Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints by P. J. Brackston Page A

Gretel had seen no sign of a green hat, and somehow could not imagine him as a member of the Society of the Praying Hands. But then, didn’t hotel people necessarily have wide ranging contacts? One could surely know an art dealer with scant scruples without oneself being an art aficionado.
    With such thoughts swirling in her head, the beer softening her mental acumen, and the black bread sitting heavy in her stomach, Gretel gave way to the irresistible force of sleep.

SEVEN
    B y the time Gretel staggered back down the cobbled street and into the square the clock in the tower was striking three in the morning. She was glad of the lateness of the hour, for it meant her disheveled state and ruined red dress were obscured by darkness, and there were few people abroad to see her. Head down, she hurried to the apartment block without so much as a backward glance in the direction of the Grand, and took the lift up to Wolfie’s flat. She had planned to creep directly to her room, but she heard sounds of ribald laughter coming from the kitchen. Upon investigation, she found Hans and Wolfie, both clearly the worse for drink, feasting upon their usual all-encompassing selection from the store cupboard.
    â€œAh, sister mine! We have had the most marvelous time. We are just back from a night of revelry in this splendid city and found we were a mite peckish. Join us, do!”
    â€œSugar Plum!” was all Wolfie could manage before dissolving into a fit of hysterical giggles.
    Gretel sighed. Her night had been testing enough without having to contend with drunken dolts, one of whom she was related to, and the other being her host, preventing her from beating them about the head with the nearest soup ladle. Which is what she felt like doing.
    â€œIf you’ll excuse me,” she said, turning to go, “I’m for my bed. I’m rather tired.”
    â€œYes,” said Hans, “you do look a little . . . frayed around the edges.”
    Wolfie took a swig of beer from a singularly ugly toby jug before wiping his dripping moustache with his sleeve. “Oh dear, what have you been up to, naughty, naughty Sugar Plum?” he asked, before descending into gulping hilarity once more. He laughed with such vigor, throwing his head back, his whiskers billowing in the gales of his guffaws, that he almost tipped his chair off its legs. Gretel silently wished he would. Anything to shut him up.
    â€œDash it all, Gretel,” Hans gesticulated vaguely at the food, “party’s in full swing, night yet young, an’ all that. You can’t go to bed now.”
    â€œI can and I must. I am weary to my bones.”
    â€œWhat you need is a good feed. Ain’t that so, Wolfie?”
    But Wolfie, having tipped forward with some force, was now face down in his plate of sauerkraut and, though breathing, was beyond speaking. Gretel hesitated. Perhaps a slender slice of salami. A pickled egg, maybe. It had been many hours since the stale black bread. It didn’t do to go to bed on an empty stomach, experience had taught her that.
    â€œVery well,” she said, sitting at the table. “Ten minutes and a little bite of something . . .”
    â€œThat’s the spirit!” Hans toasted her with an overflowing stein.
    Gretel helped herself to some of the more tempting morsels on offer. She was relieved to find her appetite returning properly as she ate. There was a point in the preceding few hours when she wondered if she would ever be quite herself again. When Mistress Crane had come into the room to tell her she had her first eager client waiting, her courage had near deserted her. Mercifully, the seamstress had proved ponderous, so that several long hours ticked by before the costume was ready. It took three maids to heave, lace, button and buckle Gretel into the slinky leather creation. True to her design stipulations, she was indeed entirely encased, save for her eyes, nose and mouth. She had had