[VM01] The Empty Mirror

by J Sydney Jones

“Hardly a waste, Herr Herzl,” Gross said. “In my provincial outpost of Graz, I was brought into contact with a wider world by your writing. The ‘Palais Bourbon, Pictures of the Parliamentary Life of France’ series was, in particular, inspiring.”

  Herzl nodded solemnly at the compliment. Werthen, too, was amazed that the criminologist ever found time to read anything but forensic reports.

  “Still, I personally see those as wasted years,” Herzl replied, addressing them both. “In ways the Jews of Europe are the refuse of human society, just as I once viewed my own life as refuse. I therefore see my personal transformation as a model for the collective transformation of the Jews. Read, if you have the time, my short story ‘The Inn of Aniline.’ It is all written there. I now long only for a life full of manly deeds, which will expunge and eliminate everything base, wanton, and confused that has ever been in me.”

  After Herzl had left, Werthen and Gross remained at the table for a time, planning their next move.

  “I need to confer with Klimt again,” Werthen allowed. “Perhaps he has ascertained his whereabouts the nights of the other murders.”

  “Capital idea,” Gross said. “As for me, it’s a visit to the Police Forensic Department, a guest of our esteemed Inspektor Meindl. They have arranged a viewing of autopsy photographs for me.”

  He said it with the obvious relish most people would reserve for a night out at the theater or at a restaurant.

  “Research for an article for my Archive of Criminalistics,” Gross said with heavy irony.

  Meindl’s cover story, Werthen assumed. The man was not going to stick his neck out too far, lest his head be chopped off.

  They arranged to meet at the forensic lab after Werthen’s interview with Klimt.

  Werthen paid the bill, then, before donning his hat, said, “I noticed you gave Herzl your address at the Bristol. Does that mean you are not leaving for Czernowitz as soon as planned?”

  Gross looked at him from hooded eyes. “Nor do I see you boarding the train for your parents’ country estate, my dear Werthen. Not while there is work afoot.”

  Werthen hesitated, wondering if he should broach the subject, but finally plunged ahead.

  “You took me off guard with your line of questions for Herzl. I feel I owe you an apology.”

  “Don’t be absurd, man. So you mistook me for an anti-Semite. I’ve been taken for worse. And it was not to protect your delicate feelings that I did so. No, indeed. The crimes are an obvious provocation, as you suggested. Either committed by a fanatical anti-Semite, or by some other very clever chap who wishes to muddy the water, to create diversions and false leads.”

  “I am glad you think so.”

  “Make no doubt about it, however. There is such a thing as ritual killings. See the next issue of my Archive of Criminalistics for a long article on such Afro-Caribbean syncretic religions as Santeria, voodoo, and Palo Mayombe. Ritual murder plays a dominant role in those beliefs. As I say, just because a fact is abhorrent does not mean we should ignore or deny it.”

  Werthen was shown into Klimt’s cell at the Landesgericht prison, a cramped and airless space he shared with two unsavory-looking characters who, Werthen knew, were also charged with murder. In their cases, however, he could imagine the accusations bore some semblance to reality. They had the unhealthy pallor, the suspicious cast to their eyes, and the arrogant aspect of career criminals.

  The guards herded these two out so that Werthen could conference with his client. But as they left, the taller and meaner-looking of the two stared at Werthen.

  “You take good care of him, hear? I keep telling him he needs a real criminal lawyer, but Gustl’s the loyal sort. Don’t let him down.”

  “Move on,” a guard said, prodding the man with his nightstick.

  “It’ll be fine, Hugo,” Klimt told the man. “Not to worry.”

  Werthen waited for the cell door to slam shut behind the guards. “‘Gustl’?”

  “I seem to have made some friends. Actually, good enough chaps in their own way. But they never had a chance in life. Hugo for instance. His dad was killed working in a textile factory. No compensation for the family, and with the breadwinner gone, his mother was forced to rent out her body when Hugo was just a boy. He heard and saw everything. He was working the streets as a pickpocket by the time he was seven.”

  “Yes, I am sure these men have a wealth of stories. Enough to inspire a Stifter or a Grillparzer.”

  “It’s given me a new outlook on life,” Klimt said, his eyes shining. “And I thought I had it hard when my father died and I was left to take care of the family.”

  He beamed as he spoke. In fact, Werthen thought, the man had never looked healthier, as if he were actually enjoying his incarceration.

  “But now to the matter at hand,” Werthen said. “Have you been able to trace your movements for the dates in question?”

  Klimt sat on the metal bunk bed and patted the mattress next to him for Werthen to do the same.

  “Afraid I’m not being much help to you, old friend. Emilie has looked up the dates in her diaries, and it seems every time I was working late in the studio. Alone. But then I was there most nights for the past few months finishing the Sonja Knips portrait and also putting the final touches on my Pallas Athene. Deadlines, deadlines, as if I were a bookkeeper and not an artist.”

  Werthen rubbed his brow.

  “Is this bad? Aren’t you and Gross any closer to finding the real killer?”

  Werthen brought Klimt up-to-date with their investigation.

  “But if this Meindl fellow believes I am innocent…”

  “I didn’t say that,” Werthen quickly put in. “He is simply looking out for his own career. Playing both sides for now.”

  “Well, then,” Klimt said cheerily, “perhaps the list Herzl sends will prove some help. I’m innocent, remember? They can’t condemn an innocent man.”

  Just then a door slammed and a subsequent thudding sound came from down the long prison-block corridor.

  Werthen made no notice of the sound, but by the sudden look of despair on Klimt’s face, he realized that the painter knew what that sound meant: The guards were trying out the gallows for an execution scheduled later that day.

  Gross was still examining an assortment of photographs spread out on a long table in a corner room of the forensic lab when Werthen arrived. Afternoon sunlight poured in through north-facing windows, a swath of golden light filled with nervous dust motes. Gross was using a powerful magnifying glass to look at the photos, so intent on his work that he did not hear Werthen come into the room. It was a full ten minutes before the criminologist put the lens down and noticed his colleague.

  “What is the good word from Klimt?”

  Werthen shook his head. “No alibis for any of the dates. But he seems to be enjoying his enforced holiday. Have you found anything?”

  “Nothing more than confirmation of what I already suspected.”

  “Which is?”

  “Take a look at these.” Gross aligned five photos, all displaying the same patch of neck, and all with a single cut.

  “These are the carotid wounds on each of the five victims. Thank whomever that the Vienna forensics people have read my work and taken advantage of the power of photography. There are excellent sets of autopsy photos for each of the victims. As of today, four of the victims have already been buried, so without these prints I would never have been able to make such comparisons.”

  “They look like very similar cuts,” Werthen said, using only his naked eye.

  “Indeed, very similar,” Gross said, handing him the magnifying glass.

  Werthen examined each cut in turn.

  “In fact,” Gross said, “almost identical, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes,” Werthen said, putting the lens down, “but then I’m no expert.”

  “I am and I say they are so similar that they could only have been made by the same hand. And a trained one at that. Either this killer
has trained as a surgeon, or he is a professional killer with a large degree of experience.”

  “You can tell that from cuts?”

  “Incisions,” Gross corrected. “And, yes, I can. There is nothing tentative about these incisions, no puckered flesh or abrasions where the killer made probing attempts. I assume also that our killer is right-handed, for the incision is deeper on the right side of the cut than the left. Ergo, the incision was started there and drawn across the artery in one smooth, sure stroke. Additionally, I surmise the instrument used was a scalpel or perhaps a cutthroat razor, for no knife blade can be sharpened to the precision which these cuts demonstrate. Which also lends to the argument of a trained doctor or physician having a hand in these killings.”

  “Or a barber,” Werthen joked, then frowned, taking in Gross’s last comment. “A hand, you say?”

  “The victims were first murdered, their necks broken, and later the blood was drained. The killer then need not necessarily have drained the blood himself. There could be more than one person involved.”

  “This grows more convoluted by the hour, Gross. Shall I add to the convolutions?”

  “Be my guest,” Gross replied.

  “It struck me walking here that there maybe an alternate explanation for these crimes. What if Herr Klimt is the real victim?”

  Gross squinted his eyes, nodding. “Then all of these murders were just to make Klimt look like the guilty party.”

  “The thought did arise,” Werthen said. “It would take somebody close to the painter, who knew his schedule and the fact that he had no alibi for any of the murders. Which means any of dozens of fellow artists.”

  “Jealousy” Gross pronounced, “can rear its ugly head in all fields of human endeavor. I assume by leaving the official art league and founding the Secession, our Herr Klimt may have rubbed some of the more academic painters the wrong way.”

  “Enough to kill five innocent people to seek revenge?” Werthen asked, testing his own hypothesis.

  Gross shrugged. “I have uncovered vile perpetrators with even less motivation.”

  “Between Herzl’s list and Klimt’s associates, we’ll be investigating half of Vienna.”

  “If it comes to that. Easier might be tracking the weapon.”

  “How many scalpels and razors could there be in Vienna? Isn’t this just another needle in a haystack, Gross?”

  “Not at all, dear friend.” Gross put the magnifying glass to his eye again and pointed out the incision on the picture marked M5. Using the sharpened point of a lead pencil, he indicated a section of the wound at about the midpoint.

  “Examine this part closely, if you will. Tell me what you see with the edges of the wound.”

  Werthen gazed through the glass at the incision, focusing and refocusing on the marked section. Finally he saw what Gross’s trained eye had discerned.

  “Seems to be a light feathering of the flesh.”

  “Excellent, Werthen. Exactly what it is. But not discernible in the other four victims.”

  “I assume you put this down not to a change in perpetrator, but rather to a change in instrument.”

  “Again, spot on, Werthen. You follow my methodology exactly. The length, depth, and shall we say boldness of the stroke does not change in the five victims, only the appearance of the light feathering.”

  “This would be Fräulein Landtauer’s, the most recent?”

  Another nod from Gross.

  “Perhaps the blade needs sharpening?”

  “No, my friend. I am a student of such esotérica as blades and guns. I believe our man has come into possession of one of these newfangled serrated scalpels the British firm of Harwood and Meier has been experimenting with. Serrated blades leave such feathering, and for that reason the technology has not heretofore been used for scalpels, intended for clean, easily repaired cuts. The Harwood model, however, boasts added septic protection as a trade-off for the light feathering. Whereas our man was using a traditional steel scalpel or razor before, he has recently switched to the serrated scalpel. And that is, I guarantee you, Werthen, hardly a needle in a haystack. To my certain knowledge, there are only a handful of distributors of the Harwood and Meier blades in this country. We will start then with the distributors and work back to the purchasers. Even if stolen, the blade in question had to originate somewhere.”

  He had followed the tall lawyer back from the prison to the building that housed Vienna’s forensic laboratory. The dandified lawyer had no idea he was being tracked; an amateur for certain. He was also getting into water that would soon engulf him and his professor friend. For the moment, they were simply paddling about, testing the water. He smiled at his metaphor. That was good, just paddling about, but sometimes even amateurs get lucky, hit the right current.

  For now the two were no threat to him or to his operation.

  Another smile slashed his gaunt face. He really was being clever today. Operation, indeed. It was nearing the end, though, and he felt a kind of sadness at that thought. These murders had been a challenge worthy of him.

  He looked up again to the windows of the forensic laboratory and shook his head.

  No, they were not a threat. For now.

  SIX

  The foehn wind blew in overnight from the Southern Alps, scorching the city in its dry blast, fraying nerves, and sending hats flying.

  Werthen slept in and was still nursing a hangover by lunchtime. He and Gross had gone to a Heurige, a wine tavern, in Sievering, one of a string of wine villages on the outskirts of the city. There they had downed numerous glasses of Neuburger wine and dined on cold cuts of pork, bowls of cheese spread, and pickled salads. Werthen had forgone the old Viennese recipe for avoiding a Heurige hangover: a piece of rye bread spread with drippings or schmaltz to coat the stomach. It had been too hot for such a prophylactic, and now he was suffering for it.

  He was due to meet Gross in the afternoon to continue their search for the salesmen of medical instruments, but before then, he had to get his physical ship in order. Gross had, of course, held his wine well last night, not once bursting into song, as Werthen had felt compelled to do when the Gypsy band played a popular ditty at their table. That he knew the lyrics to such a tune was a surprise to Werthen, but it was hard to avoid these things. Fiaker drivers were forever whistling well-liked tunes or singing the lyrics as they drove their carriages; counterpeople at the bakeries and the fruit shop in Werthen’s district were also avid devotees of the more rough-and-tumble popular culture. Though he seldom did his own shopping, Werthen did come into contact with all sorts of people.

  Osmosis, he told himself now, as he left his apartment building headed for his local café for a restorative lunch. The popular culture seeps into one’s very pores unbidden.

  Just outside his building he was given a Grüss Gott by Frau Korneck, the building Portier. He tipped his hat at her. As if to prove his osmosis theory, she was humming a tune from a Strauss operetta as she swept the sidewalk in front.

  Werthen crossed the street, playing back the scene last night with the Zigeuner band at the wine house. No. Most definitely he had not danced. That was some kind of blessing, at any rate. He had merely sung, though painfully off tune. Then he further recalled a vision of Gross watching him, bearing one of his enigmatic smiles that could signify anything from mild enjoyment to contempt.

  His irritation was compounded when, reaching the Café Eiles, he discovered it had begun its annual two-week summer closure yesterday. Werthen had not kept abreast of such things, for it had been his habit to spend much of August with his parents. And then he was reminded of a further duty: he would have to telegraph his parents and let them know that his arrival would be delayed even further. Though, truth be told, he did not look forward to that visit for a number of reasons, not the least of which was his parents’ infernal attempts at matchmaking.

  “Advokat Werthen?”

  He had been so consumed with his own thoughts and concerns that he had not notic
ed the man approaching him. He was a tall, rough-boned-looking fellow, dressed in a heavy suit completely inappropriate for the weather, and he wore no hat. His face was weathered from the sun and he looked unaccustomed to his stiff clothes. From his demeanor and the cut of the suit, it was obvious to Werthen the man was from the country.

  “Yes,” Werthen responded. “May I help you?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you like this, but, you see, I was told I should look you up.”

  The man’s heavy accent confirmed to Werthen that he was indeed from the country, and most probably from the far west: Tyrol or Salzburg.

  “You have the better of me,” Werthen said. The man squinted at him, not understanding. “You know my name, sir, but I am ignorant of yours.”

  The man quickly wiped his right hand on his trousers and held it out to Werthen.

  “Name’s Landtauer. Josef Landtauer.”

  It was Werthen’s turn to squint now. A sudden gust of warm wind almost blew his derby off his head, but he steadied it with his hand.

  “I’ve come to town to collect my daughter. Liesel.”

  They found a Gasthaus with a shady garden near the Rathaus and ordered beer with the daily special, smoked ham and sauerkraut. They sat at a table beneath a massive chestnut tree that seemed to breathe coolness over them.

  Once the waitress-clad in a powder blue dirndl in the style of Lower Austria-set the orders in front of them, they resumed their conversation.

  “Perhaps first you should explain why you want to visit Herr Klimt,” Werthen said.

  Landtauer, as they were looking for an eatery, had explained that yesterday, arriving in the city from his native Vorarlberg (Werthen had been close in placing the accent), he had gone to the prison to visit Klimt, but had been told by the jailors that only family or his legal counsel was allowed access to the prisoner. In the event, they had supplied Landtauer with Werthen’s name; a quick examination of the new telephone directory at a post and telephone exchange had supplied him with Werthen’s office address, where there was a phone, as well as his home address, even though he had no phone installed as yet at his apartment. Too shy to call on the lawyer without introduction, Landtauer had been pacing up and down the street wondering on what course of action to take when Werthen left his apartment and Landtauer heard the Portier address him by name. He had simply followed, still unsure how to approach the man, he’d explained.