A Matter of Breeding: a mystery set in turn-of-the-century Vienna (A Viennese Mystery)

by J Sydney Jones

  ‘Someone has mucked about the crime scene, right?’ Werthen finally said.

  Thielman shrugged. ‘It’s inevitable. But how do you know?’

  ‘The early report you referred to, about the young woman’s mutilations. That means someone lifted the coat off the body already.’

  ‘Um Gottes willen,’ Thielman muttered. ‘The dunderheads.’

  Werthen nodded toward the corpse. ‘The coat is covering the face now. Is that how it was found, or did some constable cover it out of a sense of decorum?’

  ‘I’ll find out,’ Thielman said, walking the planks back out of the crime scene to the gathered officers.

  Werthen watched as Thielman talked to the group, and then one officer raised his hand and Thielman spoke to him closely for several minutes. The young officer tried unsuccessfully to avert his eyes from Thielman.

  Finally Thielman threw his hands up in the air and turned back for Werthen. At the same time the department’s forensic photographer came into sight lugging a camera bag, tripod, and a large box camera. Looking around at the gathered officers he shrugged and set down everything except for the small camera bag and then made his way inside the roped-off crime scene.

  ‘The officer says her face was covered when he arrived at the scene,’ Thielman said. ‘He lifted the coat to see if she was dead.’

  ‘Who reported the body?’ Werthen asked.

  ‘Caretaker. He cleans up on Mondays. People like to come and picnic on weekends. And no, he did not put the coat on her, nor did he so much as look at the body. Too scared. He’s still drinking rum tea at the inn at the bottom of the hill.’

  The photographer was a young man with an eager look to his face.

  ‘You forget something?’ Werthen said, indicating the photographic apparatus left behind.

  The photographer looked over his shoulder. ‘That? No. That’s for in case Magistrate Lechner was here. He’s a stickler for the old ways. If you don’t get a hernia carrying your equipment, you’re not a real photographer.’

  He reached inside his bag and pulled out one of the new Kodak Brownie models.

  ‘This’ll do.’

  And he set to work photographing the entire scene from a variety of angles, careful to stay on the planks and not disturb any of the victim’s clothing. It was as if he had read Gross on the subject.

  ‘You can take the coat off now,’ he told Werthen.

  Finally, he thought. Werthen leaned over the dead body and slowly lifted the oilskin coat off. He was not concerned with wounds at this point. Water was what he was looking for.

  Except for the blood, the victim’s own coat, face, and hair were dry.

  ‘You were right,’ he said to Thielman. ‘A day early. She was killed yesterday, before five o’clock.’

  ‘You might want to wait for the pathologist to make that determination, Werthen.’

  ‘Started raining last evening about five,’ the photographer said quite casually. ‘This lady’s hair and coat, they’re dry. Ergo, assuming she was covered by her killer, she died before the rains came.’

  ‘Exactly, young man,’ Werthen said, feeling suddenly like the wise old criminologist approving of a clever student.

  ‘Makes sense,’ Thielman allowed, but still sounded unconvinced.

  Werthen focused on the body now, allowing the photographer to complete his documentation before leaning over and peering at the wounds close up. Again there was the vicious slash at the neck, apparent cause of death. Also the disfiguration of breasts and the strange marking on the sternum. Unlike the others, however, this was a clear circle cut in the skin, but none of the skin was removed.

  ‘Mein Gott,’ Thielman groaned. ‘It’s like a pig to the slaughter.’

  And then suddenly several things at once clicked in Werthen’s brain. The gruesome scene at Frau Pichler’s with the family all joining in the slaughter of the pig the other night. And what Frau Pichler said that had been teasing Werthen’s mind since then: ‘We had to get this slaughter done before the full moon. The blood moon, you know. Bad luck to do it after.’

  The full moon. And an image also came to mind: the famous ten-foot grandfather clock at the Hotel Bristol where Werthen had gone to meet Stoker that first day. In addition to the time, the old clock displayed a circle of planets, a calendar, and the phases of the moon. The day Werthen went there, this last area displayed a circle on its end with the entire left half blacked in, signifying the first quarter of the moon from the day before.

  He looked at the scarring on the sternum of this latest unfortunate victim: a clear circle cut into the skin by some scalpel or razor-sharp instrument. He focused his memory; later he would need to check the reports of the other killings, but suddenly one thing seemed clear.

  ‘When is full moon this month?’ he blurted out.

  Both Thielman and the young photographer shot him questioning looks. Thielman simply pursed his lips in incredulity, but the photographer squinted in thought.

  ‘It was yesterday,’ he finally said. ‘I was hoping to get some night shots. Beautiful moon this time of year.’

  ‘The blood moon,’ Werthen said.

  ‘Exactly.’ A surprised look came over the young man’s face. ‘You don’ t think—’

  ‘I most certainly do,’ Werthen said.

  ‘Think what?’ Thielman said. ‘What mumbo jumbo are you talking about? Blood moon.’

  ‘Last full moon before All Hallow’s Eve,’ Werthen said. ‘And if you recall how phases of the moon are displayed on calendars, this peculiar circular scarring on our latest victim could be interpreted as the full moon. Other victims have had similar scarring, but with skin either burnt or cut off at half or all of the circle.’

  ‘Symbols for the new moon, first quarter, last quarter,’ the young man said.

  ‘What is your name?’ Werthen asked.

  ‘Morgenstern. Jacob Morgenstern, sir.’

  ‘Morgenstern, you’ve got a bright future ahead of you.’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ Thielman said. ‘Now perhaps you’ll be on your way and let the professionals get back to their work.’

  Morgenstern gave Werthen a smile as he obeyed this order.

  ‘It’s the schedule, Thielman,’ Werthen went on once the photographer was gone. ‘Not a random eight-day schedule at all, but the killings have followed the phases of the moon. I know for sure that this victim was killed on the full moon. Victim number three, Ursula Klein, was dispatched the day before I met Stoker. The hotel clock where he was staying displayed the first quarter on the day before. Ergo, Klein was killed on the first quarter. And I’d bet my inheritance that the first two victims also were killed on a moon phase.’

  ‘So not a day early, then,’ Thielman said. ‘Just the wrong schedule. But where does that leave us? Wait for the next phase of the moon? That must be in November sometime.’

  Werthen shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. But there is time to talk of this later. Now let us examine this coat.’

  They were in luck immediately with the label in the collar, for it showed that the coat was from Diebenkorn, a clothing firm in Graz. Werthen wondered how many such coats had been sold. By the looks of this one, it was already several years old. Little chance there would be a record from the store then of who purchased it. One thing it did tell them, however: their killer appeared to be a local.

  Werthen began digging through the pockets, searching for any scrap of evidence to prove ownership.

  ‘I don’t understand this,’ Thielman said. ‘Why leave the coat behind? Why give us any scrap of evidence? Can we even be sure the killer left it?’

  ‘He left it,’ Werthen said. ‘There is blood splatter all over the front. I am sure you’ve noticed.’

  Thielman examined the coat more closely now.

  ‘He couldn’t be seen with blood all over his coat, so he left it,’ Werthen said. ‘Like a talisman for us.’

  ‘So why now?’ Thielman went on. ‘What about the other killings? They were equally
as bloody. Why haven’t we found any protective clothing left behind at those scenes?’

  ‘Fair question,’ Werthen said. ‘Tell me, what makes this crime scene different than the others?’

  Thielman thought about it for a time, sighed, scratched his cheek, and then finally said, ‘Proximity to a city?’

  Werthen nodded. ‘Exactly. The other murders occurred in more rural circumstances. Perhaps our killer even lives rurally. He could wear a backpack, stuff bloody outer clothing in the pack and make his way home after the killing without raising any suspicions and not so much concerned either about meeting lots of other people on the way. But here, near Graz, there is going to be more traffic. More possible witnesses.’

  Suddenly Werthen’s fingers touched a wad of paper deep in an inner pocket. He pulled it out and unraveled the balled up piece of paper to discover an old bank deposit receipt. Werthen’s fingers were trembling as he read the name scrawled on it: Leopold Finster.

  Eighteen

  Two hours later, using the citizen registry at the Graz district office, they tracked Finster to an address on Niesenbergergasse near the Elisabeth Hospital. So much for their theory about the killer living rurally.

  Finster, it turned out was a janitor at the nearby hospital, a fact that Werthen found significant when thinking of the availability of sharp blades needed for the killings and mutilations. At the hospital, however, they learned that Finster had called in sick today.

  ‘Very handy,’ Thielman said. ‘Worn out after yesterday’s exertions.’

  Werthen ignored this remark. ‘We’ll need some experienced officers.’

  It took another hour to assemble a team of ten men. Finster lived in a three-storey apartment house in the middle of the block on Niesenbergergasse across the street from a side entrance to the hospital. They had to control the exits; if Finster were able to somehow make his way out of the apartment building and across to the hospital, he could give them a merry chase through corridors and entryways that he was more familiar with than they were. Three men were left at the bottom of the staircase at the apartment building; there was no elevator. Another three were also stationed in the courtyard of the building in case he made a break for it out of his second-floor window. The other four officers accompanied Werthen and Inspector Thielman up the stairs to the door of Finster’s apartment. They moved quietly; each was armed but ordered to shoot only as a last resort and then to aim for the legs.

  Music came from inside the apartment, the sound of a piano. A Chopin étude, Werthen thought.

  Werthen nodded at Thielman, who rapped on the door. The piano music continued. Werthen raised his eyebrows and Thielman rapped louder this time, not with the knuckles but with the side of his fist. The music stopped; footsteps approached the door.

  ‘Who is it,’ came a frail female voice from inside.

  The registration card had noted that Finster, age fifty-six, was married.

  ‘Frau Finster,’ Werthen said through the closed door. ‘It is the gas department. There has been a leak reported and we are checking the connections in all apartments.’

  ‘My dear,’ the woman said and quickly unbolted the door. Opening it and revealing herself, she in no way resembled her voice. She was a large, vital looking woman in her forties, perhaps, in a housecoat and slippers. Amazement showed on her face when she saw the police officers behind Werthen and Thielman.

  ‘It takes the entire Graz police force to check the gas?’

  ‘Where is your husband?’ Thielman demanded.

  She looked automatically to a closed door behind her off the parlor. ‘Who wants to know?’

  But Thielman was not interested in answering questions. He shoved past the woman, the officers following him as they made their way to the closed door. Werthen was beginning to have a bad feeling about this. He stayed with the wife, explaining that they were making a routine check of the apartment house.

  ‘He’s sick. One of his migraines. What do they want with Poldi?’

  From inside the bedroom, Werthen heard Thielman’s booming voice and then a soft-spoken response. He let this go on for a time and then joined the others in the bedroom.

  Herr Finster was buried under a white mountain of eiderdown comforter, the curtains on the windows tightly shut. He looked frightened and bewildered at the same time.

  ‘He says the coat was taken several days ago. At the local café.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Frau Finster said, following Werthen into the bedroom. ‘His prized old hunting coat and somebody made off with it from where it was hanging at the local. You ask the waiter there, Herr Karl. He’ll tell you. Did you find it, the coat?’

  Finster’s story about the stolen coat did indeed check out; moreover, it was discovered, a bit too late, that Finster was working at the hospital all day yesterday, a ten-hour shift.

  Werthen decided to head back to Hitzendorf. He was feeling somewhat chastened by the Finster debacle and thought it was time to double-check the case files for the earlier killings to make sure about his theory of the phases of the moon providing the schedule. Awaiting him at the hotel was a telegram from Professor Gruber in Vienna, sent in his name as well as Gross’s. Reading the brief message was anti-climactic: as they had suspected, the quantity of dried blood in the clothing of the victims did indeed account for blood loss. There had been no ritual blood killings, no vampiric feasts. He doubted the newspapers would be interested in this story, however.

  Werthen met up with Stoker at the Hotel Daniel in time for a late lunch and filled the Irishman in on the events of the morning.

  ‘So was it meant as a tease?’ Stoker said.

  Werthen did not understand at first, too busy doing damage to a venison ragout.

  ‘Oh. The coat, you mean? You may be right. It does seem that it was planned. To steal the coat with some sort of identification in a pocket—’

  ‘Yes? Werthen?’

  An image flashed through his mind as he was speaking. So focused had he been on the oilskin coat that he had not paid sufficient attention to the victim and her raiment. But now he saw it plainly: the lining on one of the pockets of the victim’s coat had been pulled inside out as if someone had been digging about searching for something, just as he had been inspecting the pockets of the oilskin coat.

  ‘Werthen?’

  ‘Sorry. Just something I overlooked at the scene. I think our man might have given the victim a note telling her where to meet him and then took the note with him after killing her. He knows the victims somehow. These are not just random.’

  He explained about the pocket lining turned inside out.

  ‘On the strength of a bit of silk lining showing?’ Stoker was rightfully skeptical.

  ‘On the strength of intuition. But do not tell Gross.’

  Later that afternoon Thielman returned to town with a progress report on this latest murder.

  ‘Her name was Monika Stiegl,’ the inspector told Werthen and Stoker. ‘She was just eighteen. My god, what were the parents doing letting her gad about on her own at that age? She even had a job at Kleinman and Brothers in Graz. A pharmaceutical firm. She was what they call a typist.’

  Thielman all but spat this information out; the new woman was not for him.

  ‘I am not sure that working for a living led directly to her death,’ Werthen said, but Thielman was not in a listening mood.

  ‘The parents filed a missing persons report on her this morning when she failed to come back from an outing with her boyfriend yesterday. They were frantic, as you can imagine. The fellows at the morgue managed to clean up the body before viewing, sheet up with just the face showing. It was their daughter.’

  ‘And the boyfriend?’ Stoker said. ‘By your demeanor, it would appear he too had an alibi.’

  ‘Rainer.’ He consulted the notepad in his breast pocket. ‘Rainer Frank. A student at the university. Going to be a lawyer, he says. He is either the best actor I have ever seen outside the theater, or he was as devastated by
the news of Monika’s death as were her parents. He knew nothing of her plans yesterday. Like Monika, he still lives at home, and he was there all day yesterday and last night studying tort law. Parents confirm it. As does a university friend, fellow named Mandel, who was studying with Rainer.’

  ‘So we have nothing to go on?’ Stoker said, sounding downcast.

  They were sitting in Thielman’s office at the gendarmerie. From the door came another and familiar voice.

  ‘On the contrary. We now are assured that the killer is playing with us. Leading us on a merry chase. The oilskin coat is the gauntlet thrown down to us to try and catch him.’

  Three pairs of eyes turned toward the door.

  ‘Gross!’ Werthen said. ‘You’re free!’

  Gross, looking rather rumpled still, stood beaming at them from the doorway. ‘They could hardly hold me now that the murders have continued while I was safe under arrest. Lechner was not present to wish me well, but I sensed him in spirit. I shall miss the rats, however.’

  ‘But how did you hear about the oilskin coat, Gross?’ Thielman asked.

  ‘One of your team happened to come to Karlau Prison. He was more than happy to regale not only me but the other warders with details of the raid on the evil Finster’s home, only to discover a pianist and a man crippled with migraine.’

  ‘It is good to see you, Gross,’ Werthen said, rising and moving to shake the criminalist’s hand. ‘We have no time to waste if my calculations are correct.’

  Now three pairs of eyes were turned on Werthen.

  ‘What have you been holding back?’ Inspector Thielman said.

  ‘Nothing,’ Werthen replied. ‘Stoker and I have simply gone more deeply into the idea of the murders being tied to the phases of the moon.’

  He quickly explained to Gross about his deduction at the scene of this latest outrage that the spherical mutilations on the sternums of the victims actually had to do with the four quarters of the moon.