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

something in the past, or at least, something in Valeri’s past. There was a story there, Gretel knew it, and any story that wrought such an alteration in the girl was worth looking into.
    â€œForgive me, Fraulein, but I had best get Herr Durer back to his rooms.” Valeri was quickly her smiling self again, as if she refused to let whatever darkness it was she associated with Dr. Phelps cloud her sunny day for a second longer than she had to. “We will see you at eleven, then?”
    â€œAs the clock strikes,” Gretel assured her.
    She watched the unlikely pair wheel away, and then, good as her word, headed around the side of the hotel to examine the rear. The unremarkable street that served the tradesman’s entrance to the building was, much to Gretel’s chagrin, cobbled. Cobbles and kitten heels were not a happy match, so that her naturally confident stride was reduced to a mincing wobble, which was as inefficient as it was unattractive. She soldiered on. The route was entirely bordered on one side by the hotel. On the other were the hotel stables, what looked to be a storehouse, possibly also belonging to the hotel, and a row of workaday shops, including a butcher’s, a baker’s, and a candlestick maker’s. The tempting fumes from the bakery reminded Gretel that breakfast was some time ago. She must resist, however. With luck, Herr Durer would continue to prove himself a man of good sense by offering her pastries with her coffee in a little while.
    A singularly bulbous cobble caught Gretel unawares so that she stumbled and was forced to stagger against the rough stone wall of the store house to steady herself.
    A passing ostler leered at her openly. “I’d take more water with it at this hour if I was you, my love,” he scoffed.
    Gretel was too taken aback to form a reply. The man seemed to be implying that she was in her cups, simply because she had lost her footing. And that lascivious look he had given her . . . what manner of people frequented this narrow street, she wondered. As if in answer to her question two women, brightly dressed, arm in arm, laughing raucously at some private joke, came into view. Their clothes, upon closer inspection, suggested they plied their ancient trade in the hours of darkness. There was a swagger to their hips, a harshness to their laughter, a flamboyance about them, that put together could only add up to their being women whom polite society shunned, even though most of their clientele were made up of it. Gretel kept herself still and quiet. As the pair reached the back of the Grand,they stopped, and seemed to be pressing against the stone wall itself. Puzzled, Gretel waited. One of the women glanced over her shoulder, as if she did not wish to be spied and was checking for any who might be watching. Gretel could not be certain if she had noticed her, but if she did she paid no heed. Her companion pushed again at the stones and suddenly they seemed to give way. An opening appeared. A secret entrance. Judging by the angle at which the strumpets descended into it, there must, Gretel deduced, be steps down into some sort of passageway. Within seconds there was no trace of the women, nor of the doorway.
    Gretel hurried, in her stuttering steps, across the street to the very spot. At first glance there was nothing to be seen but solid wall. She ran her hands over the stones, searching for some manner of handle or lever. Finding none she began to thump the slabs, the rough surface of the wall painfully hard and unyielding against her hands. She was at a loss to discover the mechanism that would open the hidden door, when there was a clunk and a scraping sound, and a section of the stonework swung open, as if on huge hinges. Gretel peered inside. She had no notion of what it was that had triggered the thing to open, and was concerned that it might just as quickly slam shut again. The opening led, as she had anticipated, onto a passageway that