She made her way out of the hotel and back out on to the sunny street. The man in the boater tipped his hat at her as she walked back to the fiaker.
Inside the carriage, Erika and Frieda were happily engaged in a game of schnick, schnack, schnuck. Frieda had just made the scissors sign with forefinger and middle finger, while Erika’s hand was outstretched as paper.
‘Oh, you win again,’ Erika said.
Berthe got in and took a deep breath.
‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ Erika said. ‘What did you discover?’
‘They are there. As husband and wife.’
‘Registered as Suttner?’
‘Worse. As von Tilling.’
Erika looked puzzled.
‘More, Tan-tan!’ Frieda pleaded.
‘Just a moment, love,’ Erika said. Then to Berthe, ‘Who is von Tilling?’
‘It’s the name of the protagonist in Frau von Suttner’s Lay Down Your Arms. This is a double betrayal! How sad.’
PART TWO
TWELVE
She had a bad feeling about this one. He did not smile, did not look her in the eye.
‘I was expecting Herr Forstl.’
The man did not respond.
‘Did he send you?’ She looked around the park. The other walkers had disappeared.
‘He was busy,’ the man said in German that was curiously devoid of accent. The voice was without any distinguishing characteristics, like a face that has been badly burned.
‘Did he send the money with you?’ Her eyes darted down the empty pathway. She forced herself to keep calm. After all, it was mid-afternoon in a public park. She had arranged the meeting place with her own safety specifically in mind.
But this man’s gray eyes made her shiver. Like his voice, they were totally without expression.
‘Herr Forstl regrets to inform you that he cannot meet your conditions.’
There was a momentary twitch of his lips, almost a smile. And though his message enraged her, the lip movement made her relax her guard for just an instant.
It was long enough.
She did not even register his right hand coming up to her face, palm open. The ball of his hand smashed into her nose with enough force to crush bone and cartilage, driving shards into her frontal lobe.
She was dead before she hit the ground.
The emissary bent over her body, quickly putting his forefinger to her carotid artery. Then he made a rapid movement with his right hand, sighed, and stood up straight once again.
Satisfied, he strolled back down the path, past the under construction sign he had earlier placed to block the path and keep other pedestrians away.
‘You know her?’ Detective Inspector Drechsler said.
Werthen nodded.
‘Fräulein Fanny,’ he said.
Flies buzzed around the corpse’s left nostril, feasting on a dried trickle of blood. He averted his eyes.
‘An assistant at the Bower,’ he added.
Drechsler leaned down on one knee, careful to place a handkerchief under it to avoid soiling his suit. He looked closely at the dead body.
‘We’ll know better when our friend Todt at the morgue does his work, but I’d say this is the work of a professional. Blow to the nose sending bone to the brain.’
‘Why contact me?’ Werthen asked.
Drechsler drew an evidence envelope out of his jacket pocket and from it produced a business card. Werthen immediately recognized it as his own.
‘She must have taken it from the Bower.’
Drechsler made no reply, replacing the card in the envelope and stuffing it into his pocket once again.
‘No other identification on her?’ Werthen asked.
Drechsler, again examining the ruined nose, grunted an assent. He wore his usual serge suit, the same clothes summer and winter, and Werthen wondered that he wasn’t sweating under the strong morning sun.
The tall, thin inspector stood again, picking up the handkerchief as he did so.
‘Professional,’ Werthen said. ‘As in professional killer?’
‘It has the hallmarks. The single blow. The under construction sign blocking the path. Maintenance says it is not Turkenschanz Park property.’
Werthen’s mind raced, trying to think of reasons Fräulein Fanny would be the victim of a professional killer.
‘She’s a long way from her turf,’ Drechsler said.
Werthen agreed. The park, located in the eighteenth district, was quite a distance from the Bower and the First District.
‘Makes you wonder what would bring her here,’ Drechsler added.
‘And when,’ Werthen said. But he knew where to find the answer to that question at least.
‘Our same man,’ Drechsler said in an undertone, as if fearful any of the beat gendarmes at the scene might overhear.
Werthen was not sure he had heard correctly. ‘You mean the man that killed Mitzi?’
Drechsler nodded. He looked dyspeptic today.
‘I confess, Inspector, that I was considering the same notion. It seems too much of a coincidence that two women from the same bordello should fall victim to murder in such a short time. But, as you well know, prostitution is a dangerous game.’ Gross’s dictum – ‘Never eschew the simple solution, but always follow the evidence’ – played through his mind.
‘Besides,’ Werthen added, ‘Mitzi was strangled, whereas Fräulein Fanny suffered a blunt-force trauma.’
‘Heel of the hand to the nostril region of the nose, actually,’ Drechsler said. ‘But it’s our man.’
Werthen squinted at the detective. ‘Would you care to share, Inspector?’
Drechsler brought out the handkerchief once again, placed it next to the body, then leaned down on one knee. He dragged the dead woman’s left hand out from under the body and held it up in the bright sun. Bile caught in Werthen’s throat as he looked at it.
‘Fellow’s a pro, you must give him that. Sliced that left pinkie off just at the base knuckle. Clean as a butcher chopping a joint.’
Werthen sucked in fresh morning air, averting his eyes from the gore of the ruined hand.
Finally he spoke. ‘And it was the same finger with Mitzi? That’s why you figure it was the same killer? His signature?’
Another grunted assent came from Drechsler as he stood up and folded the handkerchief.
‘You kept it from the newspapers, of course.’
‘Just like your Doktor Gross advises. We don’t want any emulators.’
‘Copycats,’ Werthen corrected. ‘It’s from the English. Gross’s American colleagues.’
Werthen said this almost as an apology, but Drechsler was not listening.
‘Fifth finger, first joint. Same on both women. That’s no coincidence. And there was no trace of the finger at the scene. Our man’s a collector.’
A sudden chill gripped Werthen, remembering his secretary’s mention of ‘the keeper of hands’.
‘She was here for lunch yesterday,’ Siegfried said.
The major-domo looked shaken, his face still bloodless as it was when Werthen told him of Fanny’s murder.
‘Was she supposed to be working last night?’ Drechsler asked.
Siegfried did not look at the detective. Shaking his head, he addressed his response to Werthen.
‘Her time of the month.’
‘Did she tell anyone she was going out?’ Werthen asked.
Siegfried sniffed at this, as if it were unworthy of comment.
Instead, he said, ‘Lot of good you’ve been.’
Werthen bristled at this.
‘I was hired to investigate Mitzi’s death, not to be a bodyguard to your staff.’
‘And you don’t think there’s a connection between their deaths?’
Werthen and Drechsler exchanged glances at this query.
‘There may well be,’ Werthen said. ‘But one does not wish to jump to conclusions.’ No reason to share the information of the harvested fingers.
‘I am not a religious woman,’ she said, as if conscious of Werthen’s silent question. ‘Yet I cannot help but feel it is a kind of judgment.’
It was, in a way, a shocking admission, as if she was condemning her entire life as sinful.
‘You wouldn’t know who Fräulein Fanny was meeting at the park, would you?’ Werthen asked the madam.
She sank into her armchair like a deflated balloon.
She shook her head. ‘I cannot believe this is happening again.’
‘Which park?’ Siegfried asked.
‘Turkenschanz,’ Drechsler said.
Siegfried glanced at his sister.
‘Is there any significance to that?’ Drechsler asked.
‘There are many parks in Vienna.’
Frau Mutzenbacher was more forthcoming. ‘It was once her precinct, shall we say. Before she came to us at the Bower.’
There was a garrison near the park, Werthen remembered. Thus Turkenschanz would offer rich pickings for working girls. Obviously Fanny had chosen the location because she was familiar with it. She was not on the job; she was meeting someone. And she had suggested Turkenschanz Park because she knew it, because she felt safe there. Which implied whoever she was meeting was not necessarily trustworthy. In the event, her fears were sadly confirmed.
It also meant that whoever she met was, as Drechsler indicated, a professional. He had outsmarted Fanny on her home ground.
They would know more about the time of death when Todt got his report in, but Werthen guessed they would find that, concerned for her safety, Fanny had insisted on meeting during daylight hours. This time of year, that could mean up to eight o’clock in the evening.
‘Does this change the direction of your investigation, Advokat?’
Like her brother, Frau Mutzenbacher ignored Drechsler, an unwelcome presence.
Realizing little information would be forthcoming while he was there, the inspector stood up.
‘I’ll confer with you later, Werthen,’ he said and stalked out of the room without a good-bye for Frau Mutzenbacher or her brother.
They both watched his progress out of the room, and then turned their eyes on Werthen.
‘I had meant to come here today anyway,’ he said.
‘Is there progress to report?’ she asked flatly.
He briefly outlined his investigation to date, noting the roles Altenberg and Schnitzler had played. He also discussed the letter he had found in Mitzi’s room and its subsequent translation. Then he hesitated, unsure how to broach the next steps in his investigation.
Aware of his hesitation, Frau Mutzenbacher looked at him firmly.
‘Whatever you have learned, Advokat, I have paid for. I have a right to know everything.’
‘The letter led me to her parents,’ he said, knowing that the statement would hurt. Indeed, she jerked back at the news as if struck.
He explained their ignorance of their daughter’s death. Then Werthen came to the priest-uncle and accusations of sexual abuse.
She made an audible gasp and Siegfried pounded his right fist into his left palm. Werthen wondered if he had given too much information.
‘An animal,’ Frau Mutzenbacher muttered. ‘Hypocrite.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘And what of the mysterious customer you asked about?’ Siegfried finally said. Werthen sensed real interest despite Siegfried’s seeming nonchalance.
‘We have traced him, as well. One Count Joachim von Ebersdorf of the Foreign Office. He seems to have died only days after Fräulein Mitzi.’
More silence met this announcement.
‘So many deaths,’ Siegfried said after a few moments.
Werthen nodded, locking eyes with him. Siegfried was the first to break eye contact.
‘Perhaps it is time we dispensed with all this,’ Frau Mutzenbacher said.
‘All this?’
‘Your services, I mean,’ she said. ‘With the death of Fanny, the police are now bound to investigate.’
‘You wish to terminate my services?’ He could hardly believe his ears.
‘I believe my sister made her intent clear.’ Siegfried suddenly puffed out his chest.
The sitting room door opened and one of the young women stood there.
‘Madam,’ she said. ‘A visitor. He said he has an appointment.’
Behind her, Felix Salten entered without further introduction.
‘Dear Frau, sorry to be late—’ he began, and then noticed Werthen.
‘Apologies. Have I interrupted?’
‘Not at all,’ Frau Mutzenbacher said. ‘The Herr Advokat was just leaving.’
Then to Werthen: ‘You can send me your final bill.’
THIRTEEN
He made his way from the Bower through a tangle of streets in the First District to his lunch meeting with Gross at the outdoor restaurant in the Volksgarten. He was going to be late, but Gross would just have to wait. The shoe had been on the other foot enough times in that regard.
As he walked, he tried to collate a plethora of facts, but what stuck out primarily was what had just transpired at the Bower: he had been sacked. But why?
He meant to find out.
Entering the Volksgarten, he saw the officer from the General Staff whom he had often noticed on his way to work. He was ramrod stiff in demeanor today as always, perhaps even more so. Again, the patent-leather visor of the captain’s cap was faultless, glistening in the sun, his high boots resplendently polished, the brass buttons on his green tunic twinkling like little stars. They passed one another on the path to the garden restaurant, but the officer’s eyes were fixed straight ahead; a muscle in his jaw twitched, the only sign that he was human and not a moving wax figure or automaton.
Once again, Werthen was struck by the notion that here was a figure out of fiction, here was a fellow that could take center stage in a short story. This was no Lieutenant Gustl out of a Schnitzler play, but a man on a mission.
‘Werthen.’
Gross called to him from a table at the rear of the restaurant’s terrace, diverting his mind from such ruminations. Werthen tipped his Homburg in recognition, and picked his way through the crowded slalom of tables and diners.
‘I thought you’d never get here,’ Gross said as Werthen took a seat opposite him at the small table. The bread basket was depleted; flakes of crust, a salt crystal or two, and a scattering of caraway seeds let him know that Gross had not gone unfed while waiting.
‘I have the most extraordinary news for you,’ said Werthen.
Meanwhile, the General Staff captain Werthen had just seen – having taken an early lunch – made his way into the interior courtyards of the Hofburg, saluted a sentry on duty at the main door to the War Ministry, and then cantered up four flights of broad marble stairs, his boots clacking against the stone. At the top of the stairs another sentry returned a smart salute. Then he took his seat at his desk in the Operations Section of the General Staff’s Intelligence Bureau.
Looking through the midday dispatches, Adelbert Forstl used all his strength of will to maintain a calm exterior. Inwardly he was in turmoil: this day might well be the most important in his career, indeed in his entire life. He had come such a long way from his humble origins in Lemberg, the son of a freight clerk for the railway. One of six children, Adelbert knew early on that his only escape from brutal poverty would be a military career. There was no money for higher education; but because his father Franz had served as a lieutenant in the Austrian army for a decade, Adelbert was eligible for free entrance to the Cadet School Karnovsky in the center of Lemberg. And that is where he
went when he reached the age of fourteen.
Though Galicia and Lemberg had been under Austrian rule for over a century, the overwhelming number of citizens were still Polish speakers, then came Ruthenian, and only about one percent of the population were true German speakers. After the compromise Emperor Franz Josef struck with his far-flung territories in 1867, there was no pretense at all at making German the official language. Polish, with its harsh gutturals, was the language of commerce and government in the region. Adelbert, born in 1860, thus grew up learning a Babel of languages and hating all but German, as he was an ethnic German and a Catholic. Now, however, he was happy that he had had such an upbringing; his languages (he had since learned Russian as well) were in part what had secured him his present position as Chief of Operations and head of the Russian desk at the Bureau.
Separated from the empire by the Carpathian Mountains and a non-Germanic culture, Adelbert had slowly made his way from junior officer to captain, serving in various outposts of the empire. Through diligence and good luck, he saw his value rise in the army, not an easy task for the son of a freight clerk. Now, after twenty years of hard work, he was delighted to have finally arrived, even surpassing some of those who had a ‘von’ before their names. He was at the very seat of power of the empire – no longer posted to the fringes but at the heart of things, in the same constellation of buildings the Emperor called home.
He looked at the pendulum clock on the wall of his small office. Still fifteen more minutes until his meeting with Colonel von Krahlich, chief of the Bureau. He needed to get his thoughts in order – so much rested on the way he presented his case to von Krahlich. He unlocked the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, took out two thick gray-covered files, and placed them on the desk in front of him. Bombs about to be dropped.
Von Krahlich’s adjutant poked his head in the door without bothering to knock.
‘Captain, the Colonel would like to see you now. There’s been an alteration in appointments.’
Forstl was dragged out of his ruminations, annoyed that the adjutant had not first announced himself.
That was something he would fix later when he was in charge.
‘If you don’t mind,’ the adjutant, Captain Johann von Daum, added with a barely discernable tone of irony.
The Keeper of Hands Page 12
