Thomas Ochiltree

by Death Waltz in Vienna

  Or had the challenge and the duel been like the seduction – an amusing way to pass the time while on holiday?

  He was sure it was the latter, just as he was sure Putzi had killed other men in duels, and had devoted long hours to practice with both sword and pistol.

  No, von Falkenburg realized, Putzi never left anything to chance, and if he had accepted von Falkenburg’s proposal, it was because he was confident that there could only be one outcome.

  Unless…unless perhaps Putzi was fascinated in spite of himself by having for the first time an opponent he found worthy of himself. As von Falkenburg considered that possibility, he found he could not help feeling a curious satisfaction that Putzi regarded him as a worthy opponent.

  Von Falkenburg had never fought a duel himself, although he had been a second at several. He had had the regular salle des armes instruction common to someone of his social class. And he still very occasionally practiced with a black-powder pistol. But he knew that by no stretch of the imagination could he consider himself a truly expert marksman.

  That meant that there was an excellent likelihood that Putzi would kill him. A week ago, he had sought to kill himself. He tried without success to decide which was the less satisfactory way to die: at his own hand, or at the hand of a hated enemy.

  Hated but also respected. Von Falkenburg realized a little uncomfortably that however much he despised Putzi’s ruthlessness, he could not help being impressed by his strength.

  Perhaps Putzi was right, and the future would belong to men like him.

  It was not an encouraging thought, and von Falkenburg shook it off like a dog shaking water from its coat.

  At any rate, von Falkenburg reflected, at least he had shown Putzi that he was not just some helpless victim. And if he had to die, he would do so knowing why.

  He took considerable comfort from the latter thought. A week ago, on the Rudolfsbrücke, the utter mystery of what was threatening to destroy him bothered him almost as much as the prospect of death. But what he had learned in the past seven days, and what von Lauderstein had told him, had given him an almost complete picture of what had happened, and why.

  And of what still could happen if it was Putzi who left the dueling ground alive. For Putzi represented a threat not merely to von Falkenburg, but to the Empire itself.

  Von Falkenburg knew that he had helped hold that threat in check during the past week. If he died at Putzi’s hand, he reflected, in a sense he would have fallen in battle, like his grandfather at Königgrätz. Von Falkenburg had sworn to sacrifice his life for the Emperor if necessary, and now was the time to live up to that oath.

  And if indeed he did have to die, at least he had had seven days with Helena.

  Helena. He silently formed the syllables with his lips and tongue, tasting their richness.

  He had learned much about her in the past week. But the more he learned, the more he realized remained to be discovered, so deep was her soul.

  Helena, the perfect partner and companion, the perfect helpmate, one could almost say the perfect co-conspirator in a conspiracy on behalf of right and justice.

  Von Falkenburg knew the anxiety she must now be feeling. It was traditional for a man going off to fight a duel to leave the woman he loved ignorant of the fact. But von Falkenburg could never have done that. Not just because Helena knew that his time was up and that he now had to conquer or die. But because what the two of them had been through together in the past week simply made it impossible for him to consider deceiving her in any way.

  A strange image came to his mind as the carriage turned onto a track leading to one of the most desolate parts of the Prater: the image of his funeral with full military honors – for he knew that if he fell in the duel, his convenient death would be treated by his relieved colonel and by Military Intelligence as the functional equivalent of the promised suicide, and the confession and evidence destroyed – with Helena at the graveside, magnificent in black. A society scandal. Whispers in polite drawing rooms to the effect that she had been the cause of his death. But she would not care.

  Von Falkenburg felt a pang of guilt as he realized just how much egotism lay behind such a fantasy. Women, he realized, at least in the perfect form represented by Helena, were far less vain than men.

  He thought of her happiness when he had asked her if – assuming he lived – she would be willing to consider exchanging the title of princess for that of Baroness von Falkenburg.

  That had been a few hours ago, in the most strangely marvelous night he had ever spent with a woman. Marvelous in part, he knew, because the hovering nearness of death gave it a curious consecration. At such a time, what else could there be but the total gift of oneself?

  The light was rising quickly. Von Falkenburg could distinguish easily the trunks of the trees they were passing, and when he turned to Wroclinski, he could see a gray rectangle of light projected on the latter’s face by the carriage window.

  It would soon be over.

  “So here we are, I suppose,” von Falkenburg said as the carriage turned into a clearing, gravel crunching beneath its wheels.

  “Indeed, so we are, old man,” Wroclinski replied. He hesitated a moment, and then said, “von Falkenburg, I knew there are some mysteries to this duel. But just remember, whatever happens, I’ll always believe you were in the right.”

  Von Falkenburg took his offered hand gratefully.

  The carriage pulled to a halt. The coachman got down from the box and opened the door on Wroclinski’s side. Wroclinski got out, followed by von Falkenburg.

  The air was cold, and von Falkenburg hoped that it was that which made him shiver.

  A short distance away stood another coach, its superb horses pawing the ground and snorting steam. Putzi’s équipage was every bit as elegant as von Falkenburg had known it would be.

  There was also a horse cab waiting. Rubinstein must have come in that, von Falkenburg realized. Putzi had had no objection to von Falkenburg supplying the doctor – whose sole task would be to attend to any wounds the survivor might have, as this was to be a duel to the death – just as he had had no objection to him supplying the pistols.

  Von Falkenburg found Putzi’s assurance more than a little unsettling, and he suspected that it was precisely to unsettle him that Putzi had instructed his second to be so accommodating on such points. At any rate, in accordance with established etiquette, Rubinstein, as the doctor, had come separately.

  The two groups of men approached one another. Putzi was not wearing a morning cutaway, as von Falkenburg had expected, but a tweed jacket of the kind one went duck shooting in. Another neat little psychological point, von Falkenburg admitted grudgingly to himself.

  And if Putzi still felt the anger von Falkenburg had seen flare up when von Falkenburg insulted him in the Sacher, it was covered by his usual mask of amused imperturbability. That mask was similar to Wroclinski’s, even though the two men were morally at opposite poles. Then he wondered that he should be able to make such observations at a time like this.

  Rubinstein looked very worried. Von Falkenburg knew him to be an excellent judge of character, and presumed that one look at Putzi had sufficed to convince him that his friend was facing a very dangerous enemy.

  Putzi’s second was a Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingn of the Imperial Life Guards Mounted. Von Falkenburg knew him as a person with a solid reputation for straightforward integrity. With him and Wroclinski as seconds, there was no need to worry about the conditions of the duel being carried out.

  Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingen stepped forward, and turning to von Falkenburg’s second said, “Count Wroclinski, does your principal offer an apology for the insult he inflicted upon my principal?”

  “No, Lieutenant, he does not,” Wroclinski replied.

  “Then my principal must insist upon the satisfaction which a gentleman requires in such circumstances,” the lieutenant said.

  “My principal is at your principal’s service,” Wroclinski
replied. For all its politeness, a statement of defiance.

  Then Wroclinski went on, “as you know, Lieutenant, our principals have instructed us to take custody of certain papers in order that another affair of honor can be settled at this time, as the circumstances of this duel preclude any further meeting of the gentlemen.”

  “That is correct,” Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingen agreed. “Do you have your principal’s papers?”

  Wroclinski produced the envelope von Falkenburg had given him containing von Lauderstein’s confession and the letter from the Russian Embassy incriminating Putzi. He handed it over to Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingen in exchange for a fat packet of papers.

  In accordance with what had been agreed on, each second then permitted his principal to examine the papers received, without looking at them himself, after Putzi and von Falkenburg each gave his word of honor not to try to keep the materials if the other declared himself dissatisfied with what he had been shown. In the event that either principal made such a declaration of dissatisfaction, both sets of documents were to be returned to the original owners. If the principals declared themselves satisfied, however, the seconds were to keep joint custody of the papers until the duel was over, and then in accordance with their own words of honor, hand everything over to the survivor.

  Von Falkenburg knew that Putzi regarded himself as being “strong without honor – strong having renounced honor.” But he also knew that Putzi would never break a solemn oath given in the presence of witnesses. For to do so would mean being transformed instantly into a pariah, cast out for life from the world in which he was accustomed to live…and scheme.

  No, von Falkenburg told himself, Putzi knew his only chance of getting to keep von Lauderstein’s confession and the letter from the Russian embassy was to satisfy von Falkenburg with what he had brought so that duel could go forward as planned…and kill him in it.

  Besides, Putzi knew that von Falkenburg could only use the evidence against him in the event that von Falkenburg killed him. And von Falkenburg figured that Putzi was not a man to worry about what posterity thought of him.

  Logically, then, Putzi had every reason to provide him with what they had agreed on. Still, it seemed strange to von Falkenburg to at last have such complete proof of his own innocence and of Putzi’s guilt, and to have it from Putzi himself.

  The first document in the packet Wroclinski handed von Falkenburg was a confession exonerating him and taking full responsibility for the espionage and the murders of Lasky and von Lauderstein. Then there was a voluminous correspondence in German of a clearly treasonous nature between Putzi and the Russians.

  Von Falkenburg did not have time to study everything, for the packet was very thick. But its contents were clearly enough to establish his innocence – assuming he could kill Putzi instead of being killed by him.

  Von Falkenburg handed the papers back to Wroclinski and said, “very good.”

  “My principal is satisfied with what he has been shown,” Wroclinski said to Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingen. “Is your principal also satisfied?”

  Putzi nodded.

  “He is,” the lieutenant replied.

  “Very well, then,” Wroclinski said, “if you have no objections, let us proceed.”

  The two seconds placed the papers to one side. Wroclinski then carefully opened the polished rosewood box that contained the dueling pistols von Falkenburg had inherited from his father. Inherited after one of them had put a bullet through its owner’s chest, and an end to his life. Von Falkenburg could not help wondering which of the matched pair had done so.

  The weapons were nothing like von Falkenburg’s service revolver. They were single-shot, black-powder pistols with percussion caps, and they fired a solid round ball. They had originally been purchased by von Falkenburg’s great-grandfather at a time when they represented the latest development in firearms. Now they belonged to a class of weapons for which only one purpose remained: the purpose to which they were about to be put. The antiquated etiquette of dueling had never accepted modern guns.

  The two seconds carefully measured the black gunpowder down the muzzles and into the barrels, then wrapped each bullet in an oiled leather disk. Using polished brass ramrods, they pushed the bullets down the muzzles and made sure they were properly seated on the powder charge.

  There was a terrible fascination to watching the preparation of his own very possible death, von Falkenburg realized. He saw the percussion caps be put in place. When the hammer fell on them, a spark would flash down a tiny hole to the powder charge in the breech.

  The seconds had agreed in accordance with instructions received from their principals that Putzi should have the choice of weapons. Von Falkenburg watched Putzi’s hand carefully to see if it trembled or hesitated. It did neither. Putzi reached out and picked up the weapon his life would depend on as casually as he might pick up a brandy snifter.

  Was that the gun that killed Father? von Falkenburg wondered.

  He took the remaining gun.

  “It has been agreed that the first shots will be exchanged at twenty paces, the second at fifteen, and the third and subsequent ones at ten, is that not so?” Wroclinski said.

  “That is my understanding of the agreement,” the lieutenant replied.

  One thing was certain, von Falkenburg knew. If by a miracle both he and Putzi were left standing after the exchange at twenty paces, only one would be after the distance was reduced to fifteen.

  And that one would most likely be Putzi. For as the aggrieved party, he had the first shot on each exchange. It was in part to counter that advantage that von Falkenburg had insisted through Wroclinski that the first exchange take place at twenty paces, although that was murderous enough.

  The seconds paced out the distance. Von Falkenburg walked up and stood beside Wroclinski. He found himself facing Putzi. He tried to read the emotion which lay behind the expression on his face. Hatred? Calculation? Amusement? But he could not. As usual, the mask was impenetrable. The look of irony on Putzi’s lips was the same that von Falkenburg had always seen there – except for that one time it was replaced by rage when von Falkenburg had insulted him in the dining room of the Sacher.

  The two seconds had withdrawn to one side.

  “Very well, gentlemen, you may begin,” Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingen said. “My principal has the first shot, and may fire when ready. Is that not so, Count Wroclinski?”

  Wroclinski nodded.

  Calmly, slowly, intently, Putzi raised his pistol and pointed it at von Falkenburg. Von Falkenburg suddenly realized how hollow its muzzle looked. Perhaps this was the same muzzle which was the last thing on earth his father had seen.

  He felt his heart hammer under his tunic.

  God, why doesn’t he fire?

  A cat playing with a mouse? von Falkenburg wondered, his throat dry. Or just a rational decision to take careful aim?

  Seconds which seemed like minutes crawled by, and still Putzi did not fire.

  And then he did!

  Von Falkenburg felt the sledge-hammer blow against the right side of his head at the instant he saw the black hole facing him turn into a cloud of gray, with a hard orange center which vanished instantly.

  He reeled back and fell heavily on the grass, his pistol still clutched in his hand. He heard a voice say, “no, Doctor!”

  That was Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingen. Rubinstein must have made start forward. The lieutenant was only doing his job, von Falkenburg knew. As long as the duel continued, neither combatant could receive medical attention – that was reserved for the sole survivor.

  Von Falkenburg struggled first to his knees, then to his feet. The hair on the right side of his head was full of blood, and his head was ringing far worse than it had when it caught that blow from a schnapps bottle in the villa where Helena was being held captive. But he realized that his skull could not be broken, or he would not be standing. Putzi’s shot had been good, but not good enough. It could only
have barely creased his skull.

  Putzi was still standing in front of him, as seemingly indifferent as if he were watching something in the theater, rather than the efforts of another man to kill him.

  Von Falkenburg glanced at his weapon. The percussion cap was still in place. He tried to plant his feet more firmly, despite the whirling sensation in his brain. He raised the pistol, which felt like lead.

  He saw the barrel rise until he was looking along it towards Putzi’s chest. His hand trembled as another wave of dizziness swept over him.

  Von Falkenburg felt his finger tighten on the trigger. Squeeze off your shot. That was what he had always been told. It seemed like his finger was squeezing very hard indeed, but nothing was happening.

  Suddenly he was taken by surprise by the leap of his pistol in his hand, and the loud bang and the cloud of acrid black powder smoke whirling around him.

  Through the smoke, Putzi was still standing unperturbed.

  Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingen stood next to Putzi, then took five paces towards von Falkenburg, while Wroclinski watched him. Putzi walked up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his second, who then retired. The distance had been reduced for the next exchange of shots.

  Von Falkenburg blinked as if that would clear the pounding from his head. It did not. He felt Wroclinski’s presence beside him. Wroclinski handed him his reloaded pistol.

  Von Falkenburg did not look at Wroclinski. He did not want to see the anxiety he knew must be showing on that normally immobile face.

  Putzi raised his gun again. Von Falkenburg knew that objectively, the duel was over. It was impossible for Putzi to miss him at fifteen paces. In a second or two, there would be a bullet in his heart. He found himself wondering what time it was. Was he going to die at 8:00 A.M., as he had promised his colonel?

  He looked at Putzi’s face. The mask was slipping. Another expression was appearing. The amused irony that normally marked Putzi’s lips was being replaced by something very different.

  Triumph? Yes. Cruelty? Yes. But there was something else, too. Von Falkenburg had not yet deciphered what that something else was when he heard the bang of Putzi’s pistol.