“Good to see you too, sir.”
Their handshake was warm and heartfelt from both sides, but there were no artificial pleadings on Herr Meisner’s part to call him by his family name, or worse, his given name. In fact, Werthen did not even know the man’s given name.
“Father promises to stay for more than a few days this time,” Berthe said, for she knew Werthen was fond of the man.
“Well, I am forced to now, whether I wish to or not.”
They had not told Herr Meisner before of Berthe’s pregnancy, a precaution until the first delicate months were past and the baby was well on its way. But she had obviously shared the secret with him now and he was not angry. Rather, his comment bespoke his usual gruff irony.
“Especially with this Mahler business afoot,” the older man added. “You must bring me up to date on your activities on his behalf. I was at the premiere of his Second Symphony in Berlin in 1895. A gifted composer. Not exactly to my personal taste, but clearly a major talent.”
Werthen and Berthe smiled at this, a warm understanding passing between them that it was a comfort to have her father with them once again. Like old times with both Gross and Herr Meisner as houseguests. It was fortunate they had not yet begun redecorating the second guest room as a nursery.
The four of them were gathered around the dinner table and Berthe had convinced Frau Blatschky to cook her old specialties again. The days of bed rest had done her good and the nausea seemed to be in abeyance for the time being.
In deference to Herr Meisner, Frau Blatschky stayed away from pork tonight, opting instead for beuschel, a delicate ragout of fine strips of calf lung in a cream sauce served with a tender knödel. She paired this with an endive and radicchio salad drizzled with wine vinegar and rapeseed oil.
Gross remained silent through his two helpings of beuschel. Berthe contented herself with salad only. Werthen and Herr Meisner made small talk about the latest scandal in Parliament and the rise in strength of Mayor Lueger’s Christian Democratic Party: “Neither truly Christian nor democratic in outlook,” Herr Meisner pronounced.
Finally, as Gross daubed at his lips with a damask napkin, Herr Meisner brought them around to the subject of Mahler.
“So,” he said, “where does the investigation stand?”
For the next half hour Werthen and Gross took turns detailing the progress of their attempts to protect Mahler and to bring the person or persons responsible for the attacks to justice. It had been a long and torturous route, from Alma Schindler’s first alert, to the investigation of the deaths of Fräulein Kaspar and Herr Gunther, to the interviews of likely suspects such as Leitner and the stage manager Blauer, as well as hostile critics like Hassler and Hanslick, resentful artists and performers, including Hans Richter, and even the head of the banned claque, Schreier. They also detailed the domestic suspects, the sister Justine who had been disinherited, the faithful Natalie Bauer-Lechner, and Arnold Rosé, suitor of Justine. They described the attempts on Mahler’s life, including the cut bicycle brake and most recently the poisoned Turkish delight and the arrest and release of Schreier.
They went on to explain how their investigation had broadened, spurred on by the reception of an anonymous letter. How they probed the possibility that other famous composers recently dead had been the victims of a serial killer at work. There were Bruckner, Brahms, and Strauss, as well as the young composer Alexander Zemlinsky who had suffered an accident similar to one of Mahler’s, falling from his director’s podium at the Carl Theater.
“In the case of Brahms, however,” Gross intoned, “we have ascertained that his death was, as reported at the time, the result of liver cancer. Strauss, though, is a different matter.”
He briefly explained the mysterious summons to the Hofburg that ultimately cost Strauss his life.
“And Bruckner?” Herr Meisner asked.
“We have not yet had the time to investigate that,” Werthen said. “Nor have we looked more deeply into the Zemlinsky matter.”
“With the latest attack on Mahler we have decided to refocus, returning to our initial investigation,” Gross explained. “Your daughter and Werthen have made some intriguing discoveries about Mahler’s student days.”
Werthen described the most recent information uncovered, about Hans Rott and the gossip that Mahler may have stolen from the dead composer’s works.
“You’re forgetting the attack on you, Karl,” Berthe said, pushing her unfinished salad aside.
Werthen told how his office had been torn apart.
“It was nothing, really,” he said, trying to downplay the danger for Berthe’s sake.
“Doesn’t sound like nothing to me,” Herr Meisner said. “What was the intruder looking for?”
“We don’t know,” Werthen said. “As far as I can tell, nothing is missing.”
“And this letter?”
Meaning their anonymous letter, Werthen thought, as the letter to Schreier had not been discovered until after the break-in and assault at the law office.
“It is here. I keep many of the files for my private inquiries at home.”
“But the assailant couldn’t know that, could he?” Herr Meisner said.
Gross suddenly pounded the table in excitement.
“Exactly. The man was after the letter. There must be something compromising in it.”
“Perhaps the musical score,” Berthe offered.
Werthen left the table to fetch the letter. Returning, he spread it out on the dining-room table.
“Ah, yes,” Herr Meisner said, viewing the letter and paying close attention to the musical annotation at the bottom of it. “Of course there is little to be learned from the primitive handwriting. But the musical score could be a code. A small hobby of mine, musical codes.”
Werthen was reminded of Kraus’s tales of how Brahms inserted coded messages into his works.
Gross, who made a study of codes for his book, got up now from his chair and moved next to Herr Meisner.
“I am not so certain about the code,” Gross said, “but I do see something new in this letter.”
At that, he went into the sitting room and came back with the letter to Schreier and placed it next to the anonymous one.
“There,” he said, pointing at several places on each. “You see?”
“The smudges,” Werthen said.
“Right. At regular intervals. It seems our letter writer could not restrain himself from making corrections in the text, thereby staining his hand and smudging the paper. I should say these letters were written by the same person, despite the fact that the handwriting is disguised in both. Find the man who wrote these and we have our killer.”
“Then it was most likely this letter your man was after at the law office,” Herr Meisner said. “Do you think it safe that you keep it in your home? Come now, Werthen. You have a family to protect.”
A sudden and insistent rapping sounded at their apartment door, and everyone froze for an instant.
Finally Gross said, “Rather unlikely the killer would knock.”
Nonetheless, he and Werthen went to the door before Frau Blatschky could see to it. Gross made a detour to his room first, and a distinct bulge in the right pocket of his dinner jacket let Werthen know he was now armed.
Gross stood to one side of the door, hand firmly gripping the pistol in his pocket, while Werthen peered through the fish-eye peephole in the door.
“My Lord.” He sighed. “What does she want?”
He glanced at Gross. “Put it away. You won’t need a gun.”
He opened the door to Alma Schindler, looking downcast and almost sheepish, and attired in evening dress as if she had just come from the Hofoper.
“Fräulein Schindler,” Werthen said as he ushered the young woman in.
“I am sorry to bother you like this,” she said, looking from Werthen to Gross. “But I have felt so awful since our last meeting. I just could not let it go as it did. I was at the opera tonight and I had to le
ave during the interval. My sister awaits me in a fiaker below, so this must be brief. Please accept my apology.”
“It is perfectly all right, Fräulein Schindler.”
“No, it is not,” she said, and stamped a petulant foot. “I was willful and cruel. I want to apologize. I need to apologize.”
Berthe and her father had now joined them in the foyer and quick introductions were made all round.
“For pity’s sake, Werthen,” the older man said. “What kind of host are you? Invite the young lady in for a coffee.”
She brightened at this, happy to find an ally.
“No, no. I do not want to interrupt anything. Only to say how sincerely sorry I am for the way I acted.”
“Fräulein Schindler,” Berthe said. “I am sure we can take care of this tomorrow at the office.”
But Herr Meisner again interrupted. “So this is the famous daughter of Schindler. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your late father’s work, young woman. The man was a genius of landscape.”
She looked almost adoringly at Herr Meisner. “Do you think so really? So do I, but then I am not impartial. He was such a good man.”
“I am sure he was, dear girl. Now do come in and join us for a spot of coffee.”
He ushered her into the dining room, a protective arm around her shoulders.
Werthen, Gross, and Berthe were amazed at this, and could only follow. What in the world could the old man be thinking of? Werthen wondered.
Alma allowed herself to be guided into the dining room; so much for her concern for her waiting sister.
In the dining room, Herr Meisner seated the young woman next to him. Upon entering, Gross quickly swept up the letters and put them in his jacket pocket along with his pistol.
“Now exactly what is it you have to apologize for?” Berthe’s father asked.
She blushed down to her partly exposed décolletage.
“I can hardly imagine such a charming young lady to be guilty of a major faux pas,” Herr Meisner continued.
“Fräulein Schindler made some rather unfortunate remarks while we were visiting Zemlinsky,” Werthen said.
She looked up. “Your son-in-law is too generous. The unfortunate comments were of a racial sort. Anti-Semitic, in fact.”
The older man let out a sort of guffaw at this. “Well, you would hardly be Austrian without a bit of that in your blood, young lady. Do not lose sleep over it, but I find it commendable that you have come to unburden yourself of this. Bravo for you.”
Frau Blatschky appeared in the doorway. “Shall I serve coffee, madam?” she said to Berthe.
“Please, Frau Blatschky,” Berthe said.
“And an extra cup for our young visitor,” Herr Meisner said.
“Oh, no. Thank you so much, but I really must be going.” She reached out and patted Herr Meisner’s hand. “I thank you so much, sir. You have made me feel so much better. Perhaps I can actually watch the last act of the opera now.”
She was up and made her adieus. No one but Herr Meisner attempted to detain her. She left behind a slight smell of violets in her wake.
“My Lord,” Herr Meisner said as the apartment door closed. “What a splendid young woman. Werthen, you do her a disservice to describe her as a spoiled dilettante. She has something, does Fräulein Schindler. A real presence.”
“A presence, to be sure,” Werthen said, but meant something quite different than did Herr Meisner.
FIFTEEN
The next morning, Werthen left Gross, Herr Meisner, and Berthe huddled over the musical notation on the anonymous letter, attempting to break its possible code. He went to the office, and Tor was already there, working fastidiously on a handwritten copy of a will for the von Tuma family patriarch. Werthen had given Tor a key his second week on the job, so dependable and trustworthy had he proved himself to be.
After this case is over, Werthen thought, I must see to adjusting the man’s salary. The law office could not afford to lose someone as valuable as Tor to the competition.
Tor was never a talkative sort; this morning they shared only a brief guten morgen.
Once in his inner office, Werthen began sorting paperwork into urgent and less urgent piles, culling those that could be handled by Tor and those that must be seen to himself.
His morning work was disturbed, however, when he heard the outer office door open and then a mumble of voices. Tor knocked and poked his head inside.
“A gentleman to see you, Advokat. From the police.” Tor looked almost fearful as he uttered this last word.
He ushered in Detective Inspector Drechsler, who appeared to be in a hurry.
“Advokat,” he said by way of greeting.
Tor closed the door slowly behind him.
”What can I do for you, Inspector? I hope it is not about that break-in.”
“No, no,” Drechsler said importantly. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I might find Doktor Gross with you.”
“He’s at the apartment. May I be of assistance?” Werthen motioned to a chair, but Drechsler shook his head.
“ I just wanted to let you chaps know that our little night watch effort has finally borne fruit.”
“Night watch?”
“Herr Gunther’s killer, remember? He was seen by one lady of the night leaving the premises, and we had hoped to find another who could provide a better description.”
“Right. Sorry. Success, you say?”
“My sergeant finally found another young woman whose territory is closer to the Hofburg, and she distinctly remembers the man in question.”
“How can she be so sure?” Werthen asked. “After all, it was . . . how long ago?”
“About three weeks ago. And she can be sure. It was the very night one customer tipped her five kronen. That stuck in her mind, as did the face of our man.”
Werthen felt a frisson of expectation. “She gave a description?”
Drechsler paused a moment. “Well, actually nothing too exact. A bit above medium height, stocky build. It was the eyes she remembered most. Said they looked like they could suck you into the depths. I did not bother to query which depths she might be referring to.”
Drechsler chuckled at his attempted quip, but Werthen remained silent.
“At any rate,” the policeman continued, “he scared her so much she didn’t bother continuing her sales pitch to him. But she says she could identify him if she ever saw him again.”
“Did she mention any other characteristics?” Werthen asked. “Facial hair, a beard, mustache. Anything?”
Another pause from Drechsler. “Sorry. I’ll have my man interview her again. Mousy little creature. Mitzi Paulus. What men could see in her I don’t know. Lives in a miserable little garret in the Kohlmarkt.”
“Have you presented her with a rogues’ gallery of our suspects? I am sure we can obtain some photographs from the Hofoper.”
“We are onto that now, Advokat. However, it is not the easiest thing getting photographs of men who are not known criminals. We’re working through the newspapers and the Hofoper. It takes time.”
“Bravo to you, Drechsler. I will let Gross know of your information. We are making headway. I feel it.”
“Tell that to Meindl. He was outraged we released Schreier. Said he’d have my liver for breakfast. Puffed up little adder he is.”
Werthen agreed entirely with this final description. Drechsler then made his adieus and was shown out by Tor, who appeared at the office door just at the appropriate moment.
Werthen made his way later that morning to the Hofoper. It was time to speak with Arnold Rosé and in the interval of rehearsals seemed the most opportune time and place to do it.
Coming onto the opera from the rear, that is from the Inner City side of the building, he was reminded again of the scandal and tragedies that accompanied the difficult birth of that august institution. The Hofoper was expert at spawning tragedy not only on its stage.
The architects, August von Siccardsb
urg and Eduard van der Nüll, were both close friends and colleagues, well respected in Vienna before the competition for the opera house. In 1860, when the competition was announced, they submitted their plan, per regulations, anonymously, with only a motto to identify whose it was. In their case, they chose a saying that would later have ominous overtones: “Fait ce que dois, advienne que pourra,” “Do what you must, come what may.”
Their plan for a monumental new opera house to replace the old one nearby was cheered initially by the press who claimed that the architects composed the plans rather than designed them. The planned exterior was imposing enough; the interior with its lavish central stairway, salons and main auditorium decorated with statuary and paintings by some of the finest artists in the empire, would put the Royal Court Opera in a class by itself, the newspapers declared.
This honeymoon was short-lived. As construction began the following year, delays and cost overruns ensued. Worse, the level of the newly created Ringstrasse ended up becoming several meters higher than originally planned. Thus, by the time the Court Opera finally was nearing completion in 1868, its entrance on the Ringstrasse was, in fact, below street level.
The press, eager for headlines, began calling the new building the sunken chest and an “architectural Königgrätz,” after the 1866 defeat of Austrian troops by Prussia. When the emperor himself casually remarked to an aide that the entrance was indeed low, tragedy à la Viennois resulted. Unable to bear such criticism, van der Nüll hanged himself in April of 1868; his friend Siccardsburg died two months later, of a “broken heart,” the same scurrilous press reported. Neither lived to see completion of the building they had “composed.” In the event, the public learned to live with a partially subterranean entrance, and the emperor, chastened by this experience, confined himself from that time on to the polite phrase, “It was very nice; it pleased me very much,” whenever asked for his judgment about a public event.
Requiem in Vienna: A Viennese Mystery (Viennese Mysteries) Page 23
