of reasoning that eludes people who aren’t deeply experienced in the investigative arts. You must have stolen the object in question. Otherwise, Steve or Carol must have stolen it themselves. And since they own it themselves, that’s perfectly impossible.”
The group of listeners murmured as if impressed by Bob’s reasoning.
London herself wasn’t impressed by it at all.
For his part, Bob was obviously basking in having an audience to play to.
Cyrus Bannister seemed to be delighted by the conflict.
“It’s like the great Sherlock Holmes said,” Bannister told them. “‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”
Bob nodded firmly.
“That Sherlock Holmes was one smart guy,” he said.
London glared at Cyrus. She was sure he didn’t care who had or hadn’t stolen the dolls. He was just here for his own entertainment. London felt like telling him to go away and mind his own business.
Bob continued, “However, I haven’t quite wrapped up this ‘Case of the Missing Musicians’ just yet. I have yet to achieve the pièce de résistance, the coup de grâce. I have yet to produce the smoking gun itself.”
“You mean the stolen objects,” London said.
“That’s right.”
“Well, good luck finding them,” London said. “I sure don’t have any idea where to look. What are you planning to do, search me right here and now?”
Bob wagged his finger at her.
“A clever suggestion,” he said. “Never let it be said that I underestimated your cunning. You’re way too smart to be carrying those stolen goods around on your person. No, I’ve got a pretty good idea where you’re keeping those dolls—at least a general idea.”
It took a couple of seconds for Bob’s meaning to sink in.
“You think they’re hidden in my room?” she said.
Bob nodded.
“You don’t plan on searching …” London began.
“Why not?” Amy interrupted her. “If you didn’t steal anything, you don’t have anything to hide. And you didn’t mind searching …”
“Someone else’s room,” London said, finishing her thought. She didn’t want Amy to blurt out Letitia’s name in front of the group. And she didn’t want to describe Bob’s determination to search Letitia’s room with or without her approval, or that she’d taken part in the search in order to try to keep things from getting out of control.
Now she felt the suspicious gaze of everybody around her—all except for Cyrus Bannister, who still just seemed amused at watching this ridiculous scene unfold.
London struggled to decide what to do now.
She could certainly refuse to allow Amy and Bob into her room.
But then she’d be stuck with a cloud of suspicion hanging over her, maybe for the rest of the voyage.
Then another thought crossed her mind.
I almost got strangled a little while ago.
It certainly made this problem seem pretty trivial, even if it included a search of her stateroom.
Stifling a sigh
of annoyance, she said, “OK, come on down to my room. Just try not to make too much of a mess.”
Leaving the gawking spectators behind, London, Sir Reggie, Amy, Bob, and Cyrus Bannister rode the elevator down to the Allegro deck. They all headed straight to London’s room and went inside.
“Let me show you around,” London said, hoping to control things by leading the search herself.
She went over to her closet and opened it.
“You don’t see anything suspicious in here, do you?” she said.
Amy looked inside the closet skeptically.
“Maybe we should look through all the pockets. And inside the shoes.”
“Oh, Amy,” London said, rolling her eyes.
Suddenly she heard Bob’s voice.
“Hel-lllo-o-o. What have we here?”
London and Amy turned and saw that Bob was crouching beside the bed. He stood up, triumphantly holding the missing clarinetist in one hand.
London gasped aloud. She couldn’t believe her eyes. How could she explain what she was seeing? Had Bob been carrying the doll around himself? Had he stuck it under her bed to frame her?
That doesn’t make any sense.
None of this makes any sense.
Sir Reggie ran up beside Bob and looked at the doll and let out an enthusiastic yap.
The little dog plunged under the bed and came out with the missing conductor doll in his mouth. He put it down neatly in front of Bob.
Then Sir Reggie disappeared under the bed again and came out with the missing drummer. He set it down next to the conductor.
Then he turned to Bob, wagging his tail. Bob looked utterly confounded.
Before London could make any sense of what was going on, she heard a bellow of laughter. She turned and saw that the normally taciturn Cyrus Bannister was giving himself over to convulsive merriment.
“Can’t you see what he’s doing?” Cyrus roared. “He’s arranging a little musical ensemble.”
Cyrus stepped over to Bob and took the clarinetist out of his hand. He placed it on the floor, in line with the other musicians.
Sir Reggie wagged his tail with delight and crouched down near the dolls.
