[VM01] The Empty Mirror

by J Sydney Jones

  “I see where you are going with this. We need to requestion Planner. He never described exactly where this scar was on the man he described.” They had, in their earlier investigation, also contacted the lady-in-waiting to Elisabeth, Countess Sztaray, but she had been no help in describing the mysterious coachman.

  “A telegram should do, I believe. Unless we dare to chance an international call.”

  Werthen shook his head. “We could wait hours for the call. Better to stop at a post office once we are finished here. We could have his reply by evening.”

  Gross’s attention was suddenly drawn to the doorway, where the young adjutant sat. He was conferring now with a tall and forceful-looking old soldier, dressed in military blue, his snow-white hair giving him an aura of power rather than age. Werthen recognized him at once: Prince Grunenthal, the emperor’s principal aide and longtime adviser. The prince looked up occasionally as he spoke to the adjutant, looking into the waiting room, surveying those awaiting an audience. His eyes locked on Gross and Werthen and held them for several seconds before moving on to others. In the next instant, he was gone.

  Gross, too, had noticed the prince’s stare and suddenly rose. “Come, Werthen. I believe we are premature in this.”

  He strode out of the waiting room, not bothering to speak with the adjutant, leaving Werthen to simply straggle behind as best he could. Hailed by the adjutant, Werthen told the young officer that something urgent had come up and to please pardon their hasty departure. Gross was already out the main door to the Reichskanzlei by the time Werthen caught him up.

  “What is all this, Gross? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “No.” Gross spun around, facing him. “In fact, I believe, dear Werthen, that I have finally come to my senses. We need more before we have a face-to-face with the emperor.”

  “Was it Prince Grunenthal’s presence? It did seem as if he recognized us.”

  But Gross did not bother to answer. Instead, he turned and strode forward, passing the Schweizer Tor again and now passing under the archway of the Leopoldine wing and through a passageway leading to the newest section of the Hofburg, still under construction. The proposed Heldenplatz with its new additions was still mostly bare ground bristling with surveyor’s sticks. To their right lay the Volksgarten, ahead the Ringstrasse, and on the other side of that boulevard the twin museums-art and natural history-which were to form the other axis of the huge Heldenplatz.

  Gross finally favored Werthen with a bit of an explanation as they walked hurriedly toward a fiacre rank on the Ring.

  “I’ve been a fool, Werthen. This is a two-pronged investigation, and I have left the trail of Herr Binder too long. Someone chose that unfortunate man as the sacrificial lamb. We need to know who. Once we ascertain that, we can work our way up higher. Our two investigations will have become one.”

  Gross was lost in thought as their Fiaker drove them around the Ring to the address in the Third District Gross had given the driver. Gross spoke only after they had left the Fiaker on Erdbergstrasse, not far from the surgical-equipment firm of Breitstein und Söhne.

  “Herr Binder’s doctor,” Gross said by way of explanation. “As good a place as any to begin.” By chance a post office was on the next corner, and before going to the doctor’s office, they dashed off a telegram to Planner in Geneva asking specifically where on the coachman’s body the scar was and requesting a reply as soon as possible.

  Dr. Gerhardt Thonau had his office across the street, on the top floor of the house at number 14. A large, rather forbidding woman, dressed in blue with a starched white apron, opened the door at their third ring and appeared to recognize Gross from his previous visit inquiring about Herr Binder’s medical condition.

  “Are you seeking medical attention this time?” she said as she let them in. A strong smell of roses was in the entryway, but none were to be seen. Indeed, the scent was so cloying it could only have come from a bottle, Werthen decided. “This is a doctor’s office, after all,” the woman said with heavy irony, “not an information booth.”

  “It is good to see you again, too, Frau Doktor Thonau. And I should be happy to pay your husband’s usual fee for a consultation.” He peered at the empty waiting room. “That is,” he said with an irony to match hers, “if I would not be displacing a more needy patient.”

  “We were about to sit down to lunch,” she replied, “but I am sure the doctor can find time for you gentlemen. That will be fifteen crowns.”

  Werthen was about to splutter a complaint: The best of the Ninth District surgeons would never dare demand such an exorbitant fee. However, Gross stopped him with a pat on the back.

  “Excellent. Perhaps you could see to that, Advokat?”

  Werthen shot Gross a look, but it was no use. He brought out his change purse and extracted a ten- and a five-crown coin, hefted them for weight, then handed the money over to the doctor’s wife, who duly noted the charge in a large and somewhat dusty ledger. Werthen was sure she noted no more than five of the crowns given to her.

  “Go on in,” she said, slamming the large ledger closed. “You remember the way, I expect?”

  Gross led the way through the threadbare waiting room and into a surgery at once dark and evil-smelling. Dr. Thonau, reed-thin, was busily washing medical instruments in a basin in one corner.

  “Professor Gross, good to see you again.”

  He did not, however, looked pleased. Werthen thought Thonau, could, in fact, do with a visit to a doctor himself. His skin was the pallor of old milk; his red-rimmed eyes squinted without benefit of pince-nez.

  “Have a seat,” he said with false heartiness. “I was just cleaning up from the morning consultations. Have you come for an examination?”

  Gross did not take the proffered seat. Neither did he bother introducing Werthen.

  “No, Dr. Thonau,” Gross all but thundered. “I have come for the truth.”

  Thonau shook his head. “What truth would that be, Professor?”

  “Please, no insouciance. I haven’t the stomach for it today. Who did you tell about Binder’s syphilis?”

  “Aside from yourself, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “No one, of course. A patient’s records are private. What do you take me for?”

  “A poor man, a mediocre physician, and a henpecked husband whose wife would dearly love to see you earning more, and no questions asked. That, Dr. Thonau, is what I take you for. A man desperate for a little extra cash. A man who would not stop at such niceties as patient confidentiality.”

  Thonau tried to bluff it out for a moment, puffing up his hollow chest and blustering about false accusations and solicitors.

  Werthen put a stop to that nonsense quickly enough, announcing himself as Professor Gross’s lawyer. At that Thonau suddenly slumped down in his chair like a deflated balloon.

  “You won’t tell…”

  He hesitated, and Werthen imagined he was referring to the physicians’ professional ethics board.

  “… my wife, will you? She doesn’t know about my little arrangement with Direktor Breitstein. It’s the only spare change I get my hands on.”

  “Breitstein!” Gross said.

  “Yes.” Thonau shook his head, sniffling now. “I am or was doctor to several of his employees. He arranged a reduced rate for them and then paid me a regular allowance to keep him abreast of his employees’ health. It was all aboveboard, though.”

  Gross snorted at this. “I am sure it was.”

  “No, I mean, Herr Breitstein only wanted to know if his employees were healthy. It is important to him to have the best representatives he could. The ‘face of Breitstein and Son,’ he called his sales force.”

  “Then why keep Herr Binder?” Werthen asked. “The man had syphilis, after all.”

  Thonau turned to Werthen now, smiling as if to ingratiate himself with his other interrogator.

  “That is what I mean about it being all aboveboard. Herr Breitstein did not
use the information against his employees. He had their best interests at heart, too.”

  “That is what he told you,” Gross said, “or that is what you assume?

  Thonau shrugged. “I can’t remember. But please, gentlemen, I implore you, do not tell my wife.”

  “That, Dr. Thonau, is one promise I assure you I will keep. When did you first report Binder’s condition?”

  “Several months ago. Perhaps late May? I would have to look at my records. It was after my first consultation with Herr Binder. He came complaining of dizziness and loss of appetite. It was obvious to me what was wrong with the man, but I ran certain tests. Then when I told Herr Breitstein, he told me not to tell Binder of his condition. I treated him with Epsom salts. There was little else to be done for the man at that stage of the illness.”

  “Binder did not know he had syphilis?”

  Thonau shook his head. “Not from me, at any rate.”

  “And what explanation did Breitstein have for this?” Gross demanded.

  “He said he did not want the poor man to worry. There was nothing to be done for him at that stage of the disease anyway. It may sound unorthodox, but Herr Breitstein does have-”

  “We know,” Gross interrupted. “The best interests of his employees at heart.”

  There was nothing more to be learned from Thonau, and they left. Happily, Frau Thonau had retired to the dining room, and they let themselves out.

  Breitstein und Söhne was just two blocks away. They lost no time in getting there, but were surprised at the lack of activity. Last time they were here, a delivery van was being loaded and salesmen were bustling about. Now, even the secretary was missing from the desk outside Breitstein’s office.

  Gross knocked on the door to the man’s office and entered without waiting for a reply. Inside, the teary-eyed secretary was arranging flowers, several bouquets of them, all with a black ribbon.

  Gross and Werthen exchanged glances; each knew what this meant.

  “Excuse us, Fräulein,” Gross said. “We have come to speak to Herr Direktor Breitstein.”

  At which the young secretary’s tears flowed afresh, and she searched for a hankie stuck up the sleeve of her white blouse.

  “You haven’t heard, sir?” she finally managed.

  “Heard what?”

  “Herr Direktor Breitstein is dead. Killed he was, just yesterday.” She blubbered for a time, then regained composure. “A hunting accident, it was. At his lodge in Styria for his annual vacation. The poor man. What’ll ever become of us now?”

  Gross went farther into the room. For a moment Werthen thought he was actually going to solace the young woman. Instead, he went past her to the row of pictures behind the desk, looking at them closely.

  “Has anyone been in this room today?” he asked.

  The secretary looked up from her hankie. “No. Just me, sir. Arranging the flowers.”

  “And who delivered the flowers?”

  “A’ “

  A man, sir.

  “Did he leave them outside, or did he bring them in here?”

  “In here, sir.” More tears flowed at this, as if she thought she was in trouble.

  “Please, Fräulein. This is important. Think now. What did the man look like?”

  She sniffled, bit her lip, and daubed the hankie at her watery eyes. “Like a delivery person, sir.”

  The muscle in Gross’s cheek began to work, but he kept his impatience hidden. “Was he tall?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any distinguishing marks?”

  “Marks, sir?”

  “Scars,” Werthen all but shouted, less successful than Gross at disguising his impatience.

  “Oh, yes, sir. That he did. I noticed it, and that is true.” She drew a forefinger across her throat. “Like someone had tried to kill him or something.”

  Gross turned his attention back to the photos. “Look, Werthen. Do you see here? We have a missing photo.”

  Werthen crossed the room now and saw, indeed, a rectangle of lighter wall in the line of photos where one had clearly once hung and was now missing.

  “I was looking at those photographs the day we interviewed Breitstein,” Werthen said. “I thought I recognized someone in one of the photos.”

  “Who?”

  Werthen sighed. “I have no idea, Gross. It was just one of those fleeting impressions one gets. I was too far away to make out the pictures clearly, and whoever it was had a hunting hat on. It wasn’t the face anyway that I recognized, but something about the way the man stood. His bearing.”

  “Think, man.”

  “It’s no use, Gross. It’s not there.”

  “Are you gentlemen from the police?”

  It was the teary-eyed secretary; they had completely forgotten about her, so concerned were they with the missing picture.

  “No, Fräulein,” Gross said, turning to her. “Merely customers of your former employer. We will leave you to your arranging now.”

  As they left the office, Gross gripped Werthen’s arm. “Could it have been Franz Ferdinand? He is a fearful hunter, so it is said.”

  Werthen shook his head, frustrated. “I simply do not know, Gross. If only I had paid more attention that day. You think it is so important?”

  “I think Herr Direktor Breitstein was killed because of it.”

  They returned to Werthen’s Josefstädterstrasse apartment at midafternoon and were barely in the door before both of them were enfolded in the delighted arms of Gustav Klimt. Krafft-Ebing was waiting there as well and clapped them on their backs as a homecoming gesture.

  “We thought you were dead for sure,” the painter said as he finally let Werthen and Gross struggle out of his grip.

  By “we,” Klimt obviously meant his trio of hired thugs, for they had made themselves quite at home and had Frau Blatschky bustling in and out of the kitchen, delivering up generous helpings of her boiled beef and fresh horseradish. Werthen suddenly realized he and Gross had had nothing to eat since breakfast at the Lower Belvedere. The smell of the food made him salivate like a dog.

  Frau Blatschky was as happy to see them as Klimt, but the three toughs simply tipped a fork or knife at them by way of greeting. There was plenty of food to go round, and Werthen and Gross joined in with hearty appetites. Krafft-Ebing, however, had had enough adventures for the time and left as the others were tucking into their meal. He did not even bother to inquire about what had happened to them the night before.

  Gross refused to discuss the new developments until they had finished and Klimt had sent his men on their way for the night. However, before they could begin to discuss anything, the doorbell sounded. Klimt stopped Frau Blatschky on her way to open it and instead opened it himself, taking the precaution of keeping the chain on.

  It was the telegraph from Geneva they had been expecting. Gross quickly opened it while Werthen fished out some change as a tip for the delivery boy.

  “Aha,” the criminologist said. “Just as I thought.”

  He handed the telegram to Werthen. Planner proved to be a miserly correspondent, for the message was only two words in length: “On neck.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Werthen and Gross were at breakfast. It was nine thirty, a time when most self-respecting Viennese were already on to their second breakfast, Gabelfrühstück, of a wurst semmel and a glass of tart white wine. But last night had been a late one for the pair. It was midnight before they had convinced Klimt that he should go home. With their pair of pistols for protection and a stout front door, they were well protected, they told him.

  “It surely proves the archduke right,” Werthen said now, between nibbles of the butter kipfel on his plate. He had little appetite this morning, still too excited by last night’s news.

  “Hmm.” Gross made his comment from behind the pages of this morning’s Neue Freie Presse.

  “Does that mean you concur, Gross, or simply that you are bored with the conversation?”

  “Hmm.” />
  “Blast it, Gross. You are being far too blasé about all this. The scar on the man’s neck means it was not Franz Ferdinand’s man who killed the empress.”

  Gross put down his paper, lifting his eyebrows at Werthen.

  “We have been through all this, my friend. Until midnight last night, as a matter of fact.”

  “But sleeping on it, does that not make it seem of more import to you?”

  “As I said last night, it is a strong indication, but there are other possibilities to explore.”

  “What? Surely you do not believe that the archduke had a second scarred cohort in his employ just to throw us off?”

  “A possibility, Werthen. I believe I categorized such a theory last night as possible though not probable.”

  Werthen took a sip of his coffee, and when he looked back at Gross, he was confronted with the palisade of the newspaper in front of the criminologist’s face.

  “Really, Gross, you can be infuriating at times. We have Breitstein newly dead, and now this news from Planner in Geneva that implicates Sergeant Tod-”

  “According to Franz Ferdinand,” Gross said in a muffled voice from behind his paper.

  “And you just sit there reading the damnable news.”

  Gross set the paper down once more. “What would you have me do, Werthen?”

  “Action, Gross. Now is the time for action.”

  “And what exactly does that mean?”

  “Alert the authorities in Styria for one. They should be treating Breitstein’s death as a homicide and not an accident. The police need to reinvestigate the scene before it becomes totally polluted, interview the other witnesses before their memory becomes fogged by time and preconceived notions of accidental death.”

  Gross beamed at him. “Bravo, Werthen. You are learning my techniques at long last.”

  Werthen gazed at him a moment longer. “You’ve already done it, haven’t you?”

  “You did insist on sleeping in, Werthen. I thus had a fair amount of time on my hands this morning.”