A Castle in the Clouds

by Kerstin Gier

  Yegorov sighed. “I think I’ve covered everything, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, you have.” I flashed him my very best Mary Poppins smile. “Dasha and I will be just fine till you get back.”

  “I’ll pop in every so often to make sure you’re okay,” he said.

  “Yes, do. You won’t be far away.”

  “And I could bring a few canapés up for you,” he said, fastening both the buttons on his tuxedo and giving his daughter a good-night kiss.

  Oh my goodness yes, I bet the canapés were delicious. “No, thank you,” I said. Fräulein Müller would have been proud of me. “I’ve already eaten. Have a lovely evening.”

  Dasha bounced up and down and shouted something in Russian—presumably, “Go on then, go!” because Yegorov smiled and left the suite at last.

  Although I was fairly convinced by now that the grand hotel kidnapper didn’t exist, I drew the bolt and put the chain on the door once Yegorov had gone, just in case. My former suspect, Mr. Huber, would be downstairs at the champagne reception right now, staring intently at Stella Yegorov’s necklace. She’d probably think he was ogling her boobs or something.

  I went around checking that all the windows and doors were locked as Dasha hopped off the bed and went to fetch her monkey and a picture book. It was in Russian, but that didn’t matter. We sat next to each other on the bed, looked at the pictures, and took turns telling each other the story in Russian and English. Now and then I got Alexei to make funny little monkey noises, and Dasha giggled with delight.

  In the middle of this brilliant performance, the doorbell rang. Not all the rooms had doorbells, only the big suites. This bell buzzed tunelessly, as if there was an unfriendly butler hidden in the wall who wanted to scare off any visitors.

  I tiptoed over to the door and looked through the peephole.

  Outside stood Mrs. Ludwig in a bathrobe, and even through the peephole I could tell she’d been crying.

  I rushed to open the door. “Oh my goodness, what’s happened? Shouldn’t you be at the champagne reception?”

  Mrs. Ludwig sniffled. “Thank goodness you’re here, my dear. I just didn’t know where to turn.”

  I grabbed her sleeve, pulled her inside the suite and locked the door again, not forgetting the bolt and chain. “Is there something wrong with Mr. Ludwig?” I asked. Dasha looked anxiously over at us from the bed, but she couldn’t understand what we were saying.

  “No,” said Mrs. Ludwig, dabbing at her nose with the sleeve of her bathrobe. “He’s waiting for me downstairs. At the foot of the staircase, just like he promised. But…”

  “What’s the matter, then?” She looked so miserable that I wanted to give her a hug.

  “My dress,” Mrs. Ludwig sniffed, untying the belt of her bathrobe. “I’ve tried everything, but I just can’t do up this blasted zip on my own.”

  “Is that all?” I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d been imagining all sorts of nightmare scenarios, beginning with Mr. Ludwig dying of a heart attack (today of all days). “That’s easily sorted. Let me have a look.” Under the bathrobe, Mrs. Ludwig was wearing a black sequined evening dress with a long zip that was, indeed, very fiddly to do up. The dress was flapping open at the back. As I carefully fastened the zip, I said, “Not even a contortionist would be able to do up a zip like this on their own. I’m not surprised you needed help. There we go! Done. You look like a princess.”

  Dasha handed Mrs. Ludwig a tissue from the dressing table and chirped something in Russian before climbing back onto the bed and snuggling down among the pillows.

  Mrs. Ludwig was beaming again. “What a darling child. And so are you, my dear! I’m so sorry, I completely lost my head. I’m not usually like this.”

  “I understand. You’ve been looking forward to this moment for so many years and then your zip goes and gets stuck.” I smiled fondly at her. I couldn’t wait for Tristan’s grandpa to tell her how much the ring on her finger was really worth, though she probably couldn’t have been happier than she was right now, even if she knew the ring’s true value. “And now you’d better hurry downstairs—Mr. Ludwig is waiting for you.”

  But Mrs. Ludwig was in no hurry. She looked inquisitively around the room, wide-eyed, and wandered over to the bed with her bathrobe under her arm. “So this is the Panorama Suite. So spacious. And all those windows … But the curtains are the same as in our room. Where’s the little doggie?”

  “It’s gone to spend the evening with the Von Dietrichsteins’ pug in Room 310,” I said.

  “Oh, how lovely.” Mrs. Ludwig smiled warmly at Dasha. “My, my, somebody looks sleepy. Are you allowed to sleep in Mama and Daddy’s bed? I always used to let my children come in with me, too. Is this your monkey?” She stroked Dasha’s curls, then straightened up and took a deep breath, as if plucking up her courage for the big night ahead.

  I was about to say something encouraging when there was a knock on the door.

  Mrs. Ludwig jumped, startled. “Who’s that?”

  “No idea,” I said, and hurried back over to the peephole. Ben was standing outside, buttoning up his tuxedo.

  “It’s Ben Montfort,” I said as I unlocked the door.

  “Goodness gracious.” Mrs. Ludwig screwed up the tissue in her hand. “He’ll be surprised to see me here. I don’t want you to get into trouble for letting me in.”

  “Oh, he’ll understand,” I assured her as I opened the door and Ben stepped inside.

  “Oh, there you are,” he said when he spotted Mrs. Ludwig. “Your husband is pacing up and down at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “I had a little wardrobe malfunction, but this helpful young lady has put it right for me.” Mrs. Ludwig took another deep breath. “I suppose I should go down. Wish me luck!”

  I couldn’t help it—I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “This is your night,” I said. “And you’re going to have a wonderful time.”

  “What was this wardrobe malfunction?” asked Ben once I’d closed the door behind Mrs. Ludwig and locked it.

  “The zip on her dress wouldn’t do up.” I was still feeling quite emotional, and my voice wobbled a little as I spoke. I looked over at the bed and saw Dasha lying on the quilt fast asleep. Her dad had been right; it hadn’t taken long. I carefully lifted her head onto the pillow and pulled the quilt over her. “And what can I do for you?” I asked Ben softly.

  “I thought I’d pop in and see how you were.” He picked up Dasha’s monkey, which had fallen on the floor.

  “Ah, and I thought you’d just come to show me how good you look in a tux.” He really did look the part, and I suddenly felt a bit like Cinderella in my chambermaid’s uniform. At least my massive pimple had disappeared overnight. Pavel had dabbed some of Old Stucky’s brother-in-law’s pear brandy on it; the stuff seemed to work miracles. The spot was completely gone, and I’d also clipped my unflattering quarter-bangs back from my face.

  “Thanks,” said Ben, blushing slightly. “You look pretty great yourself, Sophie.”

  Now I couldn’t help but grin. “Yes, these support tights are just so stunningly attractive.”

  “You look great in anything.” Ben cleared his throat. “I mean it. You’re … you’re so…” He fell silent.

  I waited a few seconds, then asked, “Weren’t you supposed to be downstairs ages ago? I thought the first waltz would be starting any minute now?”

  He nodded. “Yes. But first I just wanted to … I wanted to tell you…” He went quiet again, and again I waited.

  Then the violins started playing in the ballroom below us.

  “For goodness’ sake,” I said. “Whatever you want to tell me, you’d better leave it till later. Your dad is going to kill you if you don’t get down there right now.”

  “Yes,” he murmured as he went over to the door and unlocked it. “You’re probably right.” He turned to me again. “Perhaps I’ll pop back again in a little while.” And then he hurried off, leaving me none the wiser. But I suddenly felt a whole lot
better. I was positively elated as I shut the door again, slid the bolt home, and fastened the chain.

  23

  Ben wouldn’t be late for the first waltz, as I now saw from the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. It was only quarter to eight—the orchestra must just be warming up. Or perhaps the violins had started playing to encourage the guests away from the champagne reception and into the ballroom. It would be another half hour, at any rate, till the ball really got going. I knew when it started because I heard everyone go quiet and Mara Matthäus start speaking into the microphone.

  Annoyingly I couldn’t hear what she was saying from up here—the ceilings were too thick—but my imagination more than made up for it. And when a booming male voice took over I realized Gordon Montfort must be making his phony speech to the guests, who laughed and applauded despite his hypocrisy. No doubt he’d omitted telling them that this would be the last New Year’s Ball in the tradition set by his beloved great-grandparents.

  Dasha was sound asleep. She wasn’t bothered by the hubbub from downstairs, the sound of the orchestra, or Mara Matthäus’s and Gordon Montfort’s voices on the microphone. She looked adorable, lying there in the middle of the huge bed, her curly hair slightly ruffled, her little arms outstretched. I’d laid the monkey down beside her, and I would have snuggled up on the other side if this had been my bed—but it wasn’t, it belonged to our VIP guests, and if Viktor Yegorov came to look in on us I didn’t want him to find me asleep and drooling all over his pillow. So I sat down on the sofa opposite the bed, annoyed that I’d followed Fräulein Müller’s rules and left my phone in my room. I could have been messaging Delia right now, instead of dying of boredom. There were a few books on the nightstand on what I presumed was Viktor Yegorov’s side of the bed, but they were all in Russian, just like Dasha’s picture books.

  There was a moment of solemn silence downstairs, and then the horns, flutes, and violins struck up a tune. They were playing the prelude to the “Blue Danube” waltz, soft and full of promise, and I couldn’t help picturing the scene: The chandeliers would be casting their brilliant light over the ballroom as Ben led Gretchen out onto the dance floor to the first few strains of the waltz. Now he would be putting his arm around her and looking earnestly into her eyes. And then, as the famous three-four rhythm set in and the music sped up, they would start dancing, spinning around and around, and her beautiful dress would billow out around her and she would smile happily at him—

  There was a knock at the door. Quite an urgent-sounding one. And then the doorbell rang. My first thought was that Ben might have abandoned Gretchen in the ballroom midtwirl and come back to see me. But I’d already ruled out the idea by the time I got to the door. It was much more likely to be Viktor Yegorov coming to check on his daughter.

  As I looked through the peephole, however, who did I see but Mrs. Ludwig, swinging her sequined evening bag in great agitation?

  For goodness’ sake! What was it this time? She was supposed to be down in the ballroom right now, dancing the waltz of her life. I was about to unlock the door when, all of a sudden, I was grabbed from behind and dragged away from the door, somebody’s hand pressed tight over my mouth.

  Until that moment, I’d never known what it was like to get a real shock. Until that moment, to be honest, I’d never known what it was like to be truly scared.

  But the worst thing was that I was powerless to do anything other than struggle and flail wildly, which didn’t do me much good at all since my captor was a lot stronger than I was. He grasped me firmly from behind and pulled me toward the bathroom, and all I could think was No! No! Please no!—which probably didn’t even count as a thought.

  I could understand now why people peed in their pants when they were scared. I very nearly did it myself.

  The attacker dragged me into the bathroom, pressed my back to the door, and switched the light on.

  And I saw that it was Tristan. Tristan Brown from Room 211.

  “Shh,” he said. “Don’t be scared, Sophie. It’s only me.”

  But it was a bit late for that. I was half paralyzed with shock and fear.

  Tristan gradually loosened his grip on me, but he kept his hand over my mouth and my body pressed against the door.

  “You have to listen to me very carefully, Sophie. And trust me.” With his free hand, he reached into the pocket of his tux and cursed softly. “Damn, I must have lost my phone on the way in. Okay. We don’t have much time. Listen: Outside the door to this suite are the grand hotel kidnappers, and we need to be out of here before they get in.” He spoke quietly and with great urgency, and he was nothing like the Tristan I knew—the arrogant, cocky, permanently amused Tristan. This new Tristan seemed almost afraid. “So you need to get the kid into a coat or something, and then we’ll all climb out the window and take her somewhere safe. Nod if you understand.”

  I shook my head. Was he completely insane? There weren’t any kidnappers at the door, only Mrs. Ludwig!

  Tristan sighed impatiently. “I know this must be very confusing for you, and I wish I’d figured it out sooner, then we wouldn’t be in this mess. But I only just found out. Are you going to scream if I take my hand away?”

  I shook my head again, and Tristan cautiously removed his hand from my mouth. Even if I’d wanted to scream, I probably couldn’t have managed much more than a croak.

  “You’ve made a mistake. That’s just Mrs. Ludwig out there.” I gasped. “And Mr. Huber showed Ben his gun license. There is no grand hotel kidnapper…” I ran out of breath.

  Tristan grabbed my upper arms with both hands and shook me gently. “There is, I’m afraid. Two of them. And they’re right here.” He pulled me away from the bathroom door, opened it and peered into the next room. From here, we could see Dasha’s curly head on the pillow. “I fell for their hand-holding and that harmless old couple schtick just like everyone else—although the ring did make me a bit suspicious. But even so, who could have guessed they were kidnappers?” He grabbed my hand and led me into the next room.

  Meanwhile there was another knock on the door, and Mrs. Ludwig, from the corridor, called in a tearful voice: “Sophie, my dear, is that you?”

  She sounded genuinely distraught. And half of me wanted to run to the door and yell for help, tell her I’d been ambushed by a crazy Brit who was coming out with all kinds of madness. But the other half of me was starting to believe Tristan. I wished I had a third half that could tell me which one was right. And that could sit me down and explain everything to me properly.

  “I need your help again, Sophie! It’s urgent!” cried Mrs. Ludwig.

  “Again?” Tristan shook me harder this time. “Sophie? Has Mrs. Ludwig already been in this room?”

  I nodded. “Yes, a few minutes ago. Her zip was stuck.”

  “No!” Tristan let go of me and lurched toward the bed. He tried to wake Dasha, shaking her vigorously. And he cursed over and over again. “They must have drugged her.” He started examining Dasha, rolling up her sleeves and lifting the curly hair from the back of her neck. “There,” he said, pointing to a reddish patch on her skin. “That must be from a needle.”

  Oh my God. The memory was so vivid: Mrs. Ludwig leaning lovingly over Dasha, stroking her head …

  I’d been so stupid.

  “The Ludwigs are the grand hotel kidnappers?” I whispered.

  Tristan nodded grimly. “It certainly looks like it! The innocent old couple that everyone loves.”

  “Sophie, my dear?” Mrs. Ludwig knocked on the door again. She sounded less tearful now—almost impatient.

  Tristan looked around frantically. “I don’t know why she didn’t finish you off straightaway and do what she came here to do. She was inside the room, exactly where she wanted to be.”

  The idea of Mrs. Ludwig “finishing someone off” just sounded so—so wrong. And yet … I remembered her taking a deep breath just as we’d heard the knock on the door.

  “She left because Ben came to the door,” I
whispered.

  “Then he probably saved your life without even realizing it.” Tristan lifted Dasha off the bed. “We’ll just have to carry her. Sophie, no!”

  I’d moved closer to the door. Not to open it, as Tristan must have feared, but because I’d heard another voice: a quiet, deep voice.

  “She’s not opening the door,” said Mrs. Ludwig.

  “Perhaps she’s in the bathroom?” said the second voice. It belonged to Mr. Ludwig, and I recognized it at once. “Or perhaps she’s been a bad girl and snuck out once the kid was asleep.” He laughed softly. “She didn’t suspect anything earlier, did she?”

  “No, nothing,” said Mrs. Ludwig.

  She was right. I hadn’t suspected anything at all.

  The next thing Mr. Ludwig said made me feel positively sick.

  “Do you have the master key?” he asked his wife, as matter-of-factly as if he were inquiring about the weather. “I want to be away by the time this waltz finishes. Oh, I miss my old Walther PPK. This Glock is just so tacky and pretentious. Though I do like the silencer.”

  I sprang back from the door in horror. “They’ve got a master key,” I whispered to Tristan, aghast. “And a gun with a silencer.”

  Tristan nodded grimly, cradling the drugged little girl in his arms. “They’re professionals,” he said. “The bolt and chain won’t hold them up for more than a few seconds. We’ll climb out of the window in the room next door. If we lock the bedroom door, we might be able to buy ourselves a little more time before they realize we’re gone. And once we’re on the ground, we can fetch help. And I’ll explain everything to you properly. Let’s just hope they haven’t stationed any accomplices outside the building.”

  “We can’t climb out of the window, Tristan. I’m scared of heights. And Dasha is unconscious. We … we…” I looked around in panic. My eyes fell on the telephone, and I could have wept with relief. Why hadn’t we thought of this before? “I’ll phone through to the concierge’s lodge. Monsieur Rocher will call the police and send help. Mr. Huber can come with his pistol.”