Even if he did not find his hypothesized early manuscript of the Liber Pallidus, the library at Brasov might well yield other documents of equal obscurity, perhaps as yet uncatalogued in any form. It was all in furtherance of his research.
He looked about the dining room in the last flare of the April twilight—the arched ceiling, the lamps in brackets on the walls, the candles on the tables—and felt terribly alone. He supposed that he was wealthy by local standards, since he was carrying all of his travel funds with him. A sum that would not be accounted much in Paris or London would seem a fortune to many here.
No one seemed to have heard the whisper but him. Now, as he resumed his meal, he could feel the two men's eyes on his back. Although he was desperately hungry after the long journey by rail, Sharps stood, folded his napkin, and walked into the lobby.
There he took a seat in an old-fashioned wing chair of russet leather, in a place where he could see the door, the clerk's desk, and the stairs leading up to the guest rooms. He took a week-old copy of the Potsdammer Abendblatt from its place on the end table and pretended to find it fascinating, while awaiting the arrival of the two swarthy men. He doubted if they would attack him here, where the clerk could see them, and where the other guests in the dining room could raise an alarm. No, if he were attacked it would be in his room, asleep.
Soon enough, the two appeared, chatting between themselves, their expressions serious. He did not catch what they were saying. One of the men was older, his bushy mustache graying. They both wore garments of European cut. Neither wore jewelry. Their hair was dark, thick, and slicked back. They were muscular, and bore an air of quiet purpose.
Sharps wondered that such men would choose to follow careers as cutpurses. Perhaps they took on the role of travelers in order to waylay others on the road. He had heard of such—of the Thuggee of India—although these men had nothing about them that suggested so Eastern an origin. As they passed, they paused and looked at him intently. Sharps raised the newspaper and pretended to read.
The two stopped at the desk and spoke to the clerk. No mail awaited them (though the clerk checked). They went up the stairs. They were guests, then, in this hotel.
Sharps stood, laid the paper aside, and followed at a discreet distance. While Sharps watched from the stairs, the men went down the hall, lighted by lamps and carpeted in scarlet, on the first floor. They stopped at a room on the right-hand side, halfway down the corridor. The older man took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, and the two went in. The door snicked closed behind them.
Sharps continued up to the next floor where his room was situated. He allowed the door to swing fully open before he entered, not sure what he would do if anyone lurked within. The room was empty, holding—other than his bags—only a bed, a washstand, a desk and chair, and a fireplace. The evening was warm; no fire burned in the hearth, though a lighted lamp stood on the mantle.
He walked to the window. Outside, where bright moonlight replaced the fading twilight, he could see the stable yard. He tried the window. It didn't budge. A moment's inspection showed why: the casement was nailed shut and the nails painted over. He pulled the curtains closed.
He decided not to sleep. Not with murderers coming in the night. He put his boots in the corridor to be polished, locked the door behind him, then slipped on a pair of low-cut dress shoes from his luggage.
The door opened out into the hall; he could not put a chair under its handle to keep it shut, but he did balance a chair against it, and balance the basin from the washstand on the chair. If the door were to open, it would make a noise.
The only weapons near to hand were the poker from the fireplace, and his penknife. He put both on the washstand where he could find them easily, then extinguished the light and lay back, fully dressed, on the bed.
He must have dozed, for the next thing he remembered was a sound like a mouse running through the walls. The room was dimmer, the moon low in the sky. He rose, pulled a chemical match of his own manufacture from his pocket, and struck a light. He lit the lamp and stood for a moment. His pocket watch told him that the time was a bit after three. He tried the door—still locked. The chimney of the fireplace was too narrow for a man to descend. The window was still nailed shut. He heard no other sounds. After walking about the room for a few minutes, he lay on the bed reading from volume two of Grimm's Deutsche Mythologie until his eyelids grew heavy. Shortly afterward, he blew out the lamp.
His next recollection was in the pale dawn, when there came a tremendous hammering on his door. The washbasin slid from the chair; the chair tumbled on its side.
"One moment!” he called in Romanian, and sprang to his feet. His penknife he held in his right hand, the blade lying out of sight up along his forearm.
With his left hand he unlocked the door. It fairly sprang open. Outside, in the hall, stood two politsti.
The one to Sharps's right pulled the door farther open and pressed forward, seizing Sharps's right arm and twisting it behind his back. Sharps dropped the penknife.
The other police officer spoke: “In the name of His Imperial and Royal Apostolic Majesty Franz Joseph, By the Grace of God Emperor of Austria, King of Hungary and Bohemia, I arrest you for murder."
Some hours later, as William Sharps sat in a cell in the police station where he had been conveyed by sealed coach, the jailer came with a rattling of keys.
"What is the time?” Sharps asked, for his pocket watch had been taken from him, as indeed had all of his personal possessions. The linings had been torn from his jacket as well when he was searched at the police station. His protests that he was an American citizen had been met simply with the word “Silence,” so silent he remained.
"Not yet noon,” the jailer replied, turning the key in the lock of the cell door. “The commissioner wants to talk to you, so keep a respectful tongue in your head."
If penitentiaries were meant to make men feel penitent, Sharps was feeling sorry now. The post-coach to Brasov would have long since departed. Where his passport, where his luggage, where his books were—he did not know. Nor did he know what would become of him, although he reckoned that there had been a simple misunderstanding and all would soon be rectified.
Two policemen escorted Sharps up from the holding cells to rooms paneled in wood and carpeted with wool woven in fantastic patterns. They took him up several stories to a room at the end of a hall. Once inside, he found himself facing a florid-faced, gray-haired man in an expansive blue tunic, choker-collared, red-sashed, and bemedaled after the military fashion, seated behind a wide mahogany desk. High French windows filled the room with light. Sharps recognized a number of his personal effects on the desk: his journal, his penknife, his letters of introduction.
"Bow to His Excellency,” the policeman at Sharps's right said, before letting go of his arm and retiring to take guard beside the door. The other policeman left the room, closing the door behind him, presumably to stand guard outside.
Sharps did as he was told, then stood, awaiting further instructions.
"Take a seat,” the man behind the desk said, indicating a plain wooden chair that stood before the desk. He spoke in German. “I am Commissioner Haidekker. And you are?"
"William Sharps, from the United States,” Sharps said, also in German, and took the indicated seat.
"What brings you to Romania, Mr. Sharps? It is a long way from America."
"I am a student,” Sharps replied. “I study words. I wish to consult the libraries in the universities for old books containing old languages."
"Surely there are enough words in your own country.” Without a pause Haidekker switched in midsentence from German to Italian.
"My country is not old enough to have interesting ones,” Sharps replied, also in Italian. “But tell me, why am I under arrest? Surely a scholar of antique handwriting can be of no interest to the law."
"A scholar of languages would be a good story for a spy to tell,” Haidekker said. He opened Sharps's journal
to a page and turned it around. “What is the nature of this code?"
"That,” Sharps said, “is Sanskrit, written in the alphabet common in Burma. I copied it out from a codex at the University of Paris. It may indicate that Alexander came earlier to India, and stayed there longer, than is commonly thought among historians."
"You are a historian, then?"
"My interest in that document is the form of the word amoghabala, concerning the strength of a horse. In some documents it is spelled otherwise."
"Why did you kill the Hasanaki brothers?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Haidekker stood, leaning forward on his fists, his face redder as he shouted. “Do you take me for a fool? You were looking at them all during dinner. You were seen! You waited for them in the lobby. You were seen! They went to their room, you followed. You were seen! At three this morning their throats were cut, and at that same hour a light was burning in your room. It was seen! This morning you opened the door with a knife in your hand, already dressed, and your bed not slept in. Do not deny it! Now tell me why you killed them, or things will go badly with you."
Sharps recoiled from the other man's fury. “I tell you, I know nothing."
"Many men go to the gallows protesting their ignorance,” Haidekker said.
At that moment, a knock sounded on the door.
"Come!"
The outer door opened and the second politist entered. “Báró Tötösy,” he announced, saluting, as another man entered. The guard within noticeably stiffened in his position of attention. Commissioner Haidekker remained standing, but his posture went from bending forward and scowling to an open smile and an extended hand as he walked around his desk. “Gnädiger Herr!” said he. “To what does my humble office owe the pleasure?"
Baron Tötösy walked to the sideboard, an impeccable morning coat swishing about his legs, and poured himself a glass of brandy. “The news is all over town of the strange fish you have trawled from our waters,” he said, turning back to address Haidekker. He sipped the brandy. Sharps noted the Baron's luxuriously waxed Imperial and his hair, ginger colored, parted in the middle and pomaded to glistening perfection. The Baron's blue eyes twinkled above his ruddy cheeks. “As a scholar myself, I hurried to have a chance to chat with my colleague."
"The charges are serious,” Haidekker began, as the Baron strolled to the official's desk and picked up one of the letters of introduction that lay there.
"Herr Doktor Professor Bopp?” the Baron said to Sharps. “You know him?"
Sharps inclined his head. “I have the honor."
"I myself studied in Innsbruck,” Tötösy confided, then addressed the Commissioner. “What did you say the charges were?” He had a Magyar accent underlying his German.
"Espionage and murder,” Haidekker said. “We can hardly overlook—"
"Stuff and nonsense,” Tötösy said. “This man is no more a murderer than I am.” He riffled through Sharps's journal, and came to a page written in Cyrillic characters. He waved it in Haidekker's direction. “If this is what concerns you, think nothing of it. It is an account of the Khazars in Taurica, from the ninth century.” He flipped the notebook closed.
Now he looked at Sharps directly. “American, eh?” he said in English. “Is it true that in America there are nothing but atheists and freethinkers?"
"No, sir,” Sharps replied. “We also have Quakers."
The Baron laughed. “I trust your business dealings are more honest than theirs."
The Baron turned back to Haidekker. “Come,” he said, finishing his brandy and putting down the glass on the Commissioner's desk. “Give this man into my care. You may keep his passport until your investigation is done, of course. In the meantime he will give his parole and will be my guest. Should you want him for anything, I will produce him. In the meantime, he and I will have much to discuss and he may prove of some small service to me, for which I would be extremely grateful."
The Commissioner turned to Sharps. “Do you give your parole, sir?"
There would be time later, Sharps reflected, to ponder the validity of promises extracted under duress. “I do."
"Then it is settled,” Tötösy said. “Have his things delivered to my rooms. I so look forward to conversation with a gentleman scholar here in the provinces! But I digress. Come, come, sir! Arise!"
With that Tötösy led the way from the office, Sharps following, with Haidekker frowning behind them. The politisti showed no expression at all.
They went down the stairs and out toward the front of the building, where the Baron retrieved his hat from a rack by the door. “Public buildings,” he said. “So uncouth. But my carriage waits, see, here it is!"
In front of the police station stood an enameled cream and blue closed carriage, with a gilded crest on the door and two matched chestnuts to pull it. The coachman, an older fellow of great height and thinness, dressed in a brocaded cloak and a beaver hat, stood beside it.
"You must forgive my countrymen,” the Baron said as they walked down the marble steps toward the coach. “St. George's Eve approaches, the moon is full, and various of wild and strange doings are rumored. The people are liable to all sorts of fancies, and the police must investigate. I'm sure you understand."
"Surely two men are genuinely dead,” Sharps said.
"Surely they are, but they're Turks,” said Tötösy, laughing. “Who cares?"
The coachman opened the door and Sharps entered the coach. A young woman in a high-necked white dress, wearing a thin white veil, sat within, facing forward on the left side. Sharps sat opposite her, facing the rear. Baron Tötösy joined them a moment later, sitting beside the woman and taking her gloved hand in his.
"Mr. Sharps,” he said, “allow me to present my sister, Sofia."
"Enchanted."
She did not reply.
The door closed, the coach trembled as the coachman gained his box, then a whip cracked and they were off, rattling along the cobbled streets.
Sharps looked up at the young woman. She sat with eyes downcast.
He noticed that she had been weeping.
The carriage took a northerly route, as Sharps observed by the sun and the shadows.
"I hope you will enjoy your time with us,” Tötösy said. “Alas, I have minimal staff, just my man and my sister. Yet you Americans are a rough folk; I'm sure you will be comfortable.” Tötösy leaned closer. “She cooks."
"I shall be delighted,” Sharps said. “But curiosity is my besetting sin. What is the nature of the service of which you spoke?"
"A relative of mine maintains a château nearby. Knowing of my scholarly habits, he has desired that I catalog his library. For this I was called from Prague. This cataloging could prove a tiresome task; thus my delight at hearing of the presence of a fellow scholar."
"This is no hardship,” Sharps said. “Are there any old books?"
"Indeed, they are for the most part ancient,” the baron said. Then turning to his sister: “You see? With a guest our time in the ancestral halls shall in no wise be as dreary as you had feared."
"I thank you, brother,” she replied without looking at him.
An hour passed; they stopped and dined from a hamper on roast fowl, bread, and claret. The coachman, if he ate, did so out of their sight.
Two more hours, as the road ascended, and the craggy peaks of the region appeared on either hand, and they came to their destination, a massive stone pile that seemed more burg than schloß, and more schloß than château. Sharps alighted into the afternoon sun. The place had a commanding view of the river.
Baron Tötösy stood a moment, chin in hand, looking critically at Sharps. “The police have ruined your clothing. We shall have to provide until your luggage is fetched. The house is yours and all it contains. Come, enter!"
The coachman held the door whilst Sharps, Tötösy, and Sofia entered, then followed. The door boomed closed. Then, to Sharps's surprise, he turned the key in the lock and laid
a bar through staples let into the stone on either side.
"Bandits,” the coachman said. “Everywhere."
"The horses?” Sharps asked.
"I see to them. Later."
The entrance hall opened onto a wide stairway, its walls hung with dark tapestries, ancestral portraits, and medieval weapons. Corridors to either side led deeper into the château.
The coachman lit a lamp and led Sharps to an upper room with a small mullioned window overlooking the gardens. A bed with velvet curtains in faded red stood against the left wall. The opposite wall held a clothespress.
The coachman gestured toward it. “These fit you, I think,” he said. “Dinner at sunset."
With that he turned and left. Sharps found himself unsurprised to hear the key turn in the lock.
He found linen that fit him tolerably in a drawer. The shirts were high-collared in the Magyar fashion, with loose sleeves, fastened with laces rather than buttons. The wardrobe held a number of suits of good cloth and cut. Sharps methodically tried them on.
He chose a suit of dark blue worsted that, again, fit him tolerably, although the coat was loose in the shoulders.
By the time he was dressed, the lower limb of the sun was touching the horizon. He heard a gong sound deep within the house. A moment later, the lock turned again and the door opened. Baron Tötösy stood in the hall, smiling.
"It is so easy for a man to lose himself when he is a stranger here,” he said. “Come, follow me. I will be your guide to supper."
Supper itself was indeed simple, a cold beet soup, meat and vegetables grilled en brochette, and a confection of chocolate, whipped cream, and brandy, all accompanied by an excellent claret as red as blood. The coachman served. When conversation flagged, Baron Tötösy introduced the subject of the morning's murders.
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