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

by J Sydney Jones

‘Yes. I am sure you did. While visiting Herr Seligmann’s studio, no doubt.’

  The look on Kleinwitz’s face told Werthen that Blau had got it exactly right.

  ‘And after you finish cleaning up, you can write notes to the owners of the paintings you defaced, apologizing for such barbaric behavior.’

  ‘Not on your life.’

  ‘Let’s just call the police,’ Berthe said.

  ‘No,’ Kleinwitz shouted. ‘I have a reputation to maintain.’

  ‘You should have thought about that before turning to crime,’ Werthen responded.

  ‘You may retain your spotless reputation as a “collaborative artist”, Herr Kleinwitz, after certain chores. And after agreeing to a further stipulation.’

  ‘What stipulation?’

  ‘You have a certain facility with flowers. I have noticed that in the paintings you have worked on for our modern-day Makart, the muralist Feklin.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with collaboration, Frau Blau,’ Kleinwitz protested. ‘Even so great an artist as Rubens hired other painters to do the animals in his paintings.’

  ‘Quite right,’ she said. ‘So perhaps you could provide the same service for some of our great women artists in the making who do not have such a felicitous hand where flora is concerned. A series of workshops on such painting, for example.’

  ‘That sounds like a wonderful idea,’ Berthe said, sounding as if she really were excited about it. ‘So much better than a call to the police.’

  In the end, Kleinwitz had little choice but to agree to Blau’s terms. Werthen still felt it was a matter to be referred to the police, but he bowed to Blau’s decision.

  ‘Maybe we can even bring him into the fold,’ she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  It was almost dawn by the time Kleinwitz had cleaned his mess and composed his letters of apology and Werthen was anxious to get home and steal at least a few hours of sleep. But Berthe had a question for Blau.

  ‘That painting I was looking at. You mentioned it was from a photo. Would you happen to have that photo?’

  ‘I should,’ the painter said. ‘Heinrich kept all his studies in files organized by year. Is it urgent?’

  ‘Well, if you can find it easily …?’

  Blau indicated that she could, and meanwhile Werthen asked, ‘What’s this about?’

  Berthe nodded for him to follow her and went back into the storeroom, dug through one of the storage racks of paintings, and pulled out an oil work of a Lipizzaner stallion rearing up on its hind quarters. It was done in a quite elegant style, set in the Spanish Riding School with muted tones.

  ‘It’s a fine painting, but I don’t really see—’ he began.

  ‘Look in the background. Those two figures.’

  He had not noticed them before, so focused was he on the powerful steed.

  ‘Oh, yes. Now I see them. Two men.’ There was something familiar about one of them, the taller of the two.

  ‘If I am right …’ she said, and then trailed off as Blau returned, a photo in her hand.

  ‘Here it is. Heinrich was so meticulous about his work.’

  She handed the photograph to Berthe, who studied it for a moment and then handed it over to Werthen. He immediately recognized the taller man now: Herr Christian von Hobarty. He said as much.

  ‘And the other man?’ he asked.

  ‘Herr Maximillian Hohewart, director of Premium Breeds,’ Berthe answered. ‘How interesting that they should know one another.’

  ‘But this must have been taken, how long ago?’ Werthen said.

  ‘Ten years ago,’ Blau said. ‘It was one of Heinrich’s last paintings.’

  ‘Just about the time the Lipizzaner breeding scheme is supposed to have begun,’ Berthe added. ‘Interesting, no?’

  Twenty-Five

  Later that afternoon, after Werthen and Berthe had snatched about five hours of sleep, the two teams – minus Rosa Mayreder, who was attending a public lecture given by her architect husband – met at Werthen’s office accompanied by Tina Blau and young Franzl.

  Werthen explained to Erika and Sonnenthal about the capture of Kleinwitz and Blau’s fitting punishment, and then Berthe produced the photograph she had secured from Tina Blau.

  She showed Franzl this photograph first, asking if he recognized anyone in it.

  It took him only an instant to stub his forefinger at the likeness of Maximillian Hohewart.

  ‘That’s him. That’s the fellow came to see the captain the night before—’

  Berthe interrupted, saving him the pain of dredging up evil memories. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘That’s him all right. Younger looking, but the same man. Had his nose in the air like he thought the sun shines only for him.’

  ‘I could not agree with you more, Franzl,’ Berthe said.

  ‘Why do you find this so significant, Frau Meisner?’ Blau asked. ‘They are simply two men attending a morning practice at the riding school.’

  ‘Not just two men, but obviously two privileged men. They are in the arena, not in the seats. One understands such special treatment for Hohewart, as he was at the time and continues to be a contractor for the stud. Herr von Hobarty on the other hand …’

  ‘An investor in Premium Breeds, then,’ Werthen said. ‘Like my father.’

  ‘A possibility,’ Berthe allowed. ‘But if so, then he must have been a very important investor.’

  Sonnenthal looked at the photograph now. ‘That is indeed Christian von Hobarty. He was at the height of his powers when this picture was taken. Before his infamous brawl in Parliament and jail term.’

  Werthen was impressed that one as young as Sonnenthal should be so conversant with political doings a decade old. But then of course the young man is a journalist, Werthen thought.

  ‘I’ll give him this,’ Sonnenthal said. ‘He has physically aged better than his race-baiting ideology.’

  ‘You know von Hobarty?’ Berthe asked.

  ‘I very much doubt it,’ Erika interjected, to which her young man cast a wan smile.

  ‘I have never had the “pleasure” of meeting the man, no. But the illustration of him in Krensky’s article shows him to be quite vital.’

  Werthen and Berthe exchanged looks.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said. ‘What article?’

  ‘I think I might have mentioned it the other night at dinner. The wines of Styria.’

  She nodded, recalling the dinner conversation now.

  ‘Von Hobarty has dedicated a fair amount of his property to vineyards and the development of premium wines,’ Werthen added. ‘The locals around Hitzendorf are none too pleased about it, as I understand. And the cost of the vineyard has eaten into the family inheritance.’

  ‘“From minister to vintner”. I believe that was the title of Krensky’s piece on von Hobarty. Saving our nationalist soul by producing fine wines at home so there would be no need to drink French “poison”. That sort of vitriolic drivel. I assume Krensky was desperate for cash to write such garbage.’

  ‘So Krensky knew von Hobarty,’ Berthe said.

  ‘One assumes so,’ Sonnenthal replied. ‘Some fellows might cobble together a story out of an assemblage of other dispatches, never actually meeting their subject. But from what I knew of Krensky that was not his style.’

  They discussed the matter for several more minutes. Sonnenthal was proving to be such a wealth of information that Berthe took a chance and asked him if he knew any journalists who were close to Krensky, to whom he might entrust his notes and identity of sources. But this drew an abject shaking of the head from the young journalist.

  ‘He was a true outsider. I never talked to him though I knew him by sight. He did not frequent the journalists’ cafés nor did he seek our company. Does he have family? Perhaps he entrusted them to his parents? I can pursue that for you if you would like.’

  Erika patted his arm at this, a silent measure of praise.

  ‘That would be most helpful, Herr Son
nenthal,’ Berthe said. ‘Thank you.’

  Meanwhile, young Franzl had left the inner office and was quietly now seated at Erika’s desk, drawing one of his beloved horses. When the five of them adjourned and as Sonnenthal and Tina Blau were taking their leave, Blau noticed the young boy hard at work. She went to the desk and peered over his shoulder.

  ‘That is really quite good,’ she said. ‘It almost reminds me of my husband’s work.’

  Franzl smiled up at her. ‘I can’t get the withers right, and the neck is—’

  ‘A trifle short,’ Blau said.

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘Well, young man, you should come along to my studio one day with Frau Meisner and I could help you with that.’

  ‘Really. Are you a painter? An artist?’

  ‘There are those who might disagree, but yes, guilty on both counts.’

  They lay in bed that night, exhausted, but neither could sleep. Frieda, who had taken to sleeping with them since her illness, was in such a deep slumber it was as if she were hibernating.

  ‘Perhaps von Hobarty was Krensky’s source,’ Berthe finally said in a low voice, breaking the silence.

  They had tracked Krensky’s parents late in the afternoon. The couple lived in Hernals, and, despite his penchant for country garb, Krensky had spent his youth entirely in the city. The family had, two generations earlier, lived in Styria, which explained the dead journalist’s fixation with that locale. The parents had had almost a month to accustom themselves to the death of their only son, but were still obviously distraught and had no idea of the stories Krensky had been working on. He had left nothing in their safekeeping, and his room – for he had still lived with his parents – offered up no secrets, either. His parents allowed them to search it once Werthen explained the importance of the work their son had been engaged in, and the spartan room was quickly examined. A small bed and wardrobe and large typewriter on a deal table were the only contents. No file of notes, no notebook. Nothing but a well-thumbed Langenscheidt dictionary by the typewriter.

  ‘Why von Hobarty?’ Werthen said in equally quiet tones so as not to awaken Frieda. ‘If the photo of him and Hohewart has any significance, it would seem to imply a partnership there. That von Hobarty is an investor, perhaps even part of the scheme. Why would he confide in Krensky?’

  She sighed, sitting more upright in bed and drawing her wrap more tightly across her chest.

  ‘It was something Krensky said the last time I spoke with him. I was trying to pry the name of his source out of him, but he was being coy. Finally he said that he was on his way back to Styria to get to the bottom of Hohewart and Premium Breeds. And he added that he might even contact his mysterious source once more. Implication being that his source is in Styria. And now we know that Krensky and von Hobarty were acquainted with one another. That is clear by the wine article he published on von Hobarty.’

  ‘I repeat, why would von Hobarty be a source for the scandal if he were involved somehow in it?’

  ‘We don’t know that he is,’ Berthe said. ‘We only have a ten-year-old photo linking him with Hohewart. Perhaps there was a falling out. Or perhaps the photo records an accidental meeting between the two. Von Hobarty was a public figure at the time, a powerful man in parliament.’

  ‘Or perhaps we should not wake this sleeping dog. I am sure that would be my father’s advice.’

  The next day Werthen did something he had not done in several months: he went to the Café Central for a mid-morning coffee. Anything to get away from the infernal Wiesenthal land dispute. He had just settled in with coffee and this morning’s edition of the Neue Freie Presse, when he sensed someone standing by his table. He lowered the paper to reveal none other than Karl Kraus smiling sardonically at him.

  ‘Herr Advokat,’ Kraus said, ‘I have the feeling you have been avoiding me of late.’

  ‘Nonsense, Kraus. Sit down, sit down. Have you had coffee yet?’

  Kraus, dressed like a banker as usual, accepted the invitation. He seemed to have aged since Werthen last saw him. The curly head of hair was still there as well as the oval wire-rim glasses and the usual smirk, but there were also signs of wear and tear: wrinkles at the eye, a slight twitching of the left eyelid. And no wonder, for this self-appointed culture critic and grammar policeman almost single-handedly wrote, edited, and published his thrice-monthly journal, The Torch, uncovering the hypocrisies of the day, taking on the rich and powerful, and battling against societal stupidities. Kraus was democratic; he angered everybody.

  He also knew where the bodies were buried in Vienna. They had developed a symbiotic relationship in the past: Kraus supplied valuable information, Werthen served up possible fodder for articles.

  ‘What wonderful case are you working on, Advokat?’ He said this as he tipped a finger at a waiter. It was all he needed to do, for he was a regular at the Central and all the staff knew his penchant for a double mélange with a bit of hot chocolate and a dollop of schlag obers on top.

  Werthen, after first ensuring that this discussion was not for public consumption, described his recent work in Styria and the rather unsatisfactory resolution of both.

  ‘So you wanted to be in on the kill, did you?’ Kraus said, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. ‘I kept myself and my publication well out of that tragedy. Blood libel and vampires. As if this were not the twentieth century but the fifteenth.’

  Werthen ignored this. ‘It seems we might have a new area of inquiry regarding the Lipizzaner matter.’ He explained about the discovery of the photo, tangentially mentioning the vandalizing of Blau’s studio.

  This made the diminutive Kraus squirm in his chair and clap his hands in delight.

  ‘Oh to see Kleinwitz shoveling shit with his hands! What a treat. What a wonderful life you lead, advokat. While I am stuck in my airless office beavering away at my next edition.’

  Werthen smiled at this comment and took a sip of his coffee.

  ‘It seems that our dear Herr von Hobarty has continued to place himself in the thick of things even after his fall from grace,’ Kraus said. ‘One of his servants so viciously killed and now his possible involvement with a breeding scandal. You will inform me when I can write about that one, please. Horses make for such titillating discussion.’

  ‘I sense a tone of sarcasm, Kraus.’

  ‘Not at all, Herr Advokat. The horse is at the heart of Austro-Hungary. It is the very metaphor for Habsburg rule. Dumb brute force that can, at times, be exquisite to look at. But why bother, Werthen? A man of your talents. Far better the debunking of a Kleinwitz. Or of a von Hobarty. You should speak with Herr Prochazka. I am sure he could provide some entertaining stories for you.’

  Werthen did not immediately recognize the name.

  ‘The former member of the Reichsrat representing part of Moravia in our auspiciously neutered parliament?’

  ‘You mean the man von Hobarty assaulted?’ Werthen asked.

  ‘The very one. He lives in quiet retirement in Sievering on the edges of the Vienna Woods. I believe he has turned from politics to painting.’

  Werthen thanked Kraus for this bit of information, but did not see how von Hobarty’s time in parliament could be relevant. Contracts for Lipizzaner breeding and the stud were, after all, a matter of ministerial largesse rather than political patronage. But it was something to file away for later.

  They talked a bit more about other Viennese scandals – which nobleman’s wife was carrying on an affair and which industrialist was approaching bankruptcy. It was the currency in which Kraus dealt.

  As he was taking his leave, Kraus seemed to remember something. ‘You know, I made the acquaintance of a fellow at the Concordia last month. Man named Stoker. He came to speak to us about British letters. Odd choice, I thought. An Irishman speaking of British letters, and one who writes about vampires, but there you have it. Said he knew you.’

  Werthen allowed that he did, but did not go into detail.

  ‘He seemed most agi
tated about events in Styria. Also said your little girl had been terribly ill. I do hope she is recovered.’

  ‘She is, Kraus, and I thank you for your concern.’

  ‘Take this for what it is worth, but I sense matters in Styria are not quite finished. A bit too conveniently tied up, don’t you think so?’

  With that, Kraus made his way out of the crowded café, nodding to various other regular customers as he went.

  Matters in Styria, Werthen thought. It was apparent Kraus was not referring to the Lipizzaner breeding affair.

  Twenty-Six

  On the way back to his office, Werthen thought some more about the photograph Berthe had uncovered. It did indeed appear to link Hohewart and von Hobarty. However the one argument mitigating against such an unholy alliance was the fact – as Werthen himself had already noted – that breeding contracts were not a matter of parliamentary influence but of ministerial preferment, in the case of the Lipizzaner stud, the Imperial Ministry for Agriculture. In which case, von Hobarty could not have been an agent of influence for Hohewart, the major reason for their collusion if indeed there had been any.

  It struck him however, as he neared Habsburgergasse 4 that von Hobarty may have had connections at that ministry, a friend in high places. Perhaps this actually was a matter of influence?

  Werthen smiled to himself as he approached the office. He had just found a way to avoid the maddeningly complex Wiesenthal land dispute, clearly a case better suited to the patient understanding of Fräulein Metzinger anyway.

  What was it Kraus had said at the café: What a wonderful life you lead, advokat.

  Yes, well, thank whomever for Fräulein Metzinger making that life possible.

  Two hours later, after handing off the Wiesenthal affair to Erika Metzinger and taking himself off to the Imperial Ministry for Agriculture on the Stubenring, he was not so sure about his wonderful life. His hands were dry and dusty and his nose uncomfortably stuffed from the dust on the files he had been going through at Department Eight, Animal Husbandry. He was not quite sure what he was looking for, and the white-coated archives assistant appeared as frustrated as Werthen himself. He had fetched file after file out of the labyrinthine archives, anything with reference to Hohewart, von Hobarty, or Lipizzaner in their abstracts in the catalogue, all to no avail.