Arriving at the church, Werthen gave the man a crown and did not bother waiting for change. Both he and Gross ran past the church and through the graveyard to the small hunting lodge at the back that served as the rectory. They had not spoken during the journey, but now Gross, in between deep breaths, said, ‘I hope for that man’s sake we are not too late.’
It was not clear which man he meant; for both it would indeed be a tragedy.
Reaching the rectory, Werthen had just gripped the brass hand-shaped knocker when the front door flew open. It was the aged housekeeper and her eyes looked wild.
‘Oh, murder, murder! Please, you must help.’
She grabbed Werthen’s arm and he could hear voices shouting from down the long hallway. He raced to the door of the study, Gross behind him. As they reached it, they heard a harsh scream and then a crash of furniture. Throwing open the door, Werthen saw Herr Moos, Mitzi’s father. In his hand was the poker from the ceramic stove, held by the tip; the heavy brass handle at the other end was smeared in blood. His face was a mask of rage and he was about to strike again at the body at his feet, but the overturned chair was in his way, allowing Werthen the opportunity to grab the man’s arm. But Moos was enraged, and his strength was magnified by it. He threw Werthen off like a child, and he fell back and over the desk.
As he picked himself up, he saw that Gross had now tried to grab the man, but he too was tossed aside like a rag doll. Neither he nor Gross was armed. He therefore looked for a weapon, and grabbed a chair by the desk, noticing as he did so the crumpled body of Father Hieronymus at Moos’s feet, the man’s thinning ash-blond hair a tangle of blood. There was no time to think. Moos was swinging the poker, for a second time, handle first, at the priest’s head. Werthen parried the thrust with the chair, knocking the poker out of Moos’s hand. The housekeeper stood screaming helplessly in the doorway.
‘Murder! Murder! He’s killed him!’
The screams seemed to finally get through to Moos, who looked quickly from the housekeeper to Werthen and then to the motionless body of his brother-in-law. He let out an animal growl, turned, and ran out of the room, knocking the old housekeeper down on the way out.
Gross followed, but Werthen kneeled by the priest to see if he could help. One look told him that it was hopeless. The skull had not simply been fractured; it was pulverized, a mass of blood and bone shard. The priest’s watery blue eyes stared up at him without focus. Werthen put a finger to the carotid artery; there was no pulse. He closed the eyelids.
Too late. For either of them.
Werthen got to his feet, then made sure the housekeeper was not injured. ‘Do you have a telephone here?’
Her eyes were still round as silver crown pieces.
‘A telephone,’ he said in almost a shout.
A quavering finger pointed back down the hallway. He saw it now in the gloom, on a hall table. He quickly telephoned the gendarmerie’s emergency number and reported the incident, then went to hunt for Gross.
Outside, beyond the church, a small crowd had gathered. Werthen headed towards it. As he approached, he could see the legs of a body sprawled on the sidewalk. No, he thought. Not Gross, too. His heart raced and he could barely breathe as he pushed through the crowd to get to his friend, all the time calling out ‘Gross’.
Then, as he emerged from the throng, he saw Gross standing over the unconscious body of Herr Moos.
‘Ah, Werthen. How good of you to come.’
‘Gross, how were you able to—’
‘Friend Duncan,’ he said. ‘He thought it best not to wait at the scene. I assume you telephoned the police.’
Werthen nodded. ‘They’re on their way.’
They both looked down at Moos, beginning now to stir on the sidewalk.
‘I suggest we bind the fellow before he completely regains consciousness,’ Gross said.
‘Murder! Murder!’
The housekeeper came stumbling across the street, spreading her tale of doom and woe to the shocked crowd.
‘Why bother with the police?’ came a shout from the back of the crowd. ‘We should do him in here and now.’
‘And hang for it yourselves?’ Gross said. ‘Don’t be idiotic. We no longer live in the jungle. That was this man’s error,’ he said, pointing at Moos. ‘Now help us secure him until the police arrive.’
There was grumbling from those gathered, but finally a peddler of household wares produced some strong jute rope from his cart and they bound Moos’s hands and feet.
Five minutes later a motorized police van arrived, followed by an ambulance.
The crowd stayed long enough to see the body of Father Hieronymus wheeled out, the sheet covering him stained red at the head.
Gross shook his head. ‘That one death would have such far-reaching consequences,’ he said, with a note of sadness.
Gross was right, Werthen knew. He only wondered when the repercussions of Mitzi’s death would cease.
TWENTY-TWO
‘Once again, gentlemen, your meddling has caused untold harm to a police investigation.’
Officious, tiny Meindl, clad today in an impeccably tailored linen three-piece suit in a pale shade of moss green, sat behind his massive desk at the Police Praesidium, his neatly manicured hands clasped over his narrow chest, hissing out the words in the affected Schönbrunn accent of the upper classes. He was making a hash of the job, Werthen knew, and was sure that Gross, seated next to him, could give the man dialect coaching advice, for he had made a long study of such speech patterns as part of his suspect-identification research.
‘That is a bit much,’ Gross said, who had until now sat quietly, listening to the railings of the inspector, his former protégé. ‘Perhaps in the matter of Herr Mutzenbacher we acted somewhat precipitously, but I fail to see how we are at fault in the unfortunate death of Father Hieronymus.’
Meindl adjusted his tortoiseshell pince-nez and shook his head. ‘If you had shared the information of your investigations into the death of this young . . .’ Meindl was searching for the mot juste to describe a prostitute.
‘Fräulein Waltraude Moos,’ Inspector Drechsler, seated behind them, offered. ‘Otherwise known as Fräulein Mitzi.’
‘Exactly,’ Meindl said with an appreciative nod his way. ‘Fräulein Moos. In that case we would surely have foreseen the possibilities of such an altercation.’
‘Surely,’ said Gross, with ironic emphasis.
‘I was in the process of handing over the files,’ Werthen said. ‘I spoke with Drechsler about it only yesterday. But there was no time.’
‘Quite. Time is something the good priest ran out of yesterday.’
Gross was growing impatient. ‘And you have no leads to Siegfried Mutzenbacher?’
‘The man’s bolted,’ Meindl said. ‘What would you expect him to do, given your advance notice to him?’
But Gross would not be baited. ‘His sister?’
‘She says she knows nothing of his whereabouts. Only that he returned to her establishment at midday yesterday distraught. By the evening, he had simply disappeared, taking with him the weekly receipts, which were to be deposited today.’
‘I assume,’ said Gross, ‘that you have distributed his likeness to all the appropriate agencies, railway stations, border police—’
‘That is no longer your concern,’ Meindl interrupted. ‘I have been apprised of your powerful friend in this regard. He has been duly notified of the situation. I believe it is safe to say that the matter has been concluded. Not exactly successfully, but at least we now know where to lay blame. It will be up to other jurisdictions to return this killer.’
Meindl’s pronouncement was at once obvious and cryptic. The implication, Werthen understood, was that Franz Ferdinand must have told the Police Praesidium that he and Gross were acting as the Archduke’s agents. Gross had requested as much via Duncan earlier in the day, when they were summoned for an afternoon meeting with Meindl.
That much was clear. But
when Meindl insisted that the matter had been concluded, Werthen felt a bit at sea.
Gross was equally unsure. He looked squarely at Meindl. ‘What do you mean by “concluded”? You take Siegfried Mutzenbacher’s flight as proof of his guilt in the murder of Count von Ebersdorf?’
‘Yes. Among others.’
‘You want to hang all the deaths on Siegfried?’ Werthen said, amazed at the man’s audacity.
Meindl leaned back in his chair, smiling at them like a lizard. ‘“Hang” is the apposite word here. For he certainly will hang once apprehended. But that is not our concern now. He has most likely taken himself off to Italy. The onus is now on the Italians to do the right thing.’
‘How can you be certain of his destination?’ Gross thundered.
‘My dear Herr Doktor. It is a simple matter of deduction such as you yourself promote. Upon searching the man’s room this morning, Inspector Drechsler came upon this.’
He proudly held up a dog-eared Italian phrase book, as if producing a gun still smoking at the barrel.
‘And this proves what?’ Gross demanded.
‘Come now, Gross. The man was obviously polishing up his Italian. Ergo, Italy’s where he would head in times of trouble.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Gross. ‘In which case, however, why would he leave the phrase book behind? Or had he perfected his Italian already?’
Meindl scowled at this suggestion, placing the phrase book down on the desk.
‘And your evidence for Siegfried’s guilt in the murder of Fräulein Mitzi and Fräulein Fanny?’
‘The psychological component must be reckoned with,’ Meindl said. ‘You yourself told Inspector Drechsler that Siegfried and Mitzi had a special relationship.’
‘Special, not necessarily sexual,’ Werthen added.
Meindl ignored this. ‘And that the young lady in question was not the poor innocent country girl she appeared to be. In fact, she was a highly manipulative young woman. Who is to say she did not flaunt her relationship with von Ebersdorf? So that Siegfried snapped and killed her in a jealous rage, and then disposed of her lover, von Ebersdorf, as well?’
‘And in this theory of events,’ said Werthen, ‘Fräulein Fanny was, I assume, blackmailing Siegfried, having seen or heard something incriminating.’
‘Exactly, Advokat. And this is not a theory or conjecture, but represents the facts of the matter. We have a letter to prove it.’
‘How handy of Siegfried to leave behind a confession,’ Gross said.
‘No, not from Herr Mutzenbacher.’ Meindl looked beyond them to Inspector Drechsler. ‘Perhaps you would care to inform the gentlemen, Inspector?’
Werthen and Gross turned to face Drechsler, who was looking more tired than usual.
‘I found not only the phrase book in Herr Mutzenbacher’s room, but also a letter addressed to Fräulein Mitzi. It seems unlikely it was sent through the mail. Instead, it was probably given to her during a session.’
‘A session?’ Gross said.
‘Well, whatever it is one calls the time the girls at the Bower spend with their customers.’
‘You mean it was from one of Mitzi’s clients?’
‘Yes, Advokat. It clearly was.’
‘Von Ebersdorf?’ Gross said.
Drechsler nodded. ‘And it was clear the man was besotted with the girl. Spoke of wanting to run away with her.’
‘You have shown this to handwriting experts?’ Gross asked.
‘Under way as we speak,’ Meindl said. ‘But it appears to be genuine.’
‘Siegfried Mutzenbacher obviously discovered this love note,’ Drechsler continued, ‘and felt betrayed by Mitzi, setting in motion the entire tragic string of events.’
‘So,’ Meindl said imperiously, ‘you see, gentlemen, that this case has been put to rest. A simple crime of passion in which, out of jealousy, Siegfried Mutzenbacher killed first Fräulein Mitzi and then the man he felt had cuckolded him. Fräulein Fanny sees the love letter from von Ebersdorf, puts two and two together, and tries to blackmail Siegfried, who kills her, as well. Your sponsor was satisfied with the results, I assure you. In future, I must insist that you confer with the police in such matters. I regret to say that your intervention has allowed a guilty man to remain free for the present, but I can also safely say that good, solid police investigative pro-cedures have led to a successful culmination of the case.’
‘Granted, it is not the optimum outcome,’ Franz Ferdinand told them. ‘It would have been much better to have had the man in custody.’ He shook his head, disgusted. ‘What was Joachim von Ebersdorf thinking of?’
Gross and Werthen exchanged glances. Clearly the Archduke was accepting Meindl’s version of events.
They were meeting in the Lower Belvedere today, in Franz Ferdinand’s war room, its walls covered with maps of each of the sections of Austria’s far-flung empire. Stick pins with tiny red, yellow and green pennons decorated the maps, making them look like geographic pincushions. Werthen imagined these pins symbolized the deployment of the Imperial-Royal army along the borders of the empire.
‘I would like to verify the handwriting of that note myself, your Highness,’ Gross said.
‘You do not trust Inspector Meindl?’
‘Let us say simply that graphology is a complex skill.’
The Archduke nodded. ‘It shall be done. Though let it be known that I am satisfied with the outcome. We will discover the where-abouts of Herr Mutzenbacher one fine day and then learn the complete truth about these events. But in the case of Count von Ebersdorf, it seems certain that Mutzenbacher was the culprit. I must thank both of you. A case neatly wrapped up.’
But he was only putting a polite face on it, Werthen knew. Siegfried was the key to it all, and they had let him slip away.
‘I have deposited the agreed sum in your account,’ Franz Ferdinand said, standing. ‘And now . . .’
It was their cue to take their leave. They stood and made to bow, but the Archduke put out his hand and took each of theirs in turn.
‘My thanks gentlemen. Oh, and Advokat, you can tell that clever wife of yours that her little favor has been accomplished. The hotel concierge was shipped off last night.’
‘Thank you, your Highness. Berthe will be very pleased.’
As they left the grounds of the Belvedere, Werthen said, ‘Very neat and tidy.’
‘Yes,’ Gross allowed. ‘Everyone seems pleased.’
‘What now?’
‘Now, dear friend, after examining the note from Count von Ebersdorf and ascertaining its authenticity, I shall take my leave. I have to prepare for that interview in Prague.’
‘You accept Meindl’s solution, then?’
‘I didn’t say that. Merely that I am off to Prague in the morning. I think we have taken this matter as far as possible for the moment. Wouldn’t you agree?’
It had been very close. Forstl had taken great pains to gain access to the top-secret files of the War Office. There was, of course, an overlap between his duties in intelligence and the Russia desk, but if discovered with the mobilization plans he would be hard put to explain it. And that is exactly what almost happened that afternoon. Just as he was pulling out the drawer with the plans, his nemesis at the Bureau, Captain Johann von Daum, strolled into the room, his arms filled with folders to be filed.
Forstl had to quickly close the one drawer and open another, dealing with Russian Army deployments, more his area of responsibility. Von Daum gave him one of his supercilious looks, but Forstl had bluffed his way through, taking out a file on the Köningsberg region.
‘I was unaware you were certified for War Office files,’ Captain Johann von Daum said.
‘That’s not surprising, Captain,’ Forstl answered coolly. ‘The clearance came through only two days ago. You might check with Colonel von Krahlich if . . .’
‘Just a comment,’ von Daum said. ‘Just a comment. You have come a long way in a short time, Captain Forstl.’
He would l
ove to see von Daum squirm. Perhaps he could be his next sacrificial lamb. Plant papers on him and then reveal him to be a double agent. That would be a fine day.
For now, Forstl tried to put the thoughts of the day out of his mind. He settled down in the depths of his bed, eager to sleep, eager to let the tension in his body slip away. He lay on his right side, curled somewhat, his favorite sleeping position. Never could sleep on his back. He slid his right arm under the pillow, feeling the muscles in his neck begin to relax.
But then his right hand hit a foreign object. Not part of the eider-down pillow – something hard and angular.
He grasped the object. It appeared to be a box. He turned up the lamp on his bedside table, pulled the box out from under the pillow, and opened it without thinking.
His eyes grew large as he saw what was inside. A scream caught in his throat as he threw the box across the room.
A severed penis hit the wall and rolled to a stop under the dressing table.
PART THREE
TWENTY-THREE
‘Does it always rain in June here?’ Emile von Werthen was clearly put out by the weather in Laab im Walde. He’d brought along his butterfly net and collecting jars, and now stood like a disappointed child at the window, dressed in breeches and linen smock, watching the puddles forming in the courtyard of ‘the farm’.
He presented a pitiful sight, and Werthen felt a sudden sympathy for his father. For the first time, he recognized that the man was vulnerable, and then Werthen remembered with something of a shock that his father was over sixty. He had taken to combing his thinning hair forward, rather in the style of a Roman senator; the tidy little moustache he sported looked strangely darker than before, obviously dyed. Once so tall and thin, he seemed diminished and had something of a stoop now.
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