Thomas Ochiltree

by Death Waltz in Vienna

  “Of course not, Putzi,” von Falkenburg replied, moving a pawn to oppose the pawn Putzi had moved.

  “Question of your famous code of honor, von Falkenburg? Or because you find winning more fun without cheating, just as seducing a girl is more fun than paying a whore?”

  “Both, Putzi.”

  “And yet you’ll still have to shoot yourself tomorrow morning – by 8:00 A.M. I believe. That’s because your honor cripples you, von Falkenburg. You didn’t realize that I would move as quickly as I did to eliminate von Lauderstein, did you? You go into battle unarmed, von Falkenburg, because ruthlessness is the only weapon that is of any use nowadays.”

  Von Falkenburg glanced down at the chessboard, where the two of them had continued to play while talking. He could see that Putzi was already establishing a sound tactical advantage there, just as he was in their conversation.

  “I have something I think may be of interest to you, Putzi,” he said, taking a piece of paper from inside his tunic.

  Putzi unfolded it and looked at it quickly.

  “My compliments, von Falkenburg, this time you managed to move more quickly than I did – though not decisively enough.”

  He reached down and moved his bishop. Von Falkenburg could see that in his next move, Putzi would be able to force an exchange of pieces that would put him in an even stronger position on the board.

  “Should I attribute your failure to rip that paper to shreds and throw it in the fire to your self control, Putzi, or to your realization that I have another copy?”

  “The latter. If I thought it would be in my interest to act in an undignified manner, I would not hesitate for an instant, von Falkenburg. But I have never found it in my interest to do so. When did you get this from von Lauderstein?”

  “Three in the morning. Right after his desperate interview with you.”

  “A yes, the interview in which I told him I would not forgive him either for bungling the kidnapping of Princess von Rauffenstein or for having contact with you. The interview in which I decided – without telling him, of course – to have him killed.”

  “I always thought the bully boys were von Lauderstein’s squad, Putzi.”

  “Basically they were. Certainly as far as recruitment was concerned. But unlike you, I always believe in having an ace up my sleeve, von Falkenburg.”

  “Well, while you were setting up his murder – I hope you don’t mind my calling it that, Putzi – he made it back to me.”

  “And?”

  “He told me he was willing to co-operate with me, as I had suggested to him in the club. He knew that you would never pay his debt with von Plugge, and that he was afraid you would kill him. His own strong arm force was gone, eliminated by me.”

  “What did you offer him, von Falkenburg?”

  “What does one offer to a person like that, Putzi? money. Enough to get away to Italy and start a new life.”

  “It was doubtless money of Princess von Rauffenstein which you offered,” Putzi said.

  “At her insistence, Putzi.”

  “Women are like that, von Falkenburg. Always willing to help a man they really love. I’ve never had any doubts about what bad fortune it was for me that you met someone like her.”

  “And good fortune for me in ways you can’t understand, Putzi. But in exchange for the money, von Lauderstein gave me two copies of this confession in his own hand which incriminates you, and another document which I have not brought because it could not be duplicated: a very interesting letter from the Russian embassy to him mentioning you.”

  Bib took a sip of brandy, and reached his long, elegant fingers towards the chessboard. He took one of von Falkenburg’s rooks.

  “The game seems to be going badly for you, von Falkenburg.”

  “The one on the chessboard, yes. But I’m not so sure about our other game, Putzi.”

  “For heaven’s sake, von Falkenburg, you know as well as I do that this accusation of von Lauderstein’s and this other paper – which I’m sure you have because von Lauderstein alluded to it – are hardly going to save your life. You gave your word to your colonel that you would shoot yourself if you did not come up with conclusive proof of your innocence within a period that expires at 8:00 A.M. tomorrow. There is a signed confession of yours on file with the authorities. There is a stack of documents incriminating you that cost me considerable trouble and expense to have forged. Indications that someone else might be guilty too does not prove that you are innocent. This statement of von Lauderstein’s exonerates you, but von Lauderstein has vanished. That hardly makes him a very reliable source of information. I know you as well as you know yourself, von Falkenburg. I know your type. You have failed to prove your innocence. Since you gave your word of honor to your colonel that in that event you would kill yourself rather than stand trial, you will kill yourself. You will because that’s the way you’re constructed.”

  A glance at the chessboard showed von Falkenburg that his position there would soon be quite hopeless.

  “You’re right, Putzi,” he replied. “Unless I can get something better than this statement of von Lauderstein’s, I will kill myself.”

  “And do you still think you can get that something better, von Falkenburg?”

  “I thought you might give it to me, Putzi.”

  “For what reason?”

  “The only reason you ever do anything, Putzi.”

  “Selfish self-interest? In this case, I’m afraid I don’t see it, von Falkenburg.”

  “By itself, this document I’ve just shown you, and the other one I mentioned, are not sufficient to save me. But they could certainly cause you a lot of trouble.”

  “A certain amount, von Falkenburg. But I have many contacts and connections, and something tells me that once you are buried, this affair will be too.”

  “Not necessarily, Putzi. Don’t forget that in exchange for my suicide, the guilt for the espionage is not to be hung on me. I have that as the word of my colonel and Major Becker, neither of whom I like, but both of whom, in their own way, are honorable men. Thus, the case will remain unsolved, and with what I have here – and will leave behind me in appropriate hands – there will always be suspicion against you. We both know that ruining me was purely ancillary to what you and the Archduke Karl-Maria really wanted to achieve. Even if your ‘contacts and connections’ keep you out of jail, your scheming days will be over.”

  Putzi remained outwardly unperturbed by his words. But that they had their effect was clear. For in making a move with a knight that would otherwise have virtually sewed up the chess game for him, he left his queen uncovered.

  “Advisor to His Majesty King Karl-Maria…do you really want to give that up, Putzi?”

  As he spoke, he moved his remaining rook to take Putzi’s queen. Putzi watched von Falkenburg’s fingers as they picked up his piece and moved it to one side of the inlaid board. Then he looked up at von Falkenburg.

  “What exactly are you driving at, von Falkenburg?”

  “I assume you’re a good shot, Putzi. After all, you’re good at almost everything that doesn’t require morality or decency.”

  Putzi started to laugh.

  “A duel, von Falkenburg? By God, you’re true to form. It only surprises me that this feudalistic mania didn’t surface sooner.”

  “I rejected the idea of challenging you earlier, because I knew then you wouldn’t fight me, since it was not in your self-interest to do so.”

  “And now it is?”

  “That’s for you to decide. It seems you have two basic options at present. One is to do nothing. Tomorrow morning, I shoot myself, in accordance with the word of honor I gave my colonel.”

  “Excellent, excellent. I like that option, von Falkenburg.”

  “I wonder if you really like it quite as much as you say, Putzi. I’ll be gone, it is true, but I will have left behind me evidence that you were engaged in high treason. Conclusive evidence? No, but very inconvenient for you, nevertheless.”


  The loss of his queen had completely unbalanced Putzi’s position on the chessboard, and von Falkenburg pressed home his advantage.

  “What’s the second option, von Falkenburg?”

  “The second option is based on two facts: the first of these is that if you can get back the two copies of von Lauderstein’s confession which I have, plus the letter from the Russian embassy, you will have won completely. Check, by the way.”

  “And?” Putzi asked, moving his king out of check.

  “And if I were to get a confession signed by you, plus the real documents on which you based the forgeries you used to incriminate me, my innocence and honor would have been vindicated. I would not have to shoot myself.”

  “In other words, the truth would have outed,”

  “The truth would indeed have outed.”

  “I’ve never much liked the truth, von Falkenburg.”

  “I know. But if you want to really suppress it in this matter, you’ll have to accept what I am offering.”

  “Which is?”

  “A duel to the death – nominally over some other pretext. Each of us brings to the duel the documents the other wants. These are handed over to the seconds after we mutually inspect them. If one of us fails to bring his documents, the other will naturally not hand over his own. Mate in five, by the way, Putzi.”

  “Mm, you’re right. I concede – the chess game. Nothing is sillier than to play out a losing game, although you do not appear to understand that fact.”

  “We will have chosen as seconds men of impeccable integrity. I have many friends like that. I assume you will be able to find someone. The seconds will be instructed to hand both sets of documents over to the survivor, or they will be left in the custody of his second if he is severely wounded.”

  “You are assuming that there will be only one survivor, von Falkenburg.”

  “We can set conditions that guarantee that there will be only one. Unlimited exchange of shots. Reduction of the distance after every exchange.”

  “I knew a man once who insisted on severe conditions like that,” Putzi said. “The husband of a girl I seduced on their honeymoon in Bad Ischyl. ‘The world is only big enough for one of us,’ he told me.”

  And amused smile played on Putzi’s face. It was obvious to von Falkenburg how that duel had turned out.

  “Do you think the world is big enough for the two of us, Putzi?” he asked.

  “No. Go on.”

  “If you kill me, you will gain possession of the documents I have which incriminate you. In the contrary case, I will be able to go to my colonel with proof of my innocence. It will also be proof of your guilt, but since you will be dead, that will not matter to you.”

  “Double or nothing, in other words, von Falkenburg?”

  “For me a chance to prove my innocence. For you a chance to conceal your guilt and continue your schemes.”

  “And for the loser, death?”

  “Yes.”

  Putzi poured himself another brandy, and gazed at it pensively, one arm leaning on the mantelpiece.

  “Done!” he said, finally.

  * * *

  Two hours later, von Falkenburg walked into the dining room of the Sacher, where Putzi was lunching with three other men.

  “Just a table for yourself?” Schultz the headwaiter asked. But von Falkenburg replied as he walked past him, “no thank you, Herr Schultz. I’m not lunching. I have other business here.”

  “Excuse me, Prince von Lipprecht?” von Falkenburg said to Putzi as he strode up to his table.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “I simply wished to take this opportunity to tell you – in the presence of these gentlemen, who might not be aware of the fact – that you are a liar and a scoundrel.”

  Was it that being Prince von Lipprecht was stronger in the end than all of Putzi’s reasoning about the meaninglessness of honor in the modern world? Was it that in the end blood will out, and hundreds of years of tradition prove stronger than even the most practiced self-control?

  Whatever the reason, even though von Falkenburg and Putzi had agreed that a public insult was needed as a pretext for their duel, it was with his eyes ablaze with completely genuine rage that Putzi rose to his feet.

  His voice was soft as ever. But it quivered with fury and determination as he said, “von Falkenburg, I shall kill you for that.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Exactly a week ago, von Falkenburg had sought unsuccessfully to slide unnoticed out of Helena’s bed and out of her life. She had awoken anyway, and on realizing that he was indeed going off to die, had cried “imbecile!” after him, and burst into sobs.

  Now the two of them lay awake together, knowing that this could well be their last chance to do so. Von Falkenburg’s fingers played with Helena’s blonde hair, and stroked her soft cheek.

  “It’s time,” he said gently.

  “I know.”

  Helena said nothing as she watched him dress. She just bit her lip.

  It was only when they stood together in front of her house that she finally spoke.

  “Ernst, God go with you,” she said, fighting back her tears.

  How could he tell her what she meant to him? How could he tell her that because of her, this nightmarish week had also been the richest of his life?

  “I love you, Helena,” was what he said finally. He had said that exactly a week ago, but it was only now that he really understood what those words meant.

  The sound of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones signaled the arrival of Wroclinski’s carriage, which came out of the early morning gloom like a hearse come to pick up the dead. Von Falkenburg took Helena’s perfect face in his hands and kissed her lips. Then he turned and climbed aboard the carriage.

  “Good morning, Wroclinski. Thanks for agreeing to do this,” von Falkenburg said to his second.

  “Think nothing of it, old man. Devilish cold, isn’t it?”

  That was Wroclinski’s sole effort at small talk. He understood that a good second leaves it up to his principal to decide whether or not the latter wants conversation or silence during what could be the last hour of his life.

  And what von Falkenburg wanted was silence. He settled into the luxurious cushions and sought to order his thoughts.

  So, von Lauderstein was dead – killed on the orders of Putzi, his former fellow-conspirator and protector.

  Von Falkenburg thought back to the last time he saw von Lauderstein. The big man with the fleshy face and the corseted body had almost been in tears as he pleaded with him to give him back Hanna, and to save him from Putzi.

  As von Falkenburg had expected, following the fatal card game von Lauderstein had gone first to Putzi to try to tell him his side of the story. But according to von Lauderstein, Putzi’s reply had been short and to the point: “von Lauderstein, I no longer have any use for you.”

  Von Lauderstein might not have had very much imagination. But presumably he had a good idea of what “no longer being of use” to Putzi could imply.

  Von Falkenburg had offered von Lauderstein the money to go to Italy as well as the chance to ask Hanna if she wanted to come with him. In return, von Lauderstein was to hand over any proof of Putzi’s guilt he might have, and was also to write out a confession that would incriminate Putzi too.

  Von Lauderstein had agreed quickly enough, von Falkenburg recalled. Apparently, fear of Putzi, desire for Hanna, and the realization that his inability to pay his gambling debt to Baron Von Plugge meant utter professional and social ruin anyway, had all worked together to decide him. Not to von Falkenburg’s surprise, von Lauderstein’s “confession” – the document von Falkenburg had later shown Putzi – had sought to place almost all important responsibility on the latter’s shoulders.

  The big black coach rolled across the Augartenbrücke to the other side of the Danube Canal. Von Falkenburg had every reason to hate and despise von Lauderstein. And he did, for that matter. But it was still painful to remember
the scene when, documents in hand, he had Helena produce Hanna. He could still hear the lashing mockery with which Hanna had responded to von Lauderstein’s clumsy endearments and his entreaties that she come with him to Italy.

  Von Lauderstein had had no choice but to leave with the promised money, but without his former mistress. Had he failed to get out of Vienna in time because an irrational hope that Hanna might change her mind held him back?

  Von Falkenburg did not know. But he knew that he felt no real satisfaction at von Lauderstein’s death. He had not planned on it, and even though objectively the man had gotten what he deserved, it was as if Putzi had prevented von Falkenburg from carrying out an agreement he had entered into.

  More to the point, von Lauderstein’s death just made clearer to von Falkenburg that his real enemy was still alive and unpunished: Putzi, the man who in less than an hour might have the satisfaction of shooting him dead.

  It was cold in the carriage, and von Falkenburg imagined that the waters of the Danube in which von Lauderstein’s body now floated were much colder. He gave a little shiver.

  Wroclinski’s coach rolled through the deserted Praterstern. Von Falkenburg looked out the plate-glass window at the darkened booths of the fairground. They looked sinister enough, and more sinister yet was the spidery outline of the Great Wheel as it hung motionless against the faint gray of the dawn.

  Following his initial interview with his colonel and Major Becker, von Falkenburg had come this way in a cab faced with the choice of conviction for treason or suicide the following morning.

  Now, at least, the odds were a little better. At least now there was a chance of life, even though he knew perfectly well that he should not overestimate it. That Putzi was an expert marksman was something von Falkenburg did not doubt for an instant.

  After all, did Putzi lack any skill that could be of use to him?

  Putzi had shot dead a young man after inflicting on him perhaps the ultimate humiliation: seduction of his bride on their honeymoon. Had the hapless husband learned of the seduction by chance?

  Did Putzi leave anything to chance?