‘I doubt I can be of help regarding our friend, Steinwitz. But Karl, Burgermeister Lueger, that is, says our doors should always be open to our electorate. You vote, I assume?’
Werthen was about to make a polite response when Gross jumped in.
‘That is hardly your concern, my good man. As a Beamter you have only to know that citizens, who pay your salary, have a query for your office.’
Bielohlawek visibly stiffened when called a civil servant.
‘We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice,’ Werthen began, attempting to smooth things over, but Gross was having none of it.
‘Now, if we could get down to business. We are investigating the death of one Henricus Praetor.’
Bielohlawek scowled at the name. ‘Papers say he shot himself.’
‘Quite,’ Gross said. ‘One cannot, however, always believe what is reported in the press.’
‘What’s it to do with me?’ the city councilman said. ‘I’m a busy man. I thought you wanted to ask about Steinwitz.’
‘You see-’ Werthen began, but was once again cut off by Gross. He thereafter relinquished the interview to the criminologist, who appeared to have his own sense of how to handle the brusque Bielohlawek.
‘You were a friend of the deceased councilman’s?’ Gross inquired.
‘We knew one another. Colleagues more than friends. But what does all this have to do with that Schwuchtel?’
Werthen felt the hair bristle at the back of his head at this coarse usage of fairy for homosexual.
‘I assume you are referring to Herr Praetor?’ Gross calmly replied.
‘I repeat, I’m a busy man. And a simple one. Just tell me what you want and no fancy stuff.’
‘What we want is to know if Councilman Steinwitz had any friendships strong enough at City Hall that someone might want to seek redress for his victimization.’
Bielohlawek stared at Gross as if he had been speaking a foreign language.
‘You mean kill the scrawny journalist because he broke the scandal?’
‘Precisely.’
Bielohlawek broke into sudden laughter. ‘Oh, that’s a rich one. I thought you told the deskman you were investigators, not comedians out of a Hanswurst show.’
‘I fail to see the humor,’ Gross said.
Bielohlawek stopped his laughter as abruptly as he had begun. ‘This is the Rathaus, not some army corps with outdated ideas about honor. Verstehst? We’re all big boys here, with thick skins.’
Werthen could keep quiet no longer. ‘You mean to say that you doubt Steinwitz killed himself over the embezzlement scandal?’
‘Bravo. That is exactly what I mean.’
‘Then why kill himself?’ Werthen wondered out loud.
‘You’re the investigator,’ Bielohlawek chuckled. ‘You tell me. And something else you can tell me. Who hired you?’
But they left then, without mentioning their employer. Victor Adler, Werthen supposed, would not be looked upon favorably in the hallowed halls of the Rathaus.
On the way out of the office they ran, quite literally, into a massive man in a tight-fitting suit, his hair cut so short it bristled like a hedgehog.
‘Sorry,’ Werthen said, as the three of them made contact, for the large man was just coming into Bielohlawek’s office.
The beefy man said, in a surprisingly high voice, ‘Yes.’
Which made no sense, but Werthen, who recognized the man as one Adalbert Kulowski, bodyguard to the mayor, knew that the man seldom made any sense. With that much brawn, it was hardly his brains for which Lueger employed him. Kulowski had been a fixture at the Rathaus ever since some madman had attempted to stab the mayor during his first year in office.
‘A pompous ass,’ Gross muttered once they were on the portico of the Rathaus.
Gross, Werthen understood, did not mean the bodyguard.
‘Only one way to deal with that sort.’
‘You were rather abrupt with him.’
‘Civil servants.’ Gross sneered as he said the words. ‘A greater misnomer I have never heard. There is nothing civil about them, and as for being a good servant to the people? Bitte.’ Said with heavy irony.
‘Did you believe him?’ Werthen asked, lifting the collar on his overcoat against the cold.
‘I assume you mean the manner in which the councilman discounted our theory of revenge as a motive for Praetor’s death.’ A moment’s pause. ‘Yes. I do. You knew Steinwitz. Was he the thick-skinned sort?’
‘A veritable hippopotamus.’
‘Then again one ponders your earlier question. Why would the good councilman commit suicide?’
A chilling thought occurred to Werthen. ‘Perhaps Steinwitz did not kill himself.’
‘Well, the authorities were wrong about Praetor’s death,’ Gross allowed.
‘I think we need to pay the widow a visit,’ Werthen said.
‘After which I must prepare for dinner.’
‘I can visit the good lady on my own.’
‘Nonsense,’ Gross said. ‘You’d be lost without me.’
Werthen made no response to this; it was useless to do so with Gross.
He knew the Steinwitz address from the time the deceased councilman was his client. The widow lived in the Reichsratstrasse in the fashionable RathausViertel, or quarter, only minutes from where they were now standing. Steinwitz himself could never have afforded the location on his pay as a city councilman; his wife, the former Valerie Gutrum, came from an old family and old money. Werthen and Gross headed toward the house, midway between the City Hall and Parliament. It was a handsome street with its ground floor businesses elegantly concealed behind galleried arcades as in the Rue de Rivoli in the French capital.
Reaching the Steinwitz house, they took the master stairway up two floors to the so-called Nobelstock, the noble floor, above which were the less imposing apartments. A maid answered the door and, after delivering Werthen’s card to her mistress, she ushered them down a long hall filled with glass cases containing museum-quality family heirlooms and a collection of weapons large enough to remind Werthen that the woman’s father was Colonel Gutrum, a shibboleth of the Kaiserlich und Koniglich, Imperial and Royal army.
They were finally shown into a sitting room with windows looking out to the RathausPark and, far to the right, to the back of the Parliament.
Werthen was appreciating the view when a rustle of silk skirts caught his attention and made him turn. Frau Steinwitz was dressed in emerald green, her thick blonde hair piled atop her head attractively. A good-looking woman in her thirties, she did not have the appearance of a grieving widow, but rather of someone preparing perhaps for a ball later that evening. Werthen withheld judgment on that, however. He knew people reacted in all sorts of ways to the death of a loved one.
‘Advokat Werthen.’ She extended her hand to him and he held it a discreet few inches from his lips as he bent over it.
‘Kuss die Hand, gnadige Frau,’ he said in the timeworn greeting whose meaning was closer to ‘Your servant, madam,’ than to the literal ‘I kiss your hand, dear lady.’
‘How nice to see you again,’ she said, sounding as if she meant it. ‘And your colleague.’
‘May I introduce Doktor Hanns Gross?’ Werthen said.
‘Dear lady,’ Gross murmured as Frau Steinwitz nodded at him.
‘I was not aware Reinhold had further business with you, Advokat.’ She motioned toward a pair of damask-covered fauteuils, while she perched on a settee.
‘No,’ Werthen said, sinking into the armchair. ‘He didn’t. And may I extend my condolences for your loss. I was very sad to hear of his passing.’
She managed a small sniffle, but then shrugged it off as if such emotion were a failing on her part.
‘We all miss him very much,’ she said flatly. ‘It was good of you to come in person to convey your commiseration.’
He felt Gross’s reproving eyes on him.
‘Not at all, Frau Steinwitz. Actual
ly, I am also engaged in another inquiry. The death of a certain Henricus Praetor.’
Werthen noticed a sudden red at her cheeks with the mention of this name; already sitting with a straight back, she seemed to stiffen even more on the settee.
‘You recognize the name?’
‘Of course I do. He is the journalist Reinhold was working with.’
This comment took Werthen aback. ‘Working with?’
‘Yes, Advokat Werthen.’
‘But Praetor was the one who implicated your husband in a financial scandal.’
She nodded. ‘I think I can trust you. Reinhold always spoke well of you, even after he found other representation. It was nothing personal, you see, but when he became a city councilor, they demanded he avail himself of an older attorney.’
‘No need to explain, Frau Steinwitz. I fully understand. I believe he found further representation with a member of the Christian Social party.’
In other words, a non-Jew.
She nodded glumly.
‘That party,’ she hissed.
‘You were mentioning trusting my esteemed colleague,’ Gross said. ‘Perhaps it were better if I afforded you some privacy.’
‘Herr Gross is my valued associate,’ Werthen quickly explained to the widow, ‘as well as an internationally recognized criminalist.’
Only then did he notice that she was not listening. Rather her shoulders jerked forward several times spasmodically, and a flood of tears flowed down her cheeks.
Werthen went to her, putting a caring hand on her shoulder, but remaining silent. He knew words would not soothe at this point.
She took deep breaths, and her sobs diminished finally. ‘You must pardon the outbreak. You see, I have been so frightened. I did not know to whom I should turn. My father has a poor heart, and I do not want to worry him.’
‘Frightened,’ Werthen said, realizing he had misunderstood her tears. ‘Whatever of, madam?’
‘As I said, my husband was working with young Praetor. After publication of the initial story implicating Reinhold, my husband contacted Praetor in an effort to clear his good name. He was giving the journalist all manner of information. Reinhold would not talk to me of it, but I am sure it was very serious indeed. Poor Reinhold could not sleep for weeks before he. . before his. .’
‘What manner of information, Frau Steinwitz?’ Gross inquired.
‘I did see one of the files my husband later gave to the journalist. It detailed missing funds from a public building project.’
‘One of the files?’ Gross said.
‘They met several times at this flat. Perhaps they had other meetings as well. Each time, Reinhold had a thick file to hand over to the young man.’
Werthen withdrew his hand from her shoulder. ‘And that is what is frightening you, these disclosures.’
‘Don’t you see? First my husband and then Praetor. Someone killed them both to silence them. Maybe the same person will come for me and my children. I do not know where to turn.’
‘Never fear, madam,’ Gross said with utter conviction. ‘If such is the case, we shall find the culprits and bring them to justice.’
She nodded and sighed at Gross, then turned her attention to Werthen.
‘And in the meantime?’
‘Perhaps you should go to the police,’ he offered.
She shook her head violently at this suggestion. ‘The police are for criminals. And the scandal it would cause.’
Werthen was not surprised at the illogic of such a reaction. Here was a woman essentially saying she feared for her life, yet would not go to the police because tongues would wag about the Gutrum name. It was the Viennese thing to do.
‘I repeat, madam,’ Gross said, ‘we shall find justice. And meanwhile, Advokat Werthen will keep a protective eye on you.’
‘Oh please,’ she said with real emotion. ‘That would be too good of you.’
Werthen shot Gross a disapproving look, angered that the criminologist offered up his services so lightly.
‘I would be happy to retain you, Advokat,’ she said.
‘My pleasure, entirely,’ Werthen said.
‘Good of you to offer my services,’ Werthen said once they were outside.
Gross shook his head. ‘It won’t do. Pretty young woman like that needs a knight around.’
‘She’s got the whole of the royal army to choose from,’ Werthen protested.
‘Remember her father’s poor heart. Besides, I have a feeling that we may want to remain close to Frau Steinwitz.’
Gross took his leave of Werthen then, in a hurry lest Adele should become suspicious of his whereabouts and business.
‘Clarity ensues,’ Gross offered as a parting comment.
It was clear enough, Werthen thought as he made his way home through the late afternoon darkness. They had considered that a possible motive for killing Praetor might be to keep him from making even further allegations, from reaching ever higher in City Hall to uncover corruption. Now this theory had been extended to Councilman Steinwitz, as well.
Even though the councilman’s death had been determined a suicide, Werthen knew such a thing could easily be staged. Gross planned to examine police photographs of the crime scene in the morning. The revelations from Frau Steinwitz opened up an entirely new direction for their investigation.
Werthen crossed the Landesgerichtstrasse and began cutting through back lanes to reach his apartment via the shortest route. As the streets were all narrow and short, this was also the least chilly route, for the wind had come up now and whistled down the wider boulevards, reaching to the bone with its cold.
Walking up the Schmidgasse, he heard footsteps in back of him quickly approaching. He noticed that the street was empty but for him and whoever was in back of him. Turning, he caught a blow to his left cheekbone that sent him sprawling on to the cobbled street. A pair of legs straddled him, and then a boot to the kidneys made him curl like a fetus as other blows rained down upon him.
Suddenly he lashed out with his walking stick, catching his attacker in the knee with the brass globe. The man cried out in pain, and Werthen rolled away, getting to his feet.
His attacker, a hulking man in worker’s clothes, now pulled out a knife from his waistband, and Werthen, his youthful fencing training returning to him automatically, assumed a fighting pose, his walking stick held high like a foil. The man lunged at him, and Werthen parried the thrust with a blow to the man’s middle followed by another to his back as Werthen spun out of knife range.
They squared off once again, the man panting and eyeing him savagely.
‘What is it you want?’ Werthen said to him. ‘What are you after?’ But he knew the man was no common thief.
The man said nothing, but once again lunged for him. This time Werthen brought the brass globe down satisfyingly on the man’s head. It was fortunate for the villain that he was wearing a bowler hat, otherwise he would have been concussed. As it was, he stumbled to one knee for a moment, his hat going askew and showing a thick growth of coal-black hair. Then he righted the hat, let out a scream of rage and rushed at Werthen once again, catching the lawyer off guard, and slashing his overcoat with the knife. The knife tore through fabric with a swishing sound, and Werthen swirled away from his attacker, bringing the stick down upon the man’s back, this time hitting his kidneys.
Voices from down the street caught the man’s attention. Other strollers were approaching and now the hulking man snarled at him in a thick Ottakring worker’s accent:
‘You keep your nose in your own business if you know what’s good for you.’
The man glared at him for a moment, and Werthen noticed that the bridge of his nose had a large lump, as if it had been broken and poorly mended. Then the man ran off with surprising speed for one his size. Werthen knew he would never be able to catch him, not with his bad knee.
The pedestrians, a man and what appeared to be his young son, spied Werthen and his unkempt appearance, took him for
a drunk, and crossed the street away from him.
‘I repeat, it is not a profession for a gentleman. Fisticuffs in the street!’
Herr von Werthen had not touched his Fritattensuppe, a light broth with thinly cut pieces of crepe in it. Werthen’s mother, seated next to her husband at the Biedermeier dining table, cast her son a commiserating look as she had when he was a child with a bruised knee.
‘I really think you should report it,’ Berthe said.
Werthen’s account of the attack had not put her off her appetite, he noted. She left not one bit of crepe in her soup bowl. Frau Blatschky brought in the main course, Wiener Reisfleisch, a savory concoction of veal, bacon and onion pan fried and blended into cooked rice with a light tomato and paprika sauce. Truth be told, Werthen’s mouth started watering at the aroma of it as Frau Blatschky set it in the middle of the table. Nothing like a bit of a tussle to get the appetite up. Werthen felt as if he could eat the whole bowl of it.
‘Just some drunk looking for trouble,’ he said. There had been no way to conceal the welt on his cheek nor the rent in his coat, otherwise he would not have worried his family with a tale of physical attack on the streets of the capital. Nor did he really believe it was a random outrage.
Berthe helped him to a large serving of the Reisfleisch.
‘Not good for the family name,’ his father continued to bluster. ‘One would think Doktor Gross would have better sense.’
Werthen had informed them of Gross’s appearance today and of his offer to help in his investigation.
‘Doktor Gross was not there at the time of the attack,’ Berthe reminded her father-in-law. ‘And I think there are more serious consequences to worry about,’ she added sharply. ‘Karl could have been badly injured.’
Herr von Werthen reddened at this rebuke, and Werthen had to jump in quickly to avoid another family ruckus.
‘I am sure no one recognized me,’ he said with irony.
‘Thank the Lord for small favors,’ said Frau von Werthen.
Which remark made Berthe shake her head in despair of ever understanding her in-laws.
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