“I cannot help you if you continue to lie,” Gross said evenly. “You are being held for attempted murder, did you know that?”
Schreier shook his head. “Impossible.”
“No. Very possible,” Gross said. “They are drawing up the charges as we speak and hope to have a confession from you by the end of the weekend. I imagine they will be successful in that endeavor.”
Gross said this last bit meaningfully and Schreier obviously understood the connotation.
“They can’t beat a confession out of me.”
“It has been known to happen. Are you a physically courageous man, Herr Schreier? Can you tolerate pain very well?”
Schreier’s eyes grew wider at this comment.
“I thought not,” Gross said. “So, it is time you were honest with me. Where is the letter?”
Schreier looked to Werthen for a moment as if for assistance, but the lawyer maintained a stony appearance.
“The letter, Herr Schreier. I shall not ask again.”
Gross rose as if to leave and Schreier crumbled.
“All right, all right. It’s at my apartment house. I wrapped it in an oilskin pouch and placed it in the cistern over the clo on my floor.”
One of the most common places to hide valuables in the criminal class, Werthen knew. In the flush tank over a toilet.
“You hoped to blackmail him, didn’t you?”
Schreier said nothing, merely sat hunched over, gazing between his legs.
“Didn’t you?” Gross fairly shouted this and the man suddenly jerked himself upright.
“No. It wasn’t like that. Mahler’s got cheek trying to get rid of the claque. I was going to make sure he never tried again to suppress us. That letter was my insurance.”
“It may still be, Herr Schreier,” Gross said as he moved to the cell door and called for the warder. “If the letter is there and proves not to be a forgery by you, then you may have saved yourself.”
Werthen rose now, too, happy to be leaving the cell and its smell of hopelessness and fear.
As the warder opened the door, Gross turned to Schreier: “I’ll see they place that miscreant in some other cell.”
“Thank you, Dr. Gross. You are a gentleman. Next time you take a case to trial you just call on me. We’ll create the proper atmosphere in the courtroom, just you see.”
“I will remember your generous offer, Herr Schreier,” Gross said. “And I am sure my colleague will, as well.”
FOURTEEN
I am not sure I care to answer that question, Advokat Werthen.”
Justine Mahler had colored from her neck to her forehead. Oh, she knew, he thought. It was written on her face.
“Why do you hector me when the person responsible for Gustl’s near death has gone free?”
She was referring to Herr Schreier, who had been released from custody on Saturday after Gross and he fetched the letter purporting to be from Mahler. Close inspection by Gross of the handwriting quickly demonstrated that it was clearly not Mahler’s, but neither was it Schreier’s, for the criminologist compared writing from Schreier to that in the letter, and found not one similarity in the writing. Added to which, the envelope to the letter bore a postmark from Bad Aussee, near where Mahler was staying for the summer, and Schreier had been—as numerous witnesses could testify—in Vienna continuously this summer prior to his trip the see Mahler.
“Either I ask these questions,” Werthen pressed, “or Detective Inspector Drechsler will.”
The door to the sitting room in Mahler’s flat suddenly opened and there stood Mahler himself, wrapped ghostlike in a white sheet.
“What in the name of the devil are you about, Werthen?” His voice had lost none of its commanding presence.
“Gustl!” Justine rushed to his side, holding his arm. “You should be in bed.”
“I asked you, Werthen, what do you think you are doing?”
Werthen could see Natalie standing behind Mahler. She must have been the messenger, Werthen figured.
“I am asking your sister some questions, Herr Mahler.”
“As if she is a common criminal. You want to know, ask me. Yes, she knew about the change of will. I told her. I am a selfish man, I admit. And I regret such a rash action. It will be amended, trust me.”
This last he said to his sister, who in turn patted his arm lovingly.
“Back to bed, Gustl,” she said. “Don’t trouble yourself with such things. You must only concentrate on getting healthy again.”
She led him down the hallway toward his bedroom, entering with him and closing the door behind her. Presumably that was the end of their interview, Werthen realized.
Natalie entered the sitting room now.
“I felt he needed to know,” she said.
Werthen nodded.
“She would never hurt him. Justine is devoted to Gustl.”
“As are you,” Werthen could not help but add.
She paused for a moment. Then, “Yes.”
“You have known him for years.”
“Since conservatory days.” She looked at him with those piercing gray eyes of hers. “I know I must appear ridiculous to the outsider. Something of an old maid hanging about the great composer, hoping that he will finally notice his loyal lapdog. That he might return her love. Does that about sum up your view of me, Advokat?”
He saw no reason not to return candor for candor.
“Yes.”
“Well, it is only partially correct. I have no wish that Gustl return my love. Frankly I would not know what to do with it. Nor did I know what to do with my husband’s during my marriage. My music and our conversations are quite enough for me. Now that is cleared up, ask away. I have the distinct feeling you wish to tap my font of information about Gustl.”
Indeed, Berthe had requested him to do just that. He was taking over her end of the investigation into Mahler’s youth as Berthe was in no physical shape to be gallivanting around interviewing people. Gross, he, and Berthe had decided that they would now refocus their efforts. Instead of the larger crime, that is the possible murder of the great composers of Vienna, they would, with this latest and nearly successful attack on Mahler, concentrate on finding the person trying to kill him. Successful in that, they should most likely come up with the perpetrator of other deaths, as well.
“I appreciate your frankness, Frau Bauer-Lechner. Yes, I would, as you suggest, like to ask you a few questions. Specifically about possible enemies Mahler might have made as a young man in Vienna.”
“From student days? But it was all so long ago,” she said. “We were almost children.”
“Some enemies seek revenge over decades, Frau Bauer-Lechner. We have heard of Hugo Wolf, for example.”
“But the poor man is in a mental asylum.”
“For example, I said. Perhaps there are others. What was the rift between them?”
“Gustl did not think Der Corregidor was of sufficient strength to warrant performance at the Hofoper. Quite simple really, and not a matter of spite.”
“Before that, I meant. From their time as students together. When I interviewed Wolf he said something about a stolen libretto.”
She breathed in deeply. “That old canard.”
“Then you know of it?”
“Nonsense. A childish dispute.”
“Humor me, Frau Bauer-Lechner.”
“Well, if you must. But it really amounted to nothing. In about 1880, I think, Wolf had been digging around in the Hofbiblio-thek and came across what he thought was the perfect source for a libretto. It was the story of Rübezahl, the famous mountain spirit from German folklore. Wolf was terribly excited about the idea of creating a sort of fairy-tale opera, for it had not been done before. Humperdinck’s Hänsel und Gretel did not appear until 1893, you recall.”
“So how did Mahler steal this?”
“Wolf claimed that he and Mahler discussed the idea of such an opera, Gustl believing that one could only portray such an opera h
umorously. Wolf, of course, wanted a serious approach. Gustl, after this meeting, decided to work on a libretto. A week later he and Wolf met again, and Gustl asked his friend how his libretto was advancing. Wolf was still researching the subject, gathering more and more stories and had not even begun writing. When Mahler showed him his completed libretto, Wolf became absolutely furious, claiming that he would never write a word of such a tale now that his best friend had stolen the idea from him. Gustl tried to persuade him, telling Wolf he had no intention of actually writing the score to the libretto. It had all been an exercise for him. But from that time on Wolf and Gustl were on the outs. Whenever Wolf saw him, he would pointedly ignore Gustl. Later, after it was apparent Wolf was not going ahead with the project, Gustl did begin writing the full opera. But he gave it up finally, the pressure of work as a conductor claiming too much of his time.”
“Hardly seems the stuff of revenge,” Werthen said.
“No,” she said. “But we musicians are sensitive.”
Werthen squinted at her; something further from his interview with Wolf was trying to make it into his mind. Some other comment Wolf had made about the “devil” Mahler.
“Was there anyone else that might harbor such a grudge?” he asked. Then it suddenly struck him. He remembered what Wolf had said; that there was another composer from that time whom Mahler had supposedly stolen from. Someone who had, according to Wolf, ended his days “here.” By which he must have meant the asylum.
“Someone else who might have later gone insane?”
Natalie looked at him with a surprised expression. Then she quickly covered this with a grin of near contempt.
“Not all creative people are insane, Advokat.”
“I was not suggesting they are. I asked you about someone else from Herr Mahler’s past who may have ended up in an asylum. Who may have had a grudge.”
“I assumed we were looking for more than a ghost.”
She was right, of course. Their perpetrator needed to be among the living. But he persisted, simply because she seemed to be hiding something.
“Of course I could simply ask Hofrath Krafft-Ebing about former patients at his Lower Austrian State Lunatic Asylum.”
“All right,” she assented. “That won’t be necessary. I assume you are referring to Rott. Hans Rott. He died at the asylum in 1884.”
The name was familiar. Both Berthe and Kraus had mentioned the young composer.
“Were they close, Mahler and Rott?” Werthen asked her.
“They were members of the Wagner Society. As was Wolf. I know Gustl had great admiration for Rott’s talent. He thought it a tragedy when he died so young, not even twenty-six.”
She simply stopped as if there was nothing more to share. But he sensed there was, just as he knew that he was not going to get it from her.
He did, however, have an idea where he could get more information about Herr Rott.
Werthen was seated once again in the office of the editor of Die Fackel. His unannounced visit and request for information about Hans Rott seemed to please the journalist, for Kraus was taking obvious delight in looking up the name in the extensive alphabetical files he kept in his office.
“Yes,” he said, retrieving a sheaf of notes from a blue file and returning to the desk. “Here he is, ‘Rott, Hans.’ Born 1858 and died 1884. His father, Karl Matthias was a quite well-known comic actor, in point of fact. Suffered a terrible accident on stage in 1874 and died two years later.”
“A stage accident, you say?”
Kraus looked over the lenses of his glasses at Werthen.
“They do happen. I mean, for real.”
Werthen was reminded of Schoenberg saying the same about Zemlinsky’s recent accident.
Werthen got out his leather notebook and noted that fact.
“Rott was apparently a child prodigy. He began studying at the conservatory when he was sixteen. A scholarship boy. Studied organ with Bruckner, who became a great friend and supporter. Wrote his first symphony by 1876. His next, Symphony in E major was submitted for the Beethoven Prize in 1878. It was there he fell afoul of Brahms, for the old man could not believe this young student was capable of such a composition. He accused him of cheating, of theft. It broke Rott. He was traveling to Germany in 1880, settling for a lower-tier job at Müllhausen, when the incident happened. They took him off the train and he was brought to the psychiatric clinic at the General Hospital. He tried to kill himself there, and was transferred the next year to the Lower Austrian State Insane Asylum.”
Kraus looked up from his notes dramatically: “He died there three years later from tuberculosis that he contracted while a patient.” He shook his head. “Seems they failed to isolate tubercular patients from other patients.”
“And his connection to Mahler?”
“I thought as much. By the way, how is he?”
“Stronger,” Werthen said. “It was a close thing.”
“Not the food poisoning reported in the Neue Freie Presse, then?”
Werthen shook his head.
Kraus all but rubbed his hands, excited by the prospect of insider information regarding such criminal activity.
“So, Mahler and Rott. Yes, I admit to having heard music gossip. One rather shies away from passing on mere gossip, however.” Said with a gleeful smile.
“Kraus,” Werthen said, shooting him a courtroom look.
“Bear in mind that this is hearsay, Advokat.”
“I shall do so. Now out with it.”
“They say Mahler was fond of Rott’s music. Perhaps overly fond, if you take my meaning. Rott’s symphonies and song cycles have mysteriously disappeared since his death. Granted, he destroyed some of them himself, but there were apparently quite a few compositions that have gone missing. There are those who heard the early Rott compositions and who now say there is a striking similarity in his work and Herr Mahler’s.”
“Plagiarism?”
Kraus shrugged. “I am not a music critic. Nor have I heard Rott’s music. But there are those who go so far as to accuse Mahler, yes.”
“My God, if that is the case, then there is strong motive.”
“Motive, yes,” Kraus said, his satisfied cat grin firmly in place. “But opportunity? I hasten to remind you that Rott died fifteen years ago.”
______
Gross was still examining the letter to Schreier when Werthen returned to the flat. The criminologist had turned the sitting room into a chemistry lab, with beakers bubbling over paraffin lamps on the Biedermeier writing desk, a microscope set up by the large street-side windows for extra lighting, and literally dozens of brands of ink and white letter paper spread out over the new leather couch.
“I thought you already ascertained Schreier did not write it,” Werthen said by way of greeting.
Gross looked up from the letter he was examining through a handheld magnifying glass.
“To know who did not write the letter is not the same as knowing who did.”
He returned unctuously to his examination of the paper.
“That’s a fine bit of logic, Gross,” he said with rather heavy sarcasm. Werthen felt in high spirits after his morning of work.
But Gross did not take the bait. He made a small “humph” into the paper.
“There is a series of smudges on this paper,” he said finally. “Almost at regular intervals. Where have I seen that before?”
“Perhaps on your own journals? It is generally the sign of one who is always correcting his work before the ink has had a chance to dry.”
“Yes,” Gross said. “Very good, Werthen. And thus gets ink on the edge of his palm thereby smudging the paper intermittently. By the way, your father-in-law is here.”
“Herr Meisner.” Werthen looked around the room.
“With your lady-wife, man. In her room.”
“Why did you not tell me straightaway?”
But Gross had turned his attention back to a close inspection of the Schreier letter, mounte
d under the lens of the microscope.
Frau Blatschky waved at him as he passed the kitchen on the way to the bedroom.
“I know,” he told her. “Gross informed me.”
She nodded and he continued on his way to the bedroom, knocking first on his own door and feeling a bit of a fool for doing so.
“Yes?”
Berthe’s voice from within.
He opened the door and there was Herr Meisner seated in a chair next to the bed reading from the Talmud. His long, gray beard made the man look like a patriarch. Berthe, lying in bed under the lightweight summer comforter, held a restraining hand up to him, for her father was continuing with the tractate. As far as Werthen could ascertain, he was reading, in Hebraic, from the Third Order of the Mishnah, regarding marriage. He stood at the door, allowing the old gentleman to finish the reading. Strangely, he found comfort in these spoken words, only a few of which he understood. A Talmudic scholar, among other accomplishments, Herr Meisner lived his faith. Berthe seemed to take comfort from the words as well, resting her head on the pillows, and smiling sweetly at Werthen.
As he finished his reading, Herr Meisner carefully placed a length of embroidered silk in the book as a marker, closed it, and laid it on the bedside table next to Berthe’s copy of Bertha von Suttner’s Lay Down Your Arms, which she was reading for the tenth time at least.
Herr Meisner rose and cast Werthen a full smile.
“It is good to see you again,” he said, his large hand outstretched to his son-in-law.
They had not seen each other since the wedding in April. Despite Berthe’s forebodings, her father had made no argument with their civil marriage. It was, instead, the Werthens who boycotted the proceeding because it was not held under religious auspices. Ironies abound, Werthen thought. Here was a man who held to the old ways in the modern world. A devout Jew, yet he bowed to his daughter’s wishes for her marriage. It was his own parents, passionate assimilationists, Protestant converts for convenience’s sake, who were so outraged by the decision to hold a civil ceremony that they would not be part of it.
Herr Meisner, a widower for many years, was not a cloying, protective father. He had wide interests. In addition to his successful Linz shoe factory and to his reputation as one of the most noted Talmudic scholars in Austria, he was also an amateur musician of no little talent and a historian of prodigious knowledge.
Requiem in Vienna: A Viennese Mystery (Viennese Mysteries) Page 22
