The fragrance of Czech cooking leaked from under the apartment door. A smartly dressed woman let him in. Surveying him briefly, she said, “My name is Alicia. My mother speaks no English, but I will be glad to interpret for you.”
Fenimore thanked her.
She led him through a large living room, expensively furnished in a modern decor—all mirrors, glass, and chrome. She stopped in front of a soft dumpling of a woman who looked up at him quizzically from an uncomfortable, angular chair. “My mother, Mrs. Tuk.” Alicia introduced her. On closer inspection, Fenimore saw that Mrs. Tuk was a sad and wizened dumpling.
They drew up chairs and Fenimore began his interrogation. Mrs. Tuk was a willing subject. It was as if all her thoughts and feelings about her husband’s death had been bottled up and Fenimore had pulled the cork. She told him about the man who had come to the tower every evening, just before closing. How he had stared out at the city of Prague, ranting and raving—sometimes even dancing! Her husband had to ask him to leave several times. And once the man had become violent, shoving her husband against the rail and swearing at him. That night he had arrived home shaken, she remembered.
“Did your husband ever describe this man?” asked Fenimore.
She was thoughtful. “Small and dark,” she finally said.
“You never told me all this,” Alicia said peevishly.
Her mother muttered something that Alicia did not translate. Fenimore thought it sounded like, “You were too busy.”
Deciding he had learned all he could, Fenimore rose and thanked the two women.
Mrs. Tuk sent her daughter a glance.
Alicia asked, “Won’t you stay for lunch?”
Inhaling the divine odors wafting from the kitchen, Fenimore was sorely tempted, but he graciously declined.
Once back on the street, he thought, That was all very interesting, but it doesn’t bring me any closer to finding Jen. A poster on a nearby kiosk advertising Redik’s puppet show gave him an idea.
CHAPTER 39
FBI geeks are good at tracking down felons via the Internet. Within twenty-four hours Rafferty had Redik’s e-mail address on his desk, and from that he was able to locate his street address: 16 Loutka Ulika, Prague, Czech Republic. He called Mrs. Doyle to find out where Fenimore was staying so he could relay the message to him by phone or e-mail. The nurse provided the information. But there was no answer to Rafferty’s repeated phone calls. And Redik’s address lay unknown in his cousins’ computer inbox. The detective began to grow concerned.
So did Mrs. Doyle. She had sent a number of messages to the doctor, telling him about their exploits at the zoo, and received no answer. And now Rafferty was having the same experience. Perhaps the Borovys’ computer had crashed. Being a novice, maybe the doctor had busted it. But why didn’t he answer the phone? Was he afraid it was being tapped?
Horatio, a sensitive youth under his seemingly tough exterior, sensed something was wrong. When he came in at the usual time, he took one look at Mrs. Doyle and said, “Heard from the doc?”
She shook her head.
Marie, hearing Horatio’s voice, ran out from the kitchen. “Look, Rat! We made cookies.” She handed him a sugar cookie that bore a vague resemblance to a rabbit. Horatio bit off one ear. Although it tasted like cardboard, he grinned and licked his lips. “Yum,” he said.
Marie glowed.
Mrs. Doyle remained preoccupied.
“How ’bout gettin’ me another?” The boy nudged Marie. She ran back to the kitchen.
“He doesn’t answer the phone or his e-mail,” she confided to Horatio in a low voice.
“He’s probably having a good time—seeing the sights. And now that his girlfriend’s over there—maybe he’s staying at her place.” He winked.
Doyle, her romantic instincts stimulated, smiled. That was possible. But, no—he was on a mission. The doctor would never abandon his cousins in pursuit of pleasure. She frowned. “I don’t think so.”
Marie came running back.
Doesn’t that child ever walk? Mrs. Doyle thought irritably.
Marie handed Horatio an elephant, complete with trunk and tail. “Pat-a-drum,” she said confidently.
“Pachyderm,” the boy corrected her.
You tell that boy something once, and he never forgets it, Mrs. Doyle noted with envy. Her own memory wasn’t as good as it used to be.
Horatio bit off the tail of his cookie, munched, and raised his eyebrows.
Marie giggled.
Before he began on the trunk, Mrs. Doyle went in search of an aspirin.
CHAPTER 40
Jennifer dozed fitfully on her kitchen chair, awakened sporadically by the muffled groans of Vlasta, reminding her of his suffering. As soon as Ilsa appeared the next morning, Jennifer faced her. “That man belongs in a hospital!”
Ilsa frowned. But she did not deny it. When they went in, Anna was sitting on the edge of her cot, looking pale and drained. Her eyes were fixed on Jennifer—obviously wary: Who was she? Where did she come from? And most important, whose side was she on?
Jennifer attempted to reassure her with a tentative smile.
Encouraged, Anna spoke up, looking directly at Jennifer. “My husband needs his medicine. The prescrip-sh—”
“Ja, ja,” Ilsa cut in impatiently. But she picked up a handbag from the floor and brought it to Anna. Anna rummaged through it and pulled out a piece of paper. Ilsa snatched it from her and went into the kitchen. Jennifer and Anna listened silently to Ilsa’s side of the phone conversation. Anna recognized the word “lékárna,” and her face brightened. “Pharmacy,” she translated for Jennifer.
But do they deliver? Jennifer wondered. “Ich bin freund von Dr. Fenimore,” she whispered to Anna.
Her eyes widened. But Anna was inclined to believe her, because Jennifer’s German was tinged with an American accent.
Ilsa came back. She glanced nervously at the man lying on the cot. He had not stirred since she left. Her gaze passed to Jennifer and Anna. “What have you two been plotting?” She glanced at the knife still in Jennifer’s hand.
The women didn’t answer.
“Well, I’ve ordered the medicine. It will be here soon.”
There was the faint sound of a bell in a distant part of the house. Ilsa looked startled. Too soon for the medicine. She was obviously uncertain what to do next and didn’t want to leave Jennifer alone with Anna. But she had to answer the door. “Come with me,” she ordered Jennifer.
Jennifer looked at Anna. The woman nodded. She followed Ilsa to the door that opened to the back stairs. They both went up. Ilsa glanced back to make sure Jennifer was there, before opening the door at the top. They stepped into a dim, lofty room smelling of must and camphor. Bulky, shrouded furniture rested on an Oriental rug. In one corner stood a grand piano. From the ceiling hung a crystal chandelier, badly in need of a wash. Blinds covered the tall windows. The heavy front door—of oak, probably—bore an ornate wrought-iron lock.
“Stay here.” Ilsa stopped Jennifer at the head of the stairs and moved silently toward the window. Pulling the blind-cord, she opened the slats a sliver and peered out. The bell rang again—sounding much louder this time.
“Open up! It’s me.”
Ilsa rushed to undo the lock. Redik darted in. “What took you so long?” he asked.
“Hush.” She directed his gaze at Jennifer.
“Kdo?” (“Who?”)
“Dr. Fenimore’s Mädchen,” Ilsa said.
“Oh, Mj Boe!” (“Oh, My God!”)
Jennifer almost smiled at his obvious consternation. But it was not a situation for smiling. She fingered the knife. Would she be able to hold off the two of them with such a small weapon? The odds were against it. They had moved away from the door, over to the piano, and were conferring in low tones.
“There’s a sick man downstairs,” Jennifer said impatiently. “He needs medical attention.”
Ignoring her, they continued their conference.
“Where is Dr. Fenimore?” she asked loudly.
Redik glanced up, annoyed by the interruption. Ilsa came toward her. Redik followed. And Jennifer knew they were going to try to take the knife.
CHAPTER 41
The theater was closed, of course. The sign in the ticket window read: OTEVENO—3:00 P.M. It was only one-thirty. But there must be a watchman. Fenimore looked for a buzzer or bell. He found one beside the ticket office door. After a long wait, he heard footsteps and an elderly man appeared. Zaveno, he mouthed through the glass: Closed.
Pohotovost, Fenimore mouthed back: Emergency. “I left an important notebook in Redik’s dressing room,” he said in English.
The man shook his head, indicating he didn’t understand English.
Fenimore took out his wallet. The man’s eyes brightened. But to Fenimore’s dismay, his wallet was empty. The super had cleaned him out. And he had never made it to the American Express office to cash more traveler’s checks. “I’ll be right back,” he shouted through the glass.
The man turned away.
Fenimore returned with the cash in less than fifteen minutes. He had run all the way. He hit the buzzer again. This time the wait was much shorter. The man let him in. Fenimore gave him three hundred korunas, the equivalent of ten American dollars. The man actually smiled, revealing three teeth. Dental care in the Czech Republic still left much to be desired.
Fenimore passed through the dim lobby into the darker theater. The door, through which Ilsa had led him the night before, was not locked, and he easily found Redik’s dressing room. Now, if it would only be open. He tried the knob. It wouldn’t turn. Damn. More money. More time lost. He hurried back to the lobby. It was empty. The smell of cigar smoke drew him behind the cloakroom to the watchman’s lair. Slouched in a battered armchair, he was reading a newspaper and puffing on a cigar.
Fenimore explained about the dressing room door in pantomime—as if acting out a charade.
The man showed no interest, engrossed in his newspaper.
Sighing, Fenimore again reached for his wallet.
Once inside the dressing room, Fenimore waited until the watchman’s footsteps faded away before he began his search.
He yanked the pillows off the couch and felt in the cracks. All he came up with were a piece of hard candy, some coins, and a bit of purple ribbon. The drawer in the table contained a pack of stale cigarettes and three matchbooks. He studied the matchbooks. All from the same place—Café Slavia. Redik must be a regular customer. If all else failed, Fenimore could hang out at the café every evening until Redik came in. He moved on to the closet. This looked more promising. It was crammed with wooden cases and boxes. But, after carefully examining each of them, the only address he found was that damned box number. He returned everything to its place and scanned the room one last time. Nothing. Discouraged, he closed the door behind him.
He was starting up the dark aisle, past the rows of empty seats, when he remembered something. “The puppets are kept in a cupboard behind the stage,” Redik had said. “They are so fragile, we don’t like to move them any more than necessary.”
Fenimore bounded onto the stage and slipped through the heavy velvet curtain. At the back of the stage hung another, lighter curtain. He pulled it aside. There was the cupboard. Was it locked, too? Yes, but the key was in the lock. Fenimore turned it. There they were. Hanging side by side from pegs, staring blankly at him with their gargantuan eyes.
There is something eerie about a puppet hanging limp and lifeless after a performance. Once the animation and the animator are gone, it is like a little death. Unlike a live actor who merely leaves his costume and makeup behind, the puppet leaves his heart—and soul. In turn, the puppeteer gets a false sense of power. Not only does he make his puppets perform, he infuses them with life—like God.
No help there, Fenimore decided. Abruptly, he changed his mind. Taking out a miniature flashlight attached to his key ring, which Jen had given him, he began to examine each marionette minutely—one by one. He stared intently at their finely carved faces, their miniature hands and feet. He felt their silk dresses, velvet cloaks, and suits. Of course, the most exquisite puppet was the emperor Charles IV. He wasn’t wearing his crown. That was too delicate; it had to be carefully packed away after every performance. But he was wearing his beautifully crafted leather boots and his velvet robe of midnight blue trimmed with ermine. Fenimore admired the fur collar and cuffs. Then, like a voyeur, he peered under the cloak. Something white caught his eye. Sewed to the center seam at the back was a tiny label. He shined the flashlight beam on it, and read:
16 Loutka Ulika PRAHA
Elated, he jotted the address down in his notebook. Then he had doubts. Was this the address of Redik’s home—or just some puppet shop?
“What are you doing?” The shrill treble voice sliced through the theater.
Fenimore turned. Ema, Redik’s intern—face flushed, lips trembling—was bearing down on him.
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid my curiosity got the better of me. I had to see these magnificent—”
“How did you get in here?” Her voice pierced the air like a stiletto.
“How did you get in?” Fenimore stalled her, trying to come up with a plausible excuse.
“The stage door. I have a key.” Her voice dropped a notch—from stiletto to dagger.
“I was passing by and I had to see these beautiful objects up close. I knew I wouldn’t have another chance. I leave for America soon.”
Squinting at him in the poor light, she said, “You’re the man who was in the dressing room.” Her expression softened and her gaze shifted to the puppets. “Yes, they are beautiful.” She lifted Kasparek from his peg. “He is my favorite. Always into mischief, aren’t you, my pet?” She patted his rump. Her voice, when speaking to the puppet, was quite different, Fenimore noted. Like a moth brushing the ear.
“Well, I must be going. I’m sorry I upset you.”
She smiled. “I’m sorry I lashed out at you. They are very delicate, you know.”
“By the way,” he turned back, “could you give me Mr. Redik’s address? I’d like to write and tell him how much I enjoyed his performance.”
“You can send it to the University. That’s the only address I know.”
He left her conversing with the puppets—as if with her friends.
CHAPTER 42
“Still no mail?” asked Mr. Nicholson, observing Mrs. Doyle’s dejected expression.
“Not a thing. I can’t understand it. I’m really worried.” she said, then wished she could bite off her tongue. She knew he hadn’t heard from Jennifer either.
Mrs. Doyle had come over to the bookstore early to use the computer, bringing Marie with her. Full of hope and expectation, the nurse had been confronted by an empty screen.
“Have you tried telephoning?”
For the moment, Marie was occupied with picture books in a far corner of the store. “Yes. They don’t answer,” she said.
The bookseller was at a loss for further suggestions.
“If it weren’t for Marie, I’d have half a mind to go over there myself and see what’s going on,” Mrs. Doyle said.
Mr. Nicholson cast a quick glance at the little girl—her head bent over a book. She looked much like Jennifer had looked at that age. “I could keep her,” he said impulsively.
“Oh, no. That’s very kind but …”
“Seriously. I raised a daughter single-handedly, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt your competence, Mr. Nicholson—but I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Horatio’s still on vacation, isn’t he? He could give me a hand while I’m minding the store.”
“Well, I … .”
“Besides, I have an ulterior motive.” He fixed her with a serious gaze. “I’m worried about Jennifer.”
“Well, if you put it that way …” Mrs. Doyle said.
Once again Detective Rafferty’s services were required. It was he who arranged h
er plane ticket, and her transportation to the airport. (Fortunately she had a passport from past vacation travels.) As evidence of his efficiency, the nurse found herself staring down at the vanishing lights of Philadelphia’s skyline just four hours after she made her decision to leave.
CHAPTER 43
As Ilsa and Redik advanced on Jennifer, she tightened her grip on the knife. Would she have the nerve to use it? She had never deliberately harmed anyone. She steeled herself.
The doorbell rang.
Saved by the bell. Jennifer repressed a hysterical giggle.
Ilsa opened the door and took in the small white envelope. Without a word, she went down the stone steps to the basement. Jennifer waited, watching Redik. He indicated she should go down after Ilsa. He followed her.
When they came into the room, Vlasta was sitting up, clutching his chest, his face strained and white. Anna stood by helplessly.
Redik, unconcerned, disappeared into the kitchen. They heard the water running in the kettle. Was he actually making himself tea, Jennifer wondered? Ilsa took a pill from the envelope and reached for the glass by the cot. Anna shook her head. “No water. These go under the tongue.” She gave the pill to her husband. He placed it under his tongue and fell back.
“We have to get him to a hospital,” Jennifer repeated.
For the first time, Ilsa looked disconcerted. She went into the kitchen and Jennifer could hear her speaking urgently to Redik. Staring at Vlasta’s waxen features, Jennifer thought, They’d better not waste any time.
As if echoing her thoughts, Anna began to cry softly.
CHAPTER 44
Fenimore had no trouble locating 16 Loutka Ulika. He stood in front of the wrought-iron gate as Jennifer had before him. He stared at the desolate flowerbeds and tugged on the gate to see if it was locked. But, unlike Jennifer, he did not look down at the grate under his feet. Instead, he ran his hands over every inch of the gate searching for a buzzer or bell. He found one—a button—cunningly concealed behind an iron floret. The bell would have been of no use to Jennifer, however, because she had wanted to keep her presence concealed—like the button. Fenimore didn’t care.
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