Murder in Vienna

by E. C. R. Lorac

  Macdonald nodded. “Yes. A common roof, so to speak.”

  “That’s it: and one of the other houses is in the hands of builders—being modernised—so it may be the thief was looking out for a chance to get up to the roof that way.”

  “I’ve no doubt he’ll find a reception committee waiting if he tries that on,” said Macdonald. “All the same, he’s left it quite a time. It’s over a fortnight, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I admit that occurred to me: still, I can’t see any other explanation. There wasn’t anything else missing. The young folks are a bit casual, as all youngsters seem to be these days, but I think they’ve checked up by now.”

  Macdonald sat silent for a moment, and Sir Charles Bland added, “I thought you’d be amused to hear the upshot of the story—now I’ll leave you in peace again.”

  “Don’t hurry away, sir. I’ve enjoyed hearing a story off the record, so to speak, and I agree with you it’s an odd story. What you might call a new technique. Your son-in-law is a publisher, isn’t he?”

  “It’d be more exact to say he’s in a publishing firm—Barrards. How far he’ll get, I don’t know, but they say he’s a flare for spotting winners. However, there weren’t any priceless manuscripts stolen, or anything of that kind: and from what I’ve seen of the scripts he brings home, a burglar who stole one would be madder than the chap who wrote the script—if possible. Well—there you are. You showed a kindly interest in the original story, so I thought you’d be interested to hear the upshot.”

  “I am—very much interested, sir.”

  Sir Charles chuckled. “Forget it—as the young say—and have a good holiday. How long will you be in Vienna?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “Fortunate you. I have three days, and conferences every day. But it’ll be too bad if I don’t get to the Opera—and a Heurige. Good luck to you and the best of holidays.” And with that he went back to his own seat.

  3

  Macdonald laughed to himself a little. He was pretty certain that no one had overheard Sir Charles Bland’s story, but if they had done so, they would have taken it for nothing but a casual anecdote—the sort of story which travellers tell to pass the time. Nothing in Sir Charles’s approach gave any inkling that the man he spoke to was a Superintendent of Scotland Yard, or that that same Superintendent had gone to the Villiers’ house when the mink coat had been stolen. The Divisional Police had been bothered by a series of burglaries in the big houses round the Park, and the C.I.D. from the Central (or Commissioner’s) Office had been brought in for consultation. Macdonald thought back to his inspection in the Villiers’ house: it had been an amateurish sort of burglary to his mind. While Nigel Villiers and his wife were out, and the two maids immersed in television, someone had climbed up to a lavatory window at the side of the house, forced the window-catch and gone upstairs to the Villiers’ bedroom and removed the coat. The wardrobe and drawers had been left open, as though the thief had been disturbed, and nothing else had been taken (except the suit-case found on the roof). The job had nothing in common with the more carefully organised burglaries (all on a much larger scale) which the Divisional Police had been investigating.

  Sitting in the Viscount, aware from the changed note of the engines, that the long run-in had begun, Macdonald said to himself, “Reeves can cope with all that.” But because no man can entirely dismiss interest in his own profession from his mind, the C.I.D. Superintendent could not help listing the points which would be of particular concern to Chief Inspector Reeves.

  One was the trap-door to the roof. It was, as Sir Charles had observed, a very efficient fitment, with good bolts: and it had certainly not been opened since it was last painted, six months ago. The burglar had not used the trap-door to get access to the roof. That brought up the second point: the builders in a house farther along the terrace: a builder’s man might well have been concerned in this—and other burglaries. Finally, the two maids: they were both foreign girls, but girls with very good characters. Macdonald suddenly remembered that they were Austrians, from Wiener Neustadt, a few miles south of Vienna.

  “That’s a bit odd,” he thought. “Surely a man of Sir Charles’s intelligence doesn’t think I’m out for a busman’s holiday . . . or did he think the “holiday” was a put-up job? If so, he’s wrong for once in his life. But why tell me the additional items at all? He has the reputation of being a man who never says anything without a reason. . . . Glory! There it is. . .

  “It” was the River Danube: a sight of which it might be said “Once seen, never forgotten.” Whether from the air or from ground level, from the heights of the Wiener Wald or from the bridges, the Danube is unforgettable.

  CHAPTER II

  AS THE AIRCRAFT lost height approaching Vienna and the world below gained definition, it was not the city which claimed immediate attention, but the river. Vienna is not built “on the Danube,” as London is built “on the Thames.” The city was established well away from the flood-plain of its tremendous river: at first Macdonald saw the city as no more than a shadowy blur, while the great ribbon of the Danube itself showed strong and dark and clear, right across the endless plain. To the west, the bastions and foothills of the eastern Alps had levelled out: to the east, the plain stretched away to the limits of visibility, to continue, far beyond, to the unseen Carpathian Mountains. As he watched, Macdonald pondered over that vast level expanse of eastern Europe: that was the way the Mongol hordes had come galloping in, Attila and his Huns, the Turks, and all the other invaders from the east, he meditated. Vienna was, for them, the gateway to central Europe and the cross-roads to north and south.

  Slowly the Viscount lost height, banking almost silently, the aircraft vibrating a little, pulsing like a five thing, the wing-tips describing great arcs across the sky, right above the city. Staring down, trying to pick up remembered landmarks, Macdonald saw the Danube Canal, then recognised the green dome of Karlskirche and the long roof ridge of St. Stephan’s Cathedral before they flew on, south-east of Vienna, to the airport of Schwechat. He had seen Vienna and the Danube long ago, from the heights of the Leopoldsberg and the Wienerwald, but there was a sense of drama in seeing it thus from the air—the river, the city, the plain.

  They flew east of Schwechat, and then swung round, up-wind, and approached the airport, whose undistinguished shed-like buildings stood no comparison with Zurich. Taxi-ing in on the runway, Macdonald saw the fair girl smiling at him as she collected her belongings.

  “Wasn’t it marvellous?” she said. “I’d no idea the Danube was so terrific.”

  “It’s a wonderful sight,” agreed Macdonald. “I was as thrilled as you were. Are you being met at the airport, or do you go into Vienna in the B.E.A. bus?”

  “I’m being met here: at least, I hope so! Isn’t the airport quite a distance from Vienna?”

  “I believe so—but I shouldn’t worry. I expect there’s a reception committee laid on for you. Good-bye—and good luck!”

  “Good-bye, and thank you again—and a lovely holiday!”

  As Macdonald left the plane and went down the steps behind her, he saw that there was indeed a group of people on the tarmac, come to welcome those who were distinguished—or fortunate—enough to merit this privilege. Members of the Embassies were allowed to greet their guests as they stepped from the plane, and a man of Sir Charles Bland’s standing would certainly be accorded this courtesy, but the majority of passengers had to wait until Customs and passport formalities were over before meeting their friends. To Macdonald’s amusement, Miss Le Vendre was greeted and escorted to the buildings by an elderly man with “diplomat” written all over him: it was the assurance, as well as the smiling courtesy, which marked out the Embassy official. Queueing up with the rest of the commonplace travellers (and enjoying being one of a crowd for once), the C.I.D. man found himself waiting at the Customs counter beside the young man in the camel coat and was able to have a good look at him. His name was Charles Stratton—it was boldly pri
nted on his handsome pigskin suit-case—and he was somewhat older than Macdonald had guessed—probably about thirty. He certainly spoke excellent German, and he was let through without being asked to open his case. Macdonald’s German was rusty, and he answered the routine questions in English. The Customs officer gave him a deliberate stare and then asked him to open his suit-case. Macdonald obliged, and his innocent belongings were carefully investigated, while the stout man who might (or might not) be associated with Scots whisky, watched proceedings with evident enjoyment.

  “This’d be jam for some folks I won’t mention,” he said.

  “Why?” asked Macdonald.

  “I happen to know your dial—known it a long time, too,” chuckled the stout man, “and I enjoy a joke as much as the next chap.”

  “Delighted to give you pleasure,” rejoined Macdonald, as he closed his case. “I don’t remember your face, though.”

  “You wouldn’t. No one remembers us—I’m a camera man. If you look, all you see is the camera. I’ve often wondered some folks don’t use that—just the ticket on certain occasions.”

  Macdonald moved on to the final passport officer, and again the stout man stood behind him.

  “Name of Webster,” he said affably. “I got a lovely shot of you outside C.O. not long ago. Having a little vacation?”

  “That’s the idea,” said Macdonald. “I’ve got enough sense not to argue with a camera man, but if you’d keep your lens off me while I’m on holiday, I’d be grateful.”

  “You needn’t have said that, sir,” said Webster, sounding quite hurt. “A job’s a job, whether it’s yours or mine, and you’re not my job in this city.”

  “Thanks. No offence meant,” said Macdonald. “Who’re you after—or would that be telling?”

  “Well, you might have guessed that in one, sir, with all the ballyhoo over the reopening of the Opera House. I’m not doing anything official, you know—free-lance stuff. Celebrities in Vienna—shots outside the Opera House, outside the Hofburg, at Schönbrunn and all the rest. And if I’m lucky, a nice picture of the grand old star—that wonderful old singer, Hedwig Waldtraut Körner. She’s been a singer, she has: the Scala at Milan, San Carlo at Naples, Bayreuth, New York, Covent Garden—the whole caboodle. And now she’s in the news again along a different line—but you’ll know about that.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” replied Macdonald. “Operatic celebrities aren’t my long suit.”

  “You’re kidding me,” replied Mr. Webster, but Macdonald moved up to have his passport stamped and did not reply. Before he moved on, however, he turned to say good-bye to the stout camera man: there was something endearing about Mr. Webster.

  “Well, good luck to the picture making,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir: very kindly said. And you needn’t do the right about if you happen to see me around: I’ll not get you in the viewfinder, not even by mistake. I’ve got more sense than you might think and I wouldn’t cramp your style for words.”

  He slapped his passport down on the counter and winked at Macdonald. “You to your job and me to mine,” he said.

  “I’m not on a job. I’m on holiday,” said Macdonald.

  “O.K., sir. Have a good one!” replied the other.

  2

  “Robert Macdonald—welcome to Vienna! I’ve waited a long time to say that, my friend. It is ten years since you said ‘I’ll see you in Vienna some day.’ ”

  Franz Natzler stood beside his car, smiling up at his tall visitor. Natzler was white-haired now, and his blue eyes were misty with genuine feeling. As Macdonald shook hands, memory took him back in a flash to London during the blitz, and Franz Natzler fire-watching beside him. Natzler was a doctor and a practising psychologist, highly esteemed in Vienna, but he was partly Jewish in descent and he had managed to get his wife and himself out of Vienna before the declaration of war in 1939 and had arrived in London as a penniless refugee. It was in London that Macdonald had met him, working at a first-aid post in a bombed area, and the two men had started a friendship which had endured—and now they met again after a lapse of ten years.

  “It’s good to be here, doctor. It’s twenty-five years since I was in Vienna and I’ve always promised myself I’d see it again. To see it with you is best of all.”

  Natzler opened the door of his car. “Get in, my friend. Vienna’s not quite what it was, but the worst of the damage is made good. Now do you remember the district where I live—Hietzing?”

  “Not far from Schönbrunn Palace—I remember that all right, and the Tiergarten . . . and the Gloriette. It’s to the west of Vienna, isn’t it? Near the woods.”

  “Quite right. Pretty good after quarter of a century, my friend. Now would you like a quick drive round the city before we go home—to see the Stephansdom and the Karlskirche and the Opera House?”

  “I should indeed.”

  “We’ve got to get across Vienna anyway—and if Herr Vogel would only move on, we’ll get cracking—as the English boys say.”

  Looking ahead at the car which stood in their way, Macdonald suddenly saw the camel coat again: he was sure there couldn’t be two coats like that in Vienna. The owner of it was in the Volkswagen ahead, talking to the driver.

  “Is Herr Vogel a friend of yours?” Macdonald asked. “His passenger was on the plane.”

  Dr. Natzler sounded a tattoo on his horn. “Hardly a friend: a patient, at one time. You helped me to read Shakespeare when I was in England, Macdonald. ‘One man in his time plays many parts.’ Certainly Vogel has done so. If that young man is a friend of yours, a word of warning might be reasonable. Ah—he moves, at last he moves.”

  Natzler turned his car neatly and shot ahead of the Volkswagen and turned west towards Vienna. Macdonald answered his last comment.

  “The young man is no friend of mine: I just happened to see him in the plane, and wondered about his occupation in the idle way that travellers do wonder.”

  Natzler chuckled. “Kultur,” he said. “Something to the arts pertaining. That coat, it is fantastisch.”

  The approach road to Vienna on which they were driving was a dull road with nothing to occupy the attention, and Natzler went on: “I, also, wondered about that young man. I had seen Vogel, pottering about, all agog—is that right, yes?—to meet a passenger on your plane: when the young man appeared it was quite a pantomime. They did not know each other by sight, and they circled round like two dogs, until at last Vogel saw the name on that beautiful suitcase, and then all was well. Although they had quite a little argument, as you saw, before they got away.”

  The doctor chuckled and then added: “A nice little mystery for you: is that young man, Herr Stratton (I also read his name), being taken ‘for a ride,’ as they say. Friend Vogel had the look of a cat approaching the cream.”

  “You seem to have a poor opinion of Herr Vogel,” said Macdonald.

  “Myself, I would have nothing to do with him,” said Natzler. “He . . . how do you say it, my English to the dogs has gone . . . he makes opportunities.”

  “An opportunist,” said Macdonald: “a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles, if you remember your Shakespeare.”

  “Ach—that is very apt: and the young Herr Stratton, he looked to me a wealthy trifle.”

  “He looked to me a nasty bit of work,” said Macdonald. “Too mannered and no manners.”

  “Mannered and manners,” said Natzler. “That is very English: a crossword language if ever there was one. See, we approach our city. That is——”

  “It’s the Cattle Market,” said Macdonald promptly. “Even I can remember that . . . and ahead on the left, beyond the railway, is the Belvedere and the Botanic Gardens.”

  “So . . . very good, and beyond that, my friend, is Stalin Platz—a new one for you. See, we will go up to Karlplatz, and then see the Opera House, and up the Kärntnerstrasse to the Stephansdom—and you will have made your bow to Vienna, old and new.”

  For the next half-hour Dr. Natzler drove Macdonald
round the complex crowded streets in the heart of Vienna, until the C.I.D. man began to get his bearings again. He remembered the centre of the city as “the Gothic Kernel”; narrow streets, with no great boulevards laid out as in Paris or Munich. The streets crowded round the great spire of St. Stephans—as unforgettable as the Danube. It was the containing Ringstrasse that opened up vistas of wide tree-lined streets, of parks and open spaces, and the glorious baroque riot of domes and elaborately decorated façades which make Vienna a delight and a bewilderment to learn. Some buildings Macdonald did remember—the enchanting green dome of Karlskirche and the twin columns in front of it: the Opera House, now once again superb and renewed after its wartime destruction; the Albertina, where he had once rejoiced over Dürer’s drawings: the Hofburg, which had been the Imperial Palace (with yet another dome), and Peterskirche (another dome).

  “You remember it all?” asked Dr. Natzler anxiously, and Macdonald laughed.

  “You’re asking something, doctor. Remember it? I never learnt it properly. After all, the Romans began it, and it was the seat of the Holy Roman Empire for about eight hundred years, and they all did something to it. But I remember the core—Stephansdom, and the Ringstrasse around it and the trees and the colour and the gaiety and the baroque exuberance. It still is exuberant—despite Stalin Platz and the Occupying Powers.”

  “Good, good. Vienna has had its effect, it has made you talk. That is Viennese, to talk exuberantly as you say. Now we will go home. Ilse will be impatient to see you. She will ask you one thing—did you remember the Opera House?”

  “Yes, I did. It looks just the same, except that it’s cleaner.”

  Natzler laughed. “Just the same—you should have seen it after the bombing. And you must go over it while you are here. It is now the finest Opera House in the world.”

  They left the heart of the city, and presently were driving along a wide boulevard, westwards, towards the Schönbrunn Palace and towards the Wienerwald—Vienna woods. Dr. Natzler was almost penitent.