[VM01] The Empty Mirror

by J Sydney Jones

  “Is your man in any condition to continue?” called the adjutant.

  “Yes, I am,” Werthen shouted.

  Grunenthal still looked in amazement as Werthen took careful aim. His would not be a body shot. He wanted to finish this, for once and for all. He planted his wounded right leg solidly in front of him and felt a wave of pain wash over his entire body. His shirt was drenched in sweat as he held the Webley and Scott in front of him, supported by his left hand.

  Grunenthal jerked suddenly, as if fear had overcome him, but then forced himself to stand still and receive the shot.

  “You haven’t the courage to do it,” he cried out suddenly. “You will always be a mere citizen.”

  The crack of the shot stirred the remaining birds out of their nests and into the rose-colored dawn. The bullet struck Grunenthal over his left eye, toppling him and taking off the back of his head. His once white hair was now a mess of pink brain matter and blood.

  EPILOGUE

  Werthen was still groggy from morphine; tomorrow he would cut back on the dosage of that painkiller. Meanwhile, he floated in a cozy fog.

  He had a private room in the General Hospital; flowers filled every possible space. At times, the smell was almost overwhelming. Several of the bouquets were from Gross, who had had to leave suddenly for Bukovina; the university chancellor himself sent for him, as they had found temporary classroom quarters. Gross had visited yesterday before catching his train and had given Werthen an autographed copy of Criminal Psychology.

  “Perhaps we will have the opportunity to work together again one fine day,” Gross had said before leaving.

  Drugged and unable to speak, Werthen had simply nodded. Strangely, he felt tears build in back of his eyes as the criminologist was shepherded out of the room by Berthe.

  Yes, Berthe, for she had returned. In fact, she had been there when he awoke from surgery last Monday. And she had remained at his side since, policing the frequency and duration of visits.

  Now she was speaking to his most recent visitor: “Make it brief, Herr Klimt. He needs his sleep.”

  “It will be very short,” Klimt said. “And might I say, it is good to see you again, Fräulein Meisner.”

  She smiled at this. “Charm will do you no good, Klimt. You have a pair of minutes, no longer.”

  Klimt bent over Werthen’s bed so that she would not hear their conversation.

  “From what I hear there was another suicide last night. Terrible. Vienna has become the suicide capital of Europe, according to the foreign papers. A jumper this time. Seems to have climbed to the top of the Riesenrad and made a swan dive.”

  Werthen breathed deeply. He was not a vindictive man, but neither was he sorry to hear of the death of Sergeant Tod.

  “Actually,” Klimt whispered, leaning over more closely to Werthen’s ear, “Duncan had to kill him at the Prater before the duel. I would not want to be a deer stalked by that Scot, I can tell you. We kept the body on ice for a time, so that nobody would make the connection between his death and Grunenthal’s.”

  With great effort, Werthen focused his mind and speech. “Thank you, Klimt. You are a true friend.”

  Klimt shook his big head. “It was nothing, Advokat. Anyway, it makes me feel less guilty about not getting your fee to you yet. Never do business with the aristocracy.”

  Werthen could not agree with the man more.

  “Enough, Klimt,” Berthe said. “Karl needs his sleep.”

  It felt good to be fussed over, Werthen thought, as he drifted off to sleep.