Once Upon a Crime

by P. J. Brackston

  “Hans?” she called out wearily as she entered. The sound of her own some might say flimsy, others might say downright wet, voice provoked a useful response within her. “Hans!” she yelled this time, squaring her shoulders, taking a deep, steadying breath, and silently admonishing herself for allowing a few setbacks to get the better of her. She was, after all, Gretel (yes that Gretel) of Gesternstadt, private detective for hire. She had been through much worse, and no doubt greater challenges lay ahead.

  Hans appeared in the hallway.

  “Gretel! Thank heavens! Are you all right?”

  “I know I’ve felt better, and I’m very sure I’ve looked better, but yes, thank you, Hans, I am, in every way that counts, quite all right.”

  “Thank heavens!”

  “You’ve said that.”

  “I was so worried about you.”

  “Didn’t put you off your food, I see,” she said, nodding at the bulging club sandwich her brother was clutching.

  “What, this? Oh, just a snack. Hardly eaten at all since they took you. Fair lost my appetite.” He bit off a chunk of bread, small pieces of bacon escaping and gliding to the floor on lettuce leaves. “Didn’t know what to do for the best,” he said.

  “Clearly fixing the front door did not present itself as a good place to start.”

  He shook his head. “Too worried. Couldn’t think straight,” he explained as he chewed.

  Gretel had neither the time nor the strength to be cross with him. There was work to be done.

  “Right,” she said. “Stop feeding for five minutes and make yourself useful, Hans. First, get round to Hund’s yard, and see if you can’t find Roland. Ask him to come and fix our front door.”

  “Roland Hund? But he builds carts. Not really a carpenter, is he?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, the Hunds haven’t been building much of anything lately. He’ll be glad of the chance to earn some notes, and I’ll be glad of the chance to talk to him. Once you’ve done that, you can get back in the kitchen and make me one of those,” she said, pointing at the last inch of sandwich as it disappeared into his mouth. “But no lettuce. This is not a lettuce sort of day.”

  “Right you are. Roland Hund. Sandwich. Hold the lettuce.”

  “I am going upstairs to find some sensible clothes and attempt to get a comb through my hair.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to fill up another bath?”

  “No time, Hans,” she called back over her shoulder as she mounted the stairs. “There is much to be done, and little time in which to do it.”

  Gretel was right about the Hunds being keen for some trade, and Roland arrived, hammer in hand, within the hour. She listened to him sawing and fixing as she battled with the disaster that had been her hair. It quickly became clear that professional help was needed. She hid the worst of it under a bold blue turban, secured at the front with a gaudy glass stone. She hoped it made her look exotic and sophisticated. She feared it made her look like a refugee from a pantomime. Turning her back on the somewhat depressing results of her efforts the mirror presented, she hurried downstairs.

  “Ah, Roland. So good of you to fit us in at such short notice,” she said, treating him to her best smile.

  “You are very welcome, fraulein.” He continued to work as he spoke.

  It was evident from the set of his shoulders and slight frown that he wore that the young man was not in the best of spirits. Whatever the truth behind his tangled love life, it clearly was not making him happy. And unhappy people, in Gretel’s experience, were always grateful to find a receptive ear for their woes.

  “A very bad business,” she offered, “the fire. So dreadful to lose your livelihood like that. How is your father?”

  “Oh, as you might expect . . .”

  “Quite. Quite. And I daresay a deal of the burden will fall upon you and your brother. Work must be found.”

  The youth nodded but said nothing.

  “And of course there is the dreadful matter of the unfortunate soul found among the embers.”

  “Unfortunate!” Gretel had clearly hit a nerve. “It would take a person more charitable than I to call him that, fraulein.” Roland took up his saw once more, venting his ire on the planks of wood in front of him so that Gretel feared for her new door.

  “You do not believe, then,” she asked, “that he was merely a hapless passerby, an innocent victim . . . ?”

  “Not innocent, no! Nor victim, save of his own bad character.” Roland dropped the saw and picked up his hammer, pounding at nails with alarming vigor.

  “Do you believe, perhaps, that he was in some way responsible for the blaze?”

  “What I believe will change nothing,” said Roland. “What’s done is done. The world is as it is and we are dealt with as fate decrees.”

  Gretel waited, but no further information was forthcoming. The conversation was not going as she had hoped. She was convinced the dead man was connected to the troll, and therefore the errant cats. She was also convinced that Roland was Princess Charlotte’s secret lover. But to gain anything by all this conviction, she needed further facts. The identity of the dead man would be a start. With a name she at least stood a hope of unearthing his background. It might even be possible to bypass the troll altogether, if the trail led to the catnapper himself. As for proof of the princess’s liaison with Roland . . .

  Gretel redoubled her efforts.

  “You know I would be only too happy to assist in any way I can. Your father is a good man. A neighbor. It would be the neighborly thing to do. I could, for instance, make inquiries on your family’s behalf. It might be that the origins of this . . . fellow . . . would reveal the motives for his actions. Shed some light—”

  “We don’t need more people asking more questions!” Roland leapt to his feet, startling Gretel. “Kapitan Strudel has done enough of that already. Poking his nose in. Wanting to know where we were then, and who we saw when, and what we do. It’s nobody’s business but ours.”

  “Of course, I would not dream of intruding into your private life. I merely suggest that by clarifying the intentions of the mysterious man we might provide—”

  “What?” Roland looked at her levelly, his face flushed with anger. Not, she thought, directed at her, more at his circumstances. “What good would come of it? The yard is nought but ashes and clinker. Only hard work and time will rebuild what we have lost.” His shoulders sagged and he turned back to his task. “Questions demand answers, and I prefer to keep my life to myself,” he said, taking up a plane and working the edge of the new door carefully, his temper regained, the sadness clouding his face once more.

  Gretel knew she would get no further with him.

  She took herself into the sitting room and onto her daybed to await her sandwich. There was something inescapably depressing about Roland’s situation. Surely a young man in love, dizzy with the heady excitement of clandestine rendezvous and snatched moments, should be aglow, the light of passion shining in his eyes? Roland gave the impression he was carrying the weight of the world on his youthful shoulders, and emitted nothing but gloom. And what of Johanna? From her eavesdropping Gretel was certain the two had been longtime lovers, and that their split had had something to do with Princess Charlotte. But in the exchange she had overheard, she had detected from Roland no trace of love or even lust for the wretched royal. It was almost as if he saw her as a burden. No, not a burden: a duty. A necessity. None of which made any sense. How could entering a relationship with an unattainable young woman be necessary to anything? All the liaison could bring upon the Hund household was more trouble, probably in the shape of the displeasure of King Julian. Gretel knew all too well the nature and seriousness of the trouble that particular displeasure could provide.

  Hans appeared with her snack.

  “Good Lord,” he said. “Why are you wearing that thing on your head?”

  “It’s a turban—where else would I wear it?”

  “Are the Gesternstadt
Players holding auditions again?”

  “It is a foolish man who kicks a hungry tiger,” she warned him. “Give me that sandwich.”

  “I’ve put in extra beef dripping. Thought you looked like you needed it,” he said, settling himself into his favorite armchair.

  Sounds of continuing construction drifted in from the hallway.

  “Morose sort of chap, isn’t he?” Hans said, biting the end off a fresh cigar.

  “He has reason to be.”

  “You mean the fire?”

  Gretel spoke as she chomped, the taste of the smoked bacon reminding her how many hours it had been since she had last eaten. “Well, yes, partly that. But not entirely.”

  “Should think that would be enough. Business in ruins. Dead body. Family being the subject of endless public gossip and speculation.”

  “Are they?”

  “Are they what?”

  “The subject of endless etcetera, etcetera?”

  “They certainly are at the inn.” He paused to light his cigar, puffing thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Old man Hund doesn’t come in anymore. Couldn’t take the whispering in corners.”

  “Weren’t people sympathetic?”

  “Huh! I should say not.”

  “But he’s lost everything—his workshop, his livelihood. Hardly his fault, is it?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  “It might be. Some say. It could be. Say some.” Hans gave a slow, knowing nod, topped off by a clumsy, conspiratorial wink.

  Gretel sighed. “Hans, please. I’ve slept very little in the past forty-eight hours, and my brain aches from trying to fathom the duplicities and peculiarities of human nature. I could do without having to unpick the tangle of your thought processes, too.”

  “Very well, I’ll put it plainly.”

  “I do wish you would.”

  “Two words.” He exhaled thick curls of, for once, appropriate smoke. “The first is ‘arson,’ the second ‘insurance.’”

  “People think Hund set fire to his own yard?”

  “Now, I didn’t say that.”

  “But it’s what you think? It’s what everyone thinks?”

  “Everyone who drinks at the Gesternstadt Inn, yes.”

  Gretel shook her head slowly. “But why would he? I mean, he was running a successful business.”

  “Was he?”

  “Wasn’t he?”

  “It could be that he was. It might be that he was not. Some say—”

  “Don’t start that again, for pity’s sake. His yard was full of carts. It’s where everyone went to get theirs fixed or buy a new one. He had both his sons working for him. I’ve known the man years. He’s well liked in the town.”

  “He’s well liked in the inn, too. Particularly at the card table.”

  “What?”

  “Played a very good hand of bridge, when occasion demanded. Passable at canasta, too, if I recall. But whist, ah, whist, that was his real passion. Pity he wasn’t much good at it. Well, he was good at the cards, played the game well enough. But the gambling. Hopeless. Not a clue as to how to go about it. Concept of bluffing or keeping a poker face as mysterious to Hund as the Orient.”

  “Gave himself away?”

  “Every time.”

  “Bit unsporting, taking money from someone so plainly incapable of doing the thing properly.”

  “Since when was gambling sporting? There was money to be made, and plenty willing to make it. Besides, Hund loved it. The thrill of the thing.”

  “Even though he kept losing?”

  Hans shrugged. “Spiced up his rather dull life, I suppose.”

  Gretel was stunned by this revelation. Stunned at Hund having a secret vice. Stunned at the new light this information threw on the case. Stunned at her own stupidity for not having considered this option for herself.

  After badgering Hans for a second sandwich, trying and failing to squeeze anything further out of Roland, and doing a quick tally of expenses incurred and to come with regard to Frau Hapsburg’s cat case, Gretel hurried over to the beauty parlor for what she anticipated would be a lengthy session of work. As luck would have it, there was sufficient space in Madame Renoir’s appointment book to accommodate Gretel’s needs. She submitted herself to a comprehensive and grueling session of waxing.

  Legs, underarms, forearms, bikini line, top lip. Bottom lip. Chin. Where did all this hair come from, she wondered. Was there nowhere it would not sprout? With every passing year the battle against becoming entirely hirsute grew more time consuming. And more painful. There were, Gretel decided, areas of the human form not designed to be so brutally treated. It would have been so much easier, so much less taxing, to simply let nature take its course. Let her body evolve and mature as it saw fit. But that way, she suspected, lay a furriness too horrible to contemplate. How could she expect to be taken seriously, to do her job effectively, with a permanent five o’clock shadow tingeing her face? And what point was there in the existence of fabulous backless gowns if one was forced to keep one’s back covered for fear of frightening the horses? And what man, in all honesty, would thrill to the feel of bristle and stubble against his . . . No. There was no avoiding it. Depilation was a vital part of Gretel’s life, and that was that. She found thoughts of Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand slipping unbidden into her mind. She recalled the scent of sandalwood and the warmth of his smile.

  “Argh!” she screamed as Madame Renoir completed her deft deforestation.

  “Et voilà, Fraulein Gretel. All is finished.”

  “Thank heavens.”

  “Albertine will be ready to wash your hair for you in just a few moments.”

  “Albertine? I thought Johanna might do it.”

  “Johanna? As you wish, fraulein.”

  Madame Renoir clapped her hands and issued instructions in two languages, so that there would be no doubt as to what she wanted. Johanna accompanied Gretel over to the seat by the window.

  “Please lean back, fraulein. There. Is that warm enough for you?” she asked as she tipped water from a large pitcher over Gretel’s hair and into the tin basin.

  “Just right, thank you.”

  Gretel waited, hoping for the customary banal conversation that ordinarily passed between hairdresser and client, but none was forthcoming. The girl applied shampoo and began to work up a lather.

  “I’m afraid it’s in a bit of a state,” Gretel told her.

  “We have some excellent treatments, fraulein. Your hair is exhibiting signs of stress.”

  “I should say it is. Not surprising, given what I’ve put it through lately.” She paused, granting Johanna the opportunity to ask questions and so start up some sort of conversation that might actually lead somewhere. Nothing. Not a word. It seemed that the girl was every bit as moribund as her ex-boyfriend. And every bit as hopeless in furnishing Gretel with the information she needed. She took a deep breath, inhaling a few bubbles, and tried once more.

  “I admit it is not only my poor hair that has suffered through recent events. I am, myself, exhausted from such a set of bizarre events as you could not imagine.” Clearly Johanna not only could not but would not imagine. Gretel plowed on. “Not the least of it was the destruction of my front door. Reduced to kindling, I tell you. Thank heavens a skilled workman was at hand to build me another. I knew whom to send for straight away. ‘Hans,’ I said, ‘waste not one moment but go directly to Herr Hund and see if his fine young son, Roland, might come and mend our door.’”

  At the mention of the name the girl rubbed Gretel’s hair harder, her fingers kneading and squeezing ruthlessly. Gretel winced, but continued.

  “Such a helpful young man. And so devoted to his family.” A harrumphing noise was all Johanna allowed herself to emit. “A sensitive soul, I believe. I detected a sadness about him.” The girl’s fingers paused in their work.

  “Yes, a deep sorrow. Not that he said anything, of course. But it was there, I could tell.”


  “Could you?” Johanna asked very quietly.

  “Oh, yes.” Gretel paused to let this sink in and then struck her killer blow. “It was almost as if his heart were broken.”

  Johanna stifled a sob.

  Gretel glanced over at Madame Renoir. She didn’t want to overdo it. If the girl started weeping again, her employer would send her to the back room out of sight of her clients. Fortunately, the proprietor was fully occupied with a skinny woman who was having her eyebrows tattooed.

  “I am sorry, my dear,” she said. “I seem to have upset you?”

  “Forgive me, fraulein.” The girl sniffed.

  “I may be assuming too much here, but is there, perhaps, an affection between you and young Hund?”

  Johanna nodded, her fingers feebly continuing their work on Gretel’s hair. “Oh, fraulein,” she whispered, “if you only knew what torments we have suffered.”

  “Poor child. Tell me.”

  “Roland is the sweetest, dearest man in all the world.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Ours was a true love.”

  “Of course.”

  “But then . . .”

  “But then?”

  Johanna shook her head, wiping tears from her face with the back of a hand. Gretel recalled something Roland had said. She cleared her throat.

  “The world is as it is,” she said, “and we are dealt with as fate decrees?”

  Johanna stopped sniffing and stared at Gretel in the mirror opposite.

  “Oh! You have spoken with him on this matter? Roland has taken you into his confidence?”

  “I encouraged the young man to unburden himself.”

  “Oh, Fraulein Gretel, you are a good woman.”