Good God! von Falkenburg thought.
“I met Herr Lasky on one occasion only,” von Falkenburg said, trying to keep his voice natural.
“Yes, on the night he was murdered, I believe.” Rogge looked him straight in the eyes – Rogge’s were a very, very pale blue – and although von Falkenburg was able to return the stare, meeting Rogge’s glance was not pleasant.
“That is correct, the night he was murdered,” von Falkenburg said. There was no point in denying something that Rogge already knew.
“But,” Rogge went on, “you do not seem to have regarded Herr Lasky’s death as something to report to the police.”
Von Falkenburg nearly committee the mistake of saying that he had been too shocked by Lasky’s death to contact the police. But on the brink of the precipice he realized that to say that would have been to admit that he had been present at Lasky’s death.
“I only learned of Herr Lasky’s demise from the newspapers, so I had no information to report.”
“Yet you were the last person to see him alive, Captain.” Von Falkenburg realized that the look in Rogge’s eyes was very much like that in Major Becker’s when the latter accused him of espionage.
“I assume the last person to see him alive was his killer, Herr Kommissar.”
“Of course, captain.” But the tone of Rogge’s voice indicated more clearly than could any words his conviction that von Falkenburg was the last person to see Lasky alive because he and Lasky’s killer were one and the same.
“Herr Kommissar, I have things to do….”
“Yes, Captain, but this is official business. Now how could you have possibly thought it not worth our while to hear your account of Herr Lasky’s meeting with you shortly before his death?”
“Herr Lasky and I had private business to discuss, which we discussed at the place of his choosing. Since that business could not possibly have anything to do with Herr Lasky’s death, I saw no need to waste the police’s time or my own.” Even as he said this, von Falkenburg realized how unconvincing it was.
“Captain, we have great respect for the army. But you understand, I trust, that a murder is a serious matter.”
“Justice is a serious matter too, Herr Kommissar.”
“Quite so,” Rogge replied. “And justice is indeed our business. I hope I do not have to bother you again, Captain, but I am afraid I might. A very good day to you, Captain.”
Rogge bowed very low and withdrew.
As soon as he was gone, von Falkenburg clutched the back of the nearest chair in fury and consternation until his knuckles were white.
He knew exactly why Rogge had called on him. Everything about the man’s tone of voice, about the look in his eyes and the direction of his questioning, indicated clearly that he regarded von Falkenburg as the prime suspect in the murder of Lasky.
Von Falkenburg had sworn to avenge the little reporter, and it was an oath he intended to carry out if he possibly could. But in that dark street, bending over Lasky’s corpse, he had realized that any involvement with the police and likely attendant publicity would destroy all chances of finding his enemies – who were also Lasky’s killers – before the fatal seven days were up.
So he had left the body lying in its blood, and trusted to the darkness and emptiness of the street, and the fact that no one in the Café Kunstmann knew his name – assuming they wanted anything to do with the police, which was highly unlikely – to protect him.
But here was this police commissar calling on him, making what was clearly a exploratory probe, the first move in a psychological cat-and-mouse game. Doing so on the basis of what information?
According to the newspapers, Lasky’s body had been found in the morning. So if anyone had seen Lasky’s killers, he had not bothered to report the fact.
No, the denunciation that had brought Rogge here could have only come from one source.
Von Falkenburg saw now just how badly he had underestimated the brilliance of his unknown enemies. They had not merely silenced Lasky. They had simultaneously covered their own tracks and cast suspicion on himself.
He felt sure, somehow, that Rogge was not one of them, just as he felt sure that Major Becker was not. But Rogge was dangerous for exactly the same reason that Becker was. Rogger was obviously very intelligent, very determined, and interested above all in bringing his case as quickly as possible to a successful conclusion. He was the kind of detective who would snap at any clue like a dog going after a piece of raw meat.
So far, he did not have any hard evidence against him. That was why he had withdrawn after only a few minutes of sparring, after making a reconnaissance in force, even though he had clearly not believed a word von Falkenburg had said.
But he would be back. And the same enemies who had been able to fabricate evidence that had convinced Major Becker that von Falkenburg was a spy would have no trouble producing “proof” for Commissar Rogge that he was a murderer.
Doubtless they were going slowly because of the need to feed Rogge the evidence in such a way that the man believed he was “solving” the case. But who could tell at what rate they would proceed? Conviction was not the goal. Arrest on charges of murder would mean instant confinement and the end to his already-fading hopes of unmasking his foes before his week was up.
Rogge would be back. And when he came, that would mean the noose was being pulled that much tighter….
Von Falkenburg looked at the mantelpiece clock. It showed nine in the morning of the Fourth Day. His time was running out very fast.
Well, he thought, despair never accomplished anything, appalling though this latest development was. He buckled on his sword and pulled on his white gloves. He would go to Helena as planned. Who knows? She might even have some idea about how he could go about finding out who Putzi was.
Besides, he had been away from her for a whole night, and that was already far too long….
* * *
“My God, you look glorious!” von Falkenburg exclaimed as the maid showed him into Helena’s boudoir.
And she did, too. Helena in her dressing gown would be a marvelous sight anyway, he realized. But Helena with that look on her face that was half little girl pout, half regal haughtiness, was enough to clear any man’s mind of memories of a previous night’s dissipation. Or even of memories of something as unpleasant as a visit from Th. Paul Rogge, Commissar with the Criminal Police.
“Good morning, Ernst,” she said with a decided coolness that took him aback.
Women! he thought. She had known that he had to go to Madame Rosa’s, known that his life depended on going there, had agreed that he should go…and here she was, as jealous as she herself had predicted she would be. For an idiotic moment he thought of making an amused observation to her to this effect, but fortunately he came to his senses in time.
“I’m sorry, Helena. Do you forgive me?” was what he said instead.
And Helena laughed with that wonderful, clear laugh of hers and said, “forgive you Ernst? What on earth is there to forgive? You didn’t think I was jealous, did you?”
“All I was thinking of was how beautiful you are.”
“As beautiful as the girls at Madame Rosa’s?”
“Much more,” he replied, taking her in his arms. Her fingers worked quickly to unfasten the buttons of his uniform, while he slid her dressing gown off of her shoulders and caressed her glorious breasts, the breasts of a goddess….
When passion was spent – for the moment – and their clothes were once more in order, Helena rang for her maid and told her to bring them breakfast.
“You haven’t had any yet, have you Ernst?”
“No, I was going to, but I was interrupted.”
The interruption had been the visit of Commissar Rogge.
“Interrupted?” she asked with slightly raised eyebrows, quizzical and slightly suspicious.
“Don’t worry, Helena, by a male visitor.”
“Anyone interesting?”
“In a
way. He was from the police.”
“The police?” Von Falkenburg could see that she was genuinely shocked.
“Oh, it was nothing. They just thought that because I knew Lasky, I might be able to give them some information that would be useful to them in finding his killers.”
He tried to keep his voice light and unconcerned, but he could see from the look of distress on her face that she guessed the truth, or a good part of it. Be she did not ask him to tell her more. He understood that she knew he wanted to keep from worrying her, and he could see the struggle as she tried – without much success – to keep her face from showing concern.
“Did you learn anything useful last night, Ernst?” she asked suddenly as the maid entered with the breakfast tray.
“A little, but I don’t know how much good it will do me.”
“Such as?”
“I learned the nickname – but only the nickname – of the friend of von Lauderstein’s who meets with him at Madame Rosa’s. You know, the friend mentioned by von Lauderstein’s girl, Mademoiselle Whatshername….”
“Mademoiselle Adèle d’Églantine, a.k.a. ‘The Nightingale of the Vienna Woods,’” Helena said with a smile.
“Right. The friend is known there simply as ‘Putzi.’”
“Putzi?” Helena exclaimed before he could go on.
“You know Putzi?” von Falkenburg asked incredulously.
“Personally, hardly at all. But I know who he is, and when my husband was alive I met him a few times. If you weren’t such a poor, patriotic dear, spending all your time serving the Emperor instead of guaranteeing your career by making connections at Court, you’d have met him too.”
“But who is he?” von Falkenburg asked.
“Putzi? He’s Prince Robert von Lipprecht.”
The Lipprechts, von Falkenburg knew, were an ancient family, and reportedly a very wealthy and influential one, but he had never met any of its members face to face.
“And he moves in Court circles?”
“Yes. I remember hearing it said that he was good friends with some archduke or another.”
“That’s handy,” von Falkenburg said. Archdukes were members of the Imperial Family. Anyone who had an archduke for a friend would be beyond his reach.
“Not a first rank archduke, though,” Helena went on. “I think someone from one of the more distant collateral lines.”
Collateral or not, von Falkenburg knew that any archduke who had a liking for Putzi could pose him serious problems.
“You say you met Putzi at various times?” he asked.
“Yes. I remember he was an older man, very handsome in a cold sort of way.
“Was he a friend of your husband’s?”
“Of Louis? Oh no, he was completely another type.”
“Meaning?” Von Falkenburg suddenly felt a strong desire to know more about the man whom Helena had married, a desire that had nothing to do with the practical matter at hand.
“Louis was a true bon vivant,” she said. “Wine, women, song…. Maybe that’s why he married an operetta singer. That took care of the last two categories, and as for the first, it took care of his liver, poor dear.”
She said that with such obvious sympathy for her late husband that von Falkenburg felt a wave of jealously surge over him.
“Ernst,” she said very gently, but very intently, “don’t be silly. Louis was…well, a charming man, a kind man, and for all his drinking and infidelity, I wouldn’t want to have missed being married to him. But Ernst, he wasn’t you.”
Her blue, blue eyes were so filled with affection and warmth as she gazed at him that he felt how silly and unworthy his jealousy of the dead Other had been.
“Anyway, Ernst,” she said, changing the subject with that perfect sense of timing she had, “Putzi wasn’t like that at all, as I remember.”
“He didn’t like wine, women and song?”
“If he did,” she said, “I suspect only on a secondary level. He seemed very…very self-contained, if you know what I mean. Distant. At a reception or ball, one felt his thoughts were elsewhere.”
“And his archduke friend?”
“I can’t remember the name. But I can ask around. Being a widow has clipped my social wings a bit, but I still have lots of lady friends who are active in those circles.”
“Helena….”
“Please Ernst, please.” She said that with such intensity that his protest died on his lips.
“I’ll be careful, Ernst. Don’t worry. I promise to limit my inquiries to elderly baronesses.”
“Very well, Helena. But for God’s sake remember the kind of people we’re dealing with.”
There was a beautiful little telephone on her bedside table, all brass and ivory. He picked up the receiver.
“You mind?” he asked, adding “I’ve just had an idea of someone who may be able to give me some more information on Putzi or von Lauderstein, though it will cost me a lunch.”
* * *
“Servus, von Horgenhoff.”
“Servus, von Falkenburg.”
Von Horgenhoff had just come to the table in the Sacher restaurant where von Falkenburg was seated waiting for him. Von Horgenhoff had earlier given von Falkenburg a lead on Lasky. Now it had occurred to him that since the impoverished ex-officer did the social page for the newspaper he worked for, he might know something about Putzi and von Lauderstein.
“I think I’ll have the crayfish soup and a Naturschnitzel,” von Horgenhoff said, looking at the menu. “What about you, von Falkenburg?”
“Sounds fine to me. And a bottle of Gumpoldskircher?”
Von Horgenhoff nodded. Von Falkenburg was anxious to start asking questions, but he knew he must not force the pace. He had invited von Horgenhoff to have lunch with him, and he knew that von Horgenhoff considered impatience a “vulgar” trait. Not that he cared what von Horgenhoff thought of him, but he knew that in the presence of what he considered “vulgarity,” the man lapsed into a state of ironic distain which, while it lasted, made him useless for all practical purposes. It was a trait that had become all the more pronounced now that von Horgenhoff had to earn his bread as a society columnist.
The waiter brought the soup, which was excellent, as everything at the Sacher always was. Von Horgenhoff savored it slowly, almost sensuously. Von Falkenburg noticed the perfect elegance with which the man was dressed. He could guess that if von Horgenhoff really had to live off of what his paper paid him, dressing like that could not leave much left over for expensive lunches.
Finally, the soup was finished, and the waiter poured the Gumpoldskirchner, which had been chilling in a silver bucket full of ice. Cool and gold and soft, but without any hint of stickiness. As far as von Falkenburg was concerned, it was a match for Tokai any time. But that was not what he had on his mind.
Von Horgenhoff lifted the glass, and held it against the light as he gazed at its contents. Then he sipped appreciatively, and placed the glass back on the table.
“Well, von Falkenburg, how can I be of help to you? Couldn’t that fellow Eimerband give you the information you wanted?”
“It’s something else I need to know. I suppose you know Putzi?”
“Robert von Lipprecht? Oh yes, or rather I know of him. I’m afraid my present circumstances don’t permit any personal acquaintance.”
“What’s he said to be like?”
“Impeccable dresser, good shot, superb rider,” von Horgenhoff replied. It was evident that he regarded the three qualities he had just described as the three most important things one could know about a man. Von Falkenburg thought of Helena’s far more penetrating psychological sketch.
“He hangs around with members of the Imperial Family, doesn’t he, von Horgenhoff?”
“Oh at that level of society, there are always archdukes around. The archdukes can’t just hang out with one another.”
“Any particular friends of Putzi’s among them?”
“Hard to say,” von Horgenhoff a
nswered evasively. Von Falkenburg was not sure whether von Horgenhoff did not want to gossip about such highly placed people, or whether his job as a social columnist did not give him a chance to learn about such exalted circles.
The waiter served the unbreaded veal cutlets. Von Horgenhoff squeezed some lemon juice on his, then took up the massive silver knife and fork.
“Putzi’s a friend of a Colonel von Lauderstein, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. All I know about von Lauderstein is that he is one of the pillars of the Jockey Club. Oh, and he must be rich. At least the last I heard.”
Von Horgenhoff knew from personal experience that being rich was not necessarily a permanent condition.
“What makes you say that?” von Falkenburg asked.
“He play baccarat and often loses. But his credit is always good. There has never been any trouble about his debts.”
“How recent is this information of yours?”
“Mm, a few days old. As a matter of fact, it was a good friend of yours…what’s his name…Count Wroclinski…who told me a story about that.”
“Wroclinski is still in town?” von Falkenburg asked, surprised. He knew that at this time of year his friend was usually on his vast estates in Galicia.
“He was a couple of days ago. I ran into him at the Jockey Club. I think he has a new mistress who’s an actress, or something, and he’s having a hard time tearing himself away from her.”
“And the story about von Lauderstein that Wroclinski told you?”
“‘Fraid I can’t really remember it too well. I’d been paying close attention to the wine when he told me it. But I remember it had something to do with von Lauderstein and his good credit. Sorry, old man.”
Even though the rest of the food was excellent, too, von Falkenburg found himself squirming with impatience for the meal to be over. Wroclinski was in town still! Wroclinski, von Falkenburg was aware, seemed to know everyone, and he had told some story about von Lauderstein. About von Lauderstein and money…!
Finally the coffee and cognac were drunk, the cigars smoked, and von Horgenhoff left him to go back to work. Von Falkenburg headed for Wroclinski’s mansion.
* * *
Wroclinski lived in a superb little baroque palace, complete with authentic 17th century furnishings. All the energy he expended in nightlife still left him enough to pursue his hobby of collecting art works and antiques. With his money and his languid air, Wroclinski would have made a fine cavalry officer, von Falkenburg thought as he rang the doorbell. Well, no, perhaps not. Wroclinski was too intelligent for the cavalry.
Thomas Ochiltree Page 11
