Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887) Read Free

the moss to give way. “If it doesn’t,” Weiser had worried, “I’ll lose more money than I actually have.”
    As Braun neared the top. Weiser’s hands had grown clammy. That moss had to let go!
    Confident in reaching his goal and winning his bet, Braun had turned toward the crowd in an arrogant gesture. He had been 400 feet above his audience as he raised his right arm high in a bold salute.
    But this cocksure pose had been his undoing. Braun’s full body weight on his left side had been too much for the moss to maintain its grip on the tower. It had pulled away, slowly at first, then gathering momentum.
    Braun had clung to the tower for an agonizing moment, his silhouette clear against the growing light, before beginning to slide.
    The tower’s small ledge where the roof met its base had slowed his fall for an instant, but not enough to check his descent. He had crashed to the ground and lain motionless on the cobblestones.
    Braun’s friends had crowded around him, urging him to speak, but he could not. The fall had broken his back and he had died without opening his eyes.
    In their shock, Braun’s friends had forgotten about Weiser, who had quietly gone home with his pockets full of their money and no regrets.
    Four years after his wager with Braun, Weiser sat at Otto’s bar nursing a pint of lager and feeling sorry for himself. Although he enjoyed a profitable hobby wagering, it hadn’t satisfied his hunger for success. Moreover, his most recent project had just failed miserably. It was beginning to look as if he was never going to achieve the splendid social and financial life he desired.
    In Weiser’s unsophisticated eyes, membership in Nagold’s prestigious Boxing Club was a symbol of social success. The club was a stately stone mansion with fireplaces in each room, overstuffed leather chairs, and white-jacketed waiters. The men lounging in those overstuffed chairs were the city’s elite.
    The chairman of the Club’s board, Karl Schultz, had a son, and Weiser thought becoming Karl Jr.’s friend would get him into the club. Karl Jr. was not a popular person and was ecstatic to have Weiser’s attention, but his friendship did not get Weiser an invitation to join the club.
    Weiser’s next ploy had been to make Karl Jr. a celebrity, and what could be easier than helping him win a boxing contest?
    Regrettably, Weiser didn’t know much about boxing. He groaned inwardly as he remembered Schultz’s match earlier this afternoon. In his mind’s eye, he saw Schultz climb between the ropes and step into the ring, looking every inch a fighter in his white tights, narrow black sash knotted at the back, and high-top leather boots. Schultz had looked so good, Weiser had wagered heavily on Schultz, and it was money he didn’t actually have.
    But clothes don’t make a man, nor does a correct costume make a boy a fighter. After a few initial jabs, Karl Jr.’s opponent had grabbed hold of his blond curls, pummeled his face unmercifully, and thrown him ingloriously to the mat. Schultz had been down for the count, and Weiser had been left scrambling to pay off his bets.
    Weiser’s soul-searching was put aside when Jacob Waltz burst into Otto’s, hung his workman’s wool cap on a peg, and took a seat at the bar. Otto drew a lager and greeted him with a grin, “I hear you surprised the Gypsy fight crowd last night.”
    Waltz smiled modestly and said, “You heard about it already?”
    “Sure I did,” Otto replied, leaning his elbows on the bar. “This is a pretty small town.”
    Waltz lifted his beer to his mouth, drank heartily, wiped the foam from his whiskers, and said, “We was pretty even at first, but the other guy was out of shape. All I had to do was keep my guard up until he got tired of throwing punches.”
    Otto’s grin widened as he said, “The way I heard it, you laid him out cold.”
    The corners of Waltz’s mouth twitched and his greenish-brown hazel eyes crinkled as he said, “Well, I did