by Blake Pierce
“There’s your so-called thief,” Cyrus laughed, pointing to Sir Reggie.
“I—I don’t understand,” Bob stammered.
But everything was beginning to make sense to London. The first stolen doll had been taken from Kirby Oswinkle’s stateroom. She and Sir Reggie had been in there when Oswinkle complained about his thermostat. The second one had been taken from the Amadeus Lounge, where Sir Reggie had had ready access to them. And of course, he’d been with her when she’d gone to the Weavers’ stateroom this morning. And Sir Reggie had left that stateroom before she did, apparently with the little doll in his mouth.
“You took them all,” London said to her dog in dismay.
Bob looked bewildered.
“My K-9 partner?” Bob said. “A kleptomaniac?”
“Oh, hardly that,” Cyrus said, still laughing. “Just an exceptionally smart little animal—smarter than present company, apparently, maybe even myself included. Smart enough to get bored easily. The poor little guy could really use some toys to play with.”
London stared at Cyrus. She remembered that one of the first things he’d told her about himself was that he knew a lot about dogs.
“Toys,” she whispered guiltily.
There had been no toys among the doggie supplies that his previous owner had kept. During the short time Sir Reggie had been in her care, London hadn’t thought of buying any. For that matter, when had she had any time to do any such shopping?
Cyrus was still laughing when he left London’s stateroom. Amy gathered up the dolls to return them to their owners and left as well. Bob followed them out, scratching his head in perplexity, leaving London and Sir Reggie alone.
London sat down on the bed, and Sir Reggie jumped up next to her.
“I’m sorry, pal,” she said, petting him. “I should have known you were bored. But wasn’t helping me catch thieves and murderers exciting enough for you?”
Sir Reggie rolled over on his back so London could pet his stomach.
“You can’t just go around taking things that don’t belong to you. Do you understand?”
Sir Reggie let out a little whimper.
At that moment London’s phone buzzed. Captain Hays was calling her.
“Hello there, London Rose. The Polizeidirektor called to say the murderer is in custody, and I made an announcement to that effect. He said that you helped in the apprehension of the culprit. But then he added something odd. ‘See to it that she doesn’t do anything like this again.’ What did he mean by that?”
London chuckled.
“I guess you could say that Herr Tanneberger and I parted on … well, ambivalent terms.”
“Be that as it may, it’s excellent news. The Nachtmusik can set sail as soon as all passengers are aboard and accounted for. A fair number of them are still out and around exploring Salzburg, but I’m sure they’ll return shortly. We’ll be on our way in a couple of hours or so. As always, thank you for helping to resolve this unfortunate business.”
“I’m always glad to do whatever I can,” London said.
As soon as they ended the call, Sir Reggie bounced off the bed and headed toward the doggie door.
“Sir Reggie …” London called out to him.
He turned toward her expectantly.
“Don’t steal anything, OK?” she said.
He yapped—and was it London’s imagination, or did he nod his head?
As he darted out through the doggie door, London let out a long overdue sigh. She felt worn out from a long, difficult day, but even so …
I’ve got an errand to run.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Although there wasn’t much time to spare before the Nachtmusik would be leaving Salzburg, London knew she needed to make one more trip into town.
She was feeling guilty over the issue of dog toys.
Why, she wondered, weren’t there any dog toys among all the things that Mrs. Klimowski had for him?
When London collected Sir Reggie’s things from the previous owner’s room, she’d found several leashes and collars, some set with stones that she thought might be real jewels. There were dog-sized sweaters and jackets. There were little bows that Sir Reggie wouldn’t need now, since his hair was clipped into a comfortable short style. There was even a very welcome doggie-potty contraption that was still put to good use.
But there had been no toys. The only reason that London could think of for that omission was that the woman had considered Sir Reginald a toy himself, rather than a living creature. London had seldom owned pets of any kind since her family had moved around so much when she was a child, but she was embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of the need for toys for her new companion.
The toys didn’t have to be dog toys, she decided. They just had to be something a dog would like to play with. She remembered that some of the street stalls along the route to the House for Mozart carried children’s toys. Surely something like that would do.
As London headed out of her stateroom, she took out her cell phone and typed another text message to Amy telling her she’d be leaving the boat for just a short while.
“Double-check to be sure is everyone comes aboard,” she wrote.
As London left the ship and walked the now-familiar Salzburg streets between the dock and the House for Mozart, the events of this strange day haunted her mind. Although the issue over the stolen dolls had been alarming, it was trivial compared to the earlier attack from the vicious Gunther Raab.
She replayed that awful moment in her mind. She hadn’t actually accused Raab of the murder. She had only suggested that Greta had told him the truth about the mutual action between herself and Olaf.
“How did that make you feel?” she’d asked him.
That simple question seemed to have triggered his uncontrollable rage. Clearly, the man was insanely jealous and prone to violence—probably especially toward women, which was why Greta not only rejected him but was afraid of him.
Was he really trying to kill me? she wondered.
All London knew for sure was that she was grateful to both Sir Reggie and Polizeidirektor Tanneberger for coming to her aid.
When she arrived at the area with the stalls and shops, she was surprised to see a familiar figure perusing a stall with small cheap souvenir toys on display.
“Hello, Bob,” she said. “I’m surprised to find you here.”
The ship’s security man turned toward her, looking a bit surprised himself.
“Hey, London. How’re you doing?”
“I’m all right. We’re setting sail for Regensburg shortly, you know. You’d better get back to the boat soon.”
“Oh, I won’t be ashore for long,” Bob replied.
He looked down and shuffled his feet awkwardly.
“I guess I owe you an apology,” he said.
London almost blurted that he had nothing to be sorry for.
But of course he did, and she thought that an apology would probably do both of them good.
Bob continued, “I misjudged you, thinking you stole those dolls. The truth is, I don’t know how I got things so wrong. It all seemed so clear at the time. I hope my razor-sharp detective prowess isn’t declining with age.”
Then to London’s amazement, he took off those mirrored sunglasses and looked straight at her. The expression in his dark brown eyes was quite sincere.
Bob held out a hand. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”
London was truly touched now. Bob was showing a side of his personality that she hadn’t seen before.
Maybe I could even get to like this guy, she thought.
“Apology accepted,” London said, shaking his hand. “But what are you doing ashore?”
Bob put the mirrors back into place and fingered some of the merchandise.
“I thought I’d better look for some toys for my K-9 friend. I misjudged him too, at least for a moment there. He’s no klepto, he’s just been bored, and we can’t have that.”
London smiled as she
realized she and Bob were here on the same errand.
He continued, “Back on the ship I asked a couple of passengers where I might go looking around to find something for a dog to play with, and they suggested these stalls along here.”
He picked up a rubber ball with Willkommen in Salzburg stamped on it.
“Dogs like to play with balls, don’t they?” he said.
“So I hear,” London agreed. “I’m sure that’s exactly the sort of thing Sir Reggie needs.”
“I’ll buy it, then,” Bob said eagerly. “I’ll buy two of them.”
“That’s kind of you,” London told him.
“Thanks. So what are you doing ashore?”
“As it happens, I came looking for dog toys too.”
“Well, you needn’t trouble yourself, since I’m taking care of that. I figure I’ll walk around here just a little while and see if anything else jumps out at me. See you back at the boat.”
As Bob paid for his purchase, London thought she would take his advice and just go back to the Nachtmusik. But when she took a last glance around the historic area, her eyes fell on the House for Mozart, just on the other side of the plaza where they were shopping.
She remembered what Wolfram Poehler had said to her earlier.
“I expect to spend a few more hours today haunting this place—or rather letting it haunt me, work its magic on me.”
The gifted pianist could still be there, and she felt an urge to pay him one last quick visit.
“I’ll leave you to your shopping,” London said to Bob. “I think I’ll stop by the House for Mozart for a few minutes.”
“Enjoy yourself,” Bob said, peering at some more toys.
As she walked away, he wagged his finger at her sternly and added, “Just make sure you’re back aboard soon.”
“You too,” London replied, heading toward the theater.
Although it seemed perfectly irrelevant, she found herself remembering what Raab had said about the way Wolfram Poehler had rejected poor Olaf’s sonata. According to Raab, Poehler had pushed the manuscript away a couple of times, then he wadded it up and threw it away.
But Poehler had described the moment very differently.
“I sat here at this piano and sight read his whole sonata, played all four movements for him.”
The two stories didn’t jibe at all. Either Raab or Poehler wasn’t telling the truth. And London had little doubt that it was Raab who was lying.
But why?
She crossed the plaza and went through the theater’s sparkling lobby. When she reached the auditorium and opened a door, she heard a familiar passage of Beethoven’s Hammerklavier sonata being played.
He’s still here, she thought hopefully.
But when she walked on into the dimly lit auditorium, she was surprised to see that the stage was not only dark but also empty. The grand piano was there, but nobody was playing it, and the keyboard cover was closed.
What on earth … ? London wondered.
Now that she listened more closely, she realized that the music was soft and muffled and wafting. It seemed to be coming from both nowhere and everywhere.
She called out in German, “Is anybody here?”
London was almost startled out of her skin by a noisy, echoing click and a sudden burst of light. A single brilliant spotlight had been switched on to illuminate the piano, making it look much as it would look during a performance.
Then she heard a cheerful voice calling out from some unknown location.
“London Rose! What a surprise! I hadn’t expected to see you again!”
For a moment London was baffled. Then she realized that the curtains were pulled open wider than usual, revealing some sort of structures on each side of the stage. She could see a shadowy figure peering down at her from high up on one of them.
“Herr Poehler?” she asked, craning her neck as she tried to see him better.
“Yes, I’m up here,” he said in a welcoming voice. “Come on up and join me. You’ll love the view.”
Then he added with a chuckle, “Unless you’re afraid of heights.”
“I’m certainly not,” London said with a laugh.
She climbed onto the stage and got a better look at the towering fire-escape-like structures. Each level appeared to be some sort of complex control booth without walls.
Poehler was perched on the uppermost level of the tower on London’s right.
A ladder fastened against a wall extended up through the platforms. For a moment, London hesitated. While she wasn’t afraid of heights, she wasn’t used to sheer, steep climbs like this, especially in such dim light. But she summoned up her courage and began to climb.
This could be very interesting, she told herself. A new experience.
But as she climbed, she heard the final movement of Beethoven’s Hammerklavier sonata begin playing. For some reason, the movement’s tentative opening notes filled her with foreboding.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
When London reached the fourth level of the tower, she found Wolfram Poehler standing there, leaning against a railing and looking down at the stage. On the platform right beside him, a portable music player was still playing the final movement of the Hammerklavier, now a complex fugue. An open electrical box indicated what Poehler had used to shine the bright spotlight on the piano.
He smiled and pointed below.
“What did I tell you about the view?” he said.
London walked to the edge of the platform and stood beside him, leaning on the railing. Far below them, the grand piano looked surprisingly small as it stood pinned under the piercing beam of light. The whole theater seemed almost unreal, like some magically detailed and vivid model.
“I love it,” London said in a hushed voice.
“I do too,” Poehler said. “Mind you, the rest of the theater is wonderful too. I can spend hours exploring every nook and cranny of such a place. But standing up here gives me … a special kind of perspective, I guess.”
He let out a self-effacing laugh.
“You know, being an up-and-coming classical music star can go to one’s head. Critics rave, audiences give you standing ovations, and you start to get some pretty grandiose ideas about yourself. But when I look down at that piano, I can imagine seeing myself sitting there, and I look so small, so insignificant. It keeps me …”
He paused for a moment, then laughed again.
“I’m embarrassed to say it keeps me humble.”
“I’m sure that’s a good thing,” London said.
“Oh, yes. It’s very good. I even think it makes me a better musician.”
London and Poehler stood looking wordlessly over the theater together as the recording of Beethoven’s mighty sonata came to an end. Then the theater fell eerily silent.
“I haven’t left this theater since I last saw you,” Poehler finally said. “When I go through one of my solitary spells, I’m afraid I lose touch with everyday life. Maybe you could tell me what’s been going on since we saw each other last.”
London took a long, slow breath.
Where do I begin? she wondered.
She figured she might as well get right to the point.
“The killer has been caught,” she told him.
Poehler looked surprised.
“I’m so glad to hear that,” he said. “Who was it?”
“Your suspicion of Gunther Raab turned out to be correct.”
“So he killed poor Olaf out of jealousy over Greta,” Poehler said with a sigh.
“That’s right.”
“How tragic. Can you tell me how it happened?”
London’s mind boggled at the prospect of explaining the whole affair, especially the terrifying part she had played in Raab’s capture.
“I guess … I’d rather not go into that, if you don’t mind,” she said.
“Of course,” Poehler replied.
Another silence fell between them, and unbidden questions began to bubble up in Lond
on’s brain—questions that she suspected only Wolfram Poehler could answer.
“Herr Poehler …”
“Call me Wolfram, please.”
“Wolfram, would you tell me again about what happened when Olaf tried to get you interested in his sonata?”
Wolfram shrugged.
“Well, there’s not much to tell. As I said before, I sight read all four movements. I wish I could say I liked the piece. Unfortunately, it just wasn’t very good. I tried to be honest about it without being too harsh.”
London felt a flutter of mounting anxiety.
“Gunther Raab told me …” she began.
She hesitated. Did she really want to get into all this? Did it even matter?
Deep in her gut, London felt that it did matter, even if she didn’t understand why.
“Gunther Raab told me he was there when it happened.”
She heard Wolfram breathe in sharply.
“He told you that, did he?” Wolfram said, his voice dropping a little. “What did he say happened?”
“That Olaf came up to you when you were practicing here in the auditorium and tried to hand you the score. He said you pushed it away twice, and that you finally wadded it up and threw it on the floor. What I can’t understand is …”
London swallowed hard.
“Why would Gunther say such a thing?” she asked.
Wolfram turned toward London and locked eyes with her.
“What else did Gunther tell you?” Wolfram asked.
London’s jaw clenched anxiously. She suddenly wished she hadn’t broached the subject.
“Nothing,” she said.
But she knew that her lie didn’t sound convincing.
“What else did he say?” Wolfram demanded again.
London took a deep breath.
“He said he heard Olaf mutter something as he walked out of the theater. ‘Now I know,’ Olaf said.”
Wolfram’s eyes narrowed. He leaned toward London, his expression dark and grim.
“Did Gunther tell any of this to the police?” he asked.
London couldn’t help but gasp. The question took her completely off guard.
“I have no idea what he’s told the police.”
