Death and the Devil

Matthias waved his chief clerk over and gave him a series of instructions. Then he left the wharf and hurried up Rheingasse, past the Overstolz mansion to the modest building where Johann performed his miracles of accounting. He flew up the stairs, two at a time, and burst into Johann’s office.

“The dean and the redhead have got away,” he cried, slapping the scroll down on the table, right under Johann’s nose.

Johann looked up. He seemed worn out. “I know,” he said dully. “And I can add that we have two further deaths to—how shall I put it?—to cheer? To deplore?”

“What!? Who?”

“Urquhart’s witnesses. Things get around. Someone has disturbed the discreet activities at the Little St. Martin bathhouse. For the moment they’ve arrested the owner and his assistants. Some whores also fell under suspicion.” Johann snorted. “But they say the whores have been freed. No one could explain how they managed to break three ribs of one of their customers, plus his shoulder blade and neck.”

“And the other?” asked Matthias, fascinated.

Johann shrugged his shoulders. “They can’t decide whether he drowned or suffocated.”

“Well, well, well.”

Johann stood up and went to the window. “Matthias, I can’t say I feel happy about all this. I thought Urquhart was going to be our instrument, but I’m starting to feel like the butcher who took on a wolf as his assistant. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Of course.” Matthias went over and held up the scroll in front of his face. “But before you start worrying about Urquhart, you should read his message.”

With a dubious look, Johann took the scroll. He read it, read it again, then shook his head in disbelief. “He’s taken a hostage?”

“Yes. And we’ve got a safe hiding place.”

“Not in the house again!”

Matthias made a calming gesture. “No, not in the house. I was thinking of the old warehouse by the river. No one ever goes there. Everything will be over by tomorrow, God—or the Devil, if you prefer—willing. Then he can do what he likes with his hostage, and with all the foxes and deans he can find. The important thing is that they all hold their tongues until then.”

“Tomorrow,” whispered Johann.

Matthias grasped his arm, squeezing it hard. “We’re so close to success, Johann, we mustn’t lose heart now. Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow! Let’s keep our minds fixed on tomorrow.”

Johann kept looking out of the window. Life outside was so peaceful, so orderly, everything in its place. What would things be like after tomorrow?

“Send one of the servants to show him the way,” he said.

“The servants are too woolly headed,” Matthias snapped. “The one who came to tell me they’d lost Jaspar and the Fox, for example, forgot to mention the two dead bodies in the bathhouse. I’d prefer to see Urquhart myself.”

“Too risky. It was bad enough bringing him to the house.”

“I—”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have thought of a better idea. Send one of the servants to go with him, no, better get him just to tell Urquhart the way—and hand over a supply of leather straps,” he added with a humorless smile. “Hostages are best when they’re tightly tied to one’s interests.”

“He’ll make sure of that.” Matthias grinned.

“I hope so.” Johann ran his fingers through his hair, then went back to his desk. “With all this to worry about, the work’s just piling up,” he moaned.

“Perhaps. But it’s worth it.”

“Yes, you’re right, of course. See the necessary steps are taken. I’ll inform the others.”

In the doorway Matthias turned around. “By the way, Kuno wants to come back,” he said hesitantly.

Johann looked up. “Did he tell you that?”

“Yes. Just now.”

“And what did you say?”

“I sent him away. Although—” Matthias frowned. “Perhaps it would be better to send him straight to hell.”

“I didn’t hear that,” said Johann grimly.

“No? Oh, well,” said Matthias, “a time and place for everything, eh, Johann? A time and a place for everything.”

THE LIVING DEAD

Thrrummp!

A hole in the road. Full of water.

Jacob would have liked to be able to feel his body all over. He had the suspicion his breastbone had slipped down to somewhere near his pelvis. For the time being, however, he had to abandon his efforts to free his fingers from the grip of the planks above. As long as the cart was still moving, there was nothing for it but to wait patiently and pray to some saint or other who had been in a similar situation.

He was sopping wet. Windmills were whirling inside his head. No saint had ever been through anything like this. They were grilled over a low flame, boiled in extra-virgin olive oil, cut up with red-hot pincers, or pulled in all directions at once by four horses. None had ever gone to heaven via a cart shaft. It was ridiculous.