Murder in Vienna

by E. C. R. Lorac

  Her eyes danced with amusement. “Say if he knows you by sight! Wouldn’t he be shattered?”

  “That’d make it all the more interesting. He’s no business to know me by sight. But he doesn’t, anyway. I had a good look at him while we were in the Customs, and he had a look at me and was quite unimpressed.”

  “Isn’t it odd that we’ve all come to Schönbrunn this afternoon, after travelling in the plane together.”

  “No,” said Macdonald prosaically. “Every visitor to Vienna comes to Schönbrunn, it’s one of the show places. I haven’t got a Baedeker, but I’m sure he gives Schönbrunn all the stars in the firmament, and to-day is just the right day for it.”

  “Baedeker,” she said reflectively. “Do you know what he said about Oxford and Cambridge?”

  “Yes, I do. ‘If you have not time to visit both universities, Cambridge may be omitted.’ ”

  “Then you were at Oxford.”

  “Why the assumption?”

  “The complacent way you quoted old Baedeker. No Cambridge man ever quotes it without going pale in the face.”

  “An unwarrantable assumption,” said Macdonald. “Look, there’s Dr. Natzler. Now we can all have coffee together.”

  3

  The old Austrian greeted Elizabeth Le Vendre very charmingly, in his own language, and bent to kiss her hand, and she replied in German, speaking with an ease and fluency which betokened real familiarity with the language.

  “And now we will talk English, because Macdonald’s German is still hard work to him,” said Natzler, as they went on to the sunny terrace against the old stables, and sat down at a small table. “It was Macdonald who made me talk English, when I was in England during the war,” went on Natzler. “You see, he taught me his language much better than I taught him mine.”

  “It’s terribly difficult to learn a language unless you live in the country where it’s talked,” said Elizabeth, and Dr. Natzler nodded.

  “Schon: and you have lived in Germany, Gnädigste: I knew that the moment I heard you speak.”

  “Yes. I was in Germany when I was a schoolgirl. After the war, when everything in Germany was at sixes and sevens, some English officials were sent out to get things going again and sort things out, and my father was one of them. We lived with the Army, more or less, but I had my lessons in German, and I just got to talk it quite easily.”

  “So. Sixes and sevens,” said Dr. Natzler. “Why sixes and sevens?”

  “Goodness knows!” said Elizabeth. “There must be a reason, but it’s just an expression you use without asking why—English is a most unreasonable language. Oh, do look! Isn’t she wonderful? She looks as though she ought to live in Schönbrunn. Erzherzogin Maria Theresa. . . .”

  An old lady, superbly clad in a sable coat, topped by an immense picture hat, strolled slowly past them escorted by an even older gentleman in a silk hat, and followed by a severe-looking elderly maid carrying a parasol, a bunch of flowers and a tiny dog.

  “Ah . . . look well, Gnädigste,” said Dr. Natzler. “You are fortunate. That is Hedwig Waldtraut Körner—one of the great singers of all time: perhaps the greatest operatic soprano Vienna ever produced. She was indeed great! How many times she sang my heart away when I was a young man.”

  “Oh . . . of course I’ve heard of her,” said Elizabeth, “but I didn’t realise she was so old. She was in Germany during the war, wasn’t she? English people who knew about her didn’t like her very much.”

  “But must we perpetuate our hates?” asked Natzler sadly. “For me, I will only remember her singing. Music overrides national bitterness. Did they cease to play Bach and Beethoven in England during the war? No. I rejoiced to hear German music in London, even though it was the Germans who had driven us from our homes.” He bent across and patted her hand “What was it your poet said . . . ‘Old unhappy far-off things.’ Let us forget them, Gnädigste. See, the sun shines, the world is beautiful—and you are beautiful, too. Our old singer was once young and beautiful, and her singing was divine. It took me up to heaven, and I have never forgotten.”

  “Forgive me!” said Elizabeth. “It was a silly thing to say. Of course you’re right. I’m glad you told me how you loved her singing. I shall always remember you talking about her.”

  “I am a sentimental old man!” chuckled Natzler. “And now tell me, what are you going to see in Vienna? ”

  “All of it!” she laughed, “the great palaces and churches—and the Opera House, of course, and the little house where Schubert lived and the house where Beethoven lived—and Strauss. And I want to go up through the woods—to Leopoldsberg, is it? And the Kahlenberg.”

  “Ach—you have been reading about it all?”

  “Of course I have, and talking to everybody who knew Vienna. There’s one place I’m longing to see, a village with a monastery and a wonderful church—we should call it Holy Cross in English.”

  “Heiligen Kreuz—yes, that is most beautiful. But you will need a permit. Sir Walter will see that somebody takes you to Heiligen Kreuz, or he will take you himself. But if you want a guide, to show you your way, remember I shall be happy to take you, gnädiges Fräulein. Perhaps I know Vienna even better than Sir Walter does!”

  “That’s very very kind of you, Dr. Natzler—but I know you’re very busy, and it will be good for me to find my way about. And now, will you forgive me if I run away home? I told Miss Vanbrugh I would be in at four o’clock. She is rather old, and she might worry if I am late. She wanted me to take one of the maids with me when I went out—but I couldn’t bear it! ”

  “We will walk home with you,” replied Natzler. “Our houses are not far apart. Then we shall know that Miss Vanbrugh has no cause to worry.”

  4

  Having escorted Elizabeth Le Vendre to the Vanbrughs’ mansion in Trauttmansdorffgasse, Natzler and Macdonald strolled back to the more homely house in Altzaugasse.

  “It will be a little lonely for that child until Glare von Baden returns home,” said Natzler. “The Vanbrughs are both aged. There is a nephew living with them—Mr. Anthony Vanbrugh, but he also is mature.”

  “I expect she’ll soon find some young friends,” said Macdonald. “There must be several families connected with the Embassy who will take her in hand. I can’t imagine that a youngster like that will have a dull time in Vienna.” He broke off, obviously considering a different topic, and as they turned in to the Natzlers’ house he said, “I was interested in seeing your old opera singer. Can you tell me why an English cameraman should have told me she is in the news? Is her return to Vienna ‘news’ in the international sense?”

  “No, it’s not as simple as that,” said Natzler. “Come into the garden and I will tell you.”

  They went and sat on the grass, under Frau Natzler’s beloved apple trees, and Natzler began:

  “Waldtraut Körner always loved Germany and the Germans. True, she was almost worshipped in Vienna, but her heart was given to a German very long ago. She gave her farewell performance in Vienna in 1935—she was then fifty-five years old, but still beautiful, and her voice was a miracle. She retired to live in Salzburg, but on the outbreak of war she went to a Schloss in the Bavarian Alps and lived, under the protection, one might say, of Graf Steinadler.”

  Macdonald put in a word here: “Steinadler—one of Hitler’s generals?”

  “Yes. Steinadler was shot after the attempt on Hitler’s life. It is now said that the Waldtraut Körner is in possession of Steinadler’s diary and private papers. She inherited his property—according to the terms of his will.”

  “You mean that she has papers of General Steinadler’s which have never been published?”

  “Just that. I do not, of course, know all the circumstances, but I do know that there was great excitement in publishing circles in Vienna when the news leaked out that Waldtraut Körner was negotiating the sale of some important papers to Pro bus Verlag. ‘Probus’ is a post-war publishing firm, and they have produced one or two travel b
ooks and escape stories which have had international fame.”

  “Do you know how the story leaked out?”

  Natzler shrugged his shoulders. “There is no one answer. You must realise that Waldtraut Körner is still a great name in Vienna. It was known that she had come on hard times: money will not now buy what it once did. Perhaps some men in the newspaper world always believed that she had a story to tell if she could be induced to tell it. But the Schloss Steinadler was hidden away and difficult of access, and newspaper men could not contact her, as they say. But when Waldtraut Körner came back to Vienna and lunched at Sachet’s with Herr Schwarzdorn of Probus Verlag—well, that was news. And as to the rest, if anyone overheard a word about Steinadler, a guess was not too difficult.”

  “Good lord, no. Steinadler was said to have been behind that plot to kill Hitler—but I should be very much surprised if the Nazis left any documents for future publication at the Schloss.”

  “But they left Waldtraut Körner alive: and if a woman like herself wanted to hide something, I would say the Schloss Steinadler was rich in hiding-places. It is a Gothic castle, with walls ten feet thick, up on the hillside. Steinadler—a black eagle: that Schloss is like an eagle’s eyrie, for all that the General made it snug enough to live in.”

  “Well, it’s quite a story,” said Macdonald, “and so Probus Verlag will put their imprint on another bestseller.”

  “Not so,” said the doctor. “It is said that ‘Probus’ did not offer a large enough sum. If gossip is right, the General’s papers still await a purchaser.”

  “If it comes to bidding, it’s the Americans who can generally outbid the rest of the world,” said Macdonald. “I hope the old lady has got her papers in a safe place. They would be worth the attention of certain expert thieves. Where does she live?”

  “She is staying in a hotel on the Kärntnerstrasse, but her papers, I do not doubt, are in the strong-room of a bank. Here is Ilse—she has news, I think.”

  “It is from Karl,” cried Frau Natzler, waving a letter. “He comes to-morrow. That is joy for us, dear friend! Two weeks he can stay.”

  “That’s grand!” said Macdonald and the doctor chuckled.

  “We should put the flags up,” he said. “This is an occasion. I must order some more wine.”

  CHAPTER IV

  THE WEATHER changed on the day that Karl Natzler arrived in Vienna. Macdonald drove with Dr. Natzler to Schwechat to meet Karl, and the doctor had some misgivings as to whether the Viscount would be able to land, for the cloud ceiling was low. It was still warm, but heavy purple clouds had been massing overhead and then a mist seemed to settle below the clouds: there was no wind, and to Macdonald’s mind it looked as though the fine weather was going to break up with a thunderstorm.

  They heard the plane approach and circle overhead, but it did not break the cloud ceiling, and from the sound of the engine they knew it was receding again.

  “I am glad Ilse did not come,” said Natzler. “She gets nervous. If it’s too difficult to land here, they may have to try Munich.”

  “It’s coming back,” said Macdonald. “They’re still trying.”

  The Viscount circled three times altogether before it succeeded in coming down to the runway, while all the personnel of Schwechat listened and watched, and the fire-engine crews stood by in the manner so nerve-racking to the inexperienced. Then the great aircraft touched down and taxied in sedately.

  “Gott sei Dank,” exclaimed Dr. Natzler. “It comes in safely every day—and every day it seems a miracle.”

  For a moment Macdonald found it difficult to recognise Karl. In 1945 he had been a thin leggy schoolboy: now, at the age of twenty-six he was as tall as Macdonald, well built and well poised, looking older than his years, and exceedingly good-looking. It was when he smiled and his dark eyes gleamed with pleasure that Macdonald saw again the schoolboy he had known in the wartime years.

  “This is grand!” said Karl. “We have so often said ‘When Robert Macdonald comes to stay, we will do this that and the other,’ and now you’re really here. You haven’t altered a bit: I should have known you wherever I’d seen you.”

  “You’ve altered quite a lot,” said Macdonald. “You’re as tall as I am—just—and you probably weigh more than I do.”

  “I probably do: you were always lean—‘long and lank and brown,’ as I learnt at school in England. What weather for Vienna! I thought we should have to give up and land somewhere else, but the B.E.A. pilots are marvellous chaps.”

  They drove back to Hietzing and sat in the white-walled sitting-room, while Karl told his father about the clinic where he was working, and Frau Natzler pressed upon them the Viennese “sandwiches” and pastries which are the delight (and despair) of all visitors. It was when all the professional news had been exchanged that Dr. Natzler said, “Now I am going to leave you and Macdonald to gossip, Karl. I have a patient to see—a friend of old Weinberg, I gather.”

  “And I am going to the kitchen to see that Margret has got everything in order,” said Frau Natzler.

  “Well, that will give me a chance to discuss a point with you, Macdonald,” said Karl. “It pertains to doctoring, but it’s one on which you may have had more experience than I have. Have you ever known a case of a head injury which subsequently proved fatal when the injured person was able to get up and move and speak normally after the injury?” He held out a box of cigarettes to Macdonald (Player’s No. 6, bought in Switzerland).

  “There are a number of such cases on record,” rejoined Macdonald, “as you probably know from the text-books.” He lighted his cigarette and went on: “I take it you want to know if I have met such a case personally. I once worked on a murder case where a man—a farm labourer—was found dead in his own cottage kitchen, having been seen to walk indoors, take his boots off and ask for a cup of tea before he died. Death was due to brain injuries, caused by a blow on the temple. The confusing part of it was that this man had been attacked outside the cottage, and presumably left for dead. He recovered consciousness sufficiently to walk indoors, where he sat down in a chair and died an hour or so later.”

  “Well, I’m interested to know you’ve met such a case,” said Karl, “because old Zeiss met me at Zurich on my way through, and told me about a similar case which happened at the airport on the Monday you came to Vienna. About half an hour before your plane arrived, a young chap in hiking kit went to the Toiletten and slipped on the flight of steps leading down from the main hall. He went a proper purler on his back and bumped from top to bottom, hitting the back of his head as he fell.”

  “Was he drunk?” asked Macdonald promptly. “I should say those were very safe stairs.”

  “If he was drunk, nobody noticed, but there’s no evidence to show he was; but he’d certainly got nailed boots on, and nailed boots are inclined to be treacherous on stairs. He was also clutching a parcel—a cuckoo clock he’d bought as a souvenir—and apparently he clutched his parcel trying to save it, instead of dropping the parcel and saving himself, silly cuckoo! The attendant saw it happen, and the chap was knocked right out; by the time he got to the bottom he just lay there—semiconscious, I gather.”

  “It sounds a bit odd,” said Macdonald. “Was the attendant certain the chap wasn’t pushed, or tripped?”

  “The attendant was perfectly certain,” rejoined Karl. “As it happened, there was nobody else on the stairs at all. The attendant—Stein—rushed to help the chap up, and after a few seconds the latter recovered, sat up, collected his parcel and laughed at himself for being such a clumsy idiot. He spoke both French and German—he was a Belgian, I think, and was on his way home to Brussels after a holiday in Switzerland. He had over an hom’ to wait for his plane, because he’d been driven to the airport by a friend, and said he wanted a shower. I’m giving you all the details, because it shows that he talked quite collectedly: Stein said he never thought for a moment the chap could be badly hurt: he said baths in Switzerland were too expensive and he want
ed a shower and a clean shirt before boarding the plane—all perfectly sensible.”

  “And you’re going to tell me that this chap died from injuries received in his tumble?”

  “He died of cerebral haemorrhage some hours later, after being admitted to hospital. The rest of the story is as follows. He went into the shower-room, and the attendant being busy with other customers coming in, didn’t give the clumsy chap another thought, until he went to tidy up the shower-room best part of an hour later. He found the chap—Welsbach his name was, I think—unconscious on the tiled floor. A doctor was sent for, the patient was removed to hospital and died there. The injury to the base of his skull set up haemorrhage and he must have fallen a second time, this time on the tiled floor of the shower. It was an odd case, but from the medical point of view consistent with what was known to have happened.”

  Macdonald sat and pondered. “I take it the police were informed?”

  “Certainly they were. I know what you’re asking yourself—was Welsbach robbed? The answer is that he was not: his purse, wallet, passport, plane tickets, watch—everything was safe, including the broken cuckoo clock. The authorities found his address, notified his people and somebody came along in another plane and identified him. It was all quite straightforward—but it demonstrates again the incalculable nature of head injuries. Moral, never move a patient with a head injury until a doctor has arrived.”

  “Very sound—in theory,” said Macdonald. “If I’d stayed put and waited for a doctor every time I’ve been bashed on the head, I should have been dead long ago. My general preoccupation is to get my head out of the way before the next bash. But come to think of it, I was lucky on Monday. Presumably the unfortunate young man was lying unconscious in the shower-room when I went down to the lavatories at Zurich Airport. If I’d seen him tumble, or found him unconscious, professional probity would have forced me to stop and say ‘What’s all this about?’—just as you would have done if you’d found him. And I should probably have missed the Viscount.” He paused and then added, “My guess is that the chap had put down a couple of cognacs, or what have you, and was dizzy before he tackled the stairs.”