‘He was close to her, that I know,’ Werthen began. ‘How close—’
Gross interjected, ‘Jealousy would hardly seem to be the motive, seeing that the Count was killed after the death of the young woman.’
‘Could he have imagined the Count was somehow responsible for the girl’s death?’ Franz Ferdinand said.
‘That is one possibility,’ Werthen allowed. ‘Herr Mutzenbacher is not being forthcoming. We may have to turn this over to the police now.’
Another nod from Franz Ferdinand. ‘Your decision.’
‘We would of course continue our private investigation on your behalf,’ Gross said. ‘If that is your wish.’
‘Please,’ the Archduke said. ‘It would seem that my fears about Joachim may have been unfounded. His death seems to have had nothing to do with rivalries in the intelligence services, but rather with a tawdry domestic matter.’
‘As I said,’ Werthen replied, ‘that is one possibility. And it would seem, a very strong one. But we ought to pursue other possibilities, as well.’
‘Could this Siegfried Mutzenbacher have killed all three?’ Franz Ferdinand suddenly asked.
Gross and Werthen both shrugged. Then Gross said, ‘There is another possible avenue of inquiry, your Highness. The first victim, Fräulein Mitzi, seems now not to have been such a put-upon and exploited girl as was first thought. Indications are that she was quite experienced at manipulation herself.’
Franz Ferdinand sighed, then stood to signal the end of the meeting.
‘Well, I trust you two to follow your instincts in this matter. I wish to see justice done. Please proceed.’
He made to ring a bell on his desk, to summon a servant to lead them out.
‘If I may, your Highness, one more thing.’
Franz Ferdinand stilled his hand. ‘Yes.’
‘It is about that other matter. Baroness von Suttner.’
‘What is it?’
‘We need your help.’
They reached Werthen’s office by mid-afternoon, only to find Inspector Drechsler waiting impatiently.
‘We were about to contact you,’ Werthen said. ‘You saved me a phone call.’
Drechsler did not appear to be in a happy state. The cadaverous detective looked glum as death, his long hawk nose sniffing at this statement.
‘I thought we had an arrangement,’ he replied, disappointment sounding in his voice. ‘An understanding. Now you make me look like a fool in front of the Giftzwerg.’ By ‘poison dwarf’ he meant the diminutive Inspector Meindl.
‘I assure you, Drechsler—’ Gross began, but was cut off by the detective.
‘You withheld information on a case we are investigating. That’s a crime, you know.’
Werthen’s mind began racing. Which information? He had promised to turn over his files on Fräulein Mitzi and had not done so yet. It suddenly angered him that Drechsler should be accusing him over that, when the police had dragged their feet with her murder for weeks.
‘Lord knows how, but she has some powerful connections,’ Drechsler said. ‘Powerful enough to set that bag of gas Meindl on fire. He threatened to have me on the beat in Meidling if I was somehow involved.’
‘Just what are you talking about?’ Gross finally demanded.
They were still standing in the front office, with Fräulein Metzinger trying unsuccessfully to focus on the sheet in her typing machine.
‘Let’s go into your office,’ said Drechsler. It was a command rather than a suggestion.
Once inside Werthen’s office, with the door closed behind them, there was no lessening of the tension.
‘How long have you known about the von Ebersdorf poisoning?’ Drechsler asked.
So that was it, Werthen realized. The ‘she’ with powerful connections that Drechsler had just mentioned was becoming clearer.
‘When did you learn of it?’ Gross countered.
‘Earlier this afternoon, if you must know.’
‘We assumed copies of the autopsy would circulate to the appropriate authorities,’ Gross said, though both he and Werthen knew this was stretching the truth to breaking point. The Archduke had arranged the exhumation and autopsy privately through the von Ebersdorf family. He had not mentioned sharing the information with the constabulary, and they had not asked whether he intended to do so.
‘We can hardly be blamed for bureaucratic bumbling.’
‘Who ordered it?’ Drechsler demanded.
‘The identity of our client must, perforce, remain private.’
‘Damn it, man, you’re playing with my career here! Meindl thinks that I’m withholding information from him. That I am in some sort of conspiracy to make him look like an incompetent fool.’
‘He hardly needs help in that venture,’ Gross said. This comment broke the tension somewhat.
‘Look, Inspector,’ Werthen quickly jumped in. ‘I assume that Frau Mutzenbacher was the one who brought a complaint to Meindl?’
‘You assume correctly.’
‘She must have some of her clientele under her thumb,’ Werthen went on. ‘Including someone powerful enough to get Meindl to try to stop the investigation.’
‘If memory serves me right, “persecution” was the word used,’ the policeman noted.
‘I assure you we only learned yesterday that Siegfried Mutzenbacher was working in the kitchen where the von Ebersdorf banquet was served. We know that von Ebersdorf was a customer at the Bower; and a steady client of Fräulein Mitzi, who was murdered. In my earlier investigations into her death I found that there was a connection between Siegfried and the girl, but whether it was platonic, as he claimed, or otherwise, is uncertain.’
‘So you assume that his mere presence in the kitchen of the hotel means he poisoned von Ebersdorf?’
‘Something like that,’ Werthen allowed, though when stated so simplistically it did sound somewhat far-fetched.
‘Sound reasoning,’ Drechsler said without a trace of irony.
‘You think so?’ Werthen asked.
‘I must apologize to you, Inspector Drechsler,’ Gross said suddenly, sounding honestly contrite. ‘It was my suggestion that we interview Herr Mutzenbacher directly. I’m sure you understand the eagerness and excitement there is when you think you are about to close a case. I promise you, had we gained a confession, we would have contacted you directly.’
‘And now that you’ve muddied the waters with this Siegfried fellow, I get to clean up your mess. Is that it?’
Werthen and Gross exchanged looks, the latter shrugging as if to say it was time to play their trump.
‘In the greatest confidence, Inspector, I will tell you this. Our current employer . . .’ Another quick glance at Werthen. ‘Is a man of great power in the empire. A word in his ear from us would put you in very good stead, that I can promise.’
Drechsler considered this for a moment. ‘At court?’
Gross raised his hands as if to show that they were tied in matters of client secrecy. ‘You could have a protector in him. That is all I can say.’
Werthen thought that was again straining the truth, but it seemed to mollify the detective.
‘Meindl wants you off this case,’ Drechsler said. ‘It is now officially Police Praesidium business. That and the murders of the two women from the Bower.’
Gross was about to respond, but Werthen cut him off.
‘We will confer with our client,’ he said.
‘Meanwhile I want the files from your earlier investigation of Fräulein Mitzi’s death. Everything.’
Werthen nodded. Conciliation was what was needed now, not confrontation or even offers of compromise.
‘She may not have been the poor victimized girl we took her for,’ Werthen added, offering this information as a sign of goodwill.
‘Really?’
‘You’ll see it in the files. But her tale of being forced into prostitution has some holes in it.’
TWENTY
He had followed them through
the course of the day, but he was not the only one doing so. There was also a cornstalk of a man with a scar on his face that would frighten even a crucifix-worshipping nun.
He was a protector or a watcher. At first Schmidt wasn’t sure which.
Not very effective at either, though, since he never noticed me, Schmidt figured.
The lawyer and his bulky friend had been busy indeed. Cornering that pimp Siegfried from the Bower. Schmidt did not like the look of that interview: Siegfried had walked away from the café like a man with a noose round his neck.
And yet what the hell did Siegfried know? What could he tell the lawyer and his rotund pal? Another loose end that needed tying up.
Then to the Belvedere, and he could only guess at their mission there, as well. He followed them in through the entrance at No. 6 Rennweg, through a passage in the lower palace and to the grounds behind. Schmidt was in luck, for the gardens were open to the public during the warm months. He followed at a distance, through the ornamental flower-beds, past fountains and statues and terraces, up the slope to the Upper Belvedere.
It was while setting up watch at the Belvedere that Schmidt determined the cornstalk man’s function. He was a protector, for not long after the lawyer and his companion entered the upper palace the cornstalk man followed, giving one last glance behind him. But by then Schmidt had melted into the midday throng of other Viennese enjoying the gardens.
They stayed in there for a good two hours. Schmidt knew it was the town residence of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, but he couldn’t imagine what business the heir apparent would have with a lawyer who dabbled in private inquiries and wills and trusts. He’d need to find out the identity of the bulky older fellow accompanying him, but he did not like the direction this was headed.
He made a mental checklist, on the assumption they had gone to meet with the Archduke; it seemed unlikely they were making a social call on one of the footmen. Schmidt knew about Franz Ferdinand’s shadow government; his Russian controller had apprised him of advances that the Archduke had made to Tsar Nicholas, desiring to maintain peaceful relations, especially regarding their mutual interests in the Balkans. The Archduke, Schmidt knew, was kept abreast of intelligence matters via informants in both the Austrian Foreign Office’s espionage wing and the Intelligence Bureau of the General Staff. But what if he wanted to have his own agents in the field?
More checklists. This Werthen had gone to see the parents of the prostitute. He had also talked with Siegfried from the Bower and imparted something serious enough to make the man wear a look like he was attending his own wake.
And now to the Archduke. Was it mere coincidence that this lawyer, apparently investigating the death of the prostitute from the Bower, was also somehow involved with the ambitious and impatient Archduke?
This had all the signs of a field agent meeting with his controller.
Schmidt discounted the fact that he had followed the lawyer to Arthur Schnitzler’s residence three days ago. The mere thought of that confusion made Schmidt wince. Forstl! What a complete idiot. Called him to a meet earlier in the week in a panic that he, Schmidt, had failed in his mission to dissuade a blackmailer with whom Forstl had had a homosexual affair. Lording it over him as if he, Schmidt, had made the error. Until he told Forstl that he had handled the matter with Arthur Schnitzler.
Forstl had gaped at him like a mouth-breather. ‘Schnitzel, you fool!’ he shouted at him. ‘Not Schnitzler.’ At which Schmidt pulled out the small leather-covered notepad he carried for such matters, and found the page with the appropriate name and showed it to Forstl.
‘This was the name you gave me,’ he said, reining in the desire to break the man’s neck there and then and be done with it. ‘Arthur Schnitzler, the physician. There was a plaque on the man’s building.’
A look of horror had crossed Forstl’s face as he realized the error was his own, and quickly explained how at that time he had been preoccupied with the ‘traitor’ Schnitzler, the playwright who had betrayed the military with some damned theater piece. Schmidt couldn’t have cared less about the theater or the arts, and had never heard of the dramatist. All that concerned him was that the blackmailer Forstl mentioned was endangering the mission and needed a small disincentive.
Now he knew that he had got the wrong man. It was another doctor – named Arthur Schnitzel – he needed to deal with. And given the delay, a simple disincentive would hardly be enough now. No longer would it simply be enough to scare the man off with a beating. From what Forstl said of his last meeting with this Schnitzel, extreme action was now necessary.
Nor did Forstl apologize for his error, or for blaming Schmidt.
His parting shot was, ‘And no more fingers!’
Schmidt filed this slight away for another time, when there would be a reckoning.
He had yet to deal with the Schnitzel matter, but had made contact of a sort. At least he had found the correct address this time, a tenement in Hernals, and had learned the man’s habits and when he was most vulnerable.
Meanwhile, there were other loose ends to tie up, or that needed cauterizing. Including Advokat Werthen and his connection to the matter at the Bower. Forstl again. Endangering his role as double agent with an unauthorized operation.
There was plenty of time for these ruminations as Schmidt strolled through the grounds of the Belvedere this sunny afternoon. Time enough even to recall his early, heady student days in St Petersburg.
It was the thought of the playwright Schnitzler that triggered these memories, the fact that he had never heard of the man. There was a time when he would have done, when the arts was all he cared about. He, the simple village boy from the Livonian coast north of Riga. His family was from a long line of amber fishers, plying the shore waters of that coast marked with banks of pine trees and sand dunes on the Baltic Sea. For two centuries the Klavan family had worked those waters in search of what was known as scoopstone, because of the large scoop-shaped nets used to sweep along the bottom of the sea and gather the precious chunks of amber dislodged from the ocean floor by wild storms and fierce tidal action. By the time young Pietr had joined his father and two older brothers in the trade, they were using a broad-beamed rowing-boat with men lying over the side raking the sea bottom to dislodge the amber, which was then swept into large nets.
For the fact that he was no good at this trade – the motion of the water even close to shore always made him ill – he compensated with his passion for music. He had no idea where the gift came from, but in the evenings he would entertain the family in their homely reed-roofed whitewashed dwelling with melodies picked out on the old violin his favorite uncle had given him. There had been no history of musicians in the family, only sturdy amber fishermen, but he loved the feel of the wood on that simple instrument which his uncle had found left behind in a tavern. The local priest had given Pietr rudimentary lessons, showing him the fingering and the sweep of bow against string. He had begun playing when he was eight; by the time he was fifteen he could play Bach sonatas in the local church, to the amazement of all, the rich, sonorous tones filling the small chapel.
His beloved uncle took to calling him Wenno – one of the masters of the Livonian Brothers of the Sword, a thirteenth-century military order founded in the vicinity of Riga. Like the knights of the Teutonic Order, the Livonian Brothers defended the Church in the northern crusades against the pagan peoples of the Baltic region. Pietr’s uncle was a romantic: he claimed that the Klavans were descendants of the Livonian Brothers, that they were knights who took to the sea. Pietr’s father had little patience for such nonsense, but Pietr would listen to his uncle’s tales of the glorious deeds of this fighting order. His childhood was marked by dreams of devoting his own life to heroic deeds and to the warm touch of the violin he soon came to master.
Thus, when a nobleman, Count von Girzwold, from Riga happened to visit their humble chapel one Sunday when Pietr was playing his favorite Bach violin partita, he was overcome with emotion hearing
this simple peasant lad create such sweet sounds. He talked with Pietr after the service, encouraged him to play more. This nobleman was a strong believer in the ideas of Rousseau; in Pietr he saw a perfect example of natural talent, of ‘the noble savage’. He talked with Pietr’s parents, who stood in the man’s presence and bowed respectfully while he talked.
But upon his departure they said no. No, they would not send their youngest son off to the urban dangers of St Petersburg or the temptations of the Conservatory. For that was what the nobleman had offered them, intercession in winning the boy a scholarship to that famous musical institution.
But the uncle argued otherwise. The lad is unfit for the amber trade; far better to give him an education, make him a man of the world. He could become a famous musician, bring fame to the Klavan name once again, as in the age of the Livonian Brothers.
At which the father scoffed; but in the end he relented, after the nobleman offered to reimburse the father for the lost labor of his son.
And so it was off to St Petersburg for young Pietr; and when leaving, his uncle slipped him a going-away gift, telling him to open it only when safely on the train. Later, as the train carried him along the coast towards Tallinn, he opened the package and discovered a beautiful knife with amber-encrusted grip and the name Wenno inlaid in silver on the bronze blade. He tucked the prized knife away in his violin case.
The first weeks in St Petersburg were miserable ones for Pietr, accustomed as he was to the rhythms of the country, not the city. He had never used a flush toilet before, never ridden a street car or seen an electric light. The modest room he was assigned in a widow’s flat seemed like a palace compared to his family home, but there was no warmth at night, no simple cheer of sitting around the open fire and sharing stories of the day’s events, or experiencing the slap-and-clap accompaniment of his family to the tunes with which he would entertain them.
And the other students at the Conservatory, most of whom came from the professional class or higher, treated the scholarship boy like a leper. When he auditioned for and won a place with Professor Auer, he thought their attitude would change. He was right: it got worse. Now they called him names not just behind his back but to his face. They accused him of being the token poor boy, better suited to playing the hurdy-gurdy. One in particular, Heimito von Kornung, said the most stinging words:
The Keeper of Hands Page 20
