‘I was able to check the earlier reports and photographs of Maria Feininger and Annaliese Reiter and I was correct in deducing that the circular wounds on those two are consistent with my theory. Feininger’s wound symbolizes the last quarter, Reiter’s is the new moon, Klein’s the first quarter, and Stiegl’s the full moon.’
‘Bravo, Werthen,’ Gross said, taking a chair and joining them. ‘But why the urgency? Perhaps the series of murders has been completed with the four quarters.’
‘You do not believe that Gross, nor do I,’ Werthen said.
‘Next month then it starts all over?’ Thielman said.
Werthen shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Sooner than that.’
‘The completion of the blood moon?’ Gross said.
‘Exactly. I’m not a great one for folklore, but I seem to recall from the time I served as a criminal lawyer here in Styria that the populace has a particular way of celebrating All Hallow’s Eve. That the phases of the moon leading up to the thirty-first are just steps in time to the night of flying demons and wild men.’
‘It’s in the research I did also for Dracula,’ Stoker added. ‘The old beliefs of southern Europe when witches and evil doers are eradicated on the last of October. I concur with Advokat Werthen. Our killer is only building up to a crescendo on the thirty-first.’
Nineteen
Berthe was having trouble concentrating today. It seemed a frivolous waste of time to be sitting in front of an easel at Tina Blau’s studio at the Vienna Art School for Women and Girls in the Prater when she should have been following leads in the Lipizzaner matter. Or should have been assisting her husband in Styria with yet another gruesome murder.
But there were, quite frankly, no leads to be following regarding the breeding scandal. She had come to a dead end there. And as for assisting her husband in Styria, it seemed there were already enough chefs in the kitchen with that, what with her husband, Stoker, and now Gross freshly released from prison. What a farce that had been; somebody should lose their position over that travesty. Or their pension.
So, she had taken herself off to painting lessons this morning, hoping that by focusing on art instead of the case at hand, perhaps some other thoughts might come bubbling to the surface. However, it was not working out that way.
‘Distracted today, Frau Meisner?’
She was indeed distracted, so much so that she had not even noticed Tina Blau moving to her easel.
‘A snow scene, I see,’ Blau joked as she examined the blank white canvas.
‘I should not have come today,’ Berthe said, embarrassed. ‘Sorry. I seem to have drawn a blank in a number of endeavors.’
‘Frau Mayreder tells me that you and your husband work in private inquiries. Is one of your cases proving a trial?’
‘Actually, more than a trial. It has become quite a headache.’
Blau looked around to make sure the other women were working away diligently at their paintings, and then to Berthe she said with schoolgirl curiosity, ‘I don’t suppose you could tell me about it.’
Berthe found herself smiling at the eagerness of this painter to be informed of the seamier side of life. ‘I don’t see why not,’ Berthe said. However, she tailored her story for public consumption, focusing on the mysterious suicide of the riding master at the Spanish Riding School instead of on the possibility of tainted breeding with the famed Lipizzaner stallions. After all, it was part of her commission for Franz Ferdinand that that part of the affair somehow be kept from public consumption.
‘It was such a sad thing,’ Blau said once Berthe had finished. ‘The poor man—’
‘Putter,’ Berthe added. ‘Captain Wilhelm Putter.’
‘Yes. He had done so much in his life, risen from quite unpromising beginnings. And to end like that. Tragic, really. What could bring a man to end his life so?’
‘That is exactly what I am trying to ascertain,’ Berthe said.
‘I have long had an interest in the Lipizzaner horses,’ Blau said. ‘It was my husband Heinrich who inspired me in that. He loved painting those horses. Even when we were living in Munich, he would come back periodically to Vienna simply to paint the stallions at the stables and at the morning exercises. I have quite a collection of those canvases still.’
Berthe did not know quite what to say to this other than to make a polite ‘hmm’.
‘Seems so long ago, now,’ Blau said, caught in her own memories for a moment. Then, shaking herself out of these thoughts, she widened her eyes. ‘You must have found the article in the Arbeiter Zeitung interesting.’
‘Which article would that be?’
‘From yesterday. A sort of follow up by this young journalist. He wrote about the young protégé of Putter’s who discovered the body. A sad story, but inspiring, as well. The boy, an orphan, came from much the same origins as Captain Putter. He took the lad under his wing as it were. It seems they were quite inseparable for a number of months before the captain’s death.’
‘No, I haven’t seen it,’ Berthe said, growing suddenly excited again about the case.
‘I’ve got the paper here somewhere,’ Blau said. ‘I usually keep them for a week before disposing of them. The women sometimes like to have something to read during breaks.’
Blau set off toward her office and returned quickly with yesterday’s Arbeiter Zeitung in hand.
‘Here we have it,’ she said, handing the paper to Berthe. ‘It’s the bottom article on the front page.’
Berthe eagerly took the paper and was quite surprised to see that the article was penned by none other than Erika Metzinger’s young man, Bernhard Sonnenthal.
‘There is a ripple effect to death,’ the article began. ‘It touches not only the victim, but also those associated with him. In the case of the unfortunate suicide of Captain Wilhelm Putter, late riding master of the Spanish Riding School, the ripples have touched young Franzl Hruda, whom Captain Putter had taken in hand to train as a groom at the Stallburg. Putter’s death brought to an end the dreams of a young boy who wanted only one thing in life: to work with horses. “He was the only one who ever cared,” young Franzl told this reporter. “The only one to believe in me. We shared everything.”’
Berthe stopped reading at that point.
Two things were clear. Sonnenthal, who so loudly complained about feuilleton writers at dinner the other night, was coming perilously close to the borders of that genre with this article. That fact brought a smile to her face, for it made Sonnenthal more human somehow, less of a prig.
The second thing that was painfully clear was that she needed to talk with Franzl Hruda immediately.
By mid-morning she was at the Stallburggasse in search of the young boy. Sonnenthal’s article made it clear that Franzl was no longer working as a groom after the death of his benefactor, but that he continued to haunt the precincts of the stable and the riding school. It took her only five minutes to spot the youth, loitering at the corner of Stallburggasse and Bräunergasse, just a block away from her husband’s legal offices.
As she approached him, he eyed her suspiciously.
‘I’m not doing anything wrong,’ he said.
‘I didn’t say you were,’ she replied with a smile. ‘I only want to ask you some questions about your friend, Captain Putter.’
‘You another journalist? Much good that story did me. Thought they might want to keep me on if others heard about me. All it did was make me what they call person non graded.’
‘Persona non grata,’ Berthe corrected, and then wished she hadn’t. But Franzl did not take it amiss.
‘That’s the one. Like they don’t want you around a place.’
‘Exactly. And they don’t want you around here simply because you have dreams of being a groom.’
‘A groom? Whoever told you that? I might as well have stayed at the butcher shop. Not a groom’s life for me. I wanted to train to be a rider. That’s what the captain was preparing me for. He’d say we have to take it ste
p by step, let the others get used to me in the tack room, and then I’d graduate to leading the horses to and from morning training, and finally he would get me on the horses secret like till I could show them all what I could do.’
‘Sounds like a smart plan,’ Berthe said.
A member of the riding school staff was eying them from the entrance to the stables.
‘You know, there is a place nearby where we could talk and it would be much more comfortable.’
‘You never answered me,’ Franzl said.
Berthe shook her head. ‘How do you mean?’
‘If you’re a journalist.’
‘No. But I am gathering information like a journalist might. I am investigating the death of Captain Putter.’
‘He killed himself.’
‘I know. I just want to make sure why.’
‘You’ll excuse me. I mean, you look like a nice woman and all, but I don’t know that I can trust you.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Investigator, like an inspector with the police?’
‘No. Private. Private inquiries. A very powerful person hired me to discover the truth about Captain Putter’s death, and I am hoping you can tell me about that.’
‘Well, see, that’s what I mean about trusting you. Whoever heard of a female investigator?’
She repressed a smile, leveling her eyes at him. ‘And whoever heard of an orphan boy becoming a rider at the Spanish Riding School?’
This brought a tickle of laugh from the youth. ‘That’s pretty good. Where is this place you want to go?’
‘My husband’s office. It’s just in the next block, on Habsburgergasse.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to eat there? My aunt says if I’m not going to find a job, then I can’t take food with me in the morning.’
‘I’ll bet we can find a shop along the way and get you something to eat. Sound good?’
He nodded happily. ‘It was getting cold out here anyway.’
Erika Metzinger was busy at the typewriter when they entered the office. Franzl was already gnawing at a bun stuffed with sausage, too hungry to wait for arrival.
‘Meet Franzl Hruda,’ Berthe said to Erika as they came in. ‘Your Herr Sonnenthal wrote about him.’
Erika looked up in amazement. ‘I read about you,’ she said. ‘Nice to meet you, Franzl. My name is Erika.’
‘Yeah, I know. Herr Sonnenthal, he mentioned you.’
Erika reddened at this. ‘He did?’
‘Yeah. He was sympathizing with me about how hard it must be for me to be almost on my own. Said how lucky he was to have a good person in his life like Erika Metzinger.’
Erika was at a loss for words.
‘That is an awfully nice sentiment,’ Berthe said.
‘Yeah. I thought so, too,’ Franzl agreed.
Erika remained silent as they moved on to the inner office.
Berthe waited for Franzl to finish his bun and then an apple and a pear. For such a small boy, he had a very large appetite.
‘So, what do you want to know?’ he said, disposing of the tiny bit of pear core remaining.
‘Did Captain Putter’s mood change any over the time you knew him?’
‘That’s easy. Sure. The Monday before he died, a fellow came to see him and when the man left, the Captain looked like he’d seen a ghost. Sent me home early. Said the work was done for the day.’
‘Do you know what they talked about?’
Franzl shook his head.
‘Can you describe this man?’
‘Yeah. A young guy with these blue eyes that look like the sky. And he was dressed funny for the city, like he was just out hunting.’
‘Krensky,’ she said aloud. Of course, she thought. He told me he had visited Putter two days before the death.
‘Don’t know his name.’
‘And that was all?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, any other visitors. Anything else that might have disturbed Captain Putter?’
The boy arched his eyebrows, then shrugged.
‘Anything might help.’
‘Well, just the same guy who was always coming to look at the horses.’
‘Who was that?’
He shrugged. ‘I never heard his name. He wasn’t very tall, about the Captain’s height, but big, you know.’ He held his hands around his midsection to show a wide girth. ‘And hair everywhere but where it should be. Bald on top, but a funny bit of hair here and here.’
He motioned to where a moustache might be and then to a narrow swath of hair from the lower lip down the chin.
‘And when was the last time this man came to visit?’
‘I’m not sure, he was at the stables so much. But I think it was the night before the Captain killed himself.’
Berthe was pretty sure who Franzl was describing: it was the Van Dyke beard that Maximillian Hohewart sported. And she remembered that when talking with the director of Premium Breeds he had mentioned this young lad Putter had taken under his wing, imputing improper sexual motives to such a friendship. How could he have known about that without having been at the stables in Vienna recently?
Why would Hohewart be talking with Putter the very night before the captain’s death?
Twenty
The Stiegls were still in shock on the Tuesday following their daughter’s murder when the team went to interview them. Frau Stiegl, a gaunt woman who wore her thinness like a martyr’s badge, sat stoically on a hardback chair at the kitchen table where Herr Stiegl had directed them.
He made up for his wife’s spareness by his generous girth which gave his body an ovoid appearance. He had the unlined features of a man naturally jovial, for whom the world presented opportunities rather than threats.
But now, with the loss of his daughter, he seemed cautious at every step, sitting on the edge of his chair as if it might collapse at any moment.
Such was the impression Werthen had of the couple, at any rate.
‘But why would someone want to kill my baby girl?’ Herr Stiegl said, his voice choking on the words.
‘That is what we intend to find out,’ Gross reassured him. ‘Not only why, but who.’
Gross waited a moment and then pressed on. ‘You assumed Monika was going to meet Herr Frank yesterday. Why was that?’
‘It’s what she told us,’ Herr Stiegl said. ‘Who else would she be meeting?’
‘They got along well, your daughter and Herr Frank?’ Gross asked.
‘They were a wonderful couple,’ the father said, but Frau Stiegl did not seem to share his opinion, shaking her head and muttering something unintelligible.
They had decided before arriving that Gross should take the lead in this interview; Werthen and Stoker were to look for reactions, nuances, any bit of personal behavior that might shed light on the affair. The ‘language of the body’ Gross called it, making such minute observations of witness behavior part of his techniques for inspectors. And if the time came when Gross needed to talk to one of the parents alone, Werthen would gently escort the other to view the victim’s room.
‘Frau Stiegl? You have something to add,’ Gross finally said.
‘He was a midge,’ she said with distaste.
‘Pardon?’ Gross said.
‘A midge,’ she repeated. ‘A pesky summer insect buzzing around our daughter.’
‘Now Klara—’ Herr Stiegl began, but his wife cut him off with a look that would sour dessert wine.
‘He wasn’t worthy of her. Study, study, that’s all he ever did. And dream. A great dreamer. But where was the proposal? that’s what I asked. Where was the commitment?’
‘You’re being too hard on the boy,’ Herr Stiegl said. ‘Wanting to do well at university does not make him a murderer. Besides, he was home all day yesterday. Police say so.’
‘Exactly,’ she spat out. ‘Home. When he should have been there protecting our daughter.’
Werthen and Gross exchanged looks
. It was time.
‘Perhaps,’ Werthen said to the mother, ‘you could show us your daughter’s room. There may be some bit of evidence, some indication who she was really meeting.’
‘Police have already been through everything,’ she muttered. ‘Like a pack of wolves.’
‘Still,’ Werthen gently insisted, ‘they’re only human. They may have overlooked something.’
She clenched her jaw, stood up, and left the kitchen without a word, leaving Werthen and Stoker to scamper behind her.
‘She was our only child,’ Herr Stiegl said by way of apology after his wife had gone. ‘Do you have any children, Doktor Gross?’
Gross nodded heavily, thinking of his son Otto still being treated for drug addiction.
‘A son,’ he said. ‘I can understand how difficult this must be for you. But any information you can provide about your daughter, anything at all might help.’
‘It wasn’t Rainer,’ he said. ‘He really did love my daughter. But Klara is right. He is a dreamer. And a romantic. Monika told me he intended to take her to the Highlands of Scotland for their honeymoon. Only thing is, he forgot to propose marriage first.’ He gave a low laugh that soon turned into uncontrollable sobbing, his shoulders shaking, head buried in his hands.
Gross said nothing, offering no consolation. Finally Stiegl sniffed hard and dried his eyes.
‘That’s why she figured it was Rainer when she got the note. Just like him to set up a rendezvous at the castle.’
‘There was a note?’ Gross tried not to sound too excited.
Stiegl nodded. ‘Came in Saturday’s mail. She showed it to me, giggling at silly Rainer for writing it in a child’s hand. Telling her when and where to meet her on Sunday.’
‘From Rainer?’
‘Well, it wasn’t signed, but who else could it have been from? Who else would arrange such a place for a meeting, the maiden’s leap at Gösting Castle?’
‘Did you mention this to the police?’
This brought a shake of the head from Stiegl. ‘I didn’t think of it at the time. It was all such a shock. I just told them she was supposed to be meeting her boyfriend.’
A Matter of Breeding: a mystery set in turn-of-the-century Vienna (A Viennese Mystery) Page 13
