Requiem in Vienna: A Viennese Mystery (Viennese Mysteries)

by Jones, J. Sydney

  Yet occasionally Werthen felt it might be worth it, for he would hear bits and pieces of Mahler’s work, as pecked out on a piano in the third-floor room he had claimed as a music studio. Mahler had little piano technique; still the snatches Werthen overheard quite moved him. There was a simple lyricism to the melodic lines he heard; a sort of subtle majesty. Walking with Mahler in the afternoons after the composing work had been finished for the day, Werthen had been appraised of other aspects of this work. Unlike his earlier symphonies, Mahler would use no tubas or trombones in the Fourth Symphony. It was clear to Werthen why this should be so, for there were already far too many tubas and trombones in the umpapa band music wafting across the lake from Altaussee. It was also planned to be the composer’s shortest symphony to date, lasting perhaps just under an hour. Divided into the usual four movements, the last would be a song for soprano taken from the German collection of folk poems, Des knaben Wunderhorn, or The Youth’s Magic Horn, from which Mahler had taken earlier inspiration for songs. In this case, he would employ a poem that deals with a young boy’s idea of what heaven might be like.

  “There is just no music on earth, That can compare to ours,” the youth sings at one point, and Werthen had to admit that some of the passages he had overheard were heavenly, indeed.

  Yet, did his involvement in such artistic pursuits really warrant his absence from Vienna? He missed Berthe and felt guiltier every day he was away from her. This was not the professional working holiday he had hoped for. In his imagination, he would be half sleuth and half stoic protector, not a functionary whose task it was to send unwanted visitors on their way or to be a sounding board for Gustav Mahler’s artistic musings as they tramped across the countryside in the afternoons, the brilliant composer munching continually on the Turkish delights he’d stuffed into his pocket.

  No. Sublime though the music might be, it was not his objective nor duty to create an atmosphere conducive to artistic creation. It was his job to prevent Mahler from being killed, and quite frankly, Werthen could see no possible danger to the composer in Altaussee. His sister, Justine, and friend, Natalie, were the only watchdogs the man needed. While he, Werthen, was surely more in need in Vienna.

  He stood now, flexing his back. His right knee hurt and his rear end had gone to sleep seated too long on the hard chair. Werthen decided at that moment that he would leave the next day or perhaps the day after. It was unfair of him to thrust the duty of finding a substitute for Ungar on Berthe. And thinking of Gross, he was also reminded that the criminologist was most likely usurping the case from him, following the more promising trail in Vienna while he languished in the rustic outback of Altaussee.

  Indeed, he would have to return at any rate, for he had neglected to bring Mahler’s paperwork with him, the revision of his will. Yesterday Mahler had asked about it, wanting to sign it and be done with the process of writing his newly married sister, Emma, out of his will.

  The previous year, this sister had married Eduard Rosé, founder of the renowned Rosé Quartet. Gossip had it that Eduard, a cellist, had hoped for some advantage from this marriage to the sister of the new Hofoper conductor, but in the event, Mahler had, in a flight of pique that the man had taken his sister and helpmate from him, declared that he would never employ Eduard at the Hofoper. Thus, the couple emigrated to the United States, where Eduard was engaged with the Boston Symphony.

  Eduard Rosé was the brother of Arnold Rosé, concertmaster of the Vienna Philharmonic and suitor to Mahler’s other sister, Justine. Werthen wondered if Arnold would fare any better than his brother once married. Of course, from what Werthen could judge, Arnold Rosé was going about things less precipitously than his older brother.

  At any rate, the exclusion of Emma from his will had occasioned the rewriting. Werthen decided to send a telegram to Berthe, explaining that he would need to return to fetch the Mahler file. He did not want to simply tell the truth: that he missed her and was damned tired of being treated like a servant by Mahler. It seemed too much like returning home with one’s tail between one’s legs. Yes. He would send the telegram off this very evening.

  “Herr Werthen.”

  He brought himself out of his private thoughts, focusing on Justine, who had spoken his name.

  “Gustav is ready for his afternoon walk.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Fine. Fresh air is the very thing we all need.” He did not, however, feel too enthusiastic about the coming cross-country tramp, trying to keep up with Mahler’s presto walking tempo or his never-ending musical discussions.

  “He so looks forward to these outings,” Justine said.

  Werthen willed himself out of his lassitude and ill feeling toward Mahler. After all, he reminded himself, he was in the man’s employ and had promised to watch over the composer. He knew that someone had tried to kill Mahler before and most likely would attempt it again. Thus, he, Werthen, would perform his duties to the utmost while at the Villa Kerry. Yes, Justine, and their friend, Natalie, were able watchers, but their care did not extend to that of bodyguards. He had conjured up a picture of Mahler’s seeming domestic security in part to rationalize his own departure.

  Werthen would return to Vienna, kiss his wife and tell her how much he loved her, fetch the will, and hasten back to this vigil. This was no time to let one’s guard down.

  “You look lost in thought, Advokat Werthen,” Justine said.

  “Not lost,” he said. “I know my way.”

  SEVEN

  The offices of Alfred, Prince of Montenuovo, were located in the Imperial Palace, across from the Reichskanzlei, the Imperial Chancellery, where the emperor had his apartments. Gross looked through the fine lace curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling windows, through the embroidered Habsburg eagle in the center of the curtain, and felt a shudder pass over his body. His and Werthen’s last investigation had led them to the very doors of the emperor; he was not overly pleased to be once again treading so close to that seat of power.

  Officially, Montenuovo, the grandson of the Empress Marie Louise, second wife to Napoleon Bonaparte, was the assistant to the current grand master of the court, Prince Rudolf Liechtenstein. However, horses figured higher in Liechtenstein’s regard than opera singers, and the ultimate duties of the administration of the Hofoper fell on the rather narrow shoulders of his assistant, Prince Montenuovo.

  A hidden door in a wall of bookshelves suddenly opened behind Gross and Montenuovo, dressed in the quasimilitary style of his office with embroidered blue tunic and sword at his side supported by a broad red sash from right shoulder to left hip, made a rather dramatic entrance.

  Montenuovo was a small man with an immense amount of power and bore himself regally, for he had been brought up close to the crown. He was known for his unflinching stubbornness and his complete and utter loyalty to the traditions of the Habsburg Empire, to which he owed everything, including his title. It was widely speculated that upon Liechtenstein’s retirement or death, Montenuovo would become the new court chamberlain, responsible for access to the emperor, for the upkeep of imperial libraries and museums, for the determination of marriageable lineages for young Habsburgs, for everything in the running of the imperial-royal household from horse breeding to matters at the court theaters, including the Hofoper.

  Kraus had proven himself useful. According to him this diminutive ringmaster was a staunch supporter of Mahler. As Kraus had it, the prince believed not only in Mahler’s genius, but also in his inherent honesty and integrity. Already Mahler had successfully gone over the head of the assistant intendant, Leitner, on several matters of budget and personnel.

  So, wanting to bolster legitimacy, Gross had decided to go to Montenuovo this morning. He thought it was time that the prince be advised of his and Werthen’s efforts on Mahler’s behalf.

  Gross rose as Montenuovo crossed to his rosewood desk.

  “No, please, Dr. Gross. Remain seated. You are not in the presence of royalty.”

  The voice was surprisingly
low and virile for such a small man. Montenuovo’s closely cropped gray hair and beard added to his imposing appearance; he seated himself gingerly, as one who is accustomed to having his chair nudged in under him.

  “We are pleased to finally meet the great criminologist.”

  The use of the royal “we” was not lost on Gross.

  “It was good of you to make time for me at such short notice.”

  “Nonsense. Your fine work in Czernowitz has not gone unobserved.”

  No mention of his good works in Vienna of last year, he noticed. No bravura applause for his and Werthen’s uncovering of a heinous crime in high places.

  Gross merely nodded at the compliment.

  “How may I be of assistance?” Montenuovo folded his well-manicured hands in front of him on the massive desk.

  “I felt it incumbent upon me to inform you, sir, of an investigation I and my assistant are conducting at the Hofoper.”

  “That would be Advokat Werthen, would it not?”

  What was it his critics said of Montenuovo? He is everywhere. Something to that effect, Gross thought. And Montenuovo was proving them correct. He was all-seeing and all-knowing about matters to do with the court.

  “Yes. Advokat Werthen,” Gross said.

  Montenuovo’s cordially neutral expression did not change as he spoke: “What sort of investigation might that be, Dr. Gross?”

  “We are under the employ of Herr Mahler.”

  This comment brought a semblance of animation to the prince’s face.

  “Our esteemed director. Don’t tell me you are assigning meaning to a random series of accidents we have recently experienced?”

  “Neither so random nor so accidental, in my opinion, Prince.”

  “You believe Mahler to be in real danger?” He attempted to keep his neutral expression, but a whiteness showed at his knuckles as his hands clenched spasmodically.

  Gross brought the prince up to date with the investigation, reviewing the incidents under scrutiny and the meager progress achieved since they had come into Mahler’s employ, including the murder of Friedrich Gunther and the possibility of that man being a witness to the killing of Fräulein Kaspar.

  There had been nothing new to be learned from the postmortem of Herr Gunther, late of the Hofoper orchestra. Detective Inspector Drechsler had notified Gross that, as surmised at the scene of the crime, the man’s larynx had been manually ruptured. Indeed, it was incontestable that Gunther had been strangled by an unknown assailant and then strung up to appear a suicide. The approximate time of death had been some ten hours before the discovery of the body, which meant that the violinist had been killed not long after returning from what was not only the end of the season at the Hofoper but from what also turned out to be Herr Gunther’s final performance. Detective Inspector Drechsler and his men had interviewed other residents and neighbors, but no one had noticed any strange comings and goings. Thus far, the police investigation had come to a complete dead end.

  Gross had, however, piqued the interest of Drechsler in the death of the soprano, Fräulein Kaspar, opening that incident to police scrutiny for the first time. That in itself was proving to be a tremendous aid, for the police had better access to opera staff than he or Werthen could ever hope for. Gross had still not convinced the inspector of the danger to Mahler’s life, but at least there appeared to be doubts now.

  Gross now took out a large folded paper from the inside pocket of his morning coat. It was a charted schedule of names with columns for motive, means, and opportunity, with a baseline that collated their whereabouts at the time of what could have been various attempts on Mahler’s life. With Drechsler’s information thus far he had already been able to provisionally exclude the stage manager, Blauer, from the list, for that man had been absent from rehearsals the day of Kaspar’s death.

  Montenuovo listened closely, read the proffered chart, and shook his head.

  “Quite detailed. And complex.”

  “To be honest, Prince, this is perhaps the oddest case I have yet been involved in, for on one level we are not investigating a crime at all. Rather we are attempting to prevent a crime from taking place. However, two people have already died, and in my mind those two were victims of the person who was trying to kill Mahler. Thus the investigation should focus on those deaths, and on incidents such as the collapse of the conductor’s podium.”

  “I quite agree,” Prince Montenuovo said. “Now that you present it like this, I find it disgraceful nothing has been done earlier. Mahler. Good God, man, he has gone to the country. We must dispatch someone.”

  “Not to worry. My colleague Werthen is in attendance.”

  “But this should be a police matter. You speak of trying to convince this Inspector Drechsler of the danger. That is absurd. There is no further question of convincing. The police are, after all, via the Ministry of the Interior, under the control of his majesty. I shall have a word with the emperor this very morning.”

  This was more than Gross had expected, but for an instant he felt rather downcast. With the police officially taking over the investigation, he and Werthen would be shoved aside. He had got his teeth into this case now and did not want that to happen. And what would it mean if in fact the case were taken from him? A hasty return to Czernowitz, sweltering in summer heat and humidity? Not a pleasant thought.

  “Of course you and your colleague must continue with your investigation quite independently of the police. They can be awful plodders at times and you, Dr. Gross, well, your reputation speaks for you. This is, however, no longer a private matter between you and Herr Mahler. Were the newspapers to discover such an arrangement, there would be one awful scandal. No, the Hofoper itself shall employ your services.”

  Gross smiled politely at the prince, inwardly shouting a hurrah.

  Herr Tor was an amiable enough man, as it turned out. Berthe found him both intelligent and amenable. He was rather larger than she had imagined he would be, a thickset man of middle age with somber eyes and a broad, almost bulbous nose. He had none of the social graces of Wilfried Ungar, but neither did he appear to have that man’s overweening ego. Herr Tor was, in fact, rather a hopeless case in terms of social conventions, tending even to a stutter when asked a direct question. He also had a continual sniff, the result, she soon discovered, of a most outdated habit of taking snuff.

  She was abashed to note that all this almost endeared him to her. A man so artless and defenseless in terms of etiquette, yet quite obviously brimming over with innate intelligence. He would not, she consoled herself, be taking cases to trial. Rather, he would be doing the dogsbody work of drawing up contracts and wills, a job still done largely in handwritten documents despite the advent of typewriters. The legal profession was slow in making such changes; clients trusted the steady and rather artistic look of handwriting over the aridly mechanical typewriter. And Herr Tor, by the looks of his cover letter and résumé, had an impeccable hand.

  “Your résumé speaks for itself, Herr Tor,” she told him, and this seemed to put him somewhat at ease.

  “I am glad you think so, Frau Meisner.”

  He had not so much as blinked earlier when she had excused her husband’s absence and introduced herself, using her maiden name. This also served to put him in her good stead; she was tired of forever reminding Gross of her legal name. The stuffy old criminologist, of course, misused her name on purpose. His way of showing disapproval of such modern conventions. Herr Wilhelm Tor, however, showed no discomfort, as if he were oblivious of such matters.

  “I do not mean to pry,” she went on, “but I do find it curious that a man of such obvious qualifications should need apply for a post as a junior member of chambers.”

  She left it at that, not wishing to overexplain her query.

  He stumbled for a moment, then seemed to visibly gird himself, taking a deep breath.

  “Yes. I understand your concern. There is of course my strong desire to return to my heimat, my hometown. I h
ave been for too long a stranger in strange lands. An Austrian by birth, I earned my degree in Germany. Then I spent many years living abroad. I was searching. I think you can say I was in search of my life. I know that is considered neither fashionable nor wise as regards one’s career, but there you have it. The years immediately following my degree were ones of travel and seeking. I did not practice law in America. Instead, I followed my instincts, mining in Nevada, selling musical instruments in Ohio, working for a German-language newspaper in New York. Ten years ago, I decided that whatever it was I was seeking was not to be found in the New World. Thus, I returned to Europe, taking a position at a law firm in Frankfurt. I left that firm last year, moving to Linz, getting that much closer to my real goal, Vienna. And then I saw your advertisement, Frau Meisner. It seemed a dream come true.”

  It was a long speech for Tor and he appeared almost fatigued by it, but suddenly decided to add more. When he spoke, his body remained absolutely still, his hands held placidly in his lap.

  “I am not an ambitious man, Frau Meisner. I do not seek fame or fortune. I have learned not to fly too closely to the sun. Some of those nearest and dearest to me have, with tragic results. No. Give me a steady job of work where I can use my education and intelligence, and I am a happy man. I have no desire to open my own legal offices nor to impress my colleagues. I see by your husband’s very nameplate on the street door that you are a diverse firm, pursuing several legal avenues. That must stretch the resources of one lawyer. I thus deduce that you are seeking someone solid and steady. Someone to take care of the day-to-day details of wills and trusts, leaving Advokat Werthen to pursue the criminal side of things. But of course, if I am wrong, if you are seeking someone for criminal law, I regretfully inform you that I am not your man.”