[VM01] The Empty Mirror

by J Sydney Jones

  “We were pursuing various leads, to be sure,” Gross said.

  “And you, Werthen.” Klimt raised his glass. “A loyal friend indeed.”

  “Who almost got you killed by Landtauer.”

  Klimt ignored the remark. “I imagine you two are a bit depressed, no?”

  Gross cast the man a shrewd look.

  “I would be,” Klimt continued, “were a commission taken away from me halfway through the painting. In fact, I would be half-tempted to finish the job anyway.”

  “Gustl.” Fräulein Flöge tugged at his sleeve. For the occasion, Klimt had donned a white suit and red cummerbund instead of his usual caftan. His left arm was dramatically supported in a sling. “I am sure these gentlemen have other obligations. We are not all free to pursue our daydreams like you.”

  She held on to the thick right arm, taking a deep breath. It was clear to Werthen she was in love with the man. She met the lawyer’s eyes at that moment, blinking for a long moment as if to say thanks to him for not letting Klimt know she was aware of his paramour and child.

  “You’re right, Emilie. As usual. I will confine myself to beer consumption this evening and no more unsolicited advice.

  “To freedom,” Klimt said, extricating his good arm and hoisting his beer mug in a toast.

  Klimt’s words had only echoed their own. Leaving the Bierklinik late that evening, both Gross and Werthen knew that they were going to continue their investigation.

  They walked the quiet inner-city streets.

  “This time of night,” Werthen said, “I could understand how someone might approach and kill another. It would take great stealth and a degree of luck, but by ten o’clock most of the good burghers of Vienna are tucked under eiderdown fast asleep.”

  “But the others,” Gross said as their boots echoed on the cobblestones. “How to explain them?”

  “Vanished into thin air, only to end up in the Prater in the morning.”

  “Into thin air,” Gross mused. “Yes. Or as if the earth swallowed them, to borrow another saying.”

  NINE

  Two days later, Inspektor Meindl himself took them to the scene. The victim had used a small-caliber pistol, but, inserted into his mouth, it had done the job. The back of his head had been blown off. Blood and brain matter scored the walls in back of the cot where the body lay.

  The tiny garden hut had little space for furniture other than the iron cot. A large copper washtub occupied part of that limited space; a coatrack, which seemed to serve as wardrobe, stood next to it. In one corner of the hut, the floorboards had been pried up. Lying on the floor next to the opening, the treasures there unearthed by the police were on display: two scalpels, a leather harness, a siphoning hose, and a jar of chloroform.

  Gross touched Binder’s neck. “Still warm.”

  Inspektor Meindl nodded. “Neighbors heard the shot just before sunrise. Officially, you’re not supposed to sleep in these huts, though obviously there are those who do. Neighbor in question is ex-army Didn’t like the sound of gunfire. But he didn’t investigate until later in the morning, when he saw the door ajar. He found the body. And this.”

  Meindl produced a note from his coat pocket and handed it to Gross. The criminologist visibly blanched as this was being done.

  “Fingerprints, Meindl. Fingerprints.”

  Meindl shook his head. “Not necessary anymore, Gross. Read for yourself.”

  He did so, and Werthen peered over his shoulder:

  The game is up, I’m afraid. I had afine run, but they’re onto me now. All because of the scalp le. Pity, really. I had grand plans still to carry out. And the roses have benefited ever so much from their unexpected meals. Such a lot of fun it’s been, matching wits with the police, and now the famous criminologist, Gross. And none of you were able to figure out the wonderful clues I left behind, I’ll warrant. The nose, the nose. It is all about the nose. We have seen fine examples of the noseless. Oh, the gay times they have had. I have had. There would have been more, many more, if not for my own stupidity. Cupidity. Oh, rhyme me no rhymes, tell me no tales. A leather nose is no substitute for a rose. Dig and dig and you may find clues.

  From outside they could hear police officers digging in the garden at that very moment. Obviously they had already had some success in their efforts, judging from the cache discovered inside the hut.

  “My God, Gross,” Werthen said. “It’s just as Krafft-Ebing said.”

  “It would appear so.”

  “What do you mean?” Inspektor Meindl queried.

  Gross ignored the question, stroking his beard in thought. “I believe you can call your men off, Meindl. Nothing more to discover out there. Blood residue washes away soon enough in soil.”

  “Binder truly was mad, wasn’t he?” Werthen said. “He used the victims’ blood as fertilizer.”

  “Afraid so,” Gross replied. Then to Meindl again: “And I should have that tub examined closely, using reagents to search for traces of blood. This would most likely be the place where he drained the blood.”

  “And the noses?” Meindl asked again.

  “I’ll need to consult someone about that.”

  Later that day Werthen and Gross met once again, for a cup of afternoon tea at the Café Landtmann.

  “It was as we suspected, Werthen,” Gross said. “I checked with the secretary at Breitstein and discovered the employees keep a record of the private physicians in case of emergency. I visited Binder’s medical man. Herr Binder was suffering from the tertiary stage of syphilis.”

  “Deranged, of course.”

  “It would appear so,” Gross agreed. “Though, as Krafft-Ebing predicted, not yet physically incapacitated.”

  “That would seem to be conclusive, then,” Werthen said. “Inspektor Meindl told me to inform you that they had indeed found traces of blood in the washtub, just as you said. And on the scalpels, harness, and siphon, as well as on other parts of the walls. The harness was apparently used to hoist the victims, and then the siphon was employed to help drain the blood from the copper tub in order to fertilize the roses.” Werthen shivered despite the warm day. “A ghoulish business, all in all.”

  “Yes, but one that has not yet quite been explained. One assumes the bottle of chloroform dug up at Binder’s was used to drug his victims. Easy enough to lure a person to a waiting carriage by asking for directions. A quick application of the chloroform on a rag and the person would become senseless and put up no fight, offer no resistance. Which explains their seeming disappearance into thin air, as you once put it.”

  “My assumption, as well,” Werthen noted.

  “There is, however, the not insignificant matter of Herr Binder’s supposed alibi for the Landtauer killing, and then there is also the knotty problem of transport. How did Herr Binder move his victims to his garden hut and thence to the Prater? He could hardly have hired a Fiaker for such services.”

  It was Werthen’s turn now to appear self-important. “I believe I can help you there, Gross. You see Meindl managed to track down Dr. Weininger from Klagenfurt. Seems he was vacationing near here, in Baden. And according to the doctor, Binder was not in Klagenfurt last Tuesday and Wednesday, but rather on Tuesday morning only. Weininger met with him at ten A.M., and the salesman told him he had a train to catch at noon. Which gave Binder plenty of time to return to Vienna and kill Fräulein Landtauer.”

  Gross nodded his head. “And transporting the bodies?”

  Werthen smiled. “In fact, I had the idea to check with Herr Direktor Breitstein while you were visiting Binder’s doctor. I wondered if the firm might have a delivery wagon.” Werthen paused dramatically.

  “Get on with it,” Gross muttered.

  “Well, the short of it is, yes, they do. And when questioned by Breitstein, the warehouseman responsible for maintaining it says that Herr Binder used it overnight several times that he knew of. Binder said he had large consignments to deliver to customers outside of office hours.”

&nbs
p; Gross made a most uncouth sound, almost like flatulence, as he blew disgustedly through his lips.

  “Not so sad, Gross. After all, Binder himself wrote that your discovery of his serrulate scalpel was what convinced him the game was up. You were directly responsible for putting an end to these horrible crimes.”

  “That, dear Werthen, is one way to look at it. More satisfying, however, to clap the handcuffs on the killer oneself.”

  “And you received recognition from the court,” Werthen added in a vain attempt at cheering him up. Indeed, the day following Binder’s suicide, an official letter arrived from the Hofburg, seat of the Habsburgs. Cutting under the red wax seal, Werthen was amazed to read a personal commendation from Prince Grunenthal, adviser to Emperor Franz Josef, thanking them both for their invaluable assistance in putting such an unwholesome matter to rest. The letter had done little to cheer Gross at the time; reminding him of it now did even less.

  Gross left for his post in Czernowitz the following day. Werthen saw him off at the East Train Station. As if marking the departure, the weather too changed. A thunderstorm rolled in from the Hungarian plains, and steady rain sounded on the arched copper roof of the train station as Gross’s train was readied.

  They were there a half hour early, as was Gross’s custom when traveling. His first-class compartment was still empty; he held a reserved window seat facing the engine. The porter finished storing his luggage; Werthen had agreed to send on several boxes once Gross was settled in Bukovina. The criminologist had saved all the items of evidence he could from this case and would use them to write up an article for his monthly journal.

  “Or perhaps I’ll fashion it into a melodrama like those of the Doyle chap in England.” Gross attempted a smile.

  “Why not, indeed?” Werthen was trying to keep a positive attitude, though Gross had been morose enough since the case was closed.

  As the departure drew near, Gross settled in his seat. “No need to wait, Werthen. The train will leave with or without you here.”

  Werthen had promised himself he would not be put off by Gross’s evil spirits. “It has been an honor working with you, Gross.” He stood with his hand outstretched for several instants before Gross took notice, stood, and shook his hand.

  “And I you, Werthen. I suppose we shall become dull old dogs again, now, eh?”

  Werthen shrugged.

  “A piece of advice,” Gross said. “Go back to criminal law, man. It is clearly where your heart is.”

  “For the immediate future, I am afraid it is the country for me. And see what new young woman the parents have ‘inadvertently’ invited in hopes that their only son and heir will finally marry, settle down, and produce progeny.”

  “Don’t laugh at the proposition, Werthen. Without my Adele, I would be lost.”

  The two shook hands again, and Werthen departed. He looked back once, but Gross was already settled again in his window seat, a copy of the afternoon paper open in front of him.

  As Werthen was exiting the train station, an adolescent newspaper hawker called out the headlines of the day’s tabloid press, his voice breaking on every stressed syllable:

  “Prater murderer captured! Dramatic events bring end to ring of terror! Inspektor Meindl in on the kill. Read it all here.”

  Werthen shook his head. Gross’s joking comment about turning the case into a melodrama had already become reality. The Viennese lived for a good bit of theater.

  Deep down he had to admit that he was just that little bit peeved that he and Gross would get none of the accolades. He thought about Gross’s advice to return to criminal law. Perhaps if all cases ended so successfully, he would consider it. Perhaps if next time he could be “in on the kill,” as the newspaper vendor had it.

  He bought one of the papers from the young vendor, watching the effete lawyer making his way out of the train station. So he would not have to kill him and the older one after all. There was no relief in the thought; simply a fact. It was obvious the meddlesome criminologist was on his way to Bukovina, where he belonged. The lawyer would surely go back to his posh law practice, also where he belonged. No more messing about in other people’s business.

  He looked at the headlines on the newspaper and felt a certain pride at a job well done. Others sold tram tickets or cleaned streets or drove a Fiaker or even taught at fancy universities for a living.

  He killed people.

  He was seventeen when he killed his first man. At the time, the Major thought this demonstrated great promise, for he had made the kill with his hands, no weapons. Quiet and controlled.

  They whisked him out of his cell in Linz and sent him to the elite Rollo Commando training school in Wiener Neustadt as a result. There he refined his craft of killing, learning to use a knife, a cord, his fingers, even the high part of his instep to kill. He did not leave training unscathed: his instructor, sensing his apathy one day, left a jagged scar with the thrust of a stiletto in close-fighting drill.

  “You must never take an attack for granted,” the trainer had told him afterward. “There is no such thing as a friendly attack.”

  It was a lesson worth learning. He came to love the resulting scar. He wore it like a badge.

  He was just out of training when they sent him on his first commission. He remembered shivering in the snow outside the lodge, watching the to and fro of servants and drivers as the night settled around them. He and two other members of the Rollo Commandos.

  An hour before dawn they went in, entering stealthily through windows. The bedroom was at the end of a long, narrow corridor, far removed from the rest of the household. The young man was there, as if waiting for them. The two others took care of him; one wrestled him to the ground and the second held a revolver to his head.

  He was left with the girl, who pleaded for her life. “Don’t kill me,” she whimpered. “I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t kill me.” It disgusted him. She opened her night shift and let him see her breasts, her patch of dark hair down there. In the end, he let his anger get the better of him, for the first and last time. He was not a degenerate, after all. He was only doing his duty. But she kept whimpering and thrusting herself at him. He did not use the pistol as ordered, but rather killed her with his hands, grabbing her by the neck and slamming her head hard against the bedpost until she stopped the gurgling sound in her throat.

  He was sent to Serbia after that, where he rotted in a garrison for several years before being called back to Vienna. He was never sure why. He asked no questions.

  There had been many others since then. The last ones had been a challenge, operating in the capital itself. He liked a challenge. He worked to instructions regarding wounds and cuts, but had chosen his own victims and decided on his own means. It took a certain bit of genius to hit on the underworld, he thought.

  He never knew exactly where his orders originated, only that his service was of vital importance to the empire. Something he never told his superiors, never mentioned to another living soul: It did not matter if his orders were of vital importance. It did not matter if he was serving his fatherland by his deeds.

  Unlike a street cleaner, he liked his job. It was not just a duty for him, but almost like creating a work of art. A perfect kill. The sharp snapping sound of vertebrae like lake ice cracking in the thaw. The terror in the eyes of the victims when accosted, then the peaceful, almost contented look to them after he was finished with his work. All of this was immensely pleasing to him. But that was definitely something he could never mention to his superiors.

  And now he had been given the biggest assignment of all. They would not find him wanting.

  PART TWO

  Criminal law, like all other disciplines, must ask under what conditions and when we are entitled to say “we know.”

  —Dr. Hanns Gross, Criminal Psychology

  TEN

  Saturday, September 10, 1898-Vienna

  The world was altered.

  No longer did the horse-drawn c
arriages along the Kärntnerstrasse irritate with their infernal noise and smell. Instead they were a romantic invitation to an outing, perhaps at the Sacher garden restaurant in the Prater. The afternoon sun was not beating down upon his head but rather bathing him in golden light. Female pedestrians might carry parasols against its strength, but Werthen grinned bathetically at its life-giving rays. The one-legged war veteran selling lottery tickets outside the Stephansdom was no longer a sorry-looking creature, but had suddenly been transformed into a silent hero. Even the late-season tourists, many of them Americans and thus loud and disorderly, seemed charming in their cultural naïveté.

  In short, Advokat Karl Werthen was in love.

  The object of his affections sat across from him now at the Kleine Ecke, the outdoor café on the corner of Graben and Kärntnerstrasse. And wonder of wonders, all because of his parents.

  Werthen had arrived at Hohelände, the family estate in Upper Austria, the Saturday after Gross’s departure, determined to give short shrift to any young women his parents had invited this year. This annual event, this horse show, was put on for his benefit, a parade of all the eligible young fillies for kilometers around under the guise of a coincidental visit. Maman and Papa were desirous of an heir; with the death of Werthen’s younger brother, Max, the duty of continuing the Werthen name had fallen to him. My God, what a notion, he thought. One would think we were local aristocracy or lesser nobility the way Maman and Papa harped on the importance of continuing the family line.

  Truth was, their money had come from the wool trade, just as they had come, not that long ago, from Moravia, hardworking Bohemian Jews hoping to assimilate. Grandfather Isaac had established the fortune through a blend of shrewd business sense and twelve-hour days. Werthen’s father, Emile, had reaped the rewards of such labor when a “von” was granted to the family in 1876, five years after the family’s conversion to Protestantism.