The Keeper of Hands

by Sydney J Jones

  ‘They should damn well have sued,’ Gross rambled on, unaware or uncaring that his words caused offense.

  ‘They did,’ Werthen said, for he had studied the situation when Nobel died in 1896. He had left almost the entirety of his vast estate to establish the prizes in his name. The relatives were of course shocked and dismayed. ‘They’ve been in and out of the courts for the last five years battling the will and making no one rich but estate lawyers such as myself.’

  ‘I think it was a wonderful thing for him to do,’ Berthe added.

  ‘I’d like to see how wonderful you think it would be had he been your relation.’

  ‘You are in a foul mood tonight, Gross,’ Werthen finally said. ‘Even more reactionary than usual.’

  Gross touched his moustache, a nervous tick that meant he had something on his mind.

  ‘It’s my son, again. Always that son of mine. We’ve had to put him in the Burghölzli Clinic near Zürich. Drugs, drugs, damned drugs!’ He slammed his fist on the table.

  ‘Gross, we’re so sorry to hear it.’ Werthen meant it sincerely.

  ‘It was all the fault of that voyage to South America as a naval doctor. We were so excited for him, but he has never been right since returning. It’s the cocaine – the coca plant thrives in South America. He is so brilliant, you see. A psychiatrist and assistant doctor, but this cocaine has a grip on him. Blames me, of course.’

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ Werthen said, but did not believe his own words. He had been intimate with the Gross household during his years in Graz. He knew the bitter feud between father and son. He had thought, however, it was past. Otto Gross, brilliant and erratic, had finally studied medicine; his first monograph on psychology had been published earlier that year.

  ‘Says I ruined his life. Calls me an anachronism. An unwanted patriarch.’

  As he said these words, he visibly winced.

  ‘Sorry,’ Gross said after a pause.

  ‘Don’t be,’ Werthen said. ‘We are your friends. You don’t have to be merely polite around us.’

  ‘He doesn’t?’ Berthe asked with a smile.

  Her comment broke the oppressive air in the room, bringing laughter from Gross.

  In the event, they decided that Berthe would meet with Frau von Suttner, her long-time idol. She had read the woman’s famous work of fiction, Lay Down Your Arms, more times than Werthen liked to count. At the same time, Gross would take the sketch of the mystery client at the Bower to Detective Inspector Drechsler at the Police Praesidium and would also begin seeking information on the Schnitzler beating.

  When Werthen handed him the drawing Altenberg had made, for a moment Gross thought he recognized the likeness, though he could not put a name to it. Not so those at the Bower earlier in the day: when Werthen showed them the drawing they were unanimous – they had never seen the person before. No hesitation. Not a second glance from any of them. A bit too sure, Werthen thought.

  ‘And now, Werthen, why not show us this mysterious note you’ve sequestered?’

  ‘Hardly sequestered, Gross. I merely returned it to the location in the Bible in which I originally found it.’

  ‘Well don’t be coy, man. Let’s take a look at it. Wouldn’t you agree, Frau Berthe?’

  ‘I’m always eager to agree with you, Doktor Gross.’

  ‘What a wife. Could you please give my Adele a lesson in empathy?’

  Meanwhile, Werthen left the table and went down the hallway to his study to fetch the Bible. On the way, he peeked his head into Frieda’s room: she was sleeping peacefully, a stuffed bear from Steiff that Frau Blatschky had given her last week tucked in her arms. His housekeeper had been excited about the purchase, for it was the newest design from the company, and now Frieda would not be parted from it day or night.

  Back in the dining room, Gross and Berthe were deep in conversation about Herr Meisner, her father, who would soon be moving into his small flat in Vienna.

  Werthen opened the Bible and retrieved the note, taking it from its envelope and unfolding it for the others to see. Gross, however, seemed more interested in the Bible at first. Berthe picked up the note, turning it front and back and looking at the light through it.

  ‘No watermark,’ she said.

  Werthen smiled at this. She had been reading Gross’s landmark criminalistics handbook, Criminal Investigation, again.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I noticed that, too.’

  ‘It does look like a letter,’ she said.

  ‘May I?’ Gross said, tiring of his inspection of the Bible.

  He also looked closely at the paper before examining the writing.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Gross said after an interval. ‘I can’t place the language, though it has aspects of Latin, German and the Romance languages, and, I suspect, a goodly dose of English.’

  ‘Could it be one of those new universal languages they’re talking about?’ Berthe said.

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ Gross added.

  ‘I thought perhaps Afrikaans,’ Werthen said. ‘But then there is too much of a Latin influence. You may well be right, Berthe.’

  ‘Esperanto, perhaps?’ Gross said. ‘But really, what young girl working in a bordello is going to write a letter in Esperanto?’

  ‘That, Gross, is what I hope to ascertain once we translate this message.’

  Gross nodded, putting the note down on the table and once again picking up the Bible.

  ‘Why so interested in the Bible, Gross?’

  ‘It would seem that we are investigating the death of an uncommon young woman. Someone who writes in a created language and someone with, I believe, a sense of literary allusion.’

  ‘How so, Doktor Gross?’ Berthe asked, with real interest.

  ‘Her choice of hiding place – Joshua: 2. I do not believe it is accidental. If you look here,’ Gross said, lifting the Bible, closing it, opening it again at random, and showing its bottom edge to Werthen and Berthe. ‘This is a relatively unused Bible. The book itself is not new, but its owner has not spent a great deal of time or study with it. That is not to say that your Fräulein Mitzi was not religious. Indeed, I think she was. Otherwise how would she have known which passage to choose? So she must have purchased this Bible during her residency at the Bower. Now, do you see how the pages, fanned out as they are, show a slight bulging at one particular spot?’

  Werthen did see what Gross meant.

  Turning to that bulge, Gross again came to the hiding place, Joshua: 2 in the Old Testament

  ‘Almost as if it were bookmarked,’ said Berthe.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘I’m sorry to admit my ignorance, Gross,’ Werthen said. ‘But what exactly does Joshua: 2 talk about?’

  But Berthe answered instead. ‘It deals with the spies that the children of Israel sent into the land of Jericho, and how they were saved by the harlot Rahab in the harlot’s house.’

  Gross nodded in agreement. They sat in silence for a time.

  ‘Coincidence?’ said Berthe. ‘Mitzi the prostitute and Rahab the harlot?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Werthen suggested, ‘that’s something else we’ll find out once the note is translated.’

  SEVEN

  Frau von Suttner arrived punctually at eleven the next morning and was now seated in the sitting room overlooking Josefstädterstrasse. The former Countess Kinsky carried herself with a regal attitude. She was dressed in a somewhat outmoded black silk gown, and she seemed as nervous as Berthe felt.

  Frieda, wearing a pinafore, was standing next to her seated mother, gripping the precious stuffed bear in one arm and putting her head in Berthe’s lap and then lifting it again, playing peekaboo, auburn curls bouncing as she did so.

  Meanwhile, Frau Blatschky bustled about the room getting the tea things in order. Berthe picked Frieda up, placed the girl on her lap, and then smiled at Frau von Suttner as the housekeeper fussed.

  Berthe was familiar with the woman’s history. Born into an impoverished mil
itary family, the Countess took a job as governess in the von Suttner household. It was there she and the youngest son of that family, Baron Arthur Gundaccar von Suttner, fell in love. Ten years his senior and without a dowry, the Countess Kinsky, despite her title, did not seem an appropriate catch for a scion of the von Suttner family. She left the household and went to Paris, where she served as Nobel’s secretary for a short time. But the young Baron von Suttner would not be thwarted; he and the Countess eloped to the Caucasus, where they made a precarious living for a decade as writers and language teachers. It was during this time that both of them began to focus on the cause of peace.

  Eventually, in 1885, the von Suttner family relented in their opposition and the couple returned to Austria, taking up residence in the Suttner family’s summer home, Harmannsdorf Castle in the Waldviertel. It was there she penned her famous books on pacifism. Berthe admired the woman for her work as much as for her fairy-tale life.

  Frau Blatschky finally finished her ministrations and nodded at Berthe.

  ‘Go to Frau Blatschky,’ she told Frieda.

  The little girl crawled off her lap. ‘Baba,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, come to your Baba,’ Frau Blatschky said.

  Left in peace, the two women began speaking at the same time, filling the sudden vacuum.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Berthe, motioning for the older woman to begin.

  ‘I just wanted to thank you for receiving me at such short notice. Frau Mayreder speaks very highly of you and your husband.’

  Rosa Mayreder – the author, painter, musician and feminist – was a Renaissance woman who was connected to many of the new movements in art and thought in Vienna. Berthe counted her among her friends, having met her through her work helping the less fortunate children of the working class gain an education.

  ‘How is Rosa?’ Berthe asked, for it had been months since she last saw her. Indeed, since becoming a mother, her time was no longer her own.

  ‘Well,’ Frau von Suttner said. ‘Very well and hard at work on a new book.’

  ‘As you are yourself, I assume?’ Berthe asked.

  Frau von Suttner sighed. ‘Oh, yes. Always scribbling away. I’ve got to keep a roof over our heads. The problem is it’s a vast castle roof, always in need of repair.’

  She laughed slightly at her own little joke, but Berthe had the feeling there was no mirth in it.

  ‘It must be wonderful living in the country, as you do, and devoting yourself to writing and just causes.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be, though?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Berthe asked.

  ‘May I have some tea?’

  ‘Oh, please excuse my manners. Of course.’ She made to serve the tea.

  ‘I can serve myself, that’s fine.’ And she did, pouring a cup for Berthe, as well.

  ‘Rosa tells me you are a sensible young woman. And a person to be trusted. I feel I must disabuse you of some notions you have of my life. Harmannsdorf Castle still belongs to my husband Arthur’s family, many of whom are continually in residence. The estate farm and its quarry have shown no profit in more years than I care to talk about. The von Suttners have been on the verge of bankruptcy for years, and it is only my literary efforts and Arthur’s that have kept the place solvent. Novels and serial stories have become my ball and chain, stealing valuable time from important work in the peace movement. To be honest, there are times when I cannot even afford to travel from the Waldviertel to Vienna.’

  She set her cup down.

  ‘I hope I’m not shocking you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Berthe said.

  ‘Because what I have come about is family business.’

  Frau von Suttner paused as if offering Berthe a way out.

  ‘I work with my husband on private inquiries. Whatever you have to tell me will be in the strictest confidence.’

  The other woman nodded.

  ‘I mentioned that there are many von Suttners in residence at the castle. One of them is my husband’s niece, Marie Louise. She came to us as an orphan at fourteen. Such a lovely young girl and so devoted to Arthur.’

  Another pause.

  ‘I am sure you see where this is going,’ Frau von Suttner said. ‘So tawdry. Human, all too human. Marie Louise is no longer a sweet young girl. She is now a quite handsome young woman. And one of means, I might add, for she attained a contested inheritance two years ago. She continues to live with us, and continues to be the devoted companion of her Uncle Arthur. She even paid for him to visit a spa last year. I could not visit him more than once a week. The cost of the rail ticket, you see. But Marie Louise took rooms nearby to keep him company.’

  She stopped speaking, shaking her head. ‘This is so embarrassing and I feel such a fool. I have devoted my life to the cause of peace and cannot even assure peace within my own family. You see, Arthur is younger than I am. A good deal younger. And Marie Louise is so vibrant, so full of life.’

  ‘What is it you would like my husband and me to do, Frau von Suttner?’

  ‘Arthur has taken to educating Marie Louise in the world of art. To that end they have been coming to Vienna quite regularly. Oh, she pays for the trips. Quite the grande dame. And when they come back there is a charged atmosphere in the castle. Something unspoken, but manifest nonetheless.’

  Berthe was trying to make it as easy as possible for Frau von Suttner.

  ‘And you would like us to follow your husband and niece when they come to Vienna? To ascertain . . .’ Berthe paused, not knowing how blunt she should be. ‘To discover where they go and what they do when in town.’

  ‘Precisely. I need to know. It is destroying me. Jealousy is a terrible thing.’

  ‘You’re looking well, Gross,’ Detective Inspector Drechsler said. They were sitting in his office in the Vienna Police Praesidium.

  The pictures of Drechsler’s family, Gross noted, had changed since he was last here. Growing up all too fast.

  ‘Feeling fit,’ Gross responded. ‘And I assume the same of you and your good wife?’

  Drechsler brightened at this comment. ‘Yes, she is doing mar-velously. Had you heard?’

  Gross simply nodded at the photograph of her on the desk as a reply. Frau Drechsler was looking portly and radiant.

  ‘Ah, yes. Always the detective at work.’

  The previous year Drechsler’s wife had badly needed an operation, which she refused to have. Gross and Werthen, while engaged in their last investigation, had been able to put her in the hands of one of Vienna’s top surgeons. With positive results.

  They chatted for a time about Gross’s visit to Vienna and his coming interview for a new post in Prague. But finally Drechsler had had enough of small talk.

  ‘It’s clear from your good humour that you’re on a case, Gross. Are you working with Advokat Werthen again?’

  Gross beamed at him. ‘You see, never too late for a dog to learn new deductive tricks, Inspector. I am not my usual bearish self; ergo I must be investigating something. Yes, the matter of the death of a prostitute in the Prater. And my good friend Werthen seems to be gaining a reputation as a private inquiries agent. I am also assisting him on a case of bodily assault.’

  ‘Sounds like police business to me,’ Drechsler said.

  ‘Well, in the case of the prostitute, our client appears to believe the police have better things to do than search for the murderer of a lowly prostitute. And in the matter of the assault, our client . . . Well, shall we say our client is hesitant to come forward for personal reasons.’

  Drechsler wrinkled his nose at this. ‘Don’t sound very promising, either of them. Though I believe I know of the one case. A girl from the Bower, Frau Mutzenbacher’s establishment?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘A very popular place the Bower is. Exclusive clientele.’

  ‘And that exclusive clientele wish to keep their identities secret, one assumes.’

  ‘Besides, the girl wasn’t killed on the premises. It was in the Prater
. There may very well be no connection to the Bower at all.’

  ‘Surely you don’t believe that, Inspector?’ Gross said.

  Drechsler shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. But our friend Meindl indicated the investigation should be given low priority.’

  Though elfish in size, Drechsler’s superior, Inspector Meindl, was a force to be reckoned with. He had once worked with Gross in Graz, before he moved to the Police Praesidium in Vienna. Punctilious in his efforts to secure his rise in the police force, Meindl had made a specialty of protecting people in high places.

  ‘The case is still open,’ Drechsler added.

  ‘I am sure it is, and that is why, in part, I have come to see you.’ He drew the sketch out of his inside jacket pocket and placed it on the desk.

  ‘We have come into possession of this likeness. A witness tells us this man was a frequent client of the unfortunate young woman.’

  Drechsler picked it up, squinted at it closely, and then placed it back on the desktop.

  ‘That’s not going to do you much good.’

  ‘Why would that be, Inspector? It seems a rather good likeness.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a good likeness alright. Problem is the man’s dead. Food poisoning incident. It made quite a stir a few weeks ago. Ate some bad shellfish, it seems. We investigated, had to. An important man. Count Joachim von Ebersdorf, from the Foreign Office. But there was nothing to it. Just as suspected, some bad oysters.’

  Gross nodded. That was why the sketch looked familiar. He had once met the Count. At the opening of Gross’s new institute at Czernowitz, von Ebersdorf had been an emissary of the government.

  ‘When exactly did this occur?’ Gross asked.

  Drechsler exhaled, focusing on the ceiling as if the answer might lie there. ‘Must have been the first week of May. Perhaps the fourth or fifth. I would have to check.’ He paused, fixing Gross in his gaze. ‘You’re not going to try to tie these two deaths together, are you? Just because the prostitute was found on May Day and von Ebersdorf died a few days later?’

  ‘He was, after all, her continual client.’