“Your voice,” Schardius said, finally exhibiting some passion. “I want your voice.”
Friedrich looked around the pillar again in time to see Schardius first stroke Marla’s neck and throat, then wrap her hair in his fist and pull her head to his for a brutal kiss.
Marla placed her hands against Schardius’ chest and pushed with all her might. After a moment, she broke free, leaving more than a little of her hair in the madman’s grasp. She raised the back of her hand to her mouth. It came away bloody, from where the “kiss” had broken the skin of her lips against her own teeth.
“You’re a madman,” Marla hissed. “You’re not a man; you’re an animal, a crazy insane thing!”
Schardius backhanded her with his left hand. Marla staggered a step, and Friedrich winced. At least Schardius hadn’t used the pistol to hit her.
“Another word and you are dead,” Schardius said as he straightened his arm with the pistol aimed directly at Frau Marla’s head.
* * *
Amber blinked. “I’ve been worried about that, but Marla says he hasn’t approached her.”
“Byron thinks Herr Schardius is stalking Frau Linder,” Gotthilf said.
“He had a stalker’s file in a hidden drawer in his office desk,” Byron explained. “And we found this outside his office building.” He held up the glove.
Now it was Amber who turned pale. She obviously recognized the glove as well as Byron had. It was distinctive, Gotthilf admitted. Amber was made of strong stuff, though, and carried on by asking, “What do we do?”
“Is Schardius here yet?” Byron’s tone shifted from harsh to gunmetal hard.
“I haven’t seen him, but I wouldn’t necessarily see him tonight. He’s supposed to be in the audience, not backstage.”
“Is Marla here?”
“Yes, she came in early. She’s already backstage.”
“We need to be there now!” Byron’s head started swiveling, looking for doors.
Amber turned, pulled a key-ring from her pocket and opened the door she was standing in front of. “Come on.”
They passed through the door, and she locked it behind them. Gotthilf looked around. All he could see were wires and cables, curtains and panels, and people scurrying around.
“This way,” Amber motioned to them. “She was in the dressing room when I left her about half an hour ago over on stage right.” She snorted at their confusion. “The other side of the stage. Now come on.”
Amber led them across the stage behind the main curtain, into a loud crowd of actors and stage hands. It took some time to get everyone to settle down and get a coherent story out of the shaken women who had been in the dressing room.
“You’re sure it was Herr Schardius?” Byron at length demanded.
Universal agreement from all the women, loud, and in some cases obscene.
“Where’s Marla?” was his next question.
It didn’t take long to determine that she wasn’t in the crowd. Someone ran back to the dressing room. Gotthilf could see both Byron and Amber becoming more and more unhappy that Marla was not to be found.
“Now what?” Byron demanded. “Where else do we look?”
“I don’t…” Amber began.
* * *
Desperate, Friedrich grasped the only idea that had come to him. He took a firm grip on his walking stick and twisted a metal collar that circled the shaft of the stick just below the handle, then thrust a hand into a pocket, pulled out a big USE fifty cent piece, and tossed it off to his right. It struck a wall and fell to the floor, where it clattered around for a bit.
Schardius reacted to the noise by swinging the pistol that direction. Friedrich drew the narrow-bladed sword from the stick that was its sheath and flowed around the pillar with it raised. He slashed the sword down on Schardius’ wrist.
Schardius cried out and the pistol fired. Friedrich interposed between himself between Schardius and Marla, sword raised and ready to slash or stab as needed.
* * *
They all heard the muffled sound. Most looked around curiously, but Byron and Gotthilf both jerked.
“That was a shot!” Byron hissed to Amber. “From below us. Basement?”
Amber didn’t say anything, but hurried over to a door near the back of the wall and flung it open. Byron and Gotthilf drew their weapons and started down the stairs into the dimly lit basement. Byron wasted no time, but hurried down as quickly as he could. Gotthilf followed at a slower pace.
* * *
“You…you…” Spittle was running from Schardius’ mouth, as he wrapped his left hand around his right wrist and started to lift the pistol again. Friedrich prepared himself to lunge.
At that moment, the door to the stairs banged open, and feet thundered on the stairs.
“Marla!” a man called out urgently. “Marla!”
“Down here, Byron!” Marla called back from behind Friedrich. He didn’t take his eyes from Schardius, whose own eyes where shifting right and left. As the feet hit the basement floor, Schardius darted into the hallway opening through which Friedrich and the others had come not many minutes before.
Friedrich lowered his sword and spared a quick glance for Frau Marla.
“Are you all right?”
“I am now,” she said, standing up straight and relaxing her hands from the claws they had formed.
* * *
“Marla!” Byron called out. “Marla!”
“Down here, Byron!” they heard the answer.
At that, Gotthilf hurried down to follow his partner to the pool of light where Marla was standing, alongside a man with a sword.
“You, drop the sword,” Byron barked, zeroing his automatic at the bridge of the man’s nose.
“Byron, don’t!” Marla said. “He’s a friend—he was protecting me!”
It took a moment, then Byron lowered the pistol.
“Okay. It was Schardius, then?”
“Yes.” Marla sounded a bit shaken, and Gotthilf didn’t blame her. “He went that way.” She pointed to an opening.
“It’s a hall that will bring you out in the foyer again,” the man added.
“Great. You stay here. We’ll be back.”
* * *
Amber shut the door behind the two policemen, and turned to face the crowd of actors and stage hands. “All of you, just shut up and get back to your places. Now!”
Such was the force of her personality and the habit of obedience that most of them did so.
Amber beckoned to Frau Frontilia. “Is Franz Sylwester backstage?”
“I think so,” the stage manager replied.
“Send him here.”
* * *
Schardius made his way down the hall. He still had his little flashlight, but he didn’t think he could crank it up and hold his gun with his wrist cut, so he trusted to his memory. From his recent excursions in the basement, he knew the hallway had no obstacles before he reached the stairs. Once he made it to the foyer, he was well on his way to freedom.
* * *
“Franz!” Marla shouted. She flew to her husband’s arms, and he enfolded her in a hug so tight and strong that Friedrich almost expected to see them merge into a single body.
Frau Amber Higham appeared at Friedrich’s side. She was cursing bitterly and with great fury, a mixture of American, German, and it sounded like Spanish. She wasn’t repeating herself, which impressed him. She also rattled off some curses he had never heard before, which also impressed him. Those he made mental note of.
She finally had to stop and draw a breath. She panted for a few seconds, then took a deep sigh and seemed to settle down. She turned to Marla and held out her hands.
“Marla, I have to apologize. I thought Schardius was just a typical producer looking for some thrills. It almost killed me when Byron said he was a stalker type, and he was fixated on you.”
“No one knew, Amber,” Marla replied, detaching herself from her husband and taking the other woman’s hands. “No o
ne could have guessed. I thought he was just a creep; just a watcher.”
“Instead he abducts you,” Frau Amber said, enfolding the younger woman in another embrace.
“I will bear witness to that,” Friedrich spoke up, “assuming they capture him. Plus assault, battery, and threats to kill Frau Marla. The man,” he concluded in a very dry tone of voice as he handed his coat to Frau Marla to hide her oh-so-worse-than-nude attire, “is not sane.”
* * *
Byron pulled out his flashlight. “We don’t have time to look for the light switches. Come on.”
The two of them followed the dim yellow spot as it tracked across the floor. After a few steps, Gotthilf said, “Blood spots.”
“Yep,” Byron replied in a satisfied tone. “If nothing else, we can trail the bastard with that.”
Neither of them spoke more, intent on the task at hand.
* * *
Schardius heard the murmur of voices behind him, looked over his shoulder, and saw the dim little spot of light bobbing toward him down the hallway. His foot struck the first step in the stairs, and he almost fell over. He turned, held his pistol in both hands, and pulled the trigger once.
Bam!
He turned and hurried up the stairs as quickly as he could.
* * *
Amber released the hug and returned Marla to her husband.
“Now to go upstairs and break the news that we have to cancel tonight’s performance.”
Marla broke out of Franz’s embrace and faced them all with her hands on her hips.
“Amber Higham, I don’t care if you are the director, if you think that I’ve come this far and worked this hard on this part to shut down because of something stupid like this, think again! I’m not hurt, and if I don’t do something to lightning rod the mad out of me, I’ll explode. On with the show!”
Behind Marla, Franz had worry in his eyes, but he was smiling. He spotted Friedrich looking at him, and he shrugged and spread his hands in an unmistakable “What are you going to do?” signal.
Amber took a long hard look at Marla. “Well, okay, if you’re sure…”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, except marrying Franz,” Marla replied. “Trust me.”
“Okay,” Amber said after another hard look at Marla. “If you’re that certain, then let’s get upstairs and get this show on the road!”
The sound of a shot from the hallway spurred them on.
* * *
The two detectives ducked to each side of the hall at the flash from the other end of the hall. Byron turned off the flashlight.
“Black powder gun,” Byron said quietly.
“Probably H and K six-shooter,” Gotthilf replied. “Sounded like a forty-four caliber, like mine.”
They listened, and only heard the sound of steps receding.
“Slow and careful,” Byron said. He took the flashlight, turned it on and flashed it down the hall for a moment, then shut it down again. “No obstacles, looks like he’s gone up the stairs.”
“Right.”
They made their way down the hall, hugging the walls on each side.
* * *
Schardius made his way to the top of the stairs. He stopped for the barest moment to try to catch his breath, then turned the door handle. It moved, and he peered around the edge of the door. No one was near, and he slipped out of the door and across the foyer as quickly as he could.
Freedom! was his thought as he burst through the door into the portico and started down the steps.
Chapter 67
Karl Honister looked over at the local patrolman who had shown up on his rounds perhaps a quarter hour earlier, and was hanging around the plaza watching the latecomers hurrying for the door, mostly members of the Hoch-adel. It was growing darker, and the moon wasn’t very high in the sky yet.
“So, Phillip,” Karl said, “have you seen the emperor yet?”
“Today?” the patrolman replied. “No, Sergeant Honister. Not yet, at any rate.”
Honister pulled out his pocket watch and held it up so the setting sun shone on it.
“It’s 6:15, so the opera is going to start late. It wouldn’t be prudent to start without Gustav in his seat.”
Phillip laughed, just as the big outside lights mounted on the front of the opera house turned on with a loud click.
* * *
Amber led the charge back up the stairs to the backstage. As soon as they were all through the door at the head of the stairs, she slammed it.
“I want that door bolted, barred and blocked up,” she announced to all and sundry. “Pile stuff in front of it until no one can get it open from the other side.” She pointed to the backstage crew dressed in brown. “Now! Move it, people.”
Brown-shirted stage crew coalesced from all of the backstage area, and within a couple of minutes they had moved some heavy furniture not being used in this production in front of the door.
While this was going on, Amber turned to Marla and looked at her in the better light. She lightly touched the singer’s left cheek. “Okay, your makeup is smudged, and you’ve got a small scratch that’s bled some there. You’d best get back to the dressing area and repair that, then get dressed for the first scene.”
Marla handed Friedrich’s coat back to him, and turned and moved with speed in that direction. Amber turned to the stage manager and they had a low-voiced conversation.
Friedrich looked around, all of a sudden realizing that he hadn’t seen Gronow, Seelbach, and Plavius. He looked to Franz and opened his mouth, but Franz beat him to it.
“I had your friends led to their seats before I came downstairs. Now I must get back to the orchestra, so I’ll take you with me. People will start getting restless if we don’t have something going.”
Franz’s eyes got very serious, and he placed his hands on Friedrich’s shoulders. “My friend, I have no words. What you did down there…” Franz’s voice wavered a bit, “…that means more to me than you will ever know or I will ever be able to express. Thank you.”
Friedrich didn’t try to downplay what Franz was saying. He just gave a solemn nod and placed his right hand on top of Franz’s.
They stood that way for a long moment; then Franz dropped his hands, turned, and linked arms with Friedrich. “And now, let me escort you to your seat.”
* * *
They both saw the flare of light as the door at the top of the stairs was opened.
“Come on!” Byron flicked on his flashlight, heedless of the risk, and they rushed down the hall and hurtled up the stairs.
They burst through the door in time to see one of the outer doors just settling in its door frame.
* * *
Schardius froze for a moment on the steps when the lights came on. There was so much light! He’d been counting on the darkness to hide him.
He gave his head a hard shake, and continued down the steps.
It had all gone so wrong! All his desires, all his plans, all lying in the plaster dust on the dressing room floor.
He would never survive this, he knew. Not in Magdeburg, at any rate. His name and reputation would not just be smeared, they would be burnt in the fires of gossip and ridicule, until they were nothing but a memory.
But Magdeburg was just one of many cities in Europe. If he could just get to the warehouse, he had money there, and Ernst could get him away. He had money, he had connections. He could start over. Maybe in Vienna.
He hit the bottom of the steps and started running. One part of his mind cursed Marla Linder as his feet pounded the plaza pavement; one part of it mourned her.
* * *
Honister looked around at the sound of cursing and yelling people. A man broke free from the flow of opera-goers going up the steps. It looked like—it was—Schardius. He headed that direction, holding up his hand.
“Halt! Master Andreas Schardius, I arrest you—gun!”
The sudden sight of the pistol in the merchant’s hands being aimed in his dir
ection tightened every muscle in Honister’s lower abdomen and groin, and raised his voice at least two octaves. His shout echoed off the surrounding buildings, and was probably heard clearly on the other side of the Big Ditch and its walls.
Schardius fired one shot, but Honister was already ducking and twisting to pull out his own pistol. And now he bitterly repented that he had not followed Sergeant Hoch’s lead and moved up from a .32 to a .44 with more shots. Five just wasn’t enough in a situation like this.
* * *
Franz released Friedrich’s arm at the end of his row. Friedrich stepped across feet to the empty seat between Gronow and Plavius.
“Where have you been?” Plavius demanded, not bothering to hold down his voice amid the other conversations going on around them.
Friedrich didn’t answer right away, settling his walking stick between his knees and punching Gronow on the leg.
“Johann, pass me your flask of schnapps, and don’t try to tell me you don’t have it.”
With a sigh, Gronow pulled a silver flask from an inside jacket pocket and handed it to Friedrich. Friedrich took off the cap and drank two big swallows before he turned back to Plavius.
“Where have I been? That’s a tale for later tonight.”
* * *
Byron and Gotthilf burst out the door onto the portico and went down the steps at a reckless rate of speed, risking falling or worse in the desire to catch up with the fleeing Schardius.
“Come on, Karl!” Gotthilf yelled as they rushed by him.
“Schardius, drop your gun and put up your hands!” Byron yelled from in front of them, his long legs shortening the distance with every stride.
Schardius responded by twisting his body and squeezing off another shot as he ran. No one saw where it went, but it slowed everyone down for a step or two.
* * *
Ciclope’s ears perked up. From all the yells, that was Schardius running toward him being chased by all those men. He burst from the shadows by the Royal Academy of Music building, then simply had to stand and watch as Schardius ran by him, with four policemen hot on his heels.
Ciclope cursed bitterly. A lost opportunity, but if he had shot at Schardius, it would have been impossible to explain to the Polizei later, especially since he would have been shooting in their general direction as well. He doubted that they would have been restrained about shooting back at him.