[VM01] The Empty Mirror

by J Sydney Jones

  After all, they could not, as Gross said, come to Geneva and not appreciate the cuisine, could they?

  It was almost nine o’clock by the time they finished eating. The train departed at ten thirty. Thus they made haste to have their bags brought down, while Werthen settled the bill. They set off from the Beau-Rivage with full bellies and much to contemplate on the return journey to Vienna.

  The carriage jostled as they traveled along the cobbled quay. The motion, combined with the amount of wine he had drunk, began to make Werthen feel sleepy. He opened the curtain on his side of the carriage just in time to see another carriage approaching quickly from a side street. The two horses pulling this carriage were in full gallop, their shoes sending blue sparks off the cobbles as the carriage wheeled onto the quay at a terrific speed. Werthen was about to yell to their cabbie to watch out when the carriage in fact struck theirs a vicious blow on the side. Instead of reining in his horses, the driver of this other carriage whipped them on, further crashing into their own carriage.

  Werthen heard their cabbie shout out something in anger, and a third crash sent their carriage careening out of control.

  “Jump, Gross,” Werthen shouted. “We’re going off the quay!”

  But it was too late. The carriage nipped once before splashing upside down into the waters of Lake Geneva. The inside quickly filled with water. Wearing their bulky coats, both Werthen and Gross were instantly weighed down. Werthen had been a strong swimmer as a youth, though he had not practiced the skill in many years. He thought to take a large breath before the carriage was completely filled with water, but could see that Gross had made no such precaution and was now flailing about in a panic.

  Werthen grabbed the criminologist by the back of his collar and was struck for his troubles by one of the man’s flailing arms. He shook off the blow, thrust himself feetfirst out the open window of the carriage, then began trying to tug the larger Gross out the same opening. He felt his lungs almost bursting. To save himself, he would have to let Gross go. Get to the top and suck in more air, then dive again. But Gross surely could not last that long.

  Suddenly from behind a strong hand seemed to grip his own coat. Another yanked the door of the carriage open and retrieved Gross. They came spluttering and gasping for air to the surface next to a rusty metal mooring hoop. Werthen grabbed on to this and held Gross in his other hand, as he surveyed the surface of the water in search of their rescuer.

  He was nowhere to be seen.

  By this time, however, a hue and cry had brought others to the scene, and these men now pulled Werthen and Gross out of the chill water.

  Their cabbie had jumped from the carriage before it plummeted into the water and was bleeding from a head wound suffered upon his landing on the edge of a cobblestone. He was dazed, but otherwise seemed to be fit enough.

  “The man was a maniac,” the cabbie moaned. “My horses. My beautiful horses.”

  The carriage had now completely sunk, taking the horses with it. There was no sign of the other carriage.

  “Terrible accident,” a constable who now appeared on the scene muttered. “People will drive their horses too fast, and this is the result.”

  But both Werthen and Gross knew it had been no accident.

  Yet who had been their miraculous savior?

  PART THREE

  The three enemies of the criminalist are evil nature, untruth, and stupidity or foolishness. The last is not the least difficult.

  —Dr. Hanns Gross, Criminal Psychology

  SEVENTEEN

  Sunday, September 25, 1898-Vienna

  After being fished out of the cold waters of Lake Geneva, they had returned to the Hotel Beau-Rivage and assumed their old suites. Their clothes were dried and pressed for them by the morning, but they decided not to venture out of the hotel that Saturday. Their assailant might well be awaiting a second opportunity at squelching their investigation, and this time with means less subtle than last night.

  Neither did they make an official complaint of the attack. Gross knew it would serve no real purpose other than tying them up in Switzerland for several more days, when their business now was most assuredly in Vienna.

  They had reached the Austrian capital on Sunday morning, taking the night train on Saturday and sharing a sleeping compartment to ensure mutual safety-which meant a sleepless night for Werthen, listening to Gross’s stentorian snores.

  By the time their train pulled into the Empress Elisabeth West Train Station, a steady cold drizzle or NieseI had settled over the city. They were, however, traveling light, for all their cases had been lost when the carriage had spilled into Lake Geneva, and it was easier for them to navigate the arrivals platform and catch the first waiting Fiaker. Luckily, Werthen had been carrying the present for Berthe on his person, and that, along with his pistol and soggy leather notebook, had survived the murder attempt.

  Neither of them had said that word, but both understood what had occurred in Geneva: Someone had tried to kill them.

  Frau Blatschky was happy to see them when they arrived at the Josefstädterstrasse fiat, and as they freshened up, she prepared them a real Sunday Frühstück, with coffee, slices of Schwarzwald ham and Austrian Emmentaler, yesterday’s Bauernbrot (as bakeries did not operate on Sundays), and a moist Gugelhupf. Despite his lack of sleep, Werthen felt almost human after finishing his second piece of the Frau’s famous pound cake.

  They had agreed to give it a day before discussing the events in Geneva and how they might relate to the events in Vienna. The time had finally come for a frank discussion.

  They retired to Werthen’s study and sat in the Biedermeier chairs facing the fireplace, which was lit for the first time this year. Outside, the day was growing even grayer, and the drizzle had turned to full-scale rain.

  “Item one,” Gross began without further ado. “We assume that our friend with the scar was the driver of that carriage that struck ours and drove us into the water.”

  “I could not see his face,” Werthen said, “but he was a tall man and appeared rather thin. So, yes, I believe that is a safe enough assumption.”

  “Which brings us to item two. Someone is trying to stop us from investigating the death of Empress Elisabeth. Ergo, that means that we are correct in assuming Luccheni is innocent.”

  Werthen nodded in agreement. This had been his reasoning as well.

  “Which in turn opens further questions,” Gross continued. “Item three, I am increasingly convinced that the murders of Herr Frosch and the Empress Elisabeth are connected, as we suspected. We have the common thread of Luccheni, as well as the fact that both were attempting to make very public certain facts that would prove uncomfortable, embarrassing, or dangerous for certain parties as yet undetermined.”

  “I would think that is self-evident.”

  “Nothing, Werthen, is self-evident. We must painstakingly gather support to prove such theses. I thus see our course of action as twofold. First, we must, as the Chinese say, walk the camel back to its camp in order to set a new course. That is, the Binder investigation must be reopened. All evidence in that case must be thoroughly reexamined in light of our thesis that Frosch was the intended victim, and that the other unfortunates were simply sacrificed to establish a false lead, to make everyone believe that an insane person was murdering innocent and random victims. Such a reinvestigation includes the death of Binder himself, his medical records, alibis, or lack thereof. Everything.”

  Another nod from Werthen. With just the two of them, this could take weeks if not months. However, his blood was up now. This investigation had, by the attempt on their lives, become personal. It was fortunate that Werthen had not yet sent Gross’s papers on to Bukovina. Thus all materials concerning the Prater murders were still in his fiat.

  “At the same time,” Gross pushed on, “we must examine the other side of our thesis. If not Binder and Luccheni, then who?”

  “The logical starting point is a réévaluation of Crown Prince Rudolf�
��s death.” Werthen had been giving much thought to this aspect of the case.

  “Agreed.”

  “Frosch was supposedly going to publish the truth of that unfortunate young man’s death, presumably that it was not, in fact, due to suicide. Frosch, we assume, was killed to keep the secret of Mayerling, whatever it is, intact. And the empress, I fear to say, was killed for the same reason. Having learned the truth from Frosch, she, too, was prepared to go public with it.”

  “Which brings up two further questions,” Gross said. “First,as you queried when we first learned of Frosch’s connection to the tragedy at Mayerling, Werthen, why the delay with Frosch’s death? After all, the killings began in June. Why would they, whoever they are, wait more than two months and risk having such information made public?”

  “It makes sense that Frosch was not the first victim,” Werthen offered, “for that would have been too obvious. However, why not the second, third, or fourth? Such a positioning would have functioned to hide the real reason for his death. Why was he the last one? To my mind, it only makes sense if his death fits some schedule of events we are not yet aware of.”

  “Agreed. And we shall uncover that hidden schedule in due course, Werthen. Now for the second question. Cui bono? That is a first principle in criminalistics. Find the motive-who benefits. No reason to vary from that principle with these deaths.”

  Werthen leaned back in his chair, putting his fingers to his temples. This single aspect had occupied his thought for several days, and he did not like the conclusions he was coming to.

  “In the case of Crown Prince Rudolf,” Gross said, “I can see one direct and very immediate beneficiary to his death, a person whose motive would outweigh petty rivalries and political squabbles. His cousin.” Gross clasped his hands, looking straight into the fire. “Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the heir apparent.”

  Now that the words had been uttered by Gross, they took on a new reality for Werthen. No longer were they his private fears or delusions. Franz Ferdinand had been in line to inherit the throne of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire once Rudolf was dead, as Franz Josef had only one son. The emperor’s younger brother, Karl Ludwig, and Franz Ferdinand’s father, thus stood to inherit the throne upon Franz Josef’s death. Franz Ferdinand, as the oldest son, was groomed to follow in succession after his father, never a very healthy individual. In 1896, Karl Ludwig, a highly religious man, had died of typhus after drinking contaminated water from the river Jordan. Nothing, now, stood in the way of Franz Ferdinand directly inheriting the Habsburg crown from the aged Franz Josef. Becoming emperor of 50 million subjects occupying much of the European continent would surely count as a motive for murder. Even for a royal murder.

  They were both silent for a few more moments. The involvement of the heir apparent would surely explain how the killer of Frosch and Empress Elisabeth had been able to discover the intentions of those two. He could have well-placed spies, perhaps even an agent who had infiltrated the anarchists and was able to manipulate Luccheni. Franz Ferdinand was, in fact, even now busy installing what was often referred to as the Clandestine Cabinet at his Viennese residence, the Lower Belvedere. There he was, with the emperor’s reluctant approval, establishing the Military Chancellery. He and his aides fought tooth and nail in opposition to many of the policies of the government, in particular the stance vis-à-vis Hungary.

  Franz Ferdinand was, as Werthen and most Viennese who read a newspaper knew, an ardent opponent to increased Magyar independence. Instead of allowing the empire to be split in half by Hungarian ambitions for separatism, he favored shoring it up by creation of a third power, a Slav kingdom in the south, dominated by the Croats. Rudolf and Elisabeth had both been ardent friends of Hungary’s, promoting the cause of Magyar independence at court. Such a difference of opinion could have added to the archduke’s disdain for the both of them. Franz Ferdinand, however, was kept at arm’s length by the emperor, and this only made the blustery archduke angrier and more frustrated. His bellicose nature and thwarted ambitions were the subject of avid Viennese gossip. He was an ardent hunter, perhaps relieving the frustration of waiting in the wings by killing animals. Some credited him personally with the slaughter of over one hundred thousand deer, pheasants, and other game animals at his battues held on his estates in Bohemia and Austria. This tally was all the more gruesome noting that the fellow was only thirty-four and had, most probably, several decades more hunting in him. One of the richest men in Europe, Franz Ferdinand was not a lovable sort, being gruff and brusque to servants and ministers alike.

  But was he also a cold-blooded killer who had arranged the deaths of his cousin, the crown prince, his aunt, the empress, and seven others in a brutal attempt at concealing his crimes?

  The sound of the doorbell made both Werthen and Gross start. They looked at each other in alarm; clearly, the same thought was uppermost in both their minds: Was it the killer come to finish his work? They had foolishly taken no precautions against such an eventuality, thinking they were safe in the apartment. But what if the killer had become desperate and no longer cared to make their deaths appear an accident? Neither of them was even armed, and before they could spring into action, Werthen could hear Frau Blatschky already opening the door.

  It was too late to call out and stop her. A sudden wave of guilt washed over him, fearing that he had brought such danger to their doorstep, involving even the unfortunate and quite unwitting Frau Blatschky.

  Then he heard Berthe’s voice at the door, and he breathed easily.

  As he stood to greet his fiancée, Gross cautioned, “Tell her nothing. The less she knows, the safer she is.”

  The words chilled Werthen, making him realize just how perilous their investigations had become. Gross was right. He could not risk endangering Berthe. But how much had he already told her? He would have to somehow convince her that all had come to naught with their Swiss investigation.

  Frau Blatschky showed Berthe into the study, and Werthen felt his heart quicken seeing his betrothed, her cheeks red from the suddenly chill weather, her hands busy with the hatpins and then removing her damp hat.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” Werthen said.

  “Is it?” she responded with a smile. “Good to see you again, Doktor Gross.”

  “Fräulein Meisner.”

  Werthen drew a chair up to the fire for her.

  “You honestly don’t remember, do you?” she said, taking a seat next to him.

  “Remember?” Then it came to him. He had arranged to take her to the midday Sunday concert of the Philharmonic. But with everything else going on, he had completely forgotten.

  “I am an idiot. Please forgive me.”

  “I thought as much when there was no word from you. So you went to Geneva?”

  “Whatever would make you think that, Fräulein?” Gross cut in before Werthen had a chance to respond.

  “Well, it would be the logical next step, wouldn’t it? If you were investigating a connection between the death of the empress and the Prater murders.”

  Gross shot Werthen a fierce look. “I am afraid your fiancé has been rather overstating the case. It’s the fiction writer in him, I assume.”

  “Actually, Berthe,” Werthen joined in, “we did travel to Geneva, but it all came to nothing. Wild speculation on our part. A coincidence and little more about the empress seeing Herr Frosch. But,” he hurried on, giving her no chance to comment, “I did have a chance to do some shopping while there.”

  He went to his desk and fetched the box containing the gold bracelet from the center drawer.

  “For you.” He smiled at her warmly.

  “Awfully kind of you,” she said, “but it won’t put me off the scent. You two are hiding something. One needn’t be a detective or famous criminalist to sense that.”

  She opened the box and took the bracelet out. “Oh, Karl, you really shouldn’t…”

  Then she saw the inscription on the inside and took the bracelet to the light of the windo
w to read.

  He watched her facial expression turn from pleasant surprise to perplexity. Finally she nodded her head, handing the bracelet back.

  “You can keep your bribe, Karl. And next time, be more original. You should have known that I would look up every story you ever published and learn them by heart. At least have the decency to use quotation marks if you are going to quote yourself.”

  “Berthe, you don’t understand,” Werthen began.

  “Oh, I think I do,” she said, heading for the door. “It’s not the inscription on the bracelet I resent. That is simply lazy of you and almost comical. But you don’t trust me, and that hurts. I know you are lying about this case. Both of you look dreadful, as if you were pulled headfirst out of Lake Geneva or something. Yet you tell me it was all imaginary. Perhaps you are afraid that I, just a silly little woman, will gossip and babble and undo your good work. Or perhaps you are trying somehow to protect me by keeping me in the dark. Which also reduces me to a silly little woman incapable of taking care of herself.”

  “It is not the way you think it is,” Werthen protested.

  She stopped at the door. “Then tell me how it is, Karl. Now.”

  Werthen glanced at Gross.

  “You don’t need his permission,” she said.

  Werthen hesitated.

  “Fine.” She opened the door. “When you are ready to treat me like an equal, you know where to contact me.”

  She went to the front door.

  “Berthe!”

  Gross grabbed his arm. “Let her go, Werthen. It is the best thing for now.”