“And I have kept my word, Frau Ott. His hands are clean.”
Astrid paused. “But yours are not.”
“True. I need to know what the police said to you just now.”
“You were watching us?”
He smiled. “Of course. I cannot help you if I do not know what’s going on.”
Astrid collapsed onto the nearest chair as she told Grüber of her conversation with Weber, her parents’ visit to the police station, the confiscation of her private journal, and her sense of betrayal by her favorite author.
“I don’t think things could possibly be any worse,” she said, her eyes downcast. Then she looked up at her uninvited guest. “But, you! Nothing touches you. You have ruined my life, and yet you just walk away.” She stood and leveled her finger at him. “I think the police might go easier on Herman if they knew who was behind it all.”
Grüber saw the rope lying atop a crate of rifles. “I think things will get better soon. Have faith.”
“Why would you think that?” Astrid demanded.
Ten minutes later Grüber walked out the back door, wiping his hands with his handkerchief as he strode away.
Inside, little Immanuel was crying again as his mother swung gently above him.
11
London, Friday, June 4
Herman stood before the doors to another shop just after midday. He was filthy, unshaven, and weak on his feet. He must have walked twenty-five miles over the past two days and knew he looked more like an itinerant laborer than a prosperous tradesman. He glanced at the sign above the door, which read, in large gold letters, Luigi Parmeggiani, Antiquities.
Herman swayed with fatigue, his strength fading as he opened the door, his body aching for sleep. A slight olive-skinned man, impeccably dressed in a gray linen suit and smelling of rose water approached, his eyebrows arched in distaste. “Scusi, Signore, but I believe you have the wrong address. If you are looking for work, I have my own specialists already.”
Herman handed the man the note from his former employer. “This is for you. Herr Grüber said your debt is due.”
The man accepted the note as though it were a filthy rag. After studying it, he scowled and jerked his head over his left shoulder. “Go around back to the workshop. You can wait there.”
If Herman hadn’t been so tired, he would have been furious at the rudeness of his reception, but he grudgingly turned around and made his way back toward the door, where he paused. “Is there someplace I can lie down?” he asked, looking back.
The man’s face softened. “There is an old sofa awaiting renovation. You can sleep there until the shop closes and we figure out what to do next.”
Herman trudged around to the back and found two workmen carefully restoring a delicate French settee. Conversation with them was fruitless, as they only spoke Italian. Herman pantomimed being told by the man in front to come into this room, and they shrugged and went back to work until one noticed Herman staring at his sausage and cheese sandwich. Herman pulled out some German marks, pointed to the sandwich, and an exchange was made.
Herman ate slowly, savoring the texture of the crust and the feel of the sausage sliding around in his mouth before swallowing. It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t near enough, but it was a good start. After washing the sandwich down with a bottle of red wine, which the sandwichseller offered to him without asking for more money, Herman lay down on the couch and was soon fast asleep. His running was done, at least for now.
Herman was awakened by the insistent shaking of his shoulder. He had been dreaming of the afternoon in the park with Astrid, the cherry blossoms drifting down. When he saw where he was, he groaned.
“So, Signore, I take it you are on the run from the authorities, yes? Herr Grüber must have been desperate to send you to me, for we did not part on friendly terms. Did you kill someone? Someone important?”
Bleary-eyed, Herman was in no mood to be interrogated. “No. No killing, Signore. I helped Herr Grüber spy on other spies. We got found out, and the German Secret Police are looking for me. The British shouldn’t care. I’m no risk to you.”
Luigi brought himself up to his full diminutive stature. “I’ll be the judge of that. But for now, you need a place to stay while I find out what sort of trouble our mutual friend has gotten me into. You can’t stay here. My business associates wouldn’t like it, and many of my most important transactions occur after normal hours. I have a valuable piece expected within the hour. My seller wouldn’t want you to be here when he arrives.”
Herman understood. Luigi was a fence, his fine store a front for his other, more lucrative sideline. Herman was more likely to be arrested here as an accessory than an anarchist. Signore Parmeggiani was right; he couldn’t stay.
“I need to exchange my marks for pounds,” Herman said. “Can you help me?”
“Si. I do many transactions on the Continent. Show me what you have, and I will give you a fair rate.”
Herman handed the remnants of the purse Herr Grüber had given him, plus the wad from Herr Vogel. After counting out the pounds that the Italian gave back to him, Herman had to admit the exchange was more than fair. Luigi was an honest thief, it appeared.
“Allora, now to your lodging, Signore. There is a small room above the shop, in the back. I store supplies up there, but you can take the cushions from the sofa here and make yourself a pallet for the night. Here’s the key to the back door. You can enter from the fire escape without going through the shop. I open at nine in the morning but will be here by eight. Come down then and we can talk alone when I am not in a hurry and you are rested. Va bene?”
“Bene,” Herman mumbled, then he gathered the cushions and staggered off. He was awkward going up the fire escape with his arms full of cushions and the rifle case hanging on one arm, but once inside the room, he laid them down and looked around. It didn’t take long. The space was fourteen feet wide and twenty long, one wall occupied with a shelf of cans of paint and bottles of turpentine, and the fumes made Herman open the one small window quickly. He knew where he would place the cushions.
Otherwise, the room was bare, save for a painter’s tarp on the bottom shelf with the painting supplies. The bare wooden floor was swept clean. Signore Parmeggiani was no doubt concerned about fire, as the space was free of rags or anything that could serve as tinder. Herman missed his feather bed and duvet, but lay down on the cushions, pulled the splattered painter’s tarp over himself, and returned to a deep slumber.
Herman woke at sunrise and lay still, waiting for the chime of a clock to tell him the time. As he heard the sounds of a city stirring, he wondered what his future held. Alone, away from his wife and child in a foreign country, unable to return home, did he have a future? A bell chimed seven times, nearly drowned out by the rumblings of his stomach.
He stirred, and, after finding a cart selling meat pies on a nearby street corner, was at the store entrance when the bell chimed eight. When Herman arrived, Signore Parmeggiani was already inside and let him in quickly. After locking the door again, he motioned for Herman to follow him to his office. No “Good morning,” or “How did you sleep?” It was clear the fence saw him as a burden. A burden to be rid of as soon as possible.
“I don’t dare send a telegram to Herr Grüber,” Luigi said. “That would be too easy for the authorities to trace and follow straight to . . . you. I have contacts on the Continent who can hand deliver a message to him within a couple of days. Until then, we wait. How long do you think you need to stay here?”
“Do you mean ‘here’ in England or ‘here’ in your shop?”
The little man’s cold reception made Herman doubt the wisdom of coming to him, but it hadn’t been his choice. He sensed the little Italian would turn him over to the police if he deemed him a significant risk, Luigi’s debt to Grüber notwithstanding.
“England,” Luigi answered, with a poker face.
“I don’t know any more than you do. We’ll have to wait to hear when Herr Grübe
r thinks I can send for my family. It could be a few weeks. It could be more.” Looking around the shop he said, “But I believe I can be of some use to you while we wait. I see you have various artifacts that have been turned into lamps.”
“Yes. Art objects and family mementos are quite popular as lamps at the moment. Why?”
“Who does the electrical work?”
The Italian grimaced as though he’d just found his wine unfit. “There is an electrician down the street who does the conversions. He is expensive and slow. I’ve lost customers due to his tardiness.”
Herman spread his hands out in front of him. “I’m an electrician. I can wire the objects here in your shop the same day. I think you’ll find my work more than acceptable.”
Signore Parmeggiani looked at Herman with new interest. An honest profit was still a profit. He pointed to an old Brown Bess musket standing in a corner. “The man who sold this to me yesterday is a retired Army colonel. The walls of his study are lined with old firearms, and his wife insisted he get rid of this one as there was no more room. He was most reluctant to part with it, and I am certain he would pay me handsomely if I could make it into a floor lamp. Can you do it?”
Herman studied the battered weapon for a moment. He felt his fingers twitch as he considered the challenge and at the thought of having something to occupy his hands while awaiting news of his family. “Let me give you a list of what I’ll need after I examine your workshop.”
Herman found a workbench in the back of the shop where furniture could be repaired (or made to look older), and after taking inventory he gave the shopkeeper a list of supplies.
Luigi scowled, but then shrugged. “An investment. Bene. Having you work on the piece will explain your presence, if anyone should ask. I’ll send one of my workers out for these items as soon as they arrive. Why don’t you come back around one o’clock? I should have everything by then.”
They shook on it. Herman was impressed that the Italian had seen how the electrical work could serve as a cover for him before he did, probably due to years of skirting the law.
Herman left the shop and decided to get some measure of London. This would be his home for who knew how long, and he’d best learn his way around. He heard Big Ben toll down the Thames, and the echoes made him feel hollow inside. The distance between Astrid and him could not be measured in kilometers.
After another meat pie and a walk along the north bank of the river, Herman was back promptly at one o’clock, his hands hungry to hold tools again. Luigi nodded as he entered, and Herman went straight to the bench where he found the musket waiting. First, he fashioned a wide wooden stand to which he’d attach the butt plate, staining the support to match the color of the stock. Then he bored a hole in the base of the stand, measured the length of the weapon, and fashioned a metal support from a small steel pipe which he screwed into the base, making a hole in the pipe where the breech of the musket would align once it was attached.
The breech was small, as the musket was a muzzle-loader, so Herman drilled a hole large enough to admit a thin wire and ran the cord up the barrel. He affixed the lamp head where the bulb would reside, secured the base, and stood it up. Attaching the plug would be an easy task. It wasn’t a thing of beauty, and no woman would ever want it in the more public areas of her home, but it seemed quite fitting for a retired colonel who yearned for his days in front of his troops.
When Signore Parmeggiani saw the completed work, Herman could almost see the pound notes the man was envisioning. “Bene fatto, Signore,” he said, “Well done.” He looked at his watch. “Six o’clock. I have time to send a personal note to the colonel before dark, inviting him to visit the shop tomorrow. I think he may enjoy this small victory over his wife. The price of his triumph will be of little consequence to him, I am sure.”
“Does this mean I can stay?” Herman asked.
“Of course, Signore! Now, let’s see about better accommodations for you.”
Herr Grüber withstood the interrogation by Adler well. Grüber knew that he did not have to convince the spymaster that he was innocent, only that the evidence wasn’t sufficient to withstand the scrutiny his arrest would trigger. His influential friends who had helped him secure the contract to install the telephones would be quick to rush to his defense, if only to protect their own reputations. He was released from custody after four hours of questioning, and Grüber began to breathe easily.
He regretted the loss of the telephone line but knew that in this game of cat and mouse with the authorities, he was more often the mouse, so was philosophical that he’d still won more than he’d lost. As Herman’s former employer, he summoned Herr Vogel “to settle accounts” (should anyone ask), when he saw a new opportunity as the two men had a final drink together in Grüber’s home.
“I’m terribly sorry about your daughter’s death, Herr Vogel. A tragic end to our relationship.”
The gunsmith appeared as though he had aged ten years overnight and looked down at his glass. “Hilda may never allow me back into the house, and I can’t blame her. We have only one more matter to discuss, then I’d prefer we never meet again. You could not have foreseen the consequences, but seeing you only increases my sense of guilt.” He took a drink, before continuing.
“I regret to inform you, Herr Grüber, that I’ve lost the rifle you requested of me.”
“You destroyed it, to keep the police from finding it?” he asked, while refilling their wine glasses. “A sensible precaution.”
“No, mein Herr. I convinced Herman to take it with him. Unless he threw it away, he still has it, wherever that is. If you still have need of it, you’ll have to get it from him.”
Grüber considered this new information before reaching for his drink.
“As I recall, Herman is an excellent marksman.”
“One of the best I’ve ever seen. He has a natural ability to focus on the target so that for a moment nothing else exists. Perhaps it is just as well that he has no desire to shed blood, as he could be a very dangerous man, otherwise.”
Grüber nodded, and as soon as his guest departed, he began composing the message he would send to England the next day. No desire to shed blood ... yet. First, I must light the flame, then I can focus its heat.
12
London, Tuesday, June 8
Herman now had a large workbench and a drawer full of tools dedicated to his use. He was happily turning out lamps fashioned from all manner of odds and ends. The Italian delighted in something profitable being produced out of an item he’d been unable to sell, and Herman often found his ingenuity challenged, yet he was content. He was never happier than when his mind and hands were working together to resolve a problem or create something useful.
Luigi called him in after the shop closed. “Herr Grüber sent you a letter. He enclosed it in a walking stick he and I use for messages. He sells it to me with a message inside, then I sell it back with the reply.”
Herman swallowed hard, wiping his hands on his apron. “What’s it say?”
The Italian shrugged. “It’s addressed to you, Signore. I may be a dishonest man, but I don’t read other people’s mail.”
Herman took the tube of paper and carefully unrolled it.
Berlin, June 4, 1897
Herr Ott,
The hunt for you goes on, and I regret I have no good news for you. It grieves me to inform you your beloved Astrid is dead. Apparently, she hanged herself.
The last message I received before the telephone was discovered informed me that a Professor Bell from Scotland and a Miss Margaret Harkness from England had been employed to find the source of leaks from Herr Adler’s office and had sent the police to your home. Astrid was already quite despondent after they turned the house over, breaking one or two family heirlooms in the process, and one policeman confiscated her journal to see if there was incriminating evidence inside.
When I mentioned the name Harkness to her, she became quite upset. It seems this woman was Astrid
’s favorite author, and when she heard Miss Harkness was partly responsible for your being hunted, she was devastated. I had no idea the name had any significance to her and shall carry the guilt of her death for the rest of my life.
Your child is fine, and will be well-tended by his grandparents, but Frau Vogel holds you accountable for Astrid’s death. I am certain she would turn you over to the authorities or shoot you herself to make sure you never raise your son.
Your sacrifice for our cause will be remembered.
I shall visit when I can to see how I can help you begin life anew in England.
I am so very sorry.
K Grüber
Herman stared at the paper in his hands. Ordinary paper. No fancy seals, ribbons, or illustrations, yet it was the most potent paper he had ever seen. A few marks on it, and his life was altered forever. Astrid gone. His son lost to him. A door had closed behind him he could never reopen without risking years in prison or worse. He was too shocked to cry and sat down hard on the nearest chair, incapable of thought or feeling, his mind rejecting the words on the paper for as long as it could stand to do so.
He’d never believed in magic, yet here it was. He walked into a room one man, and by the evil enchantment of this small scroll, he would leave as another. He cursed Herr Vogel, who’d led him to Grüber, whom he cursed even more. Then another name came to mind. Harkness. It was the author’s name that had pushed Astrid over the edge. And she lived in England.
Herman thought of the rifle in the case put away in his new apartment. He had laden himself with Herr Ott’s Meisterstück in deference to his father-in-law. Perhaps Befreier could liberate him from some of the pain in his soul. Miss Harkness had broken Astrid’s heart. He would pierce hers in return.
13
Scotland Yard, Wednesday, June 9
Queen's Gambit Page 6