To ensure security, Gross moved into the flat, as well, taking over Werthen’s study and sleeping on the leather chaise lounge. Werthen had taken to carrying a silver-tipped walking stick which had a sword concealed inside it; Gross employed the pair of Steyr automatic pistols that he normally travelled with. Young Frieda was quite excited by all the activity, running here and there in the flat to see what was afoot, and opening the door and playing peekaboo with Prokop from time to time.
Frau Blatschky was the only one displeased with the new arrangements.
‘It’s like feeding an army,’ she said after a day of Gross living in and Meier and Prokop taking meals with the family. ‘I am not a mess cook. And that Doktor Gross . . .’
‘I thought you were fond of him,’ Berthe said, attempting to console her.
‘This is not about like or not like. He eats for two. Nothing stays around long enough in the kitchen to get stale except me!’
On the second day, Schmidt saw the scar-faced cornstalk man go into the apartment building. He had set up watch across the street from Werthen’s Josefstädterstrasse home, invisible to the policeman on duty outside as well as to pedestrians. He was dressed as a chimney sweep, wearing a sandwich board announcing the services of the ‘Soot Merchant’, and carried a fistful of flyers, which no one took.
That was just as well, for the firm was mythical, its address a derelict warehouse in Ottakring. But it provided him with the anonymity he needed to watch the comings and goings at Advokat Werthen’s flat. The policeman was no concern; the man took regular breaks during the day and was gone at night. Schmidt could easily enter the building in the middle of the night, or even at midday, and kill the entire family and the fatuous Doktor Gross.
But the lawyer was obviously no fool: Schmidt watched the arrival of the two strong-arm men and knew this would complicate matters. They looked thick as a plank, but the numbers were now badly against him.
And now there was that cornstalk, the Archduke’s man. These were not good odds. Forstl was indeed becoming a very expensive commodity.
‘What brings you to us, Duncan?’ Werthen asked as they settled in his study. Gross had made himself at home, sitting in Werthen’s chair behind the desk. He and Duncan sat across from him.
‘The Archduke wishes to express his concern,’ the Scot said in a German that was grammatically precise but had the ring of the Highlands to it. Werthen strained to understand, but Gross’s ear picked it up at first utterance.
‘Please convey our thanks for his concern,’ Gross said. ‘We have taken certain precautions, as I am sure you noticed.’
Duncan smiled at this, an expression of scepticism rather than mirth.
‘The two in the hall are the literary type, it seems.’
In fact, Duncan had made it to the door of the flat before Prokop and Meier, deep in the misadventures of Anatol, awoke from their fictional miasma. And the policeman on duty on the street had not noticed him enter the building, being too busy chatting to the young Portier next door who was sweeping the sidewalk in front of her building.
‘Have you come to offer your services once again?’ Werthen asked, hoping that was the case.
Duncan tilted his head, as if giving the notion some thought.
‘The Archduke indicated that I could use my own discretion in that, but actually I have come with information. The Archduke wishes to tell you that there was something that might prove valuable in the case of Baroness von Suttner. You recall that we induced the night clerk from the Hotel Metropole to repatriate to Italy?’
Werthen and Gross nodded simultaneously.
‘The man did supply one piece of interesting information. The telephone number he used to reach the person employing him. The Archduke has had the number traced and finds that it belongs to the Bureau.’
Gross and Werthen exchanged quick glances, each thinking the same: confirmation that it was Military Intelligence that had set up Frau von Suttner, and not the Foreign Office.
‘More particularly,’ Duncan added, ‘it is the number of the Operations Section of the General Staff’s Intelligence Bureau. The head of that section is one Captain Adelbert Forstl.’
‘Forstl?’ Gross repeated the name. ‘I’ve come across that name recently. But where?’
He began drumming on the desk with his knuckles, as if to beat an answer out of the wood.
‘It will come,’ said the Scot philosophically. ‘But there is something else you should know.’
He went to one side of the window, making sure that his silhouette was not showing, and peered at the street below.
‘Ach, so he must have noticed.’
‘Who?’ Werthen said, following Duncan to the window.
‘You had a watcher down there across the street. He was disguised as a chimney sweep wearing a sandwich board. But he seemed more interested in this building than in handing out the flyers he had.’
Werthen peered at the street below. ‘I don’t see him’
‘No, you wouldn’t. He’s not there anymore. As I said, he must have noticed that I was aware of him. He’s at least enough of a professional to know when to disappear.’
‘Then he’s still tracking us,’ Werthen said, sick at the thought of once again putting his family in danger because of his work.
‘Of course he is tracking us,’ said Gross, still seated at the desk. ‘I noticed him yesterday when he first appeared on the street.’
‘And you didn’t see fit to tell me?’ Werthen said, unable to hide his outrage.
‘I did not want you confronting the man. It is imperative for us to discover if he is working alone or in concert with others. I contacted Drechsler, and he was going to have two men dispatched today to follow our chimney sweep wherever he might go. I am afraid, however, that the arrival of friend Duncan has upset those plans and sent our man scurrying before Drechsler’s men could be in place.’
‘I apologize, Doktor Gross,’ the Scot said.
Gross shook his head. ‘There is no way you could have known.’
‘But Gross,’ Werthen persisted. ‘I still feel you should have warned me. This is my home, in case you have forgotten.’
Gross ignored this remark, suddenly tapping his high forehead with a forefinger.
‘Yes, that’s it! I came across the name Forstl when investigating the past of the deceased Arthur Schnitzel. Schnitzel was in the medical corps before training as a doctor. And one of his officers wrote in an annual conduct report that he was a diligent orderly, but that there had been certain rumors about his attentions to a certain young lieutenant convalescing from a bout of pneumonia. Yes, that lieutenant’s name was Forstl!’
‘The same?’ Werthen wondered aloud.
‘That should be easy enough to determine,’ Gross said.
Duncan suddenly muttered, ‘Fools’ names like fools’ faces are often seen in public places.’
‘I rather prefer another adage in this regard,’ Gross said. And then dramatically intoned, ‘No one is where he is by accident, and chance plays no part in God’s plan.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘And what does any of this have to do with me?’
The heavy drapes were open today, letting a slanting ray of sunlight into the room, the beam alive with dancing motes of dust. Schnitzler sat behind his desk, his face a mixture of incredulity and suspicion. No offer of coffee today.
‘I simply thought you might want to know the full story behind your beating.’
Werthen smiled with false cheer as he spoke.
‘The coincidence of the names, you see,’ Gross added. ‘And as Doktor Schnitzel was later found murdered, I might say you were quite lucky.’
‘Luck,’ Schnitzler said, laughing artificially, like a person with dyspepsia. ‘A quaint idea.’
‘You have not been quite honest with us, have you, Herr Schnitzler?’
Gross fixed the playwright with what one judge in Graz had dubbed his ‘Meet your maker!’ look.
‘This
is becoming rather tiresome, gentlemen. As I indicated last time we met, I had been protecting the fact that Mitzi played me. It rather hurts the ego to make such an admission, but there it is. And that is all there is to it. I am sorry my unthinking words to the girl’s father led to such a tragic outcome, but that really is not my fault. It is as if Mitzi is still playing with us from the grave. And now, if you will forgive me, I have some final proofs to go through.’
‘It is good that you only write plays, Herr Schnitzler, and don’t act in them,’ Gross said. ‘You give an unconvincing performance.’
Werthen was still not sure what Gross was on about, but he had been adamant about visiting Schnitzler this morning. ‘Tying up loose ends’ he had called it, and had been as secretive and tenacious about it as a dachshund with a slipper.
‘You would do well to unburden yourself,’ Gross added.
‘But as you point out, I am no longer in danger. I was not the target of the thug. It was merely a similarity in names.’
‘But you were certain it was something else, weren’t you?’
‘My play . . . It angered some in the military.’
‘Flummery and persiflage. I regret to inform you, Herr Schnitzler, that your words neither warrant nor command such a powerful response. But then, you already know that. No, it was something quite else that kept you from going to the police for protection. Something so secret it could be shared with no one.’
Gross suddenly clapped his hands together, making a surprisingly loud crack that made Schnitzler jerk in his chair.
‘Out with it, man!’
Schnitzler looked confused, casting Werthen an almost pleading look.
‘I am not your ally in this, Herr Schnitzler. Do as Doktor Gross says. Unburden yourself.’
Schnitzler let out a massive sigh that made him seem to shrink in his chair.
‘You are a hard man, Doktor Gross.’
Gross beamed at this. ‘So I have been told.’
‘Alright. Though I cannot see how this will achieve anything other than to put me in a tight spot once again. But you are wrong about my words, Herr Doktor. They do have influence. My Lieutenant Gustl ruffled feathers at the War Ministry and at the Ballhausplatz, I can assure you. It cost me my commission in the reserves.’
Gross waved his right hand impatiently. ‘Yes, quite. We know all this.’
‘But you do not know that I tried to, how shall I say it, prove myself again to my former comrades in arms at the General Staff.’
‘Ingratiate yourself, you mean,’ Werthen added.
‘If you will,’ Schnitzler said with a shrug. ‘I cannot for the life of me determine why I cared. To them, I am just another Jew trying to rise above my station. Perhaps they are right. You see I love my country, I loved serving it in a certain capacity . . .’
‘Low-level espionage,’ said Gross.
A slight tilt of Schnitzler’s head; not a full nod, but neither was it a denial.
‘I thought that my controller – my former controller, that is – might be interested in certain information I had stumbled on at a certain house of ill repute.’
‘So that is how the thing began,’ Gross said, clucking his tongue in disgust that he had not figured it out before.
‘Yes,’ Schnitzler said, sighing again.
‘The Bower, you mean?’ Werthen said.
‘Of course he does,’ said Gross, with something like irritation in his voice. ‘It was the information that his former lover was now working as a prostitute and that her primary client . . .’
‘Was von Ebersdorf,’ Werthen added. ‘And that could be used as a weapon in the power struggle between the Foreign Office and the Bureau.’
‘I thought someone at the Bureau might make use of such information, yes,’ Schnitzler said.
And now he looked almost in a panic. ‘But wait. You can’t think that had anything to do with her death can you?’
‘And I submit that you can’t imagine it did not,’ Gross thundered at him. Then taking a deep breath, the criminologist continued in a rather more subdued tone of voice. ‘After all, you put the girl in harm’s way by involving her in deadly games between competing services. Perhaps it was the Foreign Office that decided she was a threat. Or perhaps her own handler at the Bureau. Whatever it was that induced her to participate – money, blackmail – was no longer effective as an incentive. She left a note that von Ebersdorf had fallen in love with her, wanted to marry her even. But she knew too much, she could not be left to tell tales. Careers hung in the balance.’
‘And now who is playing the playwright?’ Schnitzler scoffed. ‘That is utter fantasy.’
Gross ignored this. ‘What is the name of your controller?’
‘Kohler. But that is not his real name. We both had operational names.’
‘How did you contact him? Telephone, mail?’
Schnitzler smirked at the suggestion. ‘Nothing quite so prosaic. No, meets were arranged by this.’ Schnitzler reached into a drawer of his desk and withdrew a battered kid leather glove of a delicate size. He laid it on the desk for them both to see.
‘Near the monument to Franz Grillparzer in the Volksgarten there is a stretch of wrought-iron fencing. If I required a meeting, I would place the glove on the third spearpoint finial from the left end.’
‘Your choice of location, I assume,’ Werthen said. ‘A fellow playwright, Grillparzer.’
Schnitzler smiled wanly. ‘I do not place myself at the same level, but yes. There was an element of homage in the choice of place. To passers-by it would appear simply to be a lost glove that someone had picked up off the ground and displayed in case the owner was searching for it. For Kohler, it meant that we would meet the following day at the usual time. He or one of his colleagues would check the park daily.’
‘Somewhat baroque, don’t you think?’ Gross muttered. ‘Why all the secrecy? After all, it is not as if you were trading in state secrets.’
‘Well, I have my position to protect. It would hardly do for everyone to know that the firebrand playwright Schnitzler was cosying up to the secret services.’
Werthen had the feeling Schnitzler had enjoyed all the secrecy, the playing at spy games; it had appealed to his dramatic nature.
‘One assumes your Herr Kohler returned the glove at each meeting,’ Gross said.
‘Correct.’
‘And you have not been in contact with him since?’
Schnitzler shook his head.
‘It must have failed to work then,’ Werthen said, looking hard at Schnitzler.
‘I don’t follow you,’ Schnitzler said.
‘Your attempt at ingratiating yourself with your former masters. No more contact.’
‘Well, I have not actually tried. After the attack, I thought—’
‘Quite,’ Gross interrupted. ‘But you were wrong. Now I want the glove put in place one more time.’
‘I have no need to meet with Kohler.’
‘I realize that, Herr Schnitzler. But you will give us the opportunity of seeing who this mysterious contact is.’
‘I couldn’t do that. What would I say?’
‘Nothing. You will not be there, but we will, in hiding. We will photograph him. That is all.’
‘But the glove. They’ll know it was me.’
‘That, Herr Schnitzler, is your lookout. You are a creative man. I’m sure you can come up with some story to explain your absence. But if you refuse, my colleague Werthen here might just feel tempted to take up his pen again. He is a literary gentleman, or did you not know? Yes, several fine short stories.’
It was news to Werthen that Gross had even an inkling of his writing efforts. But Werthen suddenly realized where this was going.
‘Quite right, Doktor Gross,’ Werthen said. ‘I am sure my friend Kraus would snap up a feuilleton on the espionage adventures of a certain unnamed playwright.’
Being no friend of Schnitzler and the other Jung Wien writers, Karl Kraus would happily publish an
exposé in his journal, Die Fackel.
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Schnitzler said. ‘I would sue for defamation.’
‘But you won’t be named directly, Herr Schnitzler.’ Gross picked the glove up off the desk and put it in his pocket. ‘Now explain exactly where this fence is, and where and when you meet Herr Kohler.’
Out on the street again, Werthen had to squint in the fierce noon-time sun. Duncan was at the entrance to the apartment building where they had left him. Franz Ferdinand had put the man at their disposal, and Werthen for one was glad of it. He and Gross were both armed, but Duncan provided a real sense of security.
The Scot followed a couple of paces behind them as they made their way once again to the Ringstrasse.
‘That was a nice bluff you came up with, Gross.’
The criminologist took off his bowler as they walked, wiping the leather sweat-band with the handkerchief from his breast pocket. It was a warm day and Gross was dressed heavily for the season. Like many of his generation, he did not believe in lightweight summer suits, regarding them as frivolous.
‘What bluff would that be, Werthen?’
‘That I would place an article with Kraus exposing Schnitzler’s activities.’
Gross replaced the bowler on his nearly bald pate and fastidiously folded the handkerchief as they walked, carefully placing it back in his breast pocket with a couple of centimetres of white showing.
‘That was no bluff. If you wouldn’t see to it, I would. The man needs to take some responsibility for his actions.’
Schmidt followed them at a discreet distance, wary of the tall, gaunt protector. He was carrying both a gun and a long blade, but it was insanity to contemplate an outrage in the middle of the day on a busy city street. The failed attempt at the law office had been bad enough, sparking headlines about anarchists and a reprimand from St Petersburg. But Schmidt would dearly love to finish this. One way or the other.
He followed the three men as they went into the Volksgarten, watching the heavily built one, the criminologist Gross, place a white kid glove on the finial on the wrought-iron fencing.
The Keeper of Hands Page 26
