‘Who is this woman, Uncle?’
Berthe was happy to see the couple were still attired. In fact it rather looked as if they had been reading together; a book lay open on the table in the middle of the room. The bed had not been turned down.
‘I have no idea,’ Baron von Suttner said. Then to Berthe, ‘I suggest you leave immediately or I shall call the police.’
‘There are those who know of your assignations,’ Berthe blurted out.
‘It’s your wife!’ the young Marie shrieked. ‘She hounds us everywhere we go.’
‘No,’ Berthe said firmly. ‘I have come upon information that one of this country’s intelligence services is following you. In fact, you can see the man just outside your window.’
‘Who are you?’ insisted the young woman.
‘Don’t move the curtains,’ Berthe advised. ‘Look from the corner of the window. He is below, just by the lamppost across the street from this hotel. Wearing a boater and a summer suit.’
‘It’s a trick,’ Marie hissed. ‘How could anyone but your wife know about our trips to Vienna?’
Berthe turned a stern eye on the young woman. ‘You told them.’
‘You’re mad!’
Meanwhile, the Baron edged towards the window, peering below.
‘He is there.’
‘Which proves nothing,’ Marie said. ‘It is probably this woman’s accomplice. They have come to extort money from us.’
Marie faced Berthe again. ‘How could I have told anybody?’
‘It was all there in your novel, As Light Dawned. The book your aunt so generously had published. The book you dedicated to her. All there for anybody to read: the thinly veiled roman à clef about a young woman’s love for a much older man bound to a loveless marriage. About their passion for one another. You’ve set the dogs on yourselves. You’ve provided the fuel.’
‘What interest would the intelligence services of this country have in us?’ Baron von Suttner asked, but it was clear he already knew the answer.
‘You don’t believe this woman?’ It was almost a shriek.
‘Perhaps we should hear her out,’ he said. ‘Now you must identify yourself and apprise me of your interest in this matter.’
‘My name is Berthe Meisner,’ she said. ‘I confess to being a great follower of your wife’s work, and I have come here out of my own sense of duty.’
A partial lie, but she could hardly say that Frau von Suttner had hired her to follow her husband and niece. Karl had warned her about the dangers of getting too close to an investigation, of investing emotion rather than intellect, and now she was paying for it. Bertha von Suttner was her idol in so many ways; she did not want to disappoint her, nor did she want to expose the Baroness’s fears to this horrid little niece.
‘My husband is a lawyer who also is involved in private inquiries.’
‘His name?’ This from von Suttner.
‘Werthen. Karl Werthen.’
‘They do not even share a family name,’ Marie said. ‘Why should we believe her?’
But he ignored this outburst, ruminating. ‘I have heard of your husband. He did some work for the Herbst family. A trust, I believe. They recommended him highly.’
She nodded at this acknowledgement. ‘In the course of one of his investigations he discovered that an intelligence service has a dossier on your wife; and that they were following you in the hope of gathering incriminating evidence, something they could use to compromise your wife’s peace work.’
‘Our peace work,’ he said.
‘They must have read the novel, as they suspected there were trysts. And that is why I have come.’
‘To gloat?’ Marie said.
‘Hardly. No, to offer a solution. An explanation for these trips to Vienna and the hiring of a hotel room.’
‘And that would be?’
She took the Brownie camera out of her handbag. ‘I would like to take some photos of your niece.’
‘I know I put it down somewhere here,’ Erika Metzinger said, looking with great attention under each table in the breakfast room.
‘I still do not recall you, Fräulein. And I have a very good memory for faces.’
The concierge said this, but was not looking at her face at all. His inspection of her bosom made her blush.
‘Perhaps someone else was at the desk at the time,’ she finally managed to say. Over his shoulder she saw Berthe descend the stairs and head for the exit.
‘It is doubtful.’ He smirked as he said this. ‘Was it for the night or the hour?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The room. Were you a guest or . . .?’ He left the rest unsaid.
‘I am sure I do not understand what you are getting at. I seem to have wasted my time in this fruitless search.’
She began to leave, but he cut her off from the door, a sneer on his face as he drew close to her. ‘Oh, I imagine you do, understand, Fräulein. Strict policy here. You share your income with the management. That would be me. I don’t recall receiving any share from you. Perhaps we could strike a little bargain, you and I?’
He placed his right hand on her breast and she let out an audible gasp.
‘An actress. How wonderful!’ He moved in closer, his other hand now groping at her skirt.
A sudden wave of anger swept over her, replacing any fear she might have felt.
‘You pig!’ she shouted, then spat in his eye. As he wiped away the spit, she brought her right foot down and stabbed his instep with her heel. He howled in pain and reached for the injured foot. This gave her the opportunity to push him over; as he fell, he crashed into a table, upturning it on top of himself.
‘You little vixen!’ he cried, attempting to untangle himself from the table legs and cloth.
But she was out the door of the breakfast room before he could stand; and then flew out of the hotel, running for the fiaker that Bertha had waiting at the corner.
As she leaped aboard, she discovered a strange emotion flooding her body and then heard an odd sound issuing from her own throat. She was laughing like a gurgling drainpipe.
EIGHTEEN
Werthen had to get some work done today on the von Königstein will. Cases were piling up with both him and Fräulein Metzinger otherwise occupied. This was a fairly straightforward matter – the addition of a codicil stating that if any son married outside the aristocracy, he would be excluded from participation in the proceeds of the said will. This codicil was, of course, directed at the eldest son, Waldemar, who was widely known to be infatuated with an operetta singer from the Carlstheater. Werthen had actually seen the young woman playing Zingra, the gypsy girl in Carl Michael Ziehrer’s new operetta from last spring, The Three Wishes. Charming as a singer she was, but then one assumed the von Königsteins did not want a girl who plays gypsies as the mother of their heirs.
Even as Werthen was thus engaged, part of his mind was still playing over Berthe’s latest request. On the whole, she had concocted an admirable plan for the von Suttner affair and had executed it almost perfectly. The ‘almost’ was reserved for the fact that violence had befallen Fräulein Metzinger. The man responsible needed a good thrashing, but that was not what Berthe was requesting. He would need to confer with Gross on her novel request to deal with the hotel concierge. It might put them further into debt vis-à-vis the Archduke. Gross needed a say in that. But all in all it seemed an appropriate solution.
He looked down at the half-finished codicil. He really must get this done. Focus, he counseled himself.
He was just finishing the codicil when Fräulein Metzinger – who was also devoting that day to the firm’s legal business – tapped on his office door.
Poking her head in, she announced, ‘A visitor, Herr Advokat.’
‘I thought we had no appointments this morning.’
She raised her eyebrows as if shrugging. ‘He doesn’t have an appointment, but says it is rather urgent. You saw him once before, I believe.’
‘Very well,’ We
rthen said, putting the cap on his pen and blotting what he had written thus far.
A tall young man in a black cassock with a cincture or sash around the waist stood in the doorway. His fair hair was disheveled, as if caught in a strong breeze.
Werthen stood, immediately recognizing him. ‘Father Mickelsburg! How good to see you.’
It was a priest he had met on his previous case, tracking down the missing son of Karl Wittgenstein, the wealthy industrialist.
He moved around the desk to greet the priest, shaking his hand with real feeling.
‘Herr Advokat. You are looking well.’
They stood hand in hand for a long moment.
Finally Werthen directed the priest to a chair.
‘What brings you here, Father? Can’t be a will at your age.’
‘A good lawyer would recommend such a legal instrument for any age. One never knows when God will call.’
Werthen felt himself redden. The man was right, of course, but Werthen’s playful bonhomie seemed to have been lost on the priest. He credited Father Mickelsburg with a sense of irony, but wondered at his literalness.
‘In fact there are legal ramifications to my visit,’ the priest said. ‘I understand that you are investigating the death of a young woman named Waltraude Moos.’
Werthen looked at him blankly for a moment, then suddenly remembered the girl’s real name.
‘Ah yes, Fräulein Mitzi.’
Father Mickelsburg squinted at him.
‘Her name at, um, her place—’
‘Her professional name,’ Father Mickelsburg said perfunctorily. ‘There is no need for such prudishness with me, Herr Advokat. I seem to recall unburdening my soul to you last time we met. I am no stranger to the ways of the flesh, despite my cassock.’
‘Why is this of interest to you, Father?’ Werthen again felt the discomfort of addressing this younger man by such a title.
‘A certain friend is connected with these investigations. We were at seminary together.’
‘The girl’s uncle,’ Werthen said flatly, immediately making the connection. ‘Father Hieronymus.’
The priest nodded.
‘The man’s a cad.’
Father Mickelsburg did not respond for a moment. Then said, ‘A strong word, Advokat.’
‘He took advantage of his own niece. He may have even killed her to cover up his misdeeds. Such a description is hardly strong enough, in my book.’
Mickelsburg slowly shook his head.
‘You are the last one, I would think, who would want to cover up such practices,’ Werthen added, feeling real emotion, and realizing he was making the very mistake he counseled his wife Berthe against: becoming too emotionally involved with an investigation. But he could still see the mother in tears at that tidy little farm in the Weinviertel, still hear the words of denial of the father, unwilling to accept the reality of his loss.
‘Will you hear me out? Or are you now judge and jury in addition to private inquiry agent?’
There was the bite of irony he knew Father Mickelsburg to be capable of, and it brought him up short.
‘Sorry, Father. I have been much involved with this case of late. But there is something you should know. I no longer have any official standing. The client dispensed with my services.’
‘I see. But you sound as if you have not personally given up on the investigation. That you have more than a merely professional interest in the matter.’
‘Yes.’ Werthen said. ‘The girl was badly used from many quarters. I admit to a certain empathy.’
‘Have you discovered the person responsible?’
‘No. And as I say, I am no longer officially on the case. After the death of the second girl, the police have finally taken over.’
‘A second girl?’
‘Sorry. You wouldn’t know. I mean a second young woman from the same bordello, the Bower.’
‘A second murder. Then it couldn’t be Hieronymus, could it?’
‘Why not? Perhaps she was blackmailing him about the affair with his niece.’
‘Then you need to hear what I have to say. Will you do that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Not just listen to my words. I mean hear me with an open mind.’
Werthen wondered what kind of hold the corrupt Hieronymus could have over Father Mickelsburg. Nothing else could explain him coming to the aid of such a complete villain.
‘Father Hieronymus is one of the most virtuous men I have ever known.’ It was as if Father Mickelsburg were waiting for Werthen to protest. Greeted by silence, the priest continued. ‘As I said, we were at seminary together, and we became close friends. Intimates, but not in the way you are thinking. He was always the one to help others who could not do their duties, to aid those struggling, be it with theological concepts or with their own self-doubts. He very much wanted to be sent to Africa once he was ordained, but the Church wanted him here. He is the sort of shining light that the hierarchy wants in a public position. But Hieronymus campaigned for several years and finally was sent to the Belgian Congo. He lasted only a matter of months. He was badly wounded in an attempt on his life. Hieronymus said things from the pulpit about the rubber-plantation owners’ inhuman practices that they did not want to hear. He tried to expose the cruelty and hardship imposed on those workers, those poor children of God. He was brought back, badly wounded, and after recuperating was given a safe church where the bishops thought he could cause no trouble.’
Werthen had difficulty accepting this biography, remembering only the shifty eyes of the priest when confronted with his misdeeds regarding his niece.
‘What happened to him, then?’ Werthen said. ‘To make him forget his vows and take advantage of a young woman, his own niece?’
‘He tells me, and I believe him, that it was the young woman who made advances. Who actually came to his room one night, crawled under the covers, and began fondling him. He awoke in an excited state, but when he realized what was happening, he stopped her, made her go back to her room, and threatened to send her home in disgrace. She disappeared soon after, leaving behind a letter threatening to expose him, to lie about their so-called affair if he so much as contacted her parents. To his lasting regret, in this event Hieronymus was weak. Faced with such threats, he acquiesced.’
Werthen felt the ground slipping from under him, a vertigo of unrealized aspects gripping him. He managed to grab hold of one bit of flotsam.
‘I don’t suppose you have that letter?’
‘Once I heard my friend’s story and that you were the one interviewing him, I knew it was God’s way of giving me a second chance for having let my other friend down. For not standing up to the world and being honest. Such a coincidence could not be other than divinely inspired.’ When he met Father Mickelsburg previously, the priest had initially been less than forthcoming about his special relationship with a young journalist who was murdered. He had come to Werthen later to supply valuable information, but had obviously felt a great sense of guilt at attempting to keep this homosexual relationship secret.
Now Father Mickelsburg reached inside his cassock. took out a letter, and placed it on the desktop in front of Werthen.
Later, after the priest had departed and he was left alone with his own thoughts, Werthen remembered something the driver he hired in the Weinviertel, the man called Pratt, had said regarding the Moos girl: that she was the wild one, the one about whom stories were told in the village. He had dismissed this at the time as a product of rural conservatism and jealousies at play. But perhaps there was something in it.
Still, what did it matter? So the girl had a lusty nature. It changed nothing. Someone had brutally killed her.
Then Werthen began to wonder about other stories he had been told about Fräulein Mitzi – by Frau Mutzenbacher and Siegfried, by Salten, Altenberg and her one-time lover, Schnitzler. Were they depicting her as she really was, or were they hiding something? Something that could lead Werthen to her killer.
‘And you believe Father Mickelsburg?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Werthen answered.
‘In spite of the fact,’ Berthe persisted, ‘that he lied to you before?’
‘It’s different this time.’
‘It often is,’ Gross added.
They had gone out for dinner at Berthe’s favorite restaurant. It was her birthday, and Werthen had been so preoccupied that he had forgotten it until Frau Blatschky reminded him that afternoon. The Frau had stayed on to serve as babysitter while he, Berthe and Gross dined at the Black Swan, an eatery resembling a French bistro, despite its name, which sounded more like a British public house than a Left Bank restaurant. The Black Swan had been a favorite of theirs for several years, but only lately had it been discovered by that class of Viennese who dined out in order that others could see them doing so.
In fact, Inspector Meindl, the diminutive chief of the Vienna Police Praesidium, had just left with his wife, who was a good seven or eight centimetres taller and fourteen or fifteen kilos heavier than him, but from a very well-placed family.
Meindl’s presence had cast a pall over their celebrations, for he had given them the feeling that he knew exactly what they were discussing. Discovering it was Berthe’s birthday, he had the waiter bring over a bottle of Schlumberger Sekt, and they had duly toasted his generosity. Meindl smiled back at them. He was the only man Werthen knew who could make a smile look threatening.
Thus, instead of being able to talk about the state of their various investigations during dinner, they had to wait for his departure. Meindl was no friend to private inquiry agents, fearing that they might outdo the investigative efforts of his own detectives. Werthen, Berthe, and Gross had proved this fear to be valid on more than one occasion.
Despite the fact that Gross had been the man’s mentor as a young constable in Graz, Meindl had attempted to derail their investigations in the past and, Werthen assumed, would continue to do so. Meindl’s career to date had been marked by the single-minded pursuit not of justice but of personal advancement.
Once the police chief was gone, they set aside their barely touched glasses of Sekt, ordered a bottle of French champagne instead, and toasted Berthe’s health.
The Keeper of Hands Page 18
