“So. Once more to the Orient, for old times’ sake?” said Andreas.
— 56 —Sechsundfünfzig
The thunderstorm swelled as twilight ebbed to evening. A caravan of cars pulled up to the Hotel Orient led by a Rolls-Royce with a license plate reading OR1ENT.
The Hotel was empty. On Sunday afternoons, they took no reservations, and used the opportunity to make large repairs or hold meetings. It was the slowest day anyway, when the city rested, and regulars attended church to atone for sins they’d committed on weekdays.
Sterling and Fernando rushed inside first. She’d covered up with his beige trench coat, which had a snug but alluring fit on her.
He twiddled his fingers. “Shall we prepare refreshments? Drinks? A little charcuterie?”
“It’s an interrogation, not a party,” she said, stealing his fedora. “A cheese plate should suffice.”
With the bar too cramped for the group, they settled on the lobby, placing a chair before the elevator. The detectives sat Christoph down, and secured one hand to each chair arm using cuffs Sterling borrowed from the lost and found. “Don’t worry, they’re sanitized.”
Christoph tugged his shackles. “Usually, the goal is holdingthe audiencecaptive.”
Theater guests poured in, encircling the lobby. Andreas and Beate stood guard behind Christoph, notebooks ready.
Christoph crossed his legs. “Shall I begin?” Thunder rumbled.
Fernando’s eyes rolled. “Every. Fucking. Time.”
Sterling paced to the center of the circle, adjusting her fedora. “Admit it: The events on the night of the murder were a charade to distract us while someone killed Hedy. All directed by you, head of Nightingale.”
“It’s… complicated, dearie,” said Christoph. “To explain, I have to go back to the start. It was the early eighties. I had a full head of hair and an empty bank account. Serafina worked here. Our crew hung out in her room, the Nachtigall Suite. We christened ourselves the Nightingale Gang, an inside joke. I’d inherited my parents’Gasthausand sold it to buy the theater, which needed a miracle to survive. As luck would have it, one appeared.”
He leaned into the light like he’d practiced this speech in his bathroom mirror a thousand times. Like he’d always known they’d get caught.
“While visiting Serafina here, we heard a couple arguing in the stairwell. A higher-up at a local bank and his mistress. Over drinks that night, Serafina joked about blackmailing him to save the theater. All in jest, she insisted. But the next morning, while staring into my empty fridge, I decided to go for it.
“I delivered a message from Nightingale to his office and walked away with fifteen thousand Schilling that evening. Serafina wasfuriousat first, though less so after I split the cash with her. But the banker complained to Herr Kleinmann Senior. He fired Serafina, and she went to work for Weiss. At Blanc de Noir, she continued our scheme, gaining access to powerful men with deep pockets and dark secrets.”
He lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows.
Thunder rolled. Fernando cursed.
“Meanwhile, I fabricated Nightingale. Vieta made the logo into a coin and stamp for the sugar cubes. We assembled a whisper network of local waiters. Easy when most actors work in service. They distributed sugar cubes to cafés. Nightingale was everywhere overnight, and we made a killing. Until we had to stop.”
“Why?”
“With us hounding Madame’s clients, she needed to protect them. So she consulted Herr Kleinmann. They united against their mutual enemy. He promised to personallytake careof Nightingale.”
Sterling pictured the gashes in the library desk. “What’d he do?”
“Nothing.”
She squinted. “Huh? Why?”
Lightning flashed. Fernando scoffed.
Christoph arched his left brow. “Because Herr Kleinmann was the man behind Nightingale.”
He paused, awaiting something.
Fernando leapt forward. “Howdareyou sully Herr Kleinmann’s name in his own house!” he cried as thunder roared.
He punched the air in victory. Christoph yawned.
