[VM01] The Empty Mirror

by J Sydney Jones

  They stopped outside the Casa d’Illusion; their instructions were not to enter but to await Grunenthal at the water’s edge. A poorly tethered gondola knocked repeatedly against the balustrade lining the canal. Werthen cast an irritated glance at the boat. A crumpled sheet of tarp lay in the bow.

  They arrived alone, as instructed. They had also come unarmed, as agreed upon. In other respects, however, they had not complied with the prince’s demands.

  It was a full moon tonight; clouds scudded in front of the moon, then blew away, casting a huge shadow of the Ferris wheel over them. That ride had been built to celebrate Franz Josef’s golden jubilee, Werthen knew, but its opening had been inauspicious. A working-class woman, Marie Kindl, had hung herself from one of the thirty gondolas to protest poverty in Vienna.

  This evening the Riesenrad, like the rest of the rides, was silent. A noise to his left made Werthen spin around. A cat slunk through the silent lanes.

  There was little to be learned from their early arrival. Werthen shivered as a gust of wind curled around his legs. He felt alone and vulnerable in the open spaces of the empty Prater. Gross, however, appeared undaunted, puffing out his chest and pacing back and forth along the canal.

  They waited for over an hour before Werthen, growing suspicious, said, “They are not coming.”

  “Nonsense,” hissed Gross. “It is a test merely. They are most likely watching us to make sure we have no associates hidden away.”

  “But we do, Gross.”

  “However, they do not know that, Werthen.”

  They waited another half hour. The night had grown bitterly cold now. The time for the meeting was well past now.

  “Gross?”

  The criminologist did not at first answer.

  Finally: “Yes. It is time.”

  They raced to the entrance to the house of mirrors.

  “Come out, men,” Gross called. But there was no answer from inside.

  “My God, Gross,” Werthen wailed. “What have you done?”

  The lawyer tugged at the door to the Casa d’Illusion, but it was chained shut. Behind them the knocking of the tethered gondola had grown more insistent, as if not caused by the mere motion of water.

  “The boat, Gross.”

  Werthen leaped over the side of the balustrade, landing neatly in the tethered gondola. Throwing aside the tarp, he uncovered Klimt, bound and gagged, his eyes bulging in panic.

  It had been their plan for Klimt and Herr Meisner to hide in the Casa d’Illusion in the afternoon, before any watchers might catch them. They took weapons with them: an old shotgun and hunting riñe Werthen had from the time his father was attempting to turn him into a proper country squire. Klimt and Meisner would thus be their insurance in case something went wrong with Gross’s scheme to turn Tod and Grunenthal against one another after the handoff of Berthe.

  “It was as if he knew we would be there,” Klimt said, once they had released him from his bonds. “He came for us only minutes after we arrived.”

  “He?” Gross said.

  “Tall, with a face like walking death. And the scar.”

  Werthen was still in shock; he knew what this meant. Berthe was dead. And all because of him and clever, clever Gross. But, no, he could not blame Gross. They had all agreed to the plan. What the criminologist had said about Prince Grunenthal not keeping his word in the long run was true. They had had to act. But what now? How could he live without Berthe? How could he live with her death on his conscience?

  “So he was watching all afternoon,” Gross said.

  “We didn’t have a chance. No sooner had we broken into the house of mirrors than it appeared to be on fire. We leaped out of an open window into his waiting arms. It had only been one small flame reflected a hundred times in all shapes and sizes through the mirrors, but we had no way to know that. He forced Meisner to tie me up and then Tod took the man with him.”

  “There is hope, then, Werthen,” Gross said excitedly. “Why not simply kill them then and there? She may still be alive.”

  “I do not need your false hope, Gross.”

  “Tod gave me a message from Prince Grunenthal,” Klimt said. “So he must have been watching, too.”

  “A message?” Gross asked.

  “He said he was sparing my life because I owed the empire paintings for the new university aula.” The painter stopped abruptly as if not wanting to say any more.

  “Go on, Klimt,” Werthen urged. “I must know.”

  “He also said to tell you that you failed to live up to your end of the bargain. He said you would know the price for disloyalty.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Werthen moaned. “I’ve killed her.”

  “Easy, Werthen,” Gross counseled. “We can’t know that.”

  The wind whipped around them as they stood in silence in the shadow of the Riesenrad, water lapping at the edges of the canal.

  “I want to leave this evil place,” Werthen said. “Now.”

  “Not so quick, Advokat.”

  The voice came from one of the darkened alleyways.

  Werthen and the others spun round at the sound. Then came the sound of footsteps from the opposite direction. Three figures came into view from that direction. Werthen could feel his heart racing, hoping against hope for what he knew could not be true.

  But it was.

  “I have granted clemency,” the voice from behind them boomed.

  Werthen did not turn to it, however, but kept watching in awe as Herr Meisner and Berthe were shepherded in front of Tod, who held a pistol to her head.

  “I still need your spoken guarantee,” Prince Grunenthal said from behind them. He stayed in the darkness, but his voice carried. “I hope that it will be worth something this time. I have given you a second chance, for you must now see how senseless it is to try to outmaneuver me. Your lives will be forfeit if you ever dare to betray me again. Herr Meisner has apprised us of your plans, Professor Gross. It would be futile trying to turn Sergeant Tod against his master. He is a soldier; he knows his duty.”

  “I would not dream of it,” Gross said.

  “Fine,” Grunenthal said, still in the shadows. “First, the formalities. Your promise, gentlemen.”

  “Yes,” Werthen said. “You have it. Total secrecy regarding the … affair.”

  “I as well,” Klimt said.

  “And professor?”

  “I, too, give my word,” Gross said.

  “What is this?” Berthe suddenly blurted out.

  “A bargain, young lady,” Prince Grunenthal said calmly. “One to which we also need your assent.”

  “Karl?”

  “It’s all right, Berthe. Give him your word not to talk of any of this.”

  “Simply give him your word, Berthe,” Herr Meisner, visibly shaken by his ordeal, said.

  “What’s going on? Who are these men?”

  “Even better,” Grunenthal observed.

  “Is this to do with your investigation?”

  “Please, Berthe,” Werthen said. “I am sorry about before. I should have told you everything, but now you will have to trust me. Please.” He sought out her eyes and held them. “Please.”

  “She knows nothing about this,” Gross added. “We purposely kept Fräulein Meisner in the dark, hoping it would in turn keep her safe.”

  “Please,” Werthen repeated.

  She nodded. “All right. I promise. You have my word I will not speak of being kidnapped or of this meeting. I know nothing more.”

  Grunenthal nodded to Tod, who released Berthe and her father. She ran to Werthen and they embraced for a long moment.

  “That, gentlemen, is that,” Grunenthal intoned importantly. “You maybe gone now.”

  Werthen shuffled off with the others, like a repentant servant. But he knew this was not the end of the matter. As he had come to realize this afternoon, the affair could never end if Prince Grunenthal was still in power or, indeed, alive.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Sat
urday-Sunday, October 22-23, 1898-Vienna

  Several weeks went by, and Werthen had ample time to make his plans. He descended the carriage outside the Palais Kinsky, its windows brightly lit for the monthly soiree, and showed an embossed letter to a footman attired in periwig, knee pants, and stockings-a stubborn relic out of Mozart’s time. The monogram of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand at the top of the letter was sufficient to gain him access to the exclusive gathering. Once inside, he wasted no time, fearful watchers would spot him and evict him. He hurried up the wide marble staircase to the ballroom with its ornate chandeliers and star-patterned parquet floor. Tonight the famous pianist Paderewski was giving a recital. Werthen was relieved to see that the guests were still milling about, exchanging gossip and false cheer.

  Prince Grunenthal was there, just as the archduke had told him he would be. He stood head and shoulders over a clutch of society women, diamonds in their hair. The prince was saying something quite amusing, for the ladies began twittering into their fans just as Werthen reached the group.

  “You, sir, are a cad,” Werthen pronounced. “You have interfered with my fiancée and I publicly challenge you.”

  The angry red face of Prince Grunenthal turned just in time to receive a slap from Werthen’s white gloves, purchased specially for the occasion.

  “I await your seconds. The choice of weapons shall be yours.” It was a calculated risk, but surely the age of the prince would limit him to pistols.

  “This is an outrage,” Prince Grunenthal began.

  “Yes, it is. And you have committed it. Do you have the courage to seek redress or are you simply going to bluster? Or perhaps you will have me thrown into irons to save your honor.”

  The women whispered excitedly to one another at this comment. Otherwise, the entire room had gone absolutely silent. All eyes were on Prince Grunenthal. Werthen had backed him into a corner publicly, as was the plan.

  “I will see you in hell, Advokat.”

  “Do I take that as an acceptance of my challenge?”

  Another moment of tension-filled silence. “Yes, damn you.”

  Werthen had spent the last weeks, ever since deciding on this course of action, practicing his marksmanship. Finally there was something for which he could be grateful to his father. The endless hours as a youth on the firing range would, he hoped, be his salvation.

  Berthe had simply left Vienna with her father after learning of his plan.

  “I cannot stop you and I cannot watch you die. I’m sorry, Karl, but we almost lost one another once. Twice is more than I can bear.”

  His explanations to her were unsatisfactory. He knew, however, that in time she would understand. This was the only way they could be together. They would never be entirely safe as long as Grunenthal was alive.

  Prince Grunenthal’s second was the young adjutant who had been on duty at the Reichskanzlei the day Werthen and Gross had gone to have an audience with the emperor. He arrived at Werthen’s flat a little over an hour after the lawyer’s altercation with Grunenthal.

  So far, so good, for the adjutant announced that the prince’s choice of weapons was pistols, with one shot from each side. There was no way that Grunenthal could expect Werthen to be even a fair shot; his innate anti-Semitism would simply disallow such a notion. The adjutant also noted the location for the duel: the Prater meadowland, just beyond the Riesenrad. This was the place the bodies had been dumped by Grunenthal’s henchman, Tod. Again, the prince was being melodramatic, something that Werthen had counted on.

  “At first light,” the adjutant said as he was leaving Werthen’s apartment. “Six thirty tomorrow.”

  After he was gone, Gross looked at his friend with sympathetic eyes. “You are sure you wish to go through with this, Werthen?”

  He felt anything but sure. In fact, he wanted at that moment simply to catch the next train to Linz and hide away with Berthe.

  “Yes, Gross. It is the only way.”

  “Not the only way, Werthen. We have been through this a dozen times. Not the only way, at all. But your way.”

  “He is a fiend, a mad dog. He needs to be put down.”

  Werthen did not sleep that night. Neither did Gross, for he was busy with last-minute preparations. It must all go according to plan, every piece of it, or death awaited Werthen.

  Instead of sleeping, Werthen thought of the morning to come, reviewing all aspects of his plan. Archduke Franz Ferdinand himself had become an essential part of this, for, when approached, he found Werthen’s strategy inspired. It could rid him of one of his archenemies at no personal cost. And if the scheme failed, neither would he be compromised by it.

  Werthen’s one regret was that he had had to invoke the name of his beloved in his challenge to the prince. However, it was the one offense that would be universally understood. Its very plausibility would provide Werthen with protection if he succeeded in the duel. After all, what man would not fight for his ladylove? What man would not want to seek redress for another besmirching the good name of his lady? That Grunenthal was widely known as a roué helped Werthen’s cause. The emperor himself could hardly punish a man for fighting such a duel.

  Werthen was dressed by five. Frau Blatschky sniffled all through breakfast; her coffee was thin and weak.

  “It will be fine, Frau Blatschky,” Werthen said at one point.

  “Oh, Herr Doktor Werthen, sir, I sincerely hope so. It is a cruel world indeed when one such as you must bear arms.”

  He knew it was meant kindly, but the comment did little to instill confidence in him.

  Gross, who was to act as his second, arrived with the carriage at five thirty.

  “All is in readiness?” Werthen asked.

  “I sincerely hope so,” the criminologist said, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.

  They set off in the darkness, the metal-rimmed wheels of the carriage clicking against the cobbles in the otherwise stillness of predawn.

  Prince Grunenthal, hatless, and his second were already at the meadow when Werthen and Gross arrived. Werthen, suffering the effects of a sleepless night, felt a sudden fog in his brain. He took deep breaths, hoping to clear his thoughts and vision for what lay ahead.

  As he and Grunenthal exchanged glares, the adjutant and Gross spoke of final arrangements.

  “It is my duty,” the adjutant said, “to offer your man the opportunity to apologize for his insult. Otherwise, we shall proceed.”

  “My man, good sir, has nothing to apologize for. It is your master who is at fault, and your master who will pay”

  Then came the choosing of weapons. Grunenthal supplied, for the occasion, matching Webley and Scott .45 caliber revolvers, with ivory grips. The large caliber indicated that despite the rule of one shot this was still a duel to the death. Both seconds inspected the guns, insuring that each had a single bullet in their chambers.

  Werthen felt the heft of his. He had been practicing with a much lighter Enfield revolver. As he was getting the feel of the pistol, Grunenthal called to him, “There will be no more chances for you-for any of you.”

  Werthen made no reply. From the beginning he knew this would be a do-or-die gambit. All the others involved had agreed. All that is, but Berthe.

  The horses at Gross’s carriage whinnied as the first rays of the sun broke over the eastern horizon.

  “Gentlemen,” the adjutant said. “Time.”

  He placed them back-to-back; Werthen felt the man’s rump in the small of his back, he was that much shorter than Grunenthal.

  “When I command, you shall each take fifteen paces. At my next command, you may turn and fire at will.”

  “You will all die now,” Grunenthal hissed at him.

  “Ready, begin,” the adjutant shouted.

  Werthen kept himself focused on the paces; he made each a long stride, for the farther apart the better. A trickle of sweat slid down his shirt collar in the chill morning air. Birdsong from the woods in back of him broke his concentration for an instant,
and he lost count of his steps. Then he remembered that imitated birdsong was the agreed-upon signal. He took a deep breath. Or was it actual birdsong?

  He took several more paces before the adjutant again called out:

  “Turn and fire at will!”

  Werthen half-turned as directed by the dueling instructor Franz Ferdinand had supplied. He did not offer his full body, but a profile only. He held his fire, also as instructed, allowing Grunenthal the first shot, but the prince seemed to have had the same instructor, presenting Werthen with his profile as well, and holding his fire.

  “Fire at will,” the adjutant repeated.

  This seemed to spur Grunenthal into action. He took careful aim and fired. It happened so quickly, Werthen did not even realize he had been shot. It was as if a loaded cart had slammed into his right leg, spilling him onto the ground.

  “Werthen!” Gross yelled.

  Werthen lay on his back for a moment, watching birds flap out of the trees at the sudden slap of the shot. He felt ridiculous lying there, like a character in a Tolstoy novel.

  Suddenly Gross’s face filled his field of vision. “We need to get you to a doctor.”

  Werthen closed his eyes for a moment. He knew the pain and nausea would soon strike. He needed to act now.

  “Help me up. I still have my shot.”

  “It is over, Werthen. Don’t be a fool. We will find another way.”

  “Help me up, damn you. You are my second. Act like one.”

  Werthen’s sudden fury startled Gross, and the criminologist did as he was told.

  Werthen hobbled helplessly on his good left leg for an instant. Across the stretch of thirty paces, Grunenthal held the gun at his side, his face ashen now, seeing Werthen again on his feet. The shot should have killed him, the prince knew. Not his own, of course, but that of the marksman, Tod, hiding in the woods in back of him. So the birdsong had been their prearranged signal, after all. Meaning that Klimt and Duncan had taken Tod. He would in turn be dealt with appropriately. The sentence had already been delivered.