“A pleasure to see you gentlemen again,” Meindl said, his eyes, behind his pince-nez, fixed solely on Gross. He was turned out well; his lightweight charcoal suit looked as if Knize himself had tailored it. Despite his words, Meindl did not appear, in any way, pleased. Clean-shaven and red-cheeked, Meindl appeared almost cherubic sitting behind his gargantuan cherrywood desk. An angry cherub, by the look of his pinched lips.
He had reason to be, Werthen suspected, for the man whom Werthen had dueled had been Meindl’s protector, his mentor, his benefactor. Since that powerful man’s death, Meindl’s career had stalled; he had been passed over for chief inspector earlier in the year. But Werthen sensed there was more to it than that.
“It appears you fellows are once again coming to the aid of the Vienna police.” Meindl’s voice was so heavy with irony that it grated. “I refer, of course,” Meindl continued, “to the affair of Herr Mahler. Prince Montenuovo wants us to see to the Hofoper director’s continued safety and good health.”
“I felt it incumbent upon myself to apprise the prince of our investigations,” Gross said, as if to mollify the elfish man. It did not work.
“Quite,” Meindl said through pursed lips. “It would, however, have been good of you, considering our past history, to have come to me first.”
Werthen could feel Gross stirring in the chair next to him. He was not one to suffer fools gladly.
“And what would you have done, Inspector?” Gross asked. “Told me that the death of Fräulein Kaspar was accidental and to come back when there was more positive evidence of a direct attack upon Mahler?”
Detective Inspector Drechsler cleared his throat, an unconscious admission that that was exactly what he had done when confronted with Gross’s information.
“I doubt even the death of the unfortunate violinist, Friedrich Gunther, would have stirred your interest, Inspector,” Gross continued.
“We shall never know now, shall we?” Meindl rejoined. “But let us not accuse one another. We obviously have a difficult task ahead of us. Drechsler here has acquainted me with the facts of the case to date.”
“Including the attempt on Mahler’s life last week?” Werthen said.
Meindl’s eyes remained fixed on Gross, pointedly ignoring Werthen. “Yes, we have had word of that accident from our Bad Aussee colleagues.”
“The brakes had obviously been cut,” Werthen continued. “It was no accident.”
Meindl finally turned his eyes to Werthen. “My misstatement. Not an accident.”
He managed to invest those five words with a level of hatred Werthen had never before felt directed at him. It was chilling yet it also angered Werthen. He decided, however, to hold his tongue. Though deprived of his major sponsor, Meindl still had some friends in high places. Word had reached Werthen last year that he had only narrowly missed being prosecuted for murder as a result of his duel. Against the law, dueling was nonetheless a crime seldom prosecuted. But Meindl had, so Werthen learned, struggled so mightily to have him arrested that he was saved only by imperial intercession. The emperor had no wish for certain facts to be broadcast.
Thus, though Meindl was annoying, he could also be a dangerous enemy. Werthen wisely decided to keep silent, letting Gross take the lead.
“So we will let you get about your work, then,” Gross said, attempting to cut the proceedings short.
But Meindl had his own agenda for this meeting. “What does Frau Strauss have to do with these investigations?” he suddenly asked.
So that was it, Werthen thought. The good widow had gotten the wind up after they had left, pulling a few of her own powerful strings to find out exactly what they had really been after on their visit to her.
“We like to be thorough,” Gross said. “Strauss and Mahler had connections of a sort with each other.”
“Of a sort,” Meindl repeated, adjusting his pince-nez and nodding. “I believe Herr Mahler conducted Strauss’s operetta—”
“Die Fledermaus,” Drechsler read from a notebook he had now produced.
“Yes,” Meindl agreed. “And Strauss contracted his final illness while conducting at the Hofoper. Not much of a connection, I would say. Nothing there to bother a grieving widow with.”
Gross had finally reached his boiling point. “Inspector Meindl, may I remind you that I and Advokat Werthen are employed by Prince Montenuovo. We are answerable to him. Whom we choose to interview and not interview is thus not a police matter.”
“I beg to differ. It is now very much a police matter.”
Meindl’s voice raised a full half tone as he said this. He took a deep breath.
“Look,” he said, calming himself. “We are former colleagues. There is no need for rancor between us. I admit to a certain amount of professional pique. However, when one of the most important people in our cultural life makes a complaint—”
“Frau Strauss complained of our visit?” Gross asked.
“Well”—Meindl clasped his hands together on the desk in front of him—“not so much a complaint as an official inquiry. She was bothered by the visit, confused as to your actual intent.”
“As I said,” Gross noted, “we like to be thorough. Follow all possible leads. Someone is trying to kill Herr Mahler, and we would like to find that person before he, or she, is successful.”
“I had rather thought we narrowed down the list of suspects to a man,” Meindl said, glancing at Detective Inspector Drechsler. “There was the matter of hoisting Herr Gunther up into a noose.”
“Yes,” Gross allowed. “But then there is always the possibility of accomplices.”
“I for one can hardly see a woman seeking such revenge, especially on Herr Mahler. For what? A love affair gone badly? A word of criticism at a rehearsal?”
None of the other three responded to this. That Meindl was so blind to human motivation was an indication of just how far out of his depth he was as an inspector. He was simply a self-serving bureaucrat eager for advancement, not a policeman at all, Werthen thought. It amazed him to realize that a man could be so shrewd in the byzantine matters of court politics, yet remain so ignorant of the basic workings of the human psyche.
“What I have called you in for is not to argue, but rather to ensure that we are on the same side of things here,” Meindl said, attempting a gracious manner. “I would like to know what direction your investigations are taking you, whom you will be interviewing. It should save both of us time. We do not wish, after all, to duplicate services.”
Gross sighed. There was nothing for it but to attempt at least a show of cooperation with Meindl.
“Well, it is a somewhat complex matter,” Gross began.
Twenty minutes later the criminologist finished with a concise overview of the case to date, including a brief list of possible suspects and what possible alibis they had for various dates in question. He also noted the direction their inquiries were now heading, looking into friends and enemies from Mahler’s past as a student in Vienna. However, Gross did not even hint at the bigger investigation at hand now—the possible serial murders of some of Vienna’s greatest musicians.
Meindl nodded his head sagely throughout this recitation, but Werthen doubted he was taking much of it in. Instead, he relied on Drechsler to take close notes.
“We should focus on those gathered in Altaussee,” Meindl said as they were adjourning. “After all, it would seem we have a more finite cast of suspects in that incident.”
“As long as you do not allow for someone cutting the brakes before the bicycle was even delivered.” Werthen could not help himself; he wanted to wipe the self-satisfied grin off of Meindl’s face. “Or for a visitor who might have arrived unnoticed in the middle of the night. The bicycles were kept outside and left unattended.”
“To be sure,” the inspector said, but without conviction. Addressing Gross he said, “It is fortunate you thought to have a man on the scene in the country.”
Gross simply shook his head at this comment.
>
As they were leaving, Meindl addressed one further comment their direction:
“Time is of the utmost importance, gentlemen. I have thus far managed to keep any speculation about attempts on Mahler’s life out of the newspapers. But I can not be expected to keep this hidden and secret for much longer. It is only a matter of time before some enterprising, or shall I say scandalmongering journalist discovers the facts and splashes them across the front page of one of Vienna’s dailies. Then our quarry shall go to ground, or worse, choose to strike quickly and be done with it.”
Werthen did not like doing so, but did have to admit that Meindl had a valid point. Time was also playing against them.
He and Gross were accompanied by Drechsler out of the Praesidium office on Schottenring. The day was warming. Gross suggested a bite to eat, but Drechsler pleaded other urgent business.
Before taking his leave, however, he said, “There’s been a development in the Gunther case. We’ve finally found a witness, a young woman of somewhat dubious profession, if you understand, who was occupying a street corner not far from Gunther’s flat the night he died. One of my bright young sergeants decided to survey the nighttime scene on nearby streets to see if some woman plied her trade nearby. It took time, but we finally found this working girl.”
Gross was less interested in the means it took to find the witness than in what she had to say. “Out with it, man.”
“She mentions a man leaving the building in the wee hours of the night. A largish man who left on foot. The gas lamp nearest Gunther’s building was not working, though, so she could give us little more. Age, facial characteristics, dress. Nothing there, though she seemed to think he might be middle-aged rather than younger by the way he moved. But when she realized he wasn’t going to be giving her any business, she lost interest.”
“And there was no carriage waiting for him, no fiaker?” Gross asked.
“She reports that he left on foot. Headed down the Herrengasse toward the Hofburg and not in her direction.”
“Can she be more specific about the time than the ‘wee’ hours?” Werthen asked.
Drechsler shrugged to the lawyer. “She remembers the bell of the Minoriten Church going two, but was unsure how long that was before she saw the man.”
“So somewhere between two and three in the morning?” Gross said.
“That would seem reasonable,” Drechsler said.
Werthen was about to make the obvious conclusion when Gross spoke up, quite literally taking the words out of his mouth.
“And I suppose you have this same bright young sergeant investigating the nighttime scene along the farther stretches of Herrengasse in the hopes of finding another witness?”
Drechsler smiled. “It is a pleasure working with you, Dr. Gross. One need not overexplain.”
Gross nodded at the compliment.
“And one other thing,” Drechsler said. “He’s not a man to cross.”
“Meindl, you mean?” Werthen said.
Drechsler nodded. “He doesn’t much like you.”
“That was made abundantly apparent,” Werthen replied.
“He is hoping you make a misstep in this investigation. That he can somehow destroy your career, your reputation.”
Werthen took this in, wondering why Drechsler would be so candid.
“And he thinks you’re a bag of gas,” Drechsler said to Gross.
This brought the red to Gross’s cheeks, but he said nothing.
“You are being rather frank, Detective Inspector,” Werthen said.
“Truth is, I don’t like the man. He knows bugger all about policing. His fancy friends secured him his position on the Praesidium. He treats his men like retrieving dogs, takes all the credit for any convictions and none of the blame for those cases we cannot close.”
“And you think you would be a better choice as inspector of the Police Praesidium,” Gross said.
“Even my aunt Gretl would be,” Drechsler said. “But they’ll never pick a man like me. I didn’t go to the university, don’t have the right friends. No, I’m not that kind of ambitious, but I would like to see a better man as my boss.”
“I believe, Detective Inspector,” Gross said, “that is a wish shared by others, as well.”
“Well, maybe we can help each other, then,” Drechsler said, somewhat ambiguously, and left, turning into the First District, headed toward Freyung.
Werthen and Gross strolled along the Ring.
“I really wouldn’t mind a spot to eat,” Gross finally said.
But before looking for a likely restaurant, Werthen had to know.
“Drechsler was quite candid with us. But you did not reciprocate. You made no mention of our anonymous letter or of a possible link to Mahler’s past.”
“Is that a question?” Gross asked.
“I suppose so.”
“My answer then is that neither did you.”
“I am sure you were not waiting for my lead in the matter.”
“Actually I was, my dear Werthen. This is, after all, as you are wont to remind me, your case. Ergo, your decision whom to take into your confidence.”
“I am not sure it was a conscious decision. I just—”
“Exactly,” Gross said. “You went by instincts, by feelings. And they are perfectly sound. At this point in our new investigations, the fewer people who know the better. So, how about that plate of wurst?”
Werthen looked around him, remembering a gemütlich locale nearby just off the Ring. He led Gross to the Black Swann, an inn near the Rathaus that had just the sort of rustic ambience Gross enjoyed.
Once seated snugly in a solid oak corner booth, Gross ordered his plate of sliced wurst with onions, and Werthen settled for a midmorning glass of slivowitz and a kleine braune.
“There are too many trails to follow,” Werthen said as he watched Gross dig into the food.
“In which case it is recommended that the wise investigator narrow his options to a more manageable amount,” Gross said, through his final bites. “I recommend that, for the time being, we put Herr Mahler on the back burner.” He patted his oily lips with a linen napkin. “To use a culinary metaphor.”
“Berthe will be disappointed,” Werthen said. “She has developed the lead to Mahler’s past quite extensively, especially with the information yesterday from Frau Adler.”
“Such information has lingered for decades,” Gross said. “It can wait a few more days or weeks while we investigate the deaths of Brahms and Bruckner. Just as my return to Czernowitz can be delayed. After all, the term is over and Adele is still in Paris.”
Which, Werthen assumed, was Gross’s way of requesting further lodgings so that he could continue with the investigation. Werthen did not bother responding to that comment. Instead he asked, “And how do you mean to go about that investigation?”
“Well, an obvious starting point would be your friend, Herr Kraus. He seems to know all the chitchat that passes for news in this fair city.”
“What sort of ‘ponderables’ are we speaking of?” Karl Kraus asked later that day.
They were seated in the office of Die Fackel at Maximiliantstrasse 13, one street in from the Ring and just across from the Hofoper. Kraus was thus at the very geographical center of Vienna culture. Despite the imposing address, the journalist operated out of a cramped and cluttered corner office, which contained a small desk and a battered leather sofa along one wall that was currently filled with back copies of the Wiener Zeitung, Neue Freie Presse, Fremdenblatt, Wiener Mode, and the Deutsche Zeitung. Werthen and Gross occupied two rather unstable straight-back chairs. In front of them, Kraus’s desk was a mess of paper. He wrote the entire content of his magazine himself and in longhand, a tight scrawl as Werthen could observe on the pages of foolscap strewn about the desktop.
“Ponderables such as the nature of Bruckner’s and Brahms’s deaths.” Gross smiled at Kraus insouciantly.
“My, but you two are heading for heavy water.”
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“In what way?” asked Gross.
Now it was Kraus’s turn to return an innocent smile. “Why not include the death of dear Herr Strauss, as well?” he asked. “We make such business of death in Vienna.”
“Is that what you are working on now?” Werthen asked.
“For my late June issue,” Kraus said, tapping the page in front of him. “The ‘Mercantile Mourning of Johann Strauss.’ Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? His death has given rise to a flood of new productions in every theater in the land. Even the amusement park in the Prater has joined it with a ‘Venice in Vienna Death Celebration.’ I assume they will have some dark-haired southerner crooning Strauss melodies from a gondola afloat on one of those ludicrously artificial canals. Tastelessness knows no bounds.”
“We have already made certain inquiries regarding Herr Strauss,” Gross allowed. “Good of you to advise it, though. Herr Brahms and Herr Bruckner will suffice for now, thank you.”
Kraus was a quick study, Werthen knew. No need to explain things to him; no sense in trying to obfuscate the matter, either, for he was sure to understand the implications of their new inquiries.
“Well,” Kraus began, leaning back in his chair, “I am sure you are aware of the basic facts. Bruckner died on October 11, 1896. He was seventy-two, had just moved into a small apartment in the Upper Belvedere Palace, and was trying furiously to finish the final movement of his Ninth Symphony. He had been in poor health for several years, but it was still quite a shock when his housekeeper discovered his body. Of course he never married. He died quite alone.”
“Was there a will?” Gross asked.
Kraus cast a bemused glanced at the criminologist. This query evidently confirmed Kraus’s suspicions about their line of questioning.
“Oh, yes. Everything proper and aboveboard there. Signed it in 1893, leaving all his autograph manuscripts to the imperial library. Other than that, there was little of worth to bequeath. He had a rough road, did poor Bruckner.”
“His support of Wagner cost him dearly,” Werthen said.
Requiem in Vienna: A Viennese Mystery (Viennese Mysteries) Page 16
