‘Do they have no telephones on her estate?’ Gross said, suddenly impatient.
‘In fact they don’t,’ Berthe said, remembering Frau von Suttner’s earlier discussion about their economic state.
Gross sighed.
‘So,’ he muttered, ‘here we sit mired in the nineteenth century while the rest of Europe buzzes along in the twentieth.’
‘Central Europe,’ Berthe reminded him.
‘Contrition’, that’s what the painting would be called. It would take a master of the homely emotive detail such as Ferdinand Waldmüller to depict the filtered morning light through the breakfast-room window picking up the wisps of steam rising from the cups of coffee; the glint of light off white porcelain and polished silver; the down-turned eyes of the woman; the set of jaw and pout of lips.
However, to capture the nervous tap of fingernails on damask table cloth it would take one of the Lumière’s moving-picture cameras.
‘Was I too hard on him?’ Berthe finally said. Still dressed in her blue robe and slippers, her hair done up in a bun, she ceased her finger-tapping exercise and tended to Frieda, who was busy spreading oatmeal on the surface of the wooden tray of her high chair.
‘Gross needs a nudging like that from time to time,’ Werthen said. ‘Makes him remember where the boundaries of the classroom lie.’
‘That’s right, darling.’ Berthe helped the child spoon the food back into her bowl.
She turned back to Werthen. ‘It really is not like me. I mean, I might think such remarks, but I usually am able to control myself.’
‘Not to worry.’ He reached a hand to her shoulder, feeling the pull of desire at the warmth coming through her silk robe. Perhaps it had been the wine, but that was hard luck for Gross. Berthe’s overindulgence had led to an amorous night for Werthen and his wife. Berthe’s abandon in bed had been quite different from her abandonment of social graces with the criminologist. And Werthen was not complaining.
The jingling of the phone in the hall made him put such thoughts aside.
‘Werthen.’ Frieda shrieked and then broke into uncontrollable giggles. It was her name for the telephone, as that was the way Werthen answered calls, even at home, giving his surname when he picked up the receiver. Silly habit, he suddenly thought; the person making the call should know who is on the other end of the line. Shouldn’t it be up to the caller to identify himself or herself first?
But the second round of jingling sent him out of his chair to intercept Frau Blatschky before she felt compelled to answer the ‘infernal contraption,’ as she still insisted on calling the telephone.
He was just in time to wave her off as she peeked out of the kitchen.
‘Werthen,’ he said, the receiver to his ear. There was an echoing sound to his voice as he spoke.
‘Drechsler here. I might have something for you.’
‘That is rather cryptic, Inspector.’
There was an awkward pause, as if Drechsler was unsure if it was his turn to speak or not. Then, ‘Cryptic or not, would you care to come to my office this morning? I do not believe your time would be wasted. And Gross will surely find some interest in it.’
The connection went dead. Werthen held the receiver at arm’s length, shaking his head at the instrument. Efficient, but an advancement in civilization?
TWENTY-FIVE
Gross was staying at the nearby Hotel zur Josefstadt, as he usually did when visiting Vienna, and Werthen was able to catch him just as he was finishing his not insubstantial breakfast of thick slices of farmer’s bread, fresh butter, slabs of wurst and Emmenthaler cheese – plus, judging by the fragments of brown shell on the table, one or more hard-boiled eggs.
‘The wife, by the way, sends apologies,’ Werthen said as they were leaving. And indeed she had, giving Werthen explicit instructions as he was closing the door of their flat.
‘Whatever for?’ Gross said.
‘She felt she was rather hard on you, prodding you to get on with the information you had.’
‘And quite right she was, too. I enjoy a woman with spirit. Well, not every hour of the day, to be sure. But the occasional display of grit is a worthwhile attribute in the fairer sex.’
Werthen was beginning to regret imparting the apology.
Nothing more was said as they walked to the Police Praesidium on Schottenring. Drechsler had not spoken of an emergency situation, and it was most definitely the sort of fine morning that warranted strolling. Gross, however, was not in the mood for a pleasant stroll, but instead set off at a furious pace down the Josefstädterstrasse towards the Ring, making his way brusquely past early-morning shoppers and professional men on their way to their offices. The laboring class had already been at work for several hours.
Werthen kept pace with Gross at first, but slowed for a time when he again saw the military man making his way at a brisk clip down the other side of the street. He wondered once again about the man’s life, and was about to tell Gross of his fictional fantasies regarding this officer from the General Staff. But Gross turned to him at that very moment.
‘Stop dawdling, will you, Werthen? I have a feeling that Drechsler has something of the utmost importance to share with us.’
‘Really, Gross. you can be tiresome at times.’
The criminalist squinted at him. ‘At times?’ he thundered.
His sudden outburst startled an old woman carrying a basket full of eggs. She shot Gross a withering look, which he ignored.
‘You do me an injustice, Werthen,’ he said, a sly smile on his face. ‘I strive for continual annoyance.’ At which he emitted a barking excuse for a laugh and charged along the sidewalk.
They arrived at the Police Praesidium at 9:15. They had to write their time of arrival in a guest book – an innovation obviously introduced by Meindl, who wanted to keep track of all the comings and goings in his fiefdom.
Drechsler was at his desk, coat off and sleeves rolled up, as they entered. He made to put on his jacket, but Gross insisted he remain as he was.
‘We are at your service, Inspector,’ Gross said, as they sat across the desk from Drechsler. The only window in the office was open, letting in a waft of sweet-smelling air off the nearby Danube Canal, along with the faint chatter of voices from the dockworkers and bargemen who worked there.
‘There was a murder,’ he began.
Gross sat up straighter in his chair, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. ‘Do tell us,’ he said.
‘At first I thought nothing of it. But then, upon reflection, I thought to myself, well this might interest Doktor Gross and Advokat Werthen.’
By this time, Gross was physically, and not metaphorically, squirming in his seat. Werthen looked forward to seeing the criminologist get his own back.
But Gross held his tongue.
There was silence for a moment.
‘Well, the long and short of it,’ Drechsler finally began, ‘is that a body was discovered yesterday at the Hernals Cemetery.’
‘Hardly an unexpected place to find a corpse,’ Gross quipped.
‘Yes, I thought you might say something like that,’ the hawk-nosed inspector retorted. ‘This particular body, however, did not belong in the cemetery.’
‘What? Not dead enough?’
To which Drechsler cast such a baleful look, that Gross muttered an apology.
‘Please, do go on, Inspector,’ Werthen added.
‘Someone, most probably the killer, intended the body not to be found, for it was deposited in a freshly dug grave then covered with a layer of dirt. Now the interesting thing is, this particular grave was intended for an old gentleman who was at death’s door. The family wanted the grave ready for when the man died. But the old gentleman has proved rather stubborn in regard to his hold on life. The grave has stood open for about two weeks. And only yesterday did the sexton discover an odor coming from it. Upon inspection, he discovered the body and alerted the local constabulary.’
Gross seemed to relax somewha
t now. ‘Interesting from a forensics viewpoint, but otherwise . . .’
‘Yes, well Doktor, this is where you and your colleague may come in. The Hernals police proved to be on their toes, and quite quickly linked the dead body with a missing-person case that had been filed with them by a frantic bride. It seems, her husband, a newly minted medical doctor, had been called out on a home visit on the evening of May 30 and never returned. They made the connection between the date the man went missing and the time when the grave was dug, and thought it worth the chance to call the woman in for an identification.’
‘The poor woman,’ Gross said, uncharacteristically empathetic.
‘Corpse wasn’t as bad as all that. The nights have been cool. Gases yes, but the features are still intact. Eyes a bit sunken, of course, stomach distended, but recognizable. And after all, she is, or was, a doctor’s wife.’
Werthen doubted that she accompanied her husband into the surgery, but held his tongue.
Drechsler sighed, a dramatic pause. ‘In the event, it turned out to be the missing doctor. The lady was apparently quite distraught. We are making further inquiries. It was a clear case of murder by a professional. One stab wound to the heart, from the rear. No mucking about, no hesitation. A sure stroke through the victim’s light overcoat and dress jacket.’
‘And,’ Gross said, ‘this is of interest to us because . . .?’
‘For two reasons. The doctor’s name. Schnitzel. Arthur Schnitzel.’
Gross and Werthen exchanged looks, both minds traveling in the same direction: Arthur Schnitzel and Arthur Schnitzler.
‘Seemed coincidental to me,’ Drechsler said. ‘Two men with such similar names, both doctors. One beaten up, the other murdered.’
‘You mentioned a second reason,’ Werthen said.
‘Yes. And that is why I felt I had to call you. Too many coincidences.’
‘Well, it can’t be a missing little finger on the left hand,’ Gross said. ‘Otherwise you would have called yesterday. No need to ruminate on that.’
‘You’re quite right, Doktor Gross. But there was something missing.’
The way he said it made Werthen intuit his meaning. ‘The man’s penis?’
‘Very good, Advokat. I am not sure what any of it means, but I thought you two should know about it.’
‘Not one of those cases you care to explore?’ said Gross.
‘I have rather got my hands full lately. And if you remember, as far as Inspector Meindl is concerned, that other case is solved.’
‘We think not,’ Gross said, and then began to tell Drechsler of his discoveries in Prague; but the inspector held up a hand to stop him.
‘The case is solved, Doktor Gross, if you fully understand my meaning. I do not want to have other information regarding it. But if you gentlemen care to pursue the matter. Well, it is a relatively free country, isn’t it?’
The three men sat in silence for a moment.
Finally Gross broke the silence. ‘It was good of you to share the information, Inspector. If necessary, you can explain away our visit . . .’
‘Oh, I already have that in hand. I called the two of you in to further reprimand you for your obstruction in the matter of the death of Count von Ebersdorf. I assume you feel duly chastised?’
‘Absolutely,’ Werthen said, rising to leave.
Gross lingered for a moment. ‘I was wondering,’ he said. ‘Is the body of the unfortunate Doktor Schnitzel available for inspection?’
Drechsler shrugged. ‘As far as I know. But the cause of death is certain. Herr Todt himself examined it.’
‘Ah, then it is at the central morgue?’
Drechsler nodded.
‘One hopes they have not tidied it up too much. It could be of great benefit to forensic science if certain insects are still to be found among the hairs.’
Both Drechsler and Werthen were now staring at him.
‘A simple matter of science,’ Gross said. ‘Not ghoulishness. We know this man died twelve days ago. This provides us with a timeline. Certain insects like to lay their eggs on fresh corpses. By finding those that take ten to twelve days to completely develop from larval form to mature insect, we could establish a valuable tool in determining time of death in future cases.’
Drechsler eyed Werthen. ‘I told you Doktor Gross would find some interest in this.’
They arranged to meet at the Lepidoptera cabinet in the Court Natural History Museum. Schmidt had been very precise about the exact location, for the insect collection was the largest in the world and its cabinets spanned several rooms. They would meet in front of a relatively new addition to the collection: the largest known butterfly, Queen Alexandra’s birdwing, Ornithoptera alexandrae.
Forstl, in civilian dress, was early. Schoolchildren abounded, seemingly as plentiful as the insects in the glass cases. It took Forstl back to his own schooldays in Lemberg, and he suddenly realized this must be the annual school-leaving field trip. His had been to the local freight station, where his father was the clerk. He had always hidden his father’s lowly profession from the other boys in his class. Visiting with his entire class, he ignored his father’s friendly glances as he explained to the noisy group the operation of the freight station. Afterwards, he had joined in the cruel jokes about the ‘squat, bald toad’ behind the counter. He laughed heartily along with the others when one of them, Mayerhof, had quipped that there was nothing very good about the man, punning on Güter, the German word for goods or freight. He still remembered the pun.
‘It is beautiful, no?’
Schmidt stood behind him, his voice raised just enough for Forstl to hear.
‘They have an amazing collection here,’ the agent went on. ‘Someday you should take it all in. Herr Rebel, the keeper of the Lepidoptera collection, is considered a genius in his discipline. A former lawyer, you know.’
Forstl did not know that, nor did he care for any of Schmidt’s bizarre small talk today. He moved away from the crowds of children and from the cabinets to a velvet-cushioned bench under a window that gave out on to Maria Theresa Square, which separated the twin museums devoted to art and natural history. The red plush had faded to a shade of pink. They sat side by side. Schmidt was dressed in the same blue suit he wore for every occasion.
‘You brought them?’
Forstl shook his head. ‘There have been complications. Something else needs to be seen to first.’
Schmidt tensed at his side. ‘Our friends in St Petersburg will not be pleased. They are most anxious to see the mobilization plans.’
‘We are playing the long game here, I thought. I must establish my credentials. I have to become invaluable to Colonel von Krahlich. And now you want me to make him displeased? You tell me, which is the more important?’
‘Does this have to do with the Bower again?’
‘No,’ Forstl replied. ‘That was personal insurance. Von Ebersdorf, as you know, was meant to become the prime suspect in case there were rumors of a Russian double agent at work in Vienna. Loose lips of the chief of the Foreign Ministry’s Russia desk when in bed with a whore. How was I to know the fool would fall in love with the girl?’
‘Stop whining,’ Schmidt said. ‘I was the one who had to clean up that mess for you when the little whore wanted to run off with von Ebersdorf and when her friend demanded hush money for secrets they had shared.’
There was a moment of silence between them filled by the din of high, excited voices.
‘Then what is this meet about?’ Schmidt demanded.
Forstl reached into the inside pocket of his linen jacket and took out an envelope. Opening it, he pulled out a sheet of blue flimsy and handed it to Schmidt.
As Schmidt read the report, Forstl looked behind him out of the window to the statue of the Empress Maria Theresa in the little square below. More children were milling about its base, gazing up at the first female ruler of Austria. One child in tie and short pants traced the letters of the etched inscription on the base w
ith a forefinger.
‘So there was a blown operation,’ Schmidt said, handing back the report. ‘Who is this von Suttner anyway? And why should we care?’
‘We should care because it is von Krahlich’s project. He handed it to me several months ago after hearing rumors of the husband’s dalliances with his niece. Apparently the wife, Bertha von Suttner, is influential among international pacifists. “Traitors” von Krahlich calls them.’
‘So the love birds are caught in flagrante and this evidence is presented to the wife with an ultimatum – tone down the rhetoric or we make this public.’
‘Along those lines,’ Forstl said. ‘But, as you see from my agent’s report, the operation came to nothing. Just as he was about to spring the trap and confront Baron von Suttner and his niece in their room at the Hotel Metropole, my agent discovered that his chief witness, the concierge, was no longer there. Indeed, according to the agent, the whole affair had been covered up as a scheme to present the Baroness von Suttner with a birthday present of a portrait of her niece.’
Forstl pulled out a pair of photos from the same envelope, and handed one to Schmidt. It showed a tall, handsome woman – not pretty, but handsome – dressed in a rather unconventional loose-fitting dress. None of the wasp waist that most women of a certain station wore, nor the high-collared look preferred for daytime. Forstl thought the material was muslin, but tailored so that it clung to the body rather than ballooning out with bustles and hoops. She was standing in front of a bakery, eying the goods, a little girl standing at her side, dressed in a sailor suit, her podgy hand gripping her mother’s.
‘The woman in this photo, Berthe Meisner, was spotted at the Metropole twice. The second time my agent trailed her to her home. He avers that it was she who ruined the operation, who somehow convinced the lovers of the portrait ruse – that they were only in a Viennese hotel room to secretly have the niece’s portrait painted for the Suttner woman’s birthday.’
The Keeper of Hands Page 24
