Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

“Maria.”

“Because there wasn’t one!” she concluded triumphantly.

“So why am I telling you all this? Do you take me for a liar?”

She gave a sly smile. “No. But you might want to attract attention to yourself with your fairy story, so that all sorts of people will want to hear it. And fill your glass to get you to tell it. The next thing, there’ll be an investigation and you’ll be summoned before the Holy Inquisition.” At this she quickly crossed herself. “They’ll want to hear what you have to say, and in no time at all the insignificant fox will have turned into a great big bear.”

“You’re crazy. We don’t have the Inquisition in Cologne. Anyway, do you think anyone would listen to me if even you don’t believe me?”

She gave him a thoughtful look. “Yes, I do. There are plenty of fools in the world. They’ll believe anything as long as the story’s spine-chilling enough.”

“But it’s true!”

“Jacob!” There was a threatening undertone in her voice. “Do you want to make me angry?”

“Christ Almighty!” He was getting angry, too. “Gerhard spoke to me!”

“It gets better all the time.”

“He said—”

“I can’t wait to hear.”

The mocking tone was just too sharp. Jacob had had enough. He stood up and went to the door without a glance at Maria. There he stopped, his eye tracing the grain of the wood in the floorboards.

He was so furious he was trembling all over. “Perhaps you will find your nobleman to take you away from here,” he spat out. “Though I can’t imagine anyone would stoop so low.”

Her speechlessness was tangible.

Jacob didn’t wait for a reply. He strode out and down the stairs, swearing he would never set foot in this house again.

Never again.

He was almost at the bottom when he heard her howl of fury. Something flew out of the open door and hit the wall with a crash. She’d probably thrown the candlestick at him. Clenching his teeth, he went out into the rain, while Clemens and Margarethe exchanged bewildered stares before returning to their business with a shrug of the shoulders.

He did not see the shadow that appeared at the far end of the street, and the shadow did not see him.

They missed each other by a heartbeat. to bend down. He drew back his black hood.

Urquhart went to the whorehouse, thumped on the door with his fist, and entered without waiting. The doorway was so low he had

A hunched, greasy fellow roasting something over the fire stared up at him with wrinkled brow. Two women were sitting dozing on a bench. One was quite pretty, the other probably cheap. There was a smell of cabbage, burned meat, and something indefinable it was better not to inquire too closely about.

“Good evening,” he said softly.

The old man by the fire started to say something, then stopped. He subjected Urquhart to a thorough scrutiny. A servile smile appeared on his face. He jumped up, as far as his bent back allowed, and shuffled across the room toward him. He had clearly decided that Urquhart might be good business. The prettier of the two women gaped at the blond giant and hastily nudged the other, who started and opened her eyes, revealing a severe squint.

Urquhart slowly moved to the middle of the room and looked round. The landlord regarded him expectantly. “A girl?” he asked tentatively.

Urquhart gave the old man a speculative look. Putting one arm round his crooked shoulders, he took him to one side and whispered, “Later. Perhaps you can help me.”

“Perhaps.” The landlord drew out the word, grinning up at Urquhart. “And perhaps you will take pity on poor people like us. Otherwise—I mean, you get more forgetful as you get older—”

Urquhart smiled. “Oh, you won’t forget my visit, I can promise you that.”

“That’s different.” The hunchbacked landlord put on his most eager-to-please expression. “What can I do for you?”

“Someone, whose name I’ve forgotten, was here tonight. His hair”—he gave the landlord a confidential wink—“is at least as striking as mine. Though probably less well acquainted with a comb.”

A light appeared in the landlord’s eyes. “Red? Bright red?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s Jacob, that is.”

“Jacob?”

“Jacob the Fox. That’s what they call him.” The landlord twirled a finger around his head. “You know.” He gave a laugh, as if Urquhart and he were friends.

“Of course.” So it was a Jacob he had killed. Why not? One Jacob fewer.

The two women were agog. “See to the food,” the old man barked at them. “And you can put those ears down. Do you want the gentleman to think he’s in a rabbit hutch?”

“So he was here?” Urquhart asked.

“You can say that again!”

“And what did he say?”

The landlord gave him a bewildered look. “What did he say?”

“That’s what I’m asking.” Urquhart felt inside his cloak, brought out a coin, and slipped it into the old man’s hand. It seemed a physiognomical impossibility, but an even broader grin appeared on his face.

“Well, he dropped hints about the roast,” he muttered, with a glance at the lump over that fire that was now identified as a roast. “Thought I might give him a slice. Huh!”

“That was all?”

“He was pretty brusque to me, the swine. Had some poor beggar in tow. No, he didn’t say anything. He went straight up to Maria.”

“Ah, Maria—” Urquhart pretended to be thinking. “I think he must have mentioned her once or twice.”

“Ah, my pride and joy!” The landlord tried to throw out his chest, resulting in a grotesque contortion. Then he plucked at Urquhart’s sleeve and whispered, with a conspiratorial grimace, “I could arrange for her to be available.” He jerked a contemptuous thumb over his shoulder. “She’s much better looking than those two.”

“Later. He didn’t speak to anyone else?”

Now it was the landlord’s turn to put on a show of rummaging around in the depths of his memory, where it appeared to be pitch black. Urquhart let him see the glint of another coin, but closed his hand before he could grasp it.

“No, no, definitely not. He didn’t say anything,” the old man quickly assured him. “I was down here all the time, Margarethe too, and Wilhilde here—Wilhilde had, er, a visitor.”

“What about the other man you mentioned, is he still here?”

“Tilman? No.”

“Hmm.” Urquhart stared into space for a moment. Tilman? He’d see to him later. He had to sort things out here first.

“Have you heard about Gerhard Morart?” he asked.

Immediately the brothelkeeper’s expression changed to one of profound sadness. “Oh, yes, poor Master Gerhard.” His sudden grief was supported by a double cry of lamentation from the bench. “What a dreadful accident. Wilhilde’s, er, visitor brought the news. Dazzled by his vision of the Kingdom of Heaven, he stepped straight out into the air.”

“God rest his soul,” said Urquhart solemnly. The old man made a halfhearted attempt to cross himself.

So they knew nothing.

“At such times the love of a beautiful woman is a comfort.” The landlord sighed. “Don’t you think?”

“Yes,” said Urquhart softly, “why not?”

The rain had eased off. The moon even appeared now and then.

Without really knowing why, Jacob had kept running until he reached New Market Square. He just felt the need to go somewhere and think things over. Where didn’t matter. Best of all would have been a nice tavern, but what would he do in a tavern without any money? So he had just set off at random and eventually found himself in the large meadow between the nunnery of St. Cecilia and the Church of the Apostles. It was where the cattle market was held and during the day it was full of horses and cattle, the cracking of whips, and the haggling of the dealers and customers, everything overlaid with the pungent smell of dung and urine.