Once Upon a Crime

by P. J. Brackston

  Picking up the basket of cats, she addressed Hans in her best do-as-I-tell-you tones. “Stay here. Do not leave the horse and trap. Eat something. Walk about a bit if you must to keep warm, but do not stray from this spot. Wait for me.”

  “But how long will you be? And how will I know if you’re all right or if you need rescuing?” Hans asked, sounding all of five years old.

  Gretel resisted telling him that among his many and various talents, rescuing did not feature. Truth had its place, but it was farther down the mountain and at some distance away from where they currently found themselves.

  “I’m just going to . . . see what I can see. It is important you stay out of sight. When Inge and her men arrive, they must not see you. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, Gretel, I’m not simple, you know.”

  “If they see you, they might well change their plans. This could be our only chance to prove our innocence. So stay hidden. Once Inge’s lot have passed, look out for Roland.”

  “Do you really think he’ll come?” Hans asked. “I mean, he’s a fine young man, and all that, but, well, it is a long way. And Uber General von Ferdinand . . .”

  “Is a very busy man. I know.” She paused and gave Hans’s knee a firm pat. “Have a little faith, brother dear. All will be well,” she added, with considerably more conviction than she felt.

  The front doors of the giant’s cave were even more forbidding close up. Gretel straightened her cape, adjusted her hat—which kept slipping down almost over her eyes—and reached up for the chunky knocker. When she rapped it against the weathered oak, she could hear the sound echoing through the cavernous space on the other side of the doors. There was a pause. Nothing. She knocked again: four loud, purposeful beats. As the echoes subsided, they were replaced by the thud, thud, thudding of gargantuan footsteps from within. As they drew closer, the ground beneath Gretel trembled with each mighty footfall. She was aware of her snack attempting to exit her body one way or the other as speedily as possible. The footsteps ceased. Just above her head a window-size spy-hole within the doors was slid open. One powder blue eye appeared, so vast that it filled the entire space. The eye swiveled to this side and that before lowering its heavy gaze to fall upon Gretel.

  She waited, breath held, anticipating the thunderous voice that was surely about to bellow at her. It came as some surprise, therefore, when the giant spoke, for his voice was sweet and light—gentle, almost—and his accents cultured. The whole effect was softened further by a pronounced lisp.

  “Who ith it?” he asked. Fixing upon Gretel, he tried again. “Who are you, and what bringth you to my cathtle at thith early hour, fraulein?”

  Gretel’s own voice seemed to have fled. She cleared her throat and willed herself to speak.

  “Cats,” she said at last, holding up the basket. “I bring cats!”

  The eye at the window widened. There was a long minute of bolts being drawn back and keys being turned. Finally, to the accompaniment of loud, gothic creaking, the great doors were opened. The giant stood on the threshold, every bit as huge and as terrifying as Gretel had feared, but much better dressed. True, his head was bulbous and misshapen, but he had covered the worst of it with a tasseled scarlet fez.

  Admittedly, his physique was alarmingly vast and muscular, but his expertly tailored suit of finest wool in a subtle lemon check, his green velvet waistcoat, his splendid fob watch and chain, his embroidered slippers, and the spotted silk cravat at his neck all did their bit to make him, ultimately, presentable. Acceptable. Faceable. Relief flushed through Gretel, strengthening her resolve. She risked a small, businesslike smile and a tiny inclination of the head.

  “Good morning to you, Herr Giant,” she said.

  “Pleathe”—the giant bowed low, though still remained double Gretel’s own height—“come in. You are motht welcome to my humble home.”

  Gretel stepped into the great hall and tried not to let renewed panic show on her face as, with a clang that vibrated through her whole body, the impenetrable doors were shut, locked, bolted, and barred behind her.

  TWELVE

  The hallway of the giant’s dwelling was very much cave and not castle. The walls were stone, solid and unadorned, save for flickering torches positioned at such height that their uneven light barely reached the floor. The giant bade Gretel follow him.

  They passed along a broad, high passageway that led upward into the mountain. With each mighty step her host took, the ground shuddered. Gretel was very glad the giant had chosen to wear slippers, which at least muffled the sound of those fearsome footfalls a little. She found herself obliged to break into an undignified trot to keep up with him. At length they came to another door. Though of necessity tall, it was understated and elegant and in no way fortified. It opened onto a room so tastefully furnished, so exquisitely decorated, so expertly dressed, it quite took Gretel’s breath away. She found herself gazing at her surroundings, mouth agape, quite forgetting where she was or why she was there.

  The giant saw her expression and was clearly pleased that she was impressed.

  “I thee you apprethiate beauty, fraulein,” he said, his own countenance revealing a certain bafflement at Gretel’s grubby, unappealing attire.

  She had to take care not to give too much of herself away.

  “I was not always as you see me, Herr Giant,” she told him. “I am only lately fallen on hard times. Hence my decision to obtain these cats in the hope you will give me a good price for them.”

  “And who wath it told you that I had need of the creatureth?”

  She hesitated, then by way of explanation, offered, “I come from the town of Gesternstadt. There is not much that remains secret for long in such a small community.”

  The giant nodded, and then held out one enormous hand, gesturing impatiently for her to pass him the basket of cats. She watched him closely as he took them. With great care and gentleness he lifted them out, one at a time, and inspected them closely. He examined the color and quality of their fur, but also the brightness of the eyes and the firmness of their limbs, a point that Gretel found surprising. While he was engaged in scrutinizing the cats, she took the opportunity to further investigate the beautiful room. Gone were the rustic torches and bare stone walls. Here instead the skills of plasterer and decorator were plainly demonstrated. The ceilings bore intricate cornices and elaborate roses, from which were suspended dazzling crystal chandeliers, each holding a plethora of candles. The space was indeed filled with light, all the better to display the fine oil paintings that adorned the walls; the exquisite silks and damasks that draped corners and tromp l’oeil windows; the elegant furniture, all built to accommodate the giant’s proportions, yet gracefully constructed with loving attention to detail and finish; the sumptuous fabrics upholstering the sofas and chaises; the gleaming silver candelabrae; and the very finest examples of decorative china. The whole effect was one of opulence, and yet restraint. It was evident that the giant’s travels and adventures had equipped him not only with a great fortune but with a knowledge and understanding of the finer things in life. It struck her as cruelly unfortunate that he could not find someone willing to share his extremely comfortable existence.

  The giant returned the cats to the basket, handling them with a tenderness that Gretel decided came naturally to him. Whatever feats of strength and victories in war his tremendous size and brawn had afforded him, his nature was that of a gentleman, in all senses of the word.

  “Tell me, fraulein, what prithe do you demand for these catth?”

  “Oh, Herr Giant, I am in no position to bargain or make demands. All I ask is that you give me what you consider fair. I confess, word of your generosity in these matters has already reached me.”

  The giant nodded, causing the tassel on top of his fez to jiggle briskly. He opened his mouth to suggest what Gretel hoped would be a handsome sum of money, but his words were halted by the violent clanging of the front door knocker. From inside the cave-castle, the
sound was ten times what it was outside, as if they were positioned in the center of a gargantuan drum. Gretel’s hands flew to her ears. The giant frowned at the unwanted interruption and strode off down the passageway. Gretel found herself momentarily deafened, so that she was unable to listen to the giant’s conversation with whomever it was who had come a-knocking. Nevertheless, she was not surprised when Inge Peterson-Muller was shown into the room. She carried her own basket of cats, and the giant brought in two more behind her. At the sight of Gretel, Inge first gasped and then scowled. Before she had the chance to speak, however, Gretel flung herself forward, throwing her arms around the startled woman.

  “Oh, Inge!” she cried, in a display of emotion she considered really quite convincing. “My dear friend! How long it is since we have seen each other. How fortuitous that happy circumstance should bring us together once more!”

  In her arms, Inge stiffened and struggled to free herself, but did not succeed in doing so before Gretel had had the opportunity to hiss in her ear: “Play along, or I’ll tell Herr Giant all about the men and the dynamite!” Releasing her long-lost friend, Gretel stood back and beamed.

  “You are well, my dear?” she asked.

  Inge was no stranger to the art of role-play and quickly took up the part.

  “As you find me, old friend. I have traveled far and am hopeful of doing business with Herr Giant to restore my fortunes.”

  “Oh, how similar are our tales,” said Gretel, aware that the giant, though somewhat distracted by the sudden abundance of cats, was listening to their exchange. “And you have brought so many beautiful animals.”

  “I had a greater number”—there was an edge to Inge’s voice now—“but some were stolen.”

  “Is that so? Surely, no one and nowhere is safe these dark days,” Gretel replied, allowing her face to show just the smallest smile. Inge was, in her opinion, a fiendish creature, and it was hard to pass up an opportunity to make her squirm.

  “Good ladieth.” The giant gathered up the baskets of cats in his capacious arms. “If you would be tho kind ath to follow me . . .” So saying, he led them out of the fabulous salon. They ascended another twisting passageway. Gretel noticed this one had high windows, hewn from the rock, allowing daylight to penetrate into the interior. They came to a set of double doors. Sounds of mewing could be heard. This was, it appeared, the place where the hapless cats were incarcerated. Gretel braced herself for what might be revealed as the doors were opened. For the second time in the same half hour she found herself completely wrong-footed and standing, jaw dropped, regarding the palatial and luxurious room before them. This was no cage for the condemned; no stinking cell in which the felines must endure deprivation and starvation before being selected for their ultimate purpose. The room had been constructed, so it seemed, with every whim and wish a cat could conjure—were it able to express such things—for its comfort and ease. There were feather mattresses covered in the plushest velvet. There were full-grown trees for climbing and claw sharpening. There were tables set with dishes of food that made Gretel’s own mouth water. There were balls of wool and clockwork mice and tattered ribbons for exercise and diversion. The giant released the new additions to his collection from their cramped baskets and watched as they explored their new and wonderful surroundings. Inge and Gretel exchanged looks of astonishment, for a brief moment united by their surprise. Their host pressed a finger to his lips to signify they should not disturb the kitties longer, and ushered the women out of the sanctuary. He then took them still farther on and up until they came to a seemingly insignificant door at the top of a short flight of carpeted stairs. He took from his waistcoat pocket a golden key, turned the lock, and pushed open the door. Gretel caught herself gawping once again and shut her mouth firmly, though the splendor the giant had revealed to them was indeed awe-inspiring.

  “My treathure, ladieth,” he said, with a low, slow sweep of his arm. “Pleathe, exthplore, browthe, enjoy. I leave it to you to thelect itemth in payment for the treathureth you have brought me. Take your time. I will return anon.”

  Gretel felt a gentle nudge as he encouraged the women into the room. He then shut and relocked the door, and his thudding footsteps could be heard dwindling down the stairs and along the passage. Gretel was still at a loss for words. Inge, on the other hand, found the ability to express herself plainly.

  “Poke me sideways with a pitchfork!” she cried, before launching herself face first into a great pile of gold coins, thrashing about among the chinking, tinkling doubloons and pieces, all the while emitting a joyous if slightly hysterical cackling laughter.

  Gretel was more restrained in her response to the Aladdin’s cave of wonders in which she found herself, but was no less amazed. She wandered amid the chests and trunks overflowing with coins, and the priceless artifacts and jewels. She found it hard to translate any of the treasures before her into the currency of cats. A handful of opals, perhaps? A pair of gold goblets? An ivory escritoire? She picked up a string of pearls. Each one was flawless and the size of a robin’s egg. The creamy spheres felt pleasantly cool in her palm, and cooler still when she slipped the string around her neck and fastened the clasp.

  “Never in all my life,” declared Inge, “have I seen such riches.” She gathered handfuls of coins and stuffed them in her pockets and her undergarments. “And to think of it belonging to that gollumpus, that . . . beast of a creature. It is not right.”

  “By all accounts, he earned every piece for himself,” said Gretel. “And I think it inaccurate to call him ‘beast.’ He is a person of cultured sensibilities.”

  “Hah! A ‘person,’ as you put it, of violent strength and murderous abilities, more likely, and a twiddle poop besides. ’Tis a waste, such finery, such wealth, such potential, on the likes of him.”

  “You would put it to better use, no doubt.”

  Inge left off luxuriating in the heap of gold to curl her lip at Gretel.

  “Do not think to set yourself above me like I was some sosse brangle, Fraulein Gretel of Gesternstadt. Oh, yes, I remember you. I know you.”

  “And I knew your . . . husband, shall we call him that?”

  “Huh, him! A lobcock if ever there was.”

  “You seemed so very fond of each other, on your second honeymoon in Bad am Zee.”

  Inge struggled to her feet and fell to caressing a jewel-encrusted samovar. “That jolter head was no husband of mine. Besides, people have their uses as long as they are in possession of their nutmegs,” she said.

  “And Herr Peterson lost his . . . nerve? Or should I more correctly name him Herr Muller?”

  “Call him cully muckworm, call him what you like, it matters not to me.”

  “Evidently.”

  “Are you so different? Would you not use whatever hoddy doddy or nazy you had to in order to make your way in this unforgiving world?”

  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.”