broom heads from his days as a janitor in the navy.” It wasn't the kind of joke you would ever make to the man's face.
The Prussian had once been a high-ranking naval officer, clearly on track to become an admiral. But rumors swirled about an incident with a young officer's wife that had ended his military career in scandal and disgrace. And if the stories had followed him all the way to New York it was hard to imagine that there wasn't at least some truth to them. But he was also a well-respected member of the Paragons, and seemed to have avoided repeating whatever mistakes it was that he had made on the other side of the Atlantic. “Perhaps ve can hear vat Darby's vishes are mitout having to zit through ze whole thing.” The heavy accent was spit out with a staccato bluster from underneath his waxed mustache. “Und zose who still vish to can read every magical verd of vat he had to say for zemselves.” It would have been comical if not for his casual disrespect of Darby's final words.
When the Submersible had first joined the Paragons her father had taken a shine to the rotund Prussian, and for a short while they had been best of friends. Her father had often brought Grüsser over to the house, and after dinner they would spend hours discussing military strategies, historical and imaginary.
But Sarah, still a girl at the time, had disliked Grüsser from the first moment she met him. Something about the man reminded her of a troll, and there was no proof that he wouldn't actually eat a child given the chance.
And then, just about the time the rumors began to circulate among the staff, his visits to the mansion ceased completely. Nothing was said, but Grüsser was no longer mentioned by her father, except that a few times her father warned her that “the German” wasn't the kind of man that it was safe for her to be around alone.
During those few occasions where she had been forced to interact with him socially, she had found Grüsser's leering smiles and forced compliments most unpleasant. His eyes would rove up, down, and across her figure as they spoke, and it sent shivers down her spine. There was clearly something not right about the man. “Vat I am more conzerned viz is Darby's requests fur der future of der Paragons,” he said.
“Excuse me,” said another voice, breaking into the conversation. She couldn't see him, but the Sleuth's English accent was easily recognizable, even if she had never heard his polished tones being used in such a commanding and penetrating manner as they were right now. “But these are the final words to us from the man who was responsible for the founding of this organization.” There was also an undercurrent of reprimand and condescension, and in her head Sarah applauded him for it. “I think that the Industrialist deserves our full attention, as does the memory of Sir Dennis. I doubt that simply reading off his wishes like a grocery list would give us the full benefit of his wisdom, even if we do decide to go against his final requests.”
To Sarah, Peter Wickham seemed to be the opposite of the rotund German in every way. He was trim instead of fat, honestly standoffish instead of falsely close, prim and proper instead of ostentatious and gross. He had also always been kind to her, even if he didn't seem to pay her much attention. As a game she would sometimes stare directly at him, seeing how long it would take him to realize that someone was watching him with the same degree of intensity he usually gave everyone else. Sarah had never managed to count to ten before his gaze caught hers.
From her hidden vantage point she could see Helmut Grüsser nodding primly at the Englishman. “Of course, my dear Vickham. I have nozink but der greatest respect for our departed leader.…”
The Industrialist cut him off. “Then you'll allow me to continue.” There was a moment of strained silence, and then the Submersible relented. “Ja, of course.” He gave a prim salute.
The Prussian had once been a high-ranking naval officer, clearly on track to become an admiral. But rumors swirled about an incident with a young officer's wife that had ended his military career in scandal and disgrace. And if the stories had followed him all the way to New York it was hard to imagine that there wasn't at least some truth to them. But he was also a well-respected member of the Paragons, and seemed to have avoided repeating whatever mistakes it was that he had made on the other side of the Atlantic. “Perhaps ve can hear vat Darby's vishes are mitout having to zit through ze whole thing.” The heavy accent was spit out with a staccato bluster from underneath his waxed mustache. “Und zose who still vish to can read every magical verd of vat he had to say for zemselves.” It would have been comical if not for his casual disrespect of Darby's final words.
When the Submersible had first joined the Paragons her father had taken a shine to the rotund Prussian, and for a short while they had been best of friends. Her father had often brought Grüsser over to the house, and after dinner they would spend hours discussing military strategies, historical and imaginary.
But Sarah, still a girl at the time, had disliked Grüsser from the first moment she met him. Something about the man reminded her of a troll, and there was no proof that he wouldn't actually eat a child given the chance.
And then, just about the time the rumors began to circulate among the staff, his visits to the mansion ceased completely. Nothing was said, but Grüsser was no longer mentioned by her father, except that a few times her father warned her that “the German” wasn't the kind of man that it was safe for her to be around alone.
During those few occasions where she had been forced to interact with him socially, she had found Grüsser's leering smiles and forced compliments most unpleasant. His eyes would rove up, down, and across her figure as they spoke, and it sent shivers down her spine. There was clearly something not right about the man. “Vat I am more conzerned viz is Darby's requests fur der future of der Paragons,” he said.
“Excuse me,” said another voice, breaking into the conversation. She couldn't see him, but the Sleuth's English accent was easily recognizable, even if she had never heard his polished tones being used in such a commanding and penetrating manner as they were right now. “But these are the final words to us from the man who was responsible for the founding of this organization.” There was also an undercurrent of reprimand and condescension, and in her head Sarah applauded him for it. “I think that the Industrialist deserves our full attention, as does the memory of Sir Dennis. I doubt that simply reading off his wishes like a grocery list would give us the full benefit of his wisdom, even if we do decide to go against his final requests.”
To Sarah, Peter Wickham seemed to be the opposite of the rotund German in every way. He was trim instead of fat, honestly standoffish instead of falsely close, prim and proper instead of ostentatious and gross. He had also always been kind to her, even if he didn't seem to pay her much attention. As a game she would sometimes stare directly at him, seeing how long it would take him to realize that someone was watching him with the same degree of intensity he usually gave everyone else. Sarah had never managed to count to ten before his gaze caught hers.
From her hidden vantage point she could see Helmut Grüsser nodding primly at the Englishman. “Of course, my dear Vickham. I have nozink but der greatest respect for our departed leader.…”
The Industrialist cut him off. “Then you'll allow me to continue.” There was a moment of strained silence, and then the Submersible relented. “Ja, of course.” He gave a prim salute.
Similar Books
