Facing that arc was a trio of Polizei behind a short table: Gotthilf on the left, Byron in the middle, and Karl Honister on the right.
Albrecht, Mayor Gericke’s secretary, entered the room from the door behind the interested parties, stepped around to whisper in Byron’s ear, then took a seat behind the mayor and picked up a notebook. He had been deputed by the mayor to take notes to document the meeting.
Byron looked to Mayor Gericke, and nodded. The mayor nodded back, and Byron looked first to Honister, then to Gotthilf.
Gotthilf felt his stomach muscles tighten, and he leaned forward just a bit. This was the end of the hunt, and he was ready.
“Thank you for coming today,” Byron began. “For those of you who don’t know me, I am Lieutenant Byron Chieske of the Magdeburg Polizei. This is my partner, Sergeant Gotthilf Hoch.” He gestured toward Gotthilf. Gotthilf nodded, and Byron concluded the introductions with, “And this is our associate, Sergeant Karl Honister.” Another gesture, this time toward Karl, who also nodded in response.
“You are all here, because you have all been touched in some way by events that occurred here in Magdeburg in the last few months; events which are connected in some way with either the late Herr Georg Schmidt, or the late Herr Andreas Schardius, or both.” Byron stopped at that point and looked to his partner.
Gotthilf let the pause extend a moment longer, making sure that everyone facing him felt a bit of tension as they waited for him to begin. “It all began,” he at length began, “when the contract for the hospital expansion project was awarded back in January to a consortium headed by Herr Georg Kühlewein and Herr Johann Westvol. There was another consortium competing for the project, of which Herr Georg Schmidt was a member. And it appears that Herr Schmidt did not take losing the contract with good grace. We don’t know—yet—how he made contact with them, but the information we have been able to develop leads us to believe that he hired two Italian criminals to come to Magdeburg to disrupt the hospital project with a view toward driving the consortium into either abandoning the project or into bankruptcy.”
Otto Gericke’s lips thinned, but he said nothing. Frau Gericke looked down at the clasped hands in her lap, but said nothing.
Herr Schiffer harrumphed. “Can I look to Herr Schmidt’s estate, then, to recover damages?”
“That will be a matter for the courts, for the Schöffenstuhl,” Mayor Gericke stated. “Have your lawyers prepare their briefs and submit them.”
Herr Schiffer sat back in his chair with obvious dissatisfaction.
“Thanks to information from Herr Bauer,” Karl Honister picked up the thread, “we know that these two men”—he held up photographs—“were both hired by the Schiffer work bosses at the project as laborers. Not long after they started, the project began experiencing a rash of minor accidents. We suspect they were the cause, but we don’t know that for a fact. We do know, however, that they were centrally involved in the three big attacks on the project: the fire that destroyed the wood stockpile; the theft of the payroll and the murder of the accountant and his guard escort; and the placing of the bombs that caused the steam crane boiler explosion. Once we had them identified, with a lot of legwork by our patrolmen, we were able to find their rooms, where we discovered evidence that linked them to all three crimes.”
Karl went on to describe some of the evidence they had, and how it all tied to the two men from Venice. He didn’t spend much time on it, but he made it clear that that case was very solid. One of the things he did mention was the money from the robbery, and how Schmidt had been exchanging it for silver for the robbers.
Byron took over. “That would be bad enough. But we also have some evidence…” Gotthilf noted that he was careful not to describe it as strong, “…that Herr Schmidt’s passion had become aroused not just against the project, but against one particular member involved with the consortium who won the bid: Herr Andreas Schardius.”
Marla’s eyes opened wide, and she stiffened upright. She had probably been wondering why she was here, Gotthilf thought to himself in amusement, and the mention of the hated Schardius name would have been like a dash of cold water in the face.
“Herr Schardius was not involved in these alleged offenses,” Byron took over. “In fact, we were investigating him for other crimes, but his only involvement in Herr Schmidt’s activities was apparently as a victim. But he is not present today because in an apparent fit of madness he kidnapped Frau Linder,” he nodded to Marla, “and attempted an assault on her. She was rescued without harm…”
“Thank God,” Marla and Franz uttered in unison. Gotthilf almost smiled at that, but he resumed watching the rest of the group waiting for his cue.
“…but in the resulting turmoil Herr Schardius was shot resisting arrest.”
There was a murmur in the room for a moment. Byron looked at a file open in front of him, then held up a picture of One-Eye, as they had started calling him. “We have evidence, though, that this man—one of the two Italian thieves and murderers—was trailing Herr Schardius. We also have evidence that he was being urged by Herr Schmidt to assault Herr Schardius, perhaps to kill him. He was shot and killed by some unknown assailant the same night that Herr Schardius died, the night before Herr Schmidt died.”
Byron closed a file sitting in front of him as a sign of finality, then looked to Gotthilf.
“But that still leaves us with the question of how Herr Schmidt died.” He opened a folder. “The obvious assumption was that he committed suicide, based on the circumstances of how his body was found.” Frau Gericke sniffled, and everyone glanced quickly that direction, then away. “And there is no question that his death was caused by the gunshot to his head. But…” Gotthilf paused for a long moment, “we no longer believe that the gunshot was self-inflicted.”
The mayor’s eyes widened, and the widow choked on a breath. Everyone else in the room looked surprised.
“But,” Stephan Burckardt ventured, “the gun was on the floor under his hand.”
Marla looked over at Burckardt for a moment, then looked away.
“Yes, it was,” Gotthilf said. “And that fact misled us for quite some time. But we discovered some evidence that proved Herr Schmidt was not holding the gun when it was fired. So then we had to look for someone who would benefit from Herr Schmidt’s death.”
Gotthilf closed the file in front of him, and began staring at one individual in the group as Byron picked up the narrative.
“We have a few suspects in mind, but we don’t think it will take us long to find the killer.”
“How?” Jacob Lentke asked from his seat at the end of the line.
“Herr Schmidt’s murderer didn’t understand that when you shoot someone from close range,” Byron replied, “especially a head shot like that one was, there will be a very fine mist of blood splashed out from the wound by the bullet, and part of that mist will land on the shooter’s hand and arm. Also, what you might think of as burnt gunpowder soot will also be deposited on the shooter’s hand and arm. And both the blood and the gunpowder is very hard to wipe off.”
Gotthilf continued to stare at one person.
“We have tests now that we can use to find traces of blood and traces of gunpowder on people’s hands and clothing.” Byron shrugged. “We’ll do the tests on the hands and clothes of our suspects. It won’t take long to find him.”
Burckardt frowned. “How is that possible?” His tone was excited and he waved his hands in front of him. “It sounds like magic!”
“No, that’s science,” Byron replied.
Burckhardt laughed abruptly. The sound was nervous and high-pitched; quite distinctive, in fact. “It’s utter nonsense!”
Marla stood up so quickly that her chair tipped over behind her as she backed away from Burckardt. “You!” she said. “You’re the one who pushed Schardius through the wall. I recognize that laugh.” She pointed a finger at him, and shouted, “I recognize that laugh!”
“What?” Burckardt
said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Byron,” Marla turned to her brother-in-law. “I’m sure he’s the one.”
“Ridiculous!” Burckardt said, standing up himself. Franz stood and stepped up beside his wife, facing the secretary.
Byron stood up also. As tall as he was, he was a threatening figure even though his hands were still at his sides. “Herr Burckardt,” he said sternly, “even if Marla’s testimony and the testimony of the other women in the room wouldn’t stand in court, the tests for blood and gunpowder will. It’s science,” he repeated. “What will we find when we test your hands and your clothes, Herr Burckardt?”
Burckardt looked around in a panic. Then he bolted through the door behind them.
Byron made no attempt to pursuit him. He just chuckled. “And now he has in effect confessed. You two had best go collect him before he gets hurt.”
“Right,” Gotthilf said with a grin. He headed for the door, followed by Honister.
* * *
The two sergeants stepped out the front door of the hospital, to behold Burckardt surrounded by scowling members of the Committees of Correspondence. Gunther Achterhof was standing in front of him with a slight smile, hard and cold, gently tapping a smith’s hammer against the palm of his left hand.
Chapter 73
“We were very sure it was him,” Byron explained to Mayor Gericke and Captain Reilly as Burckardt was being hauled away in handcuffs. “There were indications that he skimmed some of the money off of the currency exchanges he did for Schmidt, and we found some of the payroll money in his pocket. Stupid,” he said, shaking his head. “But smart enough to come with us rather than the CoC. We’ll see what else we can shake out of him.”
* * *
“Jacob, are you still muttering about the destruction of the Schöffenstuhl files?” Otto Gericke asked Jacob Lentke as he handed him a glass of wine at the end of their weekly conference.
Jacob took the glass with a frown. “Of course I am. Six hundred years of jurisprudence wiped out by that supreme vandal Pappenheim. Lawyers will curse him for generations to come.”
Otto smiled into his glass as he took a sip. He was going to enjoy this, he thought to himself.
“Jacob, how many cities are there in the Magdeburger Recht association?”
“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty,” Jacob replied. “I never can keep the list straight.”
“And how many of them received copies of judgments in the cases they referred to you?”
Jacob frowned. “The ones who submitted cases would receive copies of the decisions in those cases, yes. That doesn’t mean that copies went to all the cities, though, although a few would sometimes request copies of other judgments to provide precedents for issues they were facing.” His eyes began to widen as a thought apparently struck him.
“So,” Otto grinned, “hire some of the starving law students at Jena to go to those cities…”
“And make copies of their copies of the decisions,” Jacob said with excitement. “Otto, you are brilliant!”
“I know,” Otto replied smugly.
* * *
Gotthilf found himself alongside Byron confronting Gunther Achterhof. The CoC leader had stepped in front of them while they were walking to the police station several days after the conclusion of what was becoming known as the Burckardt Affair. He wasn’t sure just what Achterhof had in mind, but he wasn’t about to step back from him, hard reputation or no.
“Chieske, Hoch.” Achterhof nodded to them.
“Herr Achterhof,” Gotthilf replied as Byron returned the nod.
“It took you a while, but you found the truth in all of it.” Achterhof shrugged. “And I think you found more than we would have.” He nodded again. “Good job.”
The CoC man’s tone had sounded a bit on the begrudging side; but then, he wasn’t exactly known for being effusive. He nodded again, and turned and walked off, several of the known CoC strong men gathering behind him.
“I think that may have been the lamest ‘Thank you’ I’ve ever received,” Byron chuckled. “But coming from that man, I think we can take it.”
“Yah,” Gotthilf said. “We ought to write it up in a report and put it in the files.”
Byron laughed.
* * *
“Your Majesty,” Marla said as she sank into a graceful curtsey. She was wearing her favorite concert dress, the empire waisted royal blue velvet, and the curtsey did it justice. Franz made a bow, thankful in the back of his mind that he could wear trousers and didn’t have to follow his wife’s suit.
They were part of the people associated with the opera who had been invited to the palace. As royal receptions went, this one appeared to be pretty low-key; more of a salon than a presentation. Gustav was mingling with his guests, trailed by Princess Kristina and Prince Ulrik.
“Ah, the famous Frau Marla Linder, with the most beautiful voice.” Gustav sounded almost avuncular. “My daughter tells me that you also play the piano very well.”
“I try,” Marla responded.
“One day we will have you come and play for us. Oh, not now,” Gustav raised a hand as Marla turned toward the piano. “Another time, where we can give the attention such an event would deserve. But at the moment, I want to thank you for your labor in performing Arthur Rex. It was,” the emperor seemed to be searching for the right word, “compelling.”
Gustav started to move on to another guest, but paused for a moment, raising a hand again. He leveled a serious gaze at them both. “And thank you for your love of music during this difficult time.”
Neither of them knew what to say to that. Gustav nodded and turned away.
“What was that all about?” Marla whispered.
“I think you may have just received a thank you for “Do You Hear the People Sing?” Franz murmured.
* * *
Simon opened the door to their rooms. He and Ursula had returned there a few days after Hans’ funeral. Neither of them was comfortable in the big house on Gustavstrasse, for all that they had been made truly welcome. They had talked about it, and they both felt happier here, in this place that Hans had made his and theirs.
Simon was surprised to discover Gotthilf standing on the outside landing holding a book in his hands.
“Hi, Sergeant Hoch. Did you need something?”
“Is Fraulein Metzger up? I mean, is she dressed…er, available…”
Simon was fascinated to see just how dark a shade of red the detective could turn.
“May I speak with Fraulein Metzger, please?” Gotthilf finally got out.
“Sure. Let me get her.”
Simon left the detective standing on the landing, and went and knocked on Ursula’s door.
“Ursula?”
“What?” came the muffled reply.
“Sergeant Hoch is here, and he would like to speak with you.”
The door flung open so quickly it startled Simon. Ursula peeked out. “He’s here? To see me?”
Simon rolled his eyes. “Yes, to see you.”
Ursula fussed with her hair and her cap, tugged at her bodice, brushed off the front of her skirt. “Do I look all right?”
Simon rolled his whole head this time. “Yes. Now come on.”
Ursula followed him to the door.
“Here she is,” Simon said to Gotthilf. He stood in the doorway until Ursula pushed on him, then he stepped to one side.
“Good afternoon, Fraulein Metzger,” Gotthilf said very formally.
“Good afternoon to you as well, Sergeant Hoch,” Ursula replied, resting both her hands on the head of her cane.
“I, uh…” Gotthilf stammered, “Simon told me that you read the Bible a lot. I thought that you might like to have something else to read. I, uh…here.”
He thrust the book at Ursula. She received it, then turned it around so she could read the title.
“The City of God, by Saint Augustine.”
“It is a great book,” Gotth
ilf said, rather stiffly, “very enlightening and uplifting.”
Simon snickered. Ursula’s head swiveled until her eyes bore down on him twin gun barrels. “Don’t you have someplace else to be?” she asked crossly.
“Yes,” he said after a moment.
“Go there. Now.”
“Yes, Ursula.”
Simon squeezed out the door and around Gotthilf to clatter down the steps. At the bottom, though, instead of continuing on his way to the street, he ducked around and tiptoed under the landing. He thought he could hear them from there.
Sure enough, he could. Quite well, in fact.
“—fine gift,” Ursula was saying. “I am sure I will enjoy reading it.”
“It was given to me years ago by my grandmother.”
“Oh, I cannot take it, then,” Ursula said. “It must be important to you.”
“It is,” Gotthilf replied, “but I want you to have it.”
There was a moment of silence, then Ursula said, “All right. But why?”
There was a longer moment of silence. “It is a courting gift,” Gotthilf finally said.
“A courting gift? For me? You must be joking.”
“No, I am not.” That was said in a rather firm tone.
“But why me? I’m not pretty, I’m not well-educated…I am broken…” Ursula’s voice trailed off.
Simon heard Gotthilf take a step closer to Ursula. He wished he could see.
“Our Savior was broken, Fraulein Metzger,” Gotthilf said in a low tone, “and He is called beautiful.”
“But I am not the Savior,” she laughed, in a gulpy sort of way.
“But you are still beautiful.”
There was a very long silence after that. Simon tried to peek up through the boards of the landing, but he couldn’t see anything other than Gotthilf’s boots.
“Then I suppose,” Ursula finally said, “you had best call me Ursula…Gotthilf.”
* * *
Simon dropped into step with Sergeant Hoch as soon he stepped off the bottom step. “So, are you going to marry Ursula?” he asked.
“You heard,” Gotthilf said with a sidelong glance.