Page 82 of Angel of Vengeance

“Now: do you see that officious-looking man, whiskers quivering with self-righteousness?”

Holding the spectacles up by their gold handle, Livia peered through them. “No… Yes!” A pause. “What an odious little creature. He reminds me of that official who stopped our train at the Austrian border, then insisted on opening my trunk and putting his grubby hands all over my scanties.”

“How precisely you hit the mark! That man is, in fact, a customs official—and not unlike the homunculus you describe, he is full of the self-importance common to minor bureaucrats. As it happens, he’s here to see me.”

“Whatever business would you have with a man like that?”

“Very important business, my dear. He’s the illegitimate child of a woman named Maria Schicklgruber. His father’s name is unknown: the stories of his birth are as legion as the number of illegitimate children he’s sired—and will sire.”

“I see.” She lowered the lorgnette. “But why is he here to meet with you?”

“Before I answer, allow me to acquaint you with one more fact about the man: when he came of age, he changed his name from ‘Schicklgruber’ to something equally ludicrous: in demotic old German, it means ‘someone who lives in a hut.’”

“I have little doubt he does—but that still doesn’t explain your interest in him.”

“We’ll discuss that shortly; he’ll be here any minute. You see, I let it be known that were he to stamp some counterfeit export papers for me, he would receive a very handsome bribe, making his journey here most worthwhile. Ah—here he comes now.”

Grasping his cane, Diogenes stood up to greet the approaching guest. “Guten Abend, mein Herr.”

“I speak the English well enough,” the man said with a heavy accent.

“All the better. This is my companion, the Lady Livia. Would you care to join us?”

“Thank you, I would not.” The official eyed Livia up and down, not bothering to conceal his assumption she was a courtesan. Then he flicked some stray dust from his forearm. “Let us please transact this business of yours—the two of us, privately. I had a long and uncomfortable journey here.”

“Very well.” Diogenes gestured toward the turn of the balcony. “Shall we talk there, with a view of the waterfall?”

The man followed Diogenes as they turned the corner to face another long stretch of balcony—invisible from the frontage, and uninhabited at this hour of the afternoon. As they stopped short of the railing, a stray breeze—coated with fine mist from the waterfall—drifted over them.

“Verflucht!” the man said, annoyed.

“The wind drives in a bit of Nebel from the waterfall now and then during the afternoon. That’s why this balcony is so desolate at the moment. Refreshing, don’t you think?”

The man waved this away impatiently. “Lasst uns unsere Geschäfte schnell erledigen. You have some papers you wish stamped, nein?”

“No.”

The official gazed at him uncomprehendingly. “No? What do you mean?”

“That was a deception on my part. I called you here on account of our maidservant at this hotel—one Fräulein Rostig. When she was crossing from Slovenia with her fiancé last week, you gave her a difficult time at the border. In fact, you made the two of them wait for over an hour. I summoned you to compensate her for your rudeness.”

As the affront to his person began to sink in, an especially large spray—driven by the wind—doused the man from head to foot.

“Taking the waters, I see,” Diogenes went on, swinging his cane. “An excellent idea.”

“How dare you—!” The man turned to leave. Diogenes blocked his path.

“I’m not finished. Not only did you hinder our maidservant but, in pawing through her luggage, you managed to tear her most expensive frock. So: I shall collect twenty gulden from you as restitution for your rudeness—and your clumsiness.”

“Get out of my way!” the man said in red-eyed fury.

“Not until you do the gentlemanly thing: pay up.”

With an oath, the man raised a fist and charged like an enraged bull. Diogenes, however, merely swung his walking stick up to meet the rush—and in so doing triggered the eight-inch sword cane that sprang out the end, fast and silent as an adder’s tongue, so that the man impaled himself up to the hilt by his own furious inertia. The angry look on his face turned to surprise. Diogenes walked the man two steps back to the railing and hoisted him up, letting him dangle a moment. He tipped him over, watching as he slipped off the blade, and then—drumstick legs churning—tumbled down into the thunderous waterfall. Diogenes pushed the dagger back into its sheath by pressing the cane against the floor with a resounding flourish. He glanced around again: no witnesses. He leaned over the balcony for a final look into the waterfall. The body had vanished.

He strolled back around the corner and sat down. “Well now, where were we? I believe we were about to discuss our next destination.”

“My darling, you’re a little damp. What happened to that unpleasant little man?”

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