Mr. K clapped Fernando on the shoulder and gave a tiny, approving nod. “Bravo.”
Sterling prompted, “Herr Kleinmann?”
“After that guest complained, we confessed. He said it was a stupidly genius idea, but it inspired him. Serafina went to work for Madame onhisorders.”
Mr. K clicked his tongue. “My father would never betray the guests.”
“And he never did. Back then, profits dipped when new legal regulations prevented sex workers from selling services inside the Hotel. Your papa needed a new source of clients.”
Sterling pointed a finger. “Like Blanc de Noir’s escorts.”
“Exactly. And once Nightingale targeted them, they made a deal. In exchange for Madame’s escorts bringing clients here, Herr Kleinmann ensured Nightingale wastaken care of.”
Mr. K spoke through clenched teeth. “He never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.”
“Relax, Junior. It was all cigar smoke, cosmetic mirrors, and, in this case, a liter of pig’s blood. We went to the basement, I lay on the stone floor, and the theater’s makeup artist sculpted a frighteningly convincing stab wound on my stomach using stage putty. Herr Kleinmann invited Madame to the Hotel to view the crime scene and toast Nightingale’s demise. The ruse worked.”
Sterling wished she had a mustache to twirl as she said, “So Herr Kleinmann defeated an enemy of his own creation and left Madame in his debt for a murder that never happened.”
“And for the rest of his life, Herr Kleinmann supported my theater. When he died suddenly, everything changed.”
Floorboards creaked as Mr. K stepped forward. His father’s death had been the subject of many champagne-scented whispers. Any news articles back then were pruned to a polite minimum, but scandal bled between the lines.
The police had responded to reports of a woman screaming in a luxurious apartment in the Nineteenth District. Police found Vienna’s nightlife kingpin inside, dead from a heart attack. Rumors spread they’d found him in her bedroom, and her screams hadn’t been cries of fear but of pleasure.
Mr. K’s jaw tensed.
Christoph cowered. “Listen. Your fatherlovedyour mother. But his wandering eye traveled enough that it deserved its own passport.”
A vessel in Mr. K’s forehead throbbed.
Christoph strained his neck to look back at Mr. K. “I merely meanhis death didn’t shock those who knew him. But when Serafina died soon after, I wondered about the mystery woman mentioned in the papers. Maybe it was her.”
The story of Serafina’s death was already as brutal as a German fairy tale. Austrians didn’t end children’s stories withAnd they lived happily ever after. They said,And if they aren’t dead, then they’re still alive today.
“She pushed me away in those last months, hiding something related to her work. The last place she was seen was at the Eden Bar, with Rita.”
Rita stomped to the center of the circle, nostrils flaring. “Don’t try that shit with me, Christoph. You started this nonsense with your scheming.”
“And you failed to protect her in the end,” sneered Christoph.
“Fromwho?” spat Rita.
“You tell me.”
Rita raised her fists. “How about I come a little closer and tell you somethingrealnice.”
“Silence!” shouted Mr. K, effortlessly swooping one giant arm around Rita’s waist and carrying her across the room, her bony fists jabbing the air.
“Unhand me!” she cried, kicking him. He didn’t flinch and deposited her in a bar chair. “You’re in time-out, young lady.” He walked back, brushing mauve sparkles off his suit.
A hush fell. Floorboards creaked. Rita huffed. Harry rattled a pill from a mint tin, swallowed it dry, then winked at Beate. “Thanks for inviting me. Best play I’ve ever seen.”
“What does this have to do with Hedy?”
“I’ve blamed Madame Weiss for Serafina’s death for years but needed proof. I revived Nightingale to get it,” he said.
Sterling froze. “You killed my ex-girlfriend in, what, some twisted pursuit of justice for my aunt?”
