So far.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Bad Reichenbach
STOKE HEARD THE PIANO TINKLING AS HE AND JET CLIMBED the slippery steps up from the cellar. Something deep and stirring in a minor key. Viktor was in great form, but it was four o’clock in the morning. What the hell was he doing awake? Jet said she had dumped enough of her potion into their teapots to put both him and Frau Irma out for a week.
“Is she in there, too?” Jet whispered. Viktor was banging out some heavy chords and Stoke didn’t think their whispers could be overheard. Jet was standing behind Stoke in the darkened kitchen doorway, both of them looking out into the living room. Flickering light and shadows were dancing on the ceiling and walls. Pairs of beady glass animal eyes were gleaming all around the room, staring down from the walls. Candles?
Yeah, Viktor had all the candles on the piano lit up for his moonlight sonata or whatever the hell he was playing now. Sure as hell wasn’t Ray Charles. Viktor’s setup looked like Liberace the way he had the heavy black lid of the piano propped up and the big silver candelabra lighting up the keyboard as he raised his hands up high before bringing them down on the ivories. Tinkle, tinkle, boom.
“Don’t see her. I think it’s just him,” Stoke said in her ear.
“Good. If we can slip past him and up the stairs to our rooms it would save us a lot of trouble. But you can’t make a sound. His sense of hearing is phenomenal.”
“Yeah? How come he plays such awful shit all the time?”
“Good question.”
“And, why the candles? He’s blind.”
“Smell,” Jet said. “He loves the smell.”
“Aromatherapy. It’s everywhere. Ready?”
Viktor was banging on the left side of the keyboard now, building up to his big climax. Jet squeezed his arm.
“Hurry. We must get to the stairs before this song ends. Go.”
They were halfway across the room when the music stopped, Viktor’s hands frozen in air above the keyboard. His head swiveled in Stoke’s direction.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Jones,” Viktor said after the last mournful note had faded away. “Wie gehts?”
“Pretty good, Viktor. How you doing, buddy?” Stoke said, wondering how on earth the man had heard him crossing the room in the middle of all that damn racket.
“Zo. You are a somnambulist, nicht wahr?”
“A what?”
“A sleepwalker.”
“Yeah, that’s right, Viktor. I’m seeing somebody about it but, man, nothing seems to work. It’s a problem. Listen, you don’t know any Ray Charles, do you?”
“Was?”
He stood there looking at the guy sitting at his piano. With the candlelight gleaming in the lenses of his dark glasses and his wild Einstein hairdo, Viktor looked like a demented eighty-year-old Bavarian rock star. Had he heard Jet, too? Maybe not. Girl moved like a tiger stalking something in the bush. She was frozen in place and watching Viktor like a cat. Stoke looked at her and put a finger to his lips. Then he motioned to her to continue padding over to the staircase while he engaged their host in conversation.
Stoke’s plan had been for the two of them to be packed up and out of here before Frau Irma and Viktor woke up in the morning. He’d leave a note and a lot of cash to cover their expenses. Down in the wine cellar, they’d carefully replaced the wine registry book and put the cellar table back just like they’d found it. He figured since the baron still had no idea where they were, no sense having Frau Irma calling him up and raising a lot of questions in his mind. He was also pretty sure he and Jet had given the two Arnolds the slip at the Adlon in Berlin.
Jet had flashed an okay sign and started to creep toward the staircase on tiptoe. Girl moved like a big cat who—
The explosive sound of the big weapon firing was so unexpected and so loud in the stillness of the dark room that Stoke almost came out of his shoes. He saw Jet hit the floor, hard, and roll up into a ball. Couldn’t tell if she was hit or what. He looked at Viktor and saw the smoke seeping from the muzzle of the gun in his hand, still aimed at where Jet had been. An old gun, some kind of funky machine gun, but it seemed to work okay. Now, Viktor swiveled on his piano bench and aimed the gun directly at Stokely. He was resting his shooting arm on top of the piano.
There was a second explosion as Stoke made a move toward the heavy desk to his left. The round buzzed by his head and slapped into the stone wall, just missing a big old woolly grizzly’s gleaming chompers.
“Don’t move,” Viktor said, “I warn you.” So, he spoke English, too. Boy was full of surprises tonight.
“Take it easy, Viktor, I’m not going anywhere,” Stoke said, inching sideways toward the desk. He’d considered simply diving over the piano and taking the old Kraut out. But he was watching Jet out of the corner of his eye. She was crawling silently on her belly toward the piano. No blood that he could see anywhere on her. She didn’t seem to be hurt. Good.
“I said, don’t move!” Viktor said.
“Easy does it, Viktor. Let me ask you, what kind of gun is that?”
“Das ist ein Schmeisser! A Schmeisser machine pistol. The best gun the Reich has ever produced.”
“It’s cool. I like it.”
“Zo, the Amerikaner, Mr. Jones. Enjoy your tour of Schloss Reichenbach, mein Herr?” Viktor asked him. The way he said it, his little grin, and the way his voice rose up at the end of the sentences, you could tell this was his idea of sarcasm and humor. His voice was scratchy like some old newsreel from World War II.
“Well, I didn’t get to see all that much of—”
“Das ist verboten!” he screamed. “Strictly forbidden!” He pointed the business end of the old Wehrmacht machine pistol directly at Stoke’s heart. It was pumping pretty hard at the moment. Stoke wondered if Viktor’s overdeveloped ears could hear it.
“Your heart is beating very fast, Herr Jones. You are scared, no?”
“Jesus. Not that much.”
“I have orders from Baron von Draxis to shoot anyone who tries to gain entry to der Schloss.”
“Well, good. I’ve already been up there once, so you can scratch me off the list of folks to shoot. What a view, up there, Viktor. You ought to charge admission,” Stoke said. “Make you a fortune.”
“Der Schloss is off-limits to the guests,” Viktor said. “I told you. Strictly verboten.”
“Verboten, huh? Well, how about that? Nobody told me. Hey, Viktor, let me ask you another question. What’d you do? Go get that laser eye surgery while I was up there taking the Schloss tour?”
“Eyes? I see with my ears, Herr Jones. You should wear soft-soled shoes.”
“You see with your ears? Unbelievable. Okay, Viktor, how many fingers I’m holding up right now?”
“Was?” Viktor said. “Nicht verstehen.”
Stoke had figured his fingers joke was pretty funny but Viktor didn’t seem all that amused. If he lived to be a hundred, Stoke thought, he’d never understand the German sense of humor. Jet was in range of the piano now, and she was up on the balls of her feet, palms on the floor, in a crouch. She had a plan and Stoke could see it was a good one. He even saw a way to help her out.
He’d seen a heavy glass paperweight on the desktop behind him. A snowy alpine village inside. Stoke carefully reached behind his back, crabbed his fingers across the desktop until they brushed up against the baseball-sized globe. He palmed it, liking the heft. He considered just beaning Viktor with it, then decided on a better plan.
“Who’s that?” Stoke said suddenly.
“Who?” Viktor instinctively responded.