“Not to me.” Berg removed his coat and offered it to the butler. “Please?”
Haslinger tapped his foot, then took the coat. “What do you want?”
“Frau Gross had a personal chambermaid. I’d like to talk to her.”
“She is busy.”
“Then interrupt her. She may have been one of the last people to see Frau Gross alive. After all, her mistress wasn’t feeling well when she went to bed. Maybe she brought Frau Gross some tea and a biscuit to relieve her stomach.”
“And why would that be important?”
“To establish a time schedule, for one thing. I wouldn’t bother if it weren’t important.”
Haslinger hefted Berg’s coat. “Wait here, Inspektor. And I do mean wait here and not in the great room.”
The butler snorted, leaving Berg alone with his thoughts. It was unlikely that Frau Gross’s chambermaid had served her anything last night. Frau Gross wasn’t sick. She’d gone out. Berg had hopes that the maid might know something about the secret man. He stopped his musings when he saw Haslinger approaching. The coat was gone: a good sign that he was being allowed to stay.
“I have arranged for you to meet with Fräulein Astrid Mauer in Frau Gross’s withdrawing room. She is understandably upset; therefore, please be brief.” He looked at Berg’s shoes and sniffed disdainfully. “May I clean those for you, sir?” He glanced at the immaculate white marble floors. “Now?”
“Too kind.” Berg removed his shoes and handed them to the butler, who took them with grave trepidation. “Thank you in advance.”
Again Haslinger sniffed. “This way, Herr Inspektor.”
Berg had expected the young wife’s parlor to be dark and heavy and out-of-date Victorian. But of course, that wasn’t the image painted of Anna by her brother. The withdrawing room was very much in keeping with the few facts he had gleaned about her—a Kabarett girl who had flirted with Kommunismus. The space was avant-garde and done up in excellent taste.
The silk wallpaper had a sage-green background with hand-painted twigs of cherry blossoms at random intervals. For seating, Frau Gross had chosen a gilt wood-frame and tapestry suite: a love seat, a chair, and an ottoman. The upholstery was a swirl of multihued oranges, greens, and golds, Japanese inspired but French executed. Between two tall mullioned windows sat a bombé palissander-veneered commode inlaid with Macassar ebony flowers and mother-of-pearl blossoms. The artwork on the walls included Cubist interpretations: a figure in gold and greens by Aleksandr Archipenko, a woodcut on Japanese paper by Walter Dexel, a mélange of objects by Pablo Picasso, and a red sphere painted on aluminum by László Moholy-Nagy.
An older woman stood next to the Dexel, teary-eyed but composed. Garbed in a black uniform with a crisp white apron, she appeared to be in her forties with a trim figure but a wrinkled face. Loose skin sat above and below her eyes, and bunched at her mouth. Her ears were quite prominent. Despite her deficits, she cut a handsome image. Her chest was ample, and with a little more rouge and a lot more lipstick and flash, she could have been a Madam.
“Grüss Gott,” she said quietly.
“Guten Tag.” Berg bowed his head. “Fräulein Mauer? Inspektor Berg here.”
“It is Astrid.” She tried out a weak smile. “Please sit, Inspektor. May I offer you something to drink?”
“Thank you, but no.” A pause. “If you continue to stand, so will I.”
They both sat. Berg chose the settee; the woman rested on the ottoman, her spine straight, her hands in her lap.
“I would like to ask you a few questions, Fräulein Mauer.”
The woman waited.
“Herr Gross informed me that his wife took to bed early two nights ago.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what time, Fräulein Mauer?”
“Early. No later than nine.”
The woman’s eyes lowered to her lap as she spoke, a sign that she was being less than honest. Berg nodded. “Nine, you say.”
“Yes.”
“Herr Gross said around eight.”
“Then I’m sure my recollection is wrong.”
“Mistaken, Fräulein Mauer, mistaken.”
The woman smiled. “Mistaken, then.”
“You were Frau Gross’s personal maid, yes?” Berg asked.
“Yes.”
“And how long have you worked for Frau Gross?”
“From the beginning of the marriage.” Her eyes moistened. “I had worked for Frau Gross—the elder Frau Gross—before coming to Herr Anton’s home.”
“And your relationship with your patron?”
“It is . . .” A pause and a clearing of the throat. “It was very good, I think.”
“Tell me your impressions of the young lady.”
The chambermaid replied, “Why are you interested in my opinions? They mean nothing.”
“Perhaps they mean nothing to certain people, but to me they mean much.”
The woman smiled. “I was brought here by Herr Anton Gross. A lovelier man does not exist. I think he has a problem, though—his mother. She became Anna’s problem as well. While I have only the utmost respect for the elder Frau Gross, she can be opinionated. That can be hard on a new bride. And when the man is put in the middle—between mother and wife—oh dear, it can be very trying.”
“Mother-in-law and daughter-in-law did not get along?”
Astrid’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Occasionally words were exchanged. There were problems from the start. Herr Gross is an upstanding citizen, but very conservative. Anna . . . Frau Gross was a liberal. . . .” The voice was even more hushed. “A free spirit. While Herr Gross was tolerant of her youth, Frau Gross was not.”
She paused.
“I talk too much.” She fidgeted. “You mustn’t tell anyone this. I would lose my position for gossiping. It’s just that Anna was so dear. . . .”
“Fräulein Mauer, tell me about Frau Gross’s friends.”
“Call me Astrid.”
“Very well, Astrid. Who came to call on Frau Gross?”
“Frau Hultner . . . Frau Grün . . . they live close by.”
“These women. They are your mistress’s age?”
“Yes, I think. Frau Hultner maybe is a little older.”
“Any other friends?”
“Many, but the names escape me right now.”
“And men?”
The woman bristled. “Of course not.”
Berg let the words resonate. Then he leaned over. “And you’re positive of this?”
“Yes!” More fidgeting. “Yes!”
“You were close to Frau Gross, yes?”
“Of course.”
“So if Anna had a secret liaison, you would have known?”
“Frau Gross was a proper wife, Inspektor. If I implied otherwise, I am deeply sorry.”
“Ah, yes. And if I mistook your words, I am deeply sorry. It’s just that whoever did this . . . stole her life from her. This animal should not go unpunished. You agree with this, I’m sure.”
“Certainly.” Astrid gazed at her lap. “I adored Frau Gross, but that doesn’t mean I knew everything about her private life.”
“So it is conceivable that she might have had friends that you were unaware of?”
“Of course.”
Berg decided to get specific. From his jacket, he pulled out the sketch drawn by him under Gerhart Leit’s guidance: pencil lines that featured a man with long, thin features and deep-set eyes. He showed the rendering to Astrid, and immediately she gasped.
“You recognize him, Astrid?” Berg asked.
It was useless for the woman to deny it. Playing very smart, she said nothing.
“Maybe he has been to the house?” Berg suggested.
Silence.
“Come, come. This was your mistress. You owe her your loyalty, even in death. Especially in death.”
“I was always her staunchest supporter!” the woman protested. Then tears leaked from her eyes.
“O
f course you were,” Berg soothed. “You were no doubt the only woman in the world whom Anna could trust with her secrets. Please, Astrid. Tell me about this gentleman.”
Her voice was hushed. “It was a while ago . . . two months . . . maybe even more. He called on her twice. The second time I asked Frau Gross who the gentleman was. She told me he was a politician. When I asked his party, she was very vague.”
“One of Hitler’s boys?”
“Good heavens, no!” Astrid cried. “Just the opposite. A Kommunist. He spoke with an ever-so-slight accent.”
“Russian?”
“Maybe. They met in this very room while Herr Gross was at work . . . on a Wednesday in the afternoon . . . when Haslinger was off. They talked of politics and revolution. Frau Gross made me swear that I would not betray her secret to her husband, who was very conservative.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t only politics that was on their minds, Astrid?”
“Positive. I heard talking from behind the doors. A spirited discussion, not the sounds of infidelity. There was nothing improper about it.”
“But you weren’t there the entire time.”
“No.” Astrid blushed. “But there was nothing between them to suggest anything other than politics.”
For the first time, Berg considered that Anna’s death might have been motivated by something other than sex. “And this man in the sketch . . . he looks like the gentleman who visited Anna?”
“Yes.”
“And do you have a name for this man?”
“Frau Gross didn’t introduce me.”
“But surely he must have announced himself either verbally or with a calling card.”
Astrid thought for a moment. “Yes . . . the first time he did bring a card.”
“Did Frau Gross keep her calling cards?”
“Some.” Astrid rose in one stiff movement. “Give me a moment, bitte.”
She came back several minutes later with a stack of calling cards. As Berg flipped through them, he said, “Could you help me identify some of these names?”
“Of course.” Astrid stood by his side. “He is Anna’s uncle. That one is a cousin, another cousin, a friend, another cousin, an aunt, another cousin, another cousin—”
“She had quite a few male cousins who visited her,” Berg remarked.
“Frau Gross was a vivacious woman.” Astrid took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “She charmed everyone who met her.”
Berg recognized a name: Elisabeth Hultner. “This is her friend who lived nearby?”
“Yes.”
A visit would be in order. “May I keep the card?”
“Of course.”
Berg riffled through the stack until he came upon a name that Astrid could not identify: Robert Schick.
Fräulein Mauer stared at the spelling. “I don’t remember him.”
Berg said, “Perhaps this is our Russian?”
Astrid stared at the card. “Schick isn’t a Russian name.”
“No, it isn’t. May I keep the card?”
“If you think it will help. Again, I want to remind you that all of Frau Gross’s visitors were respectable people.”
“And is there any reason to think that this man—Herr Schick—is anything less than a gentleman?”
“I think he must be a gentleman worthy of the highest regard. I just don’t remember him.” She tapped her forehead. “An old woman.”
“I don’t think so.” Berg smiled at her and pocketed the cards. “I think you remember things very well.”
They exchanged glances. She stood up. “I will see you out.” She glanced at Berg’s feet, and her eyes widened. A smile played on her lips.
“Haslinger was kind enough to clean my boots,” Berg said. “I don’t think he fancied my footprints on the clean white marble.”
“Haslinger is meticulous. I will get them for you.”
“Thank you.”
She returned five minutes later holding footwear that Berg barely recognized. Astrid said, “Here you are. I hope the job is satisfactory.”
“They have never looked so good.”
Berg sat down to put them on.
Investigating rich people had its perquisites.
• • •
THE WHITE-HAIRED BUTLER turned the calling card over and over. He wasn’t tall, but his thinness made him look that way. “Frau Hultner has retired to her chamber.”
Berg pushed. “It is important.”
The servant glanced at Berg’s face, then at his shoes. “One moment.”
He closed the door, leaving Berg to wait in the biting cold. He bounced up and down to keep warm. He rubbed his arms. He wrapped his wool scarf around his face. At least the bastard could have invited him inside to wait like a human instead of a horse. When the valet finally came back, it felt as if he had been gone an hour. In fact, it had been just under five minutes.
“You may come in now,” he told Berg.
Shivering, Berg stepped across the threshold. “Danke.”
“This way.” The butler led him into a compact, French-style withdrawing room. The pastel blue room framed oval wall panels depicting idyllic outdoor scenes of nymphs and satyrs. The ornate furniture was thin and delicate, more eighteenth than nineteenth century. A rococo writing desk sat in front of a multipaned window, and a small harpsichord was placed next to a chevalier mirror. Berg chose to sit on a pink divan, the most substantial piece of furniture available to him. His teeth were chattering uncontrollably.
“Would you like some tea, Herr Inspektor?”
“Bitte.”
Ten minutes later, a chambermaid brought in steaming-hot tea. It was cold by the time Frau Hultner finally decided to make an appearance. The woman wasn’t so much lovely as she was well appointed—lissome and manicured, with chestnut hair cut in a pleasing manner. She wore a forest-green suit trimmed in sable about the collar and cuffs as well as around the hem of the jacket. Her shapely legs were encased in silk stockings, black pumps on her feet. Her skin was pale, although her cheeks were rouged. Her lips had been painted as well. Her eyes were the reason Berg knew something was wrong. The blue orbs were red-rimmed.
Her voice was throaty. “Grüss Gott.”
Immediately, he stood. “Inspektor Axel Berg here.”
“Yes, I read your card. More tea?” Without waiting for a response, she rang a bell. “I apologize for keeping you waiting.”
“No, Frau Hultner, it is I who must apologize for my intrusion. I wouldn’t have come unless I felt it was absolutely necessary.”
“It is about Frau Gross? Anna?”
Berg nodded.
“Such a horrible thing. I can’t stop thinking . . .” Her eyes filled with tears. “The poor, poor dear.” She shook her head. “That could have been anyone. That could have been me!”
Berg regarded her. “Why would you say that?”
The eyes zeroed in on his. “Do you know how many times I have walked through the park?”
“Many, I am sure. But do you walk alone at night?”
Elisabeth gasped. “Anna was alone when it happened?”
“Possibly. I know she wasn’t with her husband or brother.”
Elisabeth looked the other way.
Berg jumped in. “We think she might have gone to the theater. One of the owners remembers seeing her accompanied by a man.”
“Who?” Elisabeth asked anxiously.
“That is precisely why I have intruded on your privacy. I was hoping that you could provide that answer.”
Tears began to fall as Elisabeth shook her head. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”
Berg looked at her intently. “Please, Frau Hultner. I know you don’t want to besmirch her memory. I know she was your friend. But I ask you to reconsider. It is a moral and legal necessity to punish the wrongdoer, even at the expense of Frau Gross’s memory.”
“I would tell you if I knew.” She looked at him with wet eyes. “But I don’t.” The chambermaid came in with a
fresh, steaming teapot. “Not for me, Isolde.” She looked at Berg. “Can I freshen your cup?”
“Danke.”
Isolde poured him a new cup. Berg sipped delicately, breathing in the hot, fragrant air. “Perhaps you didn’t know a name . . . but maybe you knew that there was someone new in her life?”
“No, Anna was much too private to divulge such intimacy.”
“But as a woman . . . you could tell.”
At last, she relented. “I suspected.”
“I thought so.” Berg smiled. “What made you suspicious?”
Elisabeth laughed. “She was happy.”
“Ah . . . Her marriage was not a . . . peaceful one?”
Elisabeth sighed and slipped on short gloves. “It wasn’t filled with bitter rancor as far as I could tell. Anna was always . . . pleasant. But she suddenly turned lighthearted. Like a young girl instead of a married woman.”
“She was a young girl.”
“Who was trying very hard to be mature. She took her responsibilities very seriously. That was the Anna I knew in the beginning. Then suddenly . . . it was as if a cloud lifted. Gone was the good wife, replaced by a young girl again. If that wasn’t love, then I don’t know what love is.”
“Maybe it was because she was expecting.”
“She was?” Again, Elisabeth gasped. “Oh, that is awful! Poor, poor Anna. Poor Anton. She never said a word.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t talk about this anymore. It is too upsetting. Furthermore, I must go meet my mother. I don’t want her to see me in a state. She is old and worries too much.”
“One more question if I may?”
“Hurry.”
“Have you ever met a gentleman named Robert Schick? He may be Russian.”
She thought a moment. “No. Was that Frau Gross’s friend?”
“Maybe.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he was Russian. Of late, she began to talk politics . . . to the point of being boring. I’m sorry. I really must leave.”
“Thank you for your time. May I walk you to the streetcar or secure you a taxi?”
“I have an automobile, actually. Can I take you to your destination, Inspektor?”
“I am not too far from the station house.”
“But it is cold outside. I am happy to take you to the station house . . . as my civic duty.” Elisabeth picked up a brown leather purse, extracted a silk scarf, then snapped it shut. She covered her hair and wound the scarf around her chin. “I insist. Let’s go.”
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