“Is that better, dear?” Lady Angélique asked.
“Yes,” Mademoiselle de Rais said in a small voice. “Thank you.”
“I am glad to be of service. Now, I am fear this man is going to have to ask you some questions. But he will be careful not to alarm you.” This last was said with a warning glare.
“Of course. Mademoiselle, may I ask how long you have been with Maréchal de camp Martel?”
“Almost two years. He was a guest at my father’s estate and he . . . he noticed me. My parents did not want to let me go with him, but the maréchal can be very persuasive. I did not want to go, either. But I said yes.”
“Because of his talent?”
“I imagine so. Sometimes, I am very homesick. But I never leave, though I wish I could.”
“You will be restored to your family very soon, I promise you,” Ritter said. “What can you tell me of this evening’s events?”
“I . . .” Mademoiselle de Rais shook her head. “I remember nothing. I’m sorry.”
“What was the last thing you do remember?”
“I remember lunch. There was a strawberry sorbet. That was nice.”
The young woman looked so childish when she said that that Ritter almost couldn’t bring himself to go on. But he knew his duty, so he said, “I am afraid, mademoiselle, that I must now ask you certain questions about the marshal’s sexual practices. Did he—”
The terrified look on the girl’s face stopped him in mid-question.
“Oh, you idiot!” Lady Angélique exclaimed. She put both hands on Ritter’s chest and pushed him backward out of the room and into the hall. “You have all the tact of a water buffalo. Go interview someone else. I will speak with Mademoiselle Jeanne—alone.”
She slammed the door in his face.
There were four doors in this hallway: Marshal Martel’s at the end, Mademoiselle de Rais’s across from his, the valet’s nearest the staircase, and one more that could only be the aide-de-camp’s room. A young man with a round, heavy, almost ursine face answered the door. He wore a French uniform with a gold aiguillette on the right shoulder.
“You are Capitaine Dmitri Nikitovich Kasimov?”
“Yes.” Kasimov gestured toward a lone green leather chair. He himself sat on the edge of his bed. “You must be the investigator. I will answer all your questions to the best of my ability, Lieutenant—”
“Kapitänleutnant Franz-Karl Ritter.” He took the offered seat, the cigar, and the light from a struck match that Kasimov offered him. “Of the Werewolf Corps.”
“Ah. Then you are a stateless man like myself. You will understand me, then, when I say that having been driven from Russia by the Mongolian Wizard, I would never do anything to weaken the forces opposing him.”
“You think I suspect you of murdering Martel?”
“In your position, I would. I was alone when I discovered the corpse. You have only my word that I did not create it. Further, it will not take you much questioning to discover that I hated the maréchal de camp. I had a military career that I found quite satisfying when he discovered that I had a trick memory for data and made me into his scribbler. So, I had motive and opportunity both.” He lit up a cigar of his own. “But I am doing your job for you. Please, proceed.”
“What is your specialty, captain?” Ritter asked.
“Explosives and demolitions. So, now you have means as well.” Kasimov twisted his mouth into a grin. It struck Ritter that under other circumstances, he would be jolly company. “Only you will find no such materials here, search though you assuredly will. It has been over a year since I had my hands on so much as a fuse.”
“You are obviously a very capable man. Perhaps you have a talent, too?”
“No.”
At that moment, there was a great clamor in the entry hall downstairs and voices bellowed Ritter’s name. “Excuse me,” he said, and leaving his cigar in the Limoges saucer that served as an ashtray, went to the top of the stairs. Down below, he saw four men setting down a cage whose contents obviously alarmed them. The guards at the bottom of the stairs waved them away and, on seeing what had been brought, stepped back from it.
His wolf had arrived at last.
Freki bounded up the stairs to Ritter’s arms and, once he had determined that there was no treat waiting for him in his master’s hands, permitted himself to scratched behind the ears. Only then did Ritter ease his thoughts into the animal’s mind and walk him through the scene of the crime.
He returned to Kasimov’s room then, picked up his cigar, and puffed it back to life again. Freki, who did not like tobacco smoke but was used to it, investigated the room, sniffing at the dresser, under the bed, at the closet.
“You had a drink or two while you were out,” Ritter observed, “and visited a brothel as well.”
“I was a caricature of a soldier with a few hours to kill,” Kasimov admitted. “I am surprised I did not also gamble and get into a drunken brawl. Please tell that beast that there is nothing to be learned by sniffing my boots.”
“On the contrary, there is a great deal to be learned. The fact, for example, that there is no trace of explosives associated with you or the crime scene.”
“As I told you. But I am glad you have eliminated that chain of thought so quickly. Much good it will do me; even though I am innocent and you appear to be an honest man, and therefore I will live, the association with the murder will follow me for the rest of my life. My career is over.”
Ignoring the man’s sudden bout of self-pity, Ritter said, “Tell me, Kasimov. What do you think of Mademoiselle de Rais?”
“Poor child. I have a sister not much younger, and it has not been easy to watch how the maréchal brutalized her. But, again, I hate the man who brutalized my nation more.”
“And Tomas, the valet?”
“A nonentity. He blacks boots, steams coats, gossips with the other servants, steals a plate of cold meats from the kitchen at night. Every man is a mask, I am firmly convinced, and you never know whether there is a demon or an angel lurking within. Save for Tomas. Cut him open and you will find a slightly smaller valet. Cut that one open and you’ll find another valet, and another, and another, all the way down to nothing.”
“Thank you.” Ritter stubbed out the cigar on the Limoges saucer. “You will wait here in your room in case I have further questions for you.”
Kasimov smiled sourly. “I have nowhere else to go.”
Tomas looked surprised by Freki’s presence but graciously welcomed Ritter into his room nonetheless. Ritter was not surprised to see two matching armchairs and assorted furniture far superior to what was in the aide-de-camp’s room. The valet was clearly the enterprising sort of servant who took care to feather his own nest wherever he might find himself.
“You were reading,” Ritter observed, glancing at a book that had been placed, face down and open on an end table. “May I ask what?”
“Ovid. Oh, not his serious poems. The Metamorphoses. It’s trash, really. But trash by a great poet, and thus, the master would allow it within his orbit.”
“Martel was a demanding man, then?” Ritter asked.
“Repugnant is the mot juste, I believe. I see I shock you. But, as you must know, no man is a hero to his valet. Nor, if the man in question is the master, by anyone who knew him. Your dog seems very curious about my possessions.”
“He is a wolf. Tell me about your feelings toward the maréchal.”
“I adored him, of course. I had no choice. But I could see his flaws. Consider: My master’s talent expressed itself almost from birth. The world doted on him. When he was a toddler, other infants shared their toys with him. He did not get in schoolyard fights, because his fellow students deferred to him. As soon as he became interested, girls were eager to assuage his lust. Inevitably, the poor child became a monster of ego. He hardly had a choice.”
“Yet he grew up to become a great general.”
“A great leader—there is a difference. His kn
owledge of tactics and strategy is rudimentary at best. But that weakness is made up for by his staff. Who, because of their intense loyalty toward him, vie with each other to offer up the best strategies and most cunning tactics for him to present as his own.”
“Tell me,” Ritter said, “about his aide-de-camp, Kasimov.”
“He is a Russian; that says it all. Always moping around about how he lost Russia, he lost his career, he lost his faith, he lost his family, and God knows what else. If he had a balalaika, he’d be playing it right now. Something mournful, no doubt.”
“And the marshal’s mistress?”
“His strumpet, you mean. I’ve shocked you again. But you didn’t have to clean up after them. Trust me, she performed acts no decent woman would.”
His work done, Freki padded softly back to Ritter and lay down at his feet. Ritter, in turn, withdrew his mind from the wolf.
“Speaking of deviant practices,” Ritter said, “I note that you are a sodomite. Please don’t try to deny it. Freki can smell the lubricant that so many of you keep handy and the lilac water that you wear on those occasions when you go looking for companionship in certain dark places frequented by men who are afraid to say aloud what they desire and require such signs to recognize each other.”
“Please, don’t . . .”
“I am not shocked, Monsieur Tomas. There are far more of your kind than most people think—I believe even you would be surprised how many more. It would accomplish nothing to arrest you for your personal proclivities. But given the location of your master’s most grievous injury, one must naturally wonder if sodomy was involved.”
“Whether it was involved or not, I certainly was not,” the valet said with heat. “Of all three of those involved, I am the only one who could not have committed the crime, for I was never alone with him during the time in question. In fact, I—”
Freki’s ears perked and Ritter held up a hand for silence. There were footsteps in the hall. “Ah. Lady Angélique is done with the mademoiselle. You will excuse me, for I must confer with her.”
As each of the rooms on the hall had an occupant, either living or dead, Ritter and Lady Angélique consulted quietly at the top of the grand staircase.
“Mademoiselle de Rais is sleeping quietly now,” Lady Angélique said, “and I have solved your crime for you. The girl and I had a long talk, and it is a sad and sordid tale indeed. Martel behaved monstrously toward the child, routinely forcing her to perform sex acts that she necessarily found repugnant. He was particularly fond of the Greek vice, with himself on top, of course. Do you take my meaning? I can be more specific, if you require.”
“That will not be necessary,” Ritter said uncomfortably.
“We need not dwell upon the girl’s humiliation and anger. The scene is all too easily imagined. Mademoiselle de Rais did not know she was a pyromancer—some talents manifest themselves later in life than others—until the moment when her childish rage summoned up her power and focused it upon her persecutor in two bursts. First, she roasted him alive. Then she did a violence to his body that echoed the violation done her own. After which, she rolled the body over on its back—out of schoolgirl fastidiousness, no doubt—and retired to her room and halfway to hysteria.”
“Well,” Ritter said. “You’ve certainly—”
At that moment, voices filled the air as military men emerged from the basement conference room into the first floor. Among them was Sir Toby, who, seeing them, started up the stairway.
“We attack in the morning,” Sir Toby said. “I have, among my men, a shape-changer who can assume the field marshal’s appearance. The military plans are good, and so long as nobody knows their leader is an imposter—and I am sure we can successfully keep everyone not in on the secret at arm’s length—our forces will behave with the expected loyalty, and the enemies will know they have little chance. . . . Oh, and that reminds me. You did solve the murder, I hope?”
“I did,” Ritter said. “Or, rather, Lady Angélique did. It was a crime of passion.” He explained all. “The young woman is of a good house, so I suspect that if she is sent to a convent, her involvement in the matter can be hushed up.”
“Her godfather is the Duc d’Ys,” Lady Angélique said. “Trust me, she will be healed, not punished.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Sir Toby said. “There is more than enough cruelty in the world as it is.” Then, rubbing his hands, he continued.“Well, we have put in a good night’s work, one and all. I will be busy all night, but the two of you can be spared for few hours. I suggest you get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
“No,” Ritter said. “There is one more thing to be done.”
He went to the aide-de-camp’s door and rapped briskly. “Come join us,” he told Kasimov. “We will have work for you in a bit.”
Then he knocked on the valet’s door. Tomas emerged.
“The investigation is complete,” Ritter said.
“You know who killed the master?”
“The matter has been resolved, and that is all you need to know.”
Tomas nodded thoughtfully. “It sounds like the rain has stopped,” he said then. “I think I will take a walk outside to clear my head.”
“No,” Ritter said. “You will not.”
“Eh?” Sir Toby cocked an eyebrow.
“Tell me something, Tomas: Why is it that when I look away from you, I cannot remember the color of your eyes or of your hair, or, indeed, the general cast of your features? Why is it that the sound of your voice flows away from me like water? I am a man who never forgets a face, and yet I swear to you that if you were to step into a crowd, I would be unable to pull you out of it.”
“A good valet is self-effacing, sir.”
“You have taken a virtue and magnified it to the status of a vice. No, you are a spy and a wizard. Your talent is to make yourself unobtrusive. Your purpose is to gather information. And you currently possess a secret that could change the course of tomorrow’s battle. You will not be allowed to leave this house alive.”
Almost too swiftly to be seen, the valet seized Lady Angélique. A knife appeared in one hand, even as the other clutched her throat. A vivid, animal alertness shone in his eyes, a shrewd and calculating cunning, though he must have known that his chances of escaping were slight.
“There is nothing to be gained by this,” Ritter said carefully. “You must let the lady go.” Simultaneously, he slipped his mind back into Freki’s and prepared to launch the wolf at the valet.
But Lady Angélique raised a hand from her throat and moved Tomas’s hand from it, as easily as if it had no volition of its own. Stepping out of Tomas’s embrace, she said, “It is no easy matter to hold a surgeon against her will.” Disdainfully, she shoved the man’s chest with both hands and watched him tumble to the floor. “We know every pressure point in the human body and can compress them at will.”
Sir Toby removed his hand from inside his jacket, without the pistol he carried there. “Lady Angélique,” he said, “again, we are in your debt. Thank you for disabling this villain.”
“Yes,” Ritter said. He turned to the aide-de-camp. “And you will be the hero of the hour, the man who apprehended the assassin and after a fierce struggle—attested to by impeccable witnesses—had no choice but to shoot him.”
Looking grim, Kasimov said, “It will be my pleasure.”
He unbuckled his sidearm.
“Allow me to leave first,” Lady Angélique said. “This is nothing I should see. I did swear a Hippocratic oath, after all.”
The Pyramid of Krakow
The man who got off the coach from Bern—never an easy trip but made doubly uncomfortable thanks to the rigors and delays of war—had a harsh and at first sight intimidating face. But once one took in his small black-glass spectacles and realized he was blind, pity bestowed upon him a softer cast. Until the coachman brought around his seeing-eye animal and it turned out to be a wolf.
The blind Swiss commercial
agent took the wolf by the leash, placed a coin in the coachman’s hand, and then, accepting the leather tote containing toiletries, two changes of clothing, and not much else, strode into the cold and wintry streets of Krakow. On the rooftops, the gargoyles which the city tolerated because they kept down the rat population squinted and peered down at him, as if sensing something out of the ordinary. He did not, of course, look up at them.
Unassisted, the man made his way to a small hotel on Kanonicza Street, under the Royal Palace, where a modest room awaited him. There, after performing his ablutions, he got out his dip pen and a bottle of ink and composed a note on the hotel stationery:
Sir:
I have arrived in Krakow and await your pleasure.
Respectfully yours,
Hr. Mstz. Johann Fleischer
A modest bribe of a few copper coins sent the hotelier’s boy running out into the streets. Then Franz-Karl Ritter returned to his room to wait. Because the consequences of being discovered as an imposter and a spy were so dire, he did not take off his opaque glasses but remained in character. At a mental nudge, however, Freki put both paws on the sill of the lone window and stared intently into the smoky sky. Looking through his wolf’s eyes across the rooftops of the city, Ritter saw in the distance a cluster of smokestacks and, among them, the very top of a stepped pyramid.
There was an odd taint to the air but, try though they did, neither the wolf nor his master could identify it.
***
The next morning, by appointment, Ritter waited in the anteroom of an office whose appointments were of the finest, Freki lying by his feet, alert and patient.
A door opened and someone said, “Herr Fleischer.”
Ritter rose and, turning in the direction of the voice, said mildly, “Herr Meisterzauberer Fleischer, please. The title of archmage cost me years of my life and all of my vision, so I am afraid that I must insist upon its use.”
“Of course, Herr Meisterzauberer, of course. Józef Bannik, at your service. I am the Under Assistant Minister of Industry for the new government.”
The Mongolian Wizard Stories Page 8