Part 22 (1/2)

Byron's clothes were equally scruffy and unremarkable, Gotthilf noted. In fairness, he had to admit-with reluctance-that the lieutenant hadn't asked him to do anything he wasn't willing to do himself. There were enough up-timers inMagdeburg these days, and enough down-timers starting to dress like up-timers, that his worn clothing attracted nothing more than the occasional calculating stare that a.s.sessed the value, then caught sight of Byron's face and looked away.

Although it was broad daylight, Gotthilf caught glimpses of women sidling up to men on the fringes of the crowd, offering themselves as they pursued the wherewithal to buy enough food to stay alive-or enough beer or spirits to stay drunk all night would be more like it. Young though he was, he had seen enough of the streets to have the cynical att.i.tude of one who had observed the worst that mankind could do to itself.

He had no illusions as to whether the raddled harridan he was watching at the moment would choose food or drink when darkness came.

Gotthilf's head turned forward again as another cross-street was reached. Byron stopped, which caused Gotthilf to halt as well. ”This the area?” the up-timer asked.

”Yes, Lieutenant.” The up-timer's abruptness irritated Gotthilf again, but he didn't let that interfere with his responsibilities. ”The people of these streets have little love for the town watch, but such complaints of theft as have made their ways to our ears seem to center near this street.”

”And no one has seen anything?”

”Not that we have heard.”

”Hmm.” Without speaking, the American moved to the west side of the street and leaned against the front of a building, hands in pockets.

After a moment, Gotthilf followed. ”The building is in no danger of falling, you know. We don't need to prop it up.” Byron's mouth formed a fleeting grin, but his eyes remained focused down the street. ”What are you doing?”

”Watching.”

”For what?”

”Don't know. I'll let you know when I see it, though.”

Gotthilf shook his head, wondering if all the Grantvillers were this crazy.

Willi settled into his corner in front of Zenzi's with a sigh. Erna hadn't come with him. She'd said something about Uncle wanting her to do some work somewhere else today and left before he did. The way had seemed longer than usual without her chattering beside him. He'd had to go slower, as well, but he'd walked the route often enough that his feet automatically took him to Zenzi's.

The rag across his eyes was securely in place, or so his testing fingers told him. Willi pulled his bowl out of his coat, salted it with the couple of quarteredHalle pfennigs like Uncle had told him to do and set it in front of him. He leaned back against the corner and propped his stick against his shoulder, settling in for the day. Pursing his lips, he began to whistle.

Byron felt the pressure of the wall on his shoulder blades as he stared down the street. He watched Gotthilf out of the corner of his eye as the youth looked around in imitation of what Byron had been doing the last few days. His gaze was slow, but Byron thought he was actually starting to observe what he was seeing.

Gotthilf looked back to him. ”This is some more of that pattern stuff again, isn't it?”

”Yep. That's what I'm trying to do here, today. Start understanding how this street works. Once we can see that, then we can start looking for the thief, because he'll stick out like one of the emperor's Finns at one of Mary Simpson's parties.”

That got a laugh from the young watchman.

Willi heard steps coming from the door of the bakery toward him. He c.o.c.ked his head for a moment, then smiled. ”Frau Zenzi.” He gave a nod. ”Good morning to you.”

From the sound of her steps, Frau Kreszentia Traugottin verw. Ostermann-known as Zenzi to one and all-was not a small woman. Her husband, Anselm, was the baker forDer Haus Des Brotes , but she was the one the buyers dealt with. She held her own in exchanges that sometimes were impa.s.sioned and occasionally vituperative. Willi had overheard descriptions of ancestry, personal appearance and habits that, if true, were incredible. And more than once he had heard her take up the hardwood oven paddle and use it to chase would-be thieves or extortionists from the bakery. Swung edgewise by someone who knew how to use it-which Zenzi did-the paddle could break bones and crack skulls.

For all that, however, Frau Zenzi had been nothing but kind to Willi from the first day that he hunkered down outside her shop. Whether it was his age or size or affliction, she had always had a kind word to say to him and would often slip him a piece of warm bread with b.u.t.ter. Once she had placed a sweet roll in his hands. Willi's mouth watered whenever he thought of that day, when he'd had a taste of heaven.

”So, Willi, how are you today?” Willi liked Frau Zenzi's voice. It was deep and warm and furry sounding, but would never be mistaken for a man's voice.

”Today I am fine, Frau Zenzi. And how is your business today?”

”Eh, well, it is not as good as I would like, but it is good enough. G.o.d provides.” Willi heard her clothes rustle as she bent down. ”Hold out your hand, Willi.”

He did so, and felt a cup placed in it. The tang of b.u.t.termilk came to him as he sipped.

”It's not much,” she said. ”I would have more, but the bread sold out early today, even the rolls that were burned on the bottom.”

Willi licked his lips, feeling the thick coating of the b.u.t.termilk on them. He lifted the empty cup and felt it taken from his hands. ”Thank you, Frau Zenzi. It was good.” He hesitated. ”Frau Zenzi? Why do you give this-the bread, the milk-why do you give them to me?”

He felt her kneel down in front of him, then her hand touched his head. ”Do you not know, young Willi?”

He shook his head. ”'Inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, you have done it unto me.' Those are the very words of Jesu Christus. I don't understand many things about the Bible, or about the words of Luther or Calvin, but these words of Jesu I understand. To the least, I will give. And you, young Willi, are among the least.”

She patted his head gently, then stood. Willi's throat felt swollen from the emotion he was feeling that moment. To think that someone did care for him even a little fueled a warmth in his belly that made him forget the cool day.

”Uff.” Frau Zenzi sounded disgusted. ”Here comes that Durr woman again, wanting us to bake something for her. If ever a name was fitting it is hers, for she is as thin and dry as an old stick.”

”She sounds mean,” Willi ventured.

”Ha! That's because she is mean, Willi my lad, for all her trying to sound sweet. Well, I'd best go deal with her. Soonest begun, soonest done.”

Willi heard her steps move off. He sat quietly in his darkness for a moment, feeling the warmth inside, then resumed his whistling.

Byron pushed away from the wall of the building. ”Come on. Let's go for a walk.” Gotthilf was beside him as he started down the street.

The pace was more of an amble than a walk. Byron kept his hands tucked into his jacket pockets as he looked around. He decided that most of these folks would have been right at home at an up-time flea market either as buyers or sellers. The energy, the conversations, the raised voices, even some of the gestures were all the same. If the people had been speaking English instead of German, this could have been the Sat.u.r.day morning meeting at the old drive-in theater over byFairmont .

One trade in particular caught Byron's attention. He was looking the right way to see several silver coins exchange hands for a single table knife, fork and spoon setting of stainless steel flatware. The vendor looked nervous when he saw Byron staring at him after the exchange was made.

”Don't look now,” Byron said after they were several steps past that point, ”but the fellow in the faded green coat may be dealing in stolen merchandise.Don't look,” without changing expression as Gotthilf started to turn.

”Why aren't you confronting him?” Gotthilf was scowling.

”Because I can't prove it . . . or at least not yet.”

”But you saw something back there.”

”Yep. I saw him sell something that could only have come from Grantville.” Gotthilf started to turn again, and Byron grabbed him by the arm. ”But . . . that doesn't mean it's stolen. Only that it might be.”

Gotthilf settled beside him again. ”So, you just ignore it?”

”No. Because it might be stolen. So it's our responsibility to look into it. We'll ask some questions in Grantville about what I saw. We'll ask some questions around here about this fellow. We'll start putting the pieces of the puzzle together, and depending on what picture we get we may arrest the guy.”

Gotthilf stopped. ”Pieces? Puzzle? Picture? What are you talking about? And what does that have to do with stolen property?”

Byron's jaw dropped for a moment. ”Um . . . I think we just tripped over an up-time thing.” He spent some time describing jigsaw puzzles, until Gotthilf understood the concept. ”So, police work is a lot like that process, except we have to make the pieces ourselves.”

”I understand . . . I think. But it seems like a lot of work when we could just arrest him now and have done with it. You saw it, you think the items were stolen, the magistrates would probably be satisfied with that.”