1636: The Devil's Opera

by Eric Flint

  He finally started walking back and forth across the front of the building, counting steps. “…thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty.” Turn about and walk the other direction. “One, two, three, four…”

  It was in his third circuit that he saw something. It was lying in a low spot right beside the steps up to the front door of the building. He stopped counting and walked over to pick it up.

  A glove. Pink, with purple and green bands across the back of it. Made for a right hand, so it wouldn’t fit him. No luck there.

  Simon was still standing there turning the glove this way and that when the door burst open and he was almost run down by the two detectives.

  * * *

  Byron had barely let Gotthilf stuff the papers into an envelope and put them in his jacket before he hurtled out of the office.

  “Hermann,” Gotthilf ordered the patrolman as they ran by, “no one in the office until we say differently.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” followed them out the door.

  Gotthilf barely avoided running over the person standing outside the building, then he did run into Byron who had stopped short.

  “Simon!” Byron barked as he grabbed something out of the boy’s hand. “Where did you get that?”

  The boy pointed to a spot beside the steps leading to the building entrance. “Right there.”

  “Great find, kid. I’ll tell you how great later.” Byron twisted and whistled shrilly, then yelled, “Cab!”

  A one horse light cart pulled up. The two detectives bounded up into it. “The new opera house, now, and schnell!”

  * * *

  Simon stared after the rapidly moving cart, jaw agape. What had that all been about, and what did the glove mean? Did it have anything to do with Hans?

  Well, if they were in such a hurry to get to the opera house, maybe that’s where the answers were.

  Simon started trotting down the street, headed for the nearest bridge into the Neustadt.

  * * *

  “Can’t this thing move any faster?” Byron demanded of the driver. He began cursing in a stream, seemingly without breathing.

  “You going to tell me what is going on that has you so worked up?” Gotthilf asked.

  Byron broke off the curses long enough to say, “That bastard Schardius has been stalking Marla. That’s what all those papers are about. They’re his collection on her. And this,” he held up the glove, “this is her glove. I recognize it. No one else in Magdeburg has anything like this, and there’s no way she would have been anywhere near his office to drop it. So he had it, a trophy, which is also part of a stalker’s pattern. Somehow he lost it outside his office, and we’re just lucky that Simon found it for us.”

  “So why are we going to the opera hall?”

  “Because Schardius bankrolled the opera production, according to Marla. He won’t miss the premiere performance. And if he’s stalking her, he for sure will be there tonight.”

  “Point,” Gotthilf replied. “He will want to see what his money bought.”

  “In more ways than one,” and Byron resumed cursing.

  A horrible thought occurred to Gotthilf. “Peltzer’s dead streetwalker…”

  The same thoughts ran through both their minds. Long dark hair…was asked to sing.…

  Now the curses were being uttered antiphonally from both sides of the cart.

  “Can’t your horse move any faster?” Gotthilf demanded of the driver.

  Chapter 65

  Friedrich and the others stood outside the Royal and Imperial Opera Hall for some time, making themselves visible to the incoming select premiere night crowd, posturing and engaging in what could only be called witty repartee. Their breath frosted as they spoke, and they laughed at that, accusing each other of being filled with nothing but hot air.

  Before long the sun began to dip below the horizon, and the air definitely began to chill. The four friends looked at each other, and with nods they moved as one up the steps and through the central door of the opera hall.

  The foyer area, what Friedrich had heard an up-timer call a lobby, ran the full width of the building. Foyer was not a grand enough word to him to describe the room. It seemed more of a gallery, with doors all along the west side into the various seating areas of the auditorium, high ceilings, and three large crystal chandeliers.

  The four of them milled around a bit, until Franz Sylwester literally stumbled over Friedrich’s walking stick with an “Oof!”

  “Steady, there,” Friedrich said as he grabbed Franz’s elbow to keep him from sprawling on the floor.

  A moment later, Franz was stable again, brushing his hands down the front of his royal blue short-waisted jacket. “My thanks,” he said.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in there?” Friedrich motioned to the auditorium with his head.

  “In a few minutes, perhaps, but Frau Amber has me out here greeting all the big name guests,” he leaned over and lowered his voice, “especially those who gave money for the hall or the production.”

  “Ah,” Friedrich said, as they all exchanged knowing smiles. The power of gold, indeed.

  “But listen,” Franz said, “would you like to see behind the curtains for just a moment or two?”

  Friedrich didn’t need to look at his friends. “Of course!”

  Franz shared a conspiratorial grin. “Then come with me.”

  * * *

  Gotthilf threw a couple of bills to the driver and tumbled off the cart in Byron’s wake. He was surprised to see Honister walking toward them across the opera house plaza.

  “Hey, Karl,” Byron said.

  “Lieutenant,” Karl responded with a nod. “I was on my way to find you when I saw you pull up here. What’s to do?”

  “According to our informant,” Byron said, walking fast, “our one-eyed dude is around here somewhere. Seems he’s been tailing Schardius, who we think is inside.” He jerked his head at the opera hall.

  “Schardius? Why?” Honister seemed mystified by that revelation.

  “We were hoping you could tell us,” Gotthilf replied, trotting to keep up with his long-legged partner.

  “I have no idea,” Honister said, “unless…”

  The detective fell silent for about three steps, mind obviously racing.

  Honister finally looked up again. “Only one thing makes sense,” he began. “The fire, the murder and robbery, and the explosion were all aimed at the hospital expansion project. We could never come up with a motive for trying to destroy the project itself. It is popular, and it is needed; destroying it just didn’t make any sense. But what if they weren’t aiming at the project? What if they were aiming at the backers of the project?”

  Gotthilf turned that thought around and over and around in his mind, examining it from every angle. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that Honister was right.

  “And Schardius is involved with the group that got the contract for the hospital expansion?” Byron asked.

  “His name is not on any of the proposals or contracts, no,” Honister admitted, who was starting to sound winded keeping the pace. “But it appears to be common knowledge that he provided much of the initial financing for it. I heard that from more than one source, including Mayor Gericke himself.”

  “If he is the ‘money man,’ as up-timers might put it,” Gotthilf said, “then taking him down would probably destroy the consortium that has the contract for the expansion.” Byron gave him a questioning look. “If Schardius dies, his money gets tied up in his estate. The committee that oversees execution of wills will allow expenses to be paid to keep his household solvent and for day-to-day expenses in his business. Whether a project like this would be included in that day-to-day category would depend on the decisions of the committee. And the committee monitors the estate until the heirship is determined and validated, which could take anywhere from weeks to months.”

  “Even if he’s contractually bound to provide it?”

  “That
depends on how the contract is written and on how the committee would interpret the contract. But even if it was ruled that the money had to be provided under the terms of a contract,” Gotthilf finished, “just a significant delay in receiving it could be enough to take the project down.”

  “Lawyers.” Byron said the word like it was a curse. Gotthilf decided that now was not the time to tell Byron that his older brother was studying at Jena to become a lawyer.

  Byron turned back to Honister.

  “Makes sense to me. Keep an eye out for One-Eye, and arrest him if you see him.” Honister stopped at the bottom of the steps to the opera house portico. “And arrest Schardius if you see him, too.” That was thrown over Byron’s shoulder as he started up the steps two at a time. Gotthilf huffed and puffed as he trailed behind.

  * * *

  Franz unlocked a single door set off to one side of the foyer, motioned Friedrich and the others through, and closed it behind them.

  “This way,” Franz said.

  Friedrich fell into line behind the others as they went down some stairs and then along a dimly lit hallway with doors appearing along either side. “Where are we?” he heard one of his friends ask.

  “This runs along below the lower bank of the box seats,” Franz replied from the front of the line. “It will take us to the service area under the stage, and from there we can climb up to the backstage area without being seen by the audience.”

  And so it proved. The hallway opened into a very open space, with pillars interspersed across it that supported the massive beams that underlay the stage. Various pieces of equipment could be seen around the perimeter of the space, most shrouded in canvas. Stairways could be seen in various locations.

  “This way,” Franz repeated. He led them to a stairway at the side of the space. The door at the top opened to the backstage.

  The four of them just stopped in amazement to watch. Several people in bright costumes stood in front of them, chattering away in low tones. Young men and women dressed in muted brown bustled around, adjusting scenery and furniture, or carrying items from one side of the stage to the other while the curtain remained down.

  One very large fellow in a resplendent costume and holding what appeared to be a very large sword stood near a small podium-style desk, laughing with Frau Amber and a short down-timer woman wearing some kind of contraption that covered one ear and had a short arm that curved around in front of her face.

  “That’s the stage manager’s headset,” Franz muttered in his ear, obviously having noticed his interest. “It connects to the auditorium intercom—kind of like radio, only with wires. She gives instructions through the microphone to the people running the lights and curtains.”

  Interesting. First electric lights, and now this. Friedrich wondered what other innovations were coming to theatres because of Grantville. Electric trap-doors, maybe?

  * * *

  Crash!

  All the actresses jumped and several screamed when one of the side walls seemed to explode and a man landed on one of the makeup tables. Everyone moved back as the man struggled to get to his feet.

  Marla stepped forward. “Herr Schardius! What are you doing?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, ladies?” a mocking voice said from inside the space Schardius had been in. Then came a shrill, high-pitched laugh. “He was peeping through the wall at you!”

  Chapter 66

  Angry voices began to rise. Schardius was very shaken. For just a moment after he gained his feet, he stared around at the angry women who were starting to shout at him. He gave his head a sharp shake, and, knowing he was exposed now, pulled his pistol from his jacket pocket.

  “Shut up!” he barked, gratified to see faces go pale and voices go silent. “Nobody moves, nobody says anything!”

  Despite his orders, one person did move. Marla Linder stepped forward until she was at the front of the crowd, shielding those behind her.

  “What do you want, Schardius?” she demanded fiercely.

  His thinking crystalized, snapped into sharp focus.

  “You.”

  Her eyes widened with surprise, possibly shock. But if anything, her expression grew fiercer still. “I don’t think so!”

  “You will come with me, or I start shooting,” Schardius snarled. He grabbed one nearby young woman, barely more than a girl, pulled her in front of his body and stuck the pistol in her ear. “Shall I start with this one?”

  “Wait!” Marla said. Schardius exulted to hear a note of uncertainty in her voice. He said nothing, only cocked the hammer of the pistol.

  The young woman was trembling, and a smell of urine suddenly filled the air.

  “All right,” Marla conceded. “Just don’t hurt Sophie, and let them go.”

  * * *

  Byron and Gotthilf pushed their way through the crowd on the portico and made their way through the doors into the foyer of the opera hall. They stopped inside the doorway, craning their heads as they tried to look over the crowd. Being taller, Byron was more successful at that than his partner. After a minute or so, he said, “There!” and pointed toward a group of people near one of the main doors into the auditorium.

  They both held their badges up and began making their way toward the spot where Amber was. “Clear the way! Make a hole, people!” Byron shouted.

  “Official Polizei business!” Gotthilf called out.

  Between them, the crowd in front of them thinned out and they made their way to Amber, who was starting to move to one side with everyone else. Byron grabbed her by the elbow.

  “It’s you we need to see, Amber. We’ve got a security issue we need your help with. Where can we talk?”

  Byron’s urgency clearly registered on Amber. “This way,” she said, and led them through a door guarded by ushers. “This is one of the hallways leading to the lowest level of boxes.”

  They walked down the hall until they were past the last of the box entrances. At the very end of the hall, Amber turned in front of a door and faced them. “This is as private as we can get at the moment. What is this all about?”

  “Has Andreas Schardius made advances to Marla or any of the other women in the production?” Byron asked harshly.

  * * *

  There was a sudden explosion of shrieking women from the Women’s Dressing Room. “He came through the wall.” “He’s got a gun!” As the others tried to get them to calm down, Friedrich caught a glimpse of what looked like Frau Marla, dressed very oddly, going through the door through which he and the others had entered the backstage area from the basement. She was followed by someone in a dark cloak which swirled just enough to show something glinting in the hand directly behind her back. The cloak swirled back, but Friedrich saw the cloaked figure’s shoulder make a sharp movement which was followed by Frau Marla jerking almost as if she were reacting to a jab.

  Friedrich’s thoughts raced for just a moment, then he turned from his friends and moved with stealth to another door to the basement. The door was in a shadowed nook, so he could open it without a betraying blaze of light warning whoever was below. He had to wait for a lull in the conversations and other noise, but after a moment or two one happened and he slipped through the door.

  Closing the door with care, Friedrich eased down the stairs, listening to steps receding across the floor of the basement area. When he got to the bottom of the stairs he stepped to the shadows and followed, moving on his toes for speed and quietness.

  * * *

  “Stop here,” Schardius said as the entered a pool of light under a single fixture. “Turn around.” He studied Marla’s face; the heightened color, the widened pupils, her deep breaths.

  “Why are you doing this?” he heard her ask. He said nothing, simply caressed her cheek, and let his fingers trail down her neck and across the skin revealed by the scoop neck of her garment—her oh-so-revealing garment.

  Marla flinched at the first touch, then stood ramrod stiff as he poked the gun barrel into her stomach.

/>   “Why?” Schardius finally replied. “Because I have wanted you for twenty years, my dear.”

  “What are you talking about?” Marla demanded. “Twenty years ago I was three years old, and I for sure wasn’t anywhere you were!”

  “La Cecchina,” the man said. “The songbird of Florence. That was you twenty years ago. I was never able to have her, but now you are here, and you I shall have.”

  * * *

  Friedrich slunk to a pillar and peered around its edge carefully. Frau Marla and her abductor stood in a pool of light. He could see clearly now that the man was holding a pistol in his right hand while his left was touching her face. And enough of the abductor’s face was in view that Friedrich could identify the man: Andreas Schardius. That rocked him back a bit.

  “You’re crazy!” Marla exclaimed.

  Friedrich pursed his lips and shook his head. That was perhaps not the wisest thing that Frau Marla could have said. Truthful, without a doubt, but definitely imprudent in this situation. He pondered what to do. Running back upstairs to get help would leave Frau Marla with no immediate succor, and who knew what the madman would do?

  But what could he do down here alone, against a madman with a pistol? He pressed himself against the pillar, and thought rapidly. Meanwhile, the conversation continued on the other side of the pillar.

  “I suggest you keep a civil and contrite tongue in your head, woman.” That was said in a level and calm tone that nonetheless caused the hair on Friedrich’s neck to stand on end. He didn’t know about Frau Marla, but Schardius was definitely putting some fear into him.

  “I’m a married woman,” Marla said. “I’m not beautiful. I’m big and clumsy. Why do you want me? I’ll never be an ornament for your house, or your arm, or a court. Why are you doing this?”