The Hanging Artist

by Jon Steinhagen

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  AN EXCHANGE AT DAWN

  “WELL, I’M GLAD to hear the Dierkop woman was poisoned.”

  “Hans. Don’t say that.”

  “Because had it been the other way… I couldn’t have accounted for it.”

  “Had anyone asked you, that is. And nobody would.”

  “Still. It’s a relief. Comfortable?”

  Mathilde, surrounded by pillows of every size and thickness and tucked into her bed with the blankets up to her chin, smiled.

  “As always,” she said. “Safe and sound. There’s no one who can do this like you.”

  “Good. Sleep all day if you like. I’ll be quiet.”

  “Don’t go just yet.”

  Henker sat at the foot of her bed.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “There’s been another, hasn’t there?” she asked.

  He looked down at his gloved hands and rubbed them together.

  “You know there has,” he said. “This time it’s someone famous.”

  “Whom?”

  “An actor. Christian Werdehausen.”

  She lay back on the pillows. “They’ll not let this one rest,” she said.

  “They’ve not let any of them rest,” Henker said. “But I know what you mean. The profile on this one will definitely be… higher.” He pounded his fist into his hand. “Which isn’t to say that one death is more important than another, more deserving of attention than another. It’s sickening, when you think of it, how one person’s injustice is given shorter shrift than another’s simply because of… I don’t know… obscurity? Lack of achievement? Social standing? Wealth or notoriety?”

  “What are you saying, Hans?”

  “I hardly know what I’m saying anymore,” he said. The bed creaked under his added weight. “I’ve been saying all of this hasn’t affected me, but…”

  “It happens every night, now,” she said. He nodded.

  “When will it stop?” she asked.

  “Sleep, Tillie. You know I don’t know the answer to that.”

  “I told you there needed to be more.”

  “There have.”

  “But more than this.”

  “When I start at Die Feier, I’ll be asking for three volunteers per performance. Now get some rest.”

  “But will that be enough?”

  “I don’t know,” he barked.

  Mathilde’s hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Hansel,” she said, “I’m so very… I don’t mean to press, but…”

  He patted the bed. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “I’m looking forward to the Hotel Das Gottesanbeterin,” she said, as brightly as she could. “Such luxury.”

  She noted the hint of a sad smile on her brother’s face in the pale morning light. “Yes,” he said, “if nothing else, we’ve had the money to make it all just a little bit more bearable, Tillie.”

  “How soon do we take possession of our new ‘home,’ such as it is?”

  “Monday.”

  “That quickly!”

  “I’ll be spending every ounce of today packing everything we have.”

  “Can’t we just… leave all of it here, forget about everything, let these things be someone else’s burden?”

  “No,” he said. He rose and drew the curtains. “Now, I want you to get your rest,” he said. “And, Tillie…”

  “Yes?”

  “It struck me, tonight, that perhaps our stay in Vienna… ought to be curtailed as soon as possible.”

  “But your contract at Die Feier! The money, the opportunities…”

  “Yes, yes, I’m well aware of all that,” he said, returning to her bed. She could barely see him now. “I’m thinking that the world is a big place, and the time will come when my act will have overstayed its welcome, and no one will be interested in seeing The Hanging Artist, particularly when… Well, you know…”

  “I understand,” she said. Pain pulsed at the base of her spine, and she asked him to reposition her. He did so with all the delicacy and care he could muster, as always.

  “Travel is difficult for you, I know,” he said, “but we’ll have to face it.”

  “Where to next?”

  “North to Prague, perhaps… or maybe it’s better to clear out of this area altogether. How’s your Italian? Or French? Or English?”

  “I can learn anything quickly enough,” she said.

  “And there’s always America,” he said.

  “All those people,” she said.

  “And if anyone loves sensation, it’s the Americans. We could be set for years.”

  “Do you really think it’ll be years, Hans?”

  “I hope not. But it’s best to be prepared, to have a plan.”

  “Hansel…”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you… have we reached a point where…”

  “What is it, dearest?”

  “You know what I’m trying to ask, don’t you?”

  “You’re exhausted, Tillie. This night has been a trial for you.”

  “But, Hansel… have you reconciled your feelings… when it comes to me…?”

  He hushed her.

  “You are to have no more worries,” he said. “You must believe me.”

  “Oh, I do, Hansel.”

  “I’ll never be able to forgive myself, and I’m consigned to that. Any hatred I feel is towards myself.”

  “You mustn’t.”

  “It can’t be helped. From my first thought in the morning to my final thought at night, and possibly even while I dream, although I can’t remember the last time I actually dreamed anything except silent darkness.

  “But it’s self-hate that fuels my hope, Tillie. I think it actually gives me power; I think it’s been giving me unheard-of strength. My own strength. It’s certainly given me hope, hope that there will come a time when I will call for my final volunteer.

  “Until then, we must bear it as best we can, as we have with all that life has already thrown at us.

  “So sleep without worry, Tillie. I love you.”

  On his way out the door, she called to him. “Hans?”

  “Yes?”

  “My canes. Put them a little closer to the bedside, will you?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ON THE ROAD TO SCHWECHAT

  “FOR THE LOVE of God, be careful! That last one nearly jarred all the teeth out of my skull!”

  “Let the record show that I never said I was a good driver,” Gregor said.

  “Regardless,” Franz said, “try not to aim at every hole and ditch.”

  The battered Daimler wheezed its way through Landstrasse as fast as Gregor could urge it. The insect had estimated the journey southeast to Schwechat would take them no more than an hour, but he was beginning to revise his estimate. Daylight would definitely overtake them long before that, and keep going. Perched as he was on the box of files provided by Beide and the ICPC, he could barely reach the accelerator and brake.

  “I should be wearing a hat,” Gregor said.

  “If it will help you drive better, you can have mine,” Franz said.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” Gregor said. “I’m thinking ahead to when these roads begin to fill up with traffic. Folks are in for a shock when they see me at the wheel of this thing. I’m sure you don’t want any attention drawn to us.”

  “I thought you couldn’t be seen?” Franz asked.

  “I’ve told you several times now that I started out by saying that I wasn’t sure if you would be the only person who could see me,” the giant insect said. “It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  “Plenty of people have been in your presence, who haven’t remarked on the phenomenon,” Franz said. “And I don’t think you’re the sort of thing that goes unremarked.”

  “Well, we’ll see. Hold on.”

  They rattled across a wooden bridge. Franz felt every board.

  “Do you know any shortcuts?” he asked.

 
“Yes, but it would require us to travel over farmland, and I don’t think you or I or this automobile is equipped for that. No, Landstrasse to Erdberg to Simmering to Schwechat is the fastest, safest, and best-paved route I know.”

  “Very well.”

  “And while we’re on the subject—and knowing that it’s probably neither my place nor the best time to ask, which would’ve been right before we left—is this journey completely necessary?”

  Franz stopped himself before saying I’m not certain. He was certain in that his theory, if it were to be borne out, could be verified in Schwechat. Beide had left him an envelope containing two things: the name of the land agent in Schwechat he had telephoned—a man by the name of Gauss—and a brief note that Yitzchak was being questioned about the murder of Christian Werdehausen, who had perished the night before in the same manner as all of the previous victims, with the exception of Leo Kropold’s, whose death he was now sure was either a mockery or a homage.

  The news of Yitzchak’s detainment had nearly caused Franz to postpone the trip to Schwechat, but he reasoned that there wasn’t anything he could do to help his friend other than to pursue his line of investigation and, with luck, present a solution to Beide that would explain all that had occurred over the past two months, no matter how incredible it would sound.

  And Franz knew it would sound incredible, if his suspicions were correct. Incredible and improbable.

  Not impossible. He had learned over the last few days that nothing was impossible.

  And yet if the answer to the riddle of The Hanging Artist and the strange, horrific murders that had taken place was what he feared, the improbable would become, after all, probable.

  They continued to rattle down a lonely road that cut through a sparse forest. They had yet to reach Erdberg, and the sun was on the horizon, a ribbon of pale orange.

  “You were telling me about Ulla Stach,” Franz said, “before our spines were nearly snapped in half.”

  “Where had I left off?” Gregor asked.

  “You told me about her family, and I don’t think the answer lies with them,” Franz said. “And, quite frankly, I’d rather not have to face a still-grieving mother. You started saying something about a law firm.”

  “Oh, yes,” Gregor said. “Ulla Stach had only been employed as a secretary at a law firm for five days before her death. Not just as any secretary, mind you, but as the private secretary of the head of the law firm, a gentleman by the name of Werner Gauss.”

  “Wait a minute—isn’t Gauss the land agent we’re going to see?”

  “The land agent is Georg Gauss. Werner is his cousin. Any significance in that?”

  “It’ll have to be taken into account. Anything further on Ulla Stach?”

  “Only that the files noted her family had been very proud of her new employment. A few girls had interviewed for the position, but Ulla was chosen.”

  “Was that surprising?”

  “From the way everyone seemed to talk about it, yes, but no reason for the surprise is noted.”

  “These other girls—friends of Ulla’s?”

  “Yes, all three. Do you want their names?”

  “I might. God, if I have to track down three women… I haven’t the time. What about Walter Furst?”

  “No sex stuff, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “Not even a hint of it, a suggestion?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what was the disposition of his estate?”

  “All of his money went to his wife.”

  “What of his business?”

  “Reverted to his partner in the event of his death. So, as he died, the partner acquired full control of the business.”

  “The partner’s name?”

  “Josef Kramski.”

  “Bachelor? Married man?”

  “Married.”

  “Please tell me he resides in Schwechat, too.”

  “He does indeed.”

  “I think we’ll visit him, too… but not directly.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean that I think I shouldn’t attempt to be up front with these people. I think the way to piece things together accurately is to avoid coming right out and asking the two questions that matter the most right now.”

  “What are the two questions?”

  “I’ll come to that shortly,” Franz said. “Now, what about Emmanuel Buchner?”

  “The custodian.”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s nothing much about him. Bit of a dimwit. Not married. Lived in a boiler room.”

  Franz frowned.

  “That’s all?”

  “A married sister who hadn’t seen him in two years.”

  “Why not?”

  “The files didn’t say. There was a note that she didn’t show too much remorse at the news of his death, however.”

  “Any reason why?”

  “None given. And yet she practically lived within shouting distance of the school at which Buchner was employed.”

  “Was the sister older or younger than Buchner?”

  “Older, by five years. Buchner was thirty-two, so do the math.”

  “Any children?”

  “Buchner? Or the sister?”

  “The sister, obviously.”

  “Three daughters.”

  “Ages of the daughters?”

  “I’ll have to look. They’d have to be young, though. What, exactly, are you looking for, Franz?”

  “Eyes on the road, please!”

  Gregor swerved to miss a milestone.

  “I’m trying to discern,” Franz said, trying to relax, “why any of these people would be better off dead.”

  “Better off dead?”

  “Well, perhaps that’s not the best way to put it,” Franz said. “And really, who’s to say anyone is ‘better off’ dead?”

  “I used to know a few people.”

  “Let me put it another way,” Franz said, doing his best to sort out his scrambled thoughts and fight off fatigue at the same time. “I want to find out if there is any reason someone would have found life better with Ulla, Walter, and Emmanuel… and all of the other victims … out of the way. Permanently.”

  The Daimler chose that moment to slow down of its own accord.

  “What’s happening?” Franz asked.

  “Either this thing is coming to a halt,” Gregor said, “or the scenery is taking its own sweet time to pass.”

  As it turned out, they were going uphill. Gregor smashed the accelerator over and over again.

  “Don’t do that,” Franz said. “That can’t be good for the engine.”

  “Says the guy who doesn’t know how to drive.”

  “I’ll push,” Franz said. Gregor held him back.

  “You weight ninety pounds soaking wet,” Gregor said. “It’d be like someone trying to move a hippopotamus with a playing card. I’ll push.”

  “But who’s going to drive?” Franz asked, the cold sweat returning.

  “You are,” Gregor said, sliding off the box and landing in the road. “Hurry up,” he said.

  Franz slid over to take the wheel. “I can’t drive this thing!”

  “Keep your right foot on that thing there,” Gregor said, pointing, “and let the automobile do the rest. All you’re really doing is steering the thing, not driving it.”

  “Get back in here!”

  “You’re doing fine. Just keep the thing on the road, that’s not so hard.”

  He heard Gregor grunt as he shoved the automobile up the incline.

  Franz clung to the steering wheel as if it were a life preserver and prayed all the prayers he knew.

  And some he didn’t.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  HISTORIES

  “A GREAT LOSS,” said Werner Gauss. “Everything about her was excellent.”

  The young woman in the chair opposite Franz cleared her throat, but otherwise kept writing in her notebook.

  “Fraulein
Ascher’s cartoonish way of butting in,” Gauss said, “is meant to imply that I should edit my remarks to leave no impression that I am referring to the late Miss Stach’s physical appearance.” He looked at Fraulein Ascher. “Every word, Fraulein Ascher. Even those. And I’ll thank you not to interrupt.”

  Franz did not particularly like the lawyer, but he did not particularly dislike him, either. The man was a self-righteous pillar of society with an overriding desire to let everyone know his scruples and morals were pristine. They might have been; they might not have been. His private secretary’s none-too-subtle interruption suggested she either knew otherwise or was concerned about the impression her employer was making on the visitor. Franz directed his next question to her.

  “Actually, Fraulein Ascher,” he said, “I understand you were Fraulein Stach’s friend. Do you agree that everything about her was excellent?”

  Gauss scowled at the young woman, but nodded to her that she could answer.

  “We were classmates at the institute, Herr Inspector,” she said, then turned to Gauss. “Am I to write down my remarks, too?”

  “Everything,” Gauss said. “I’ve made it a habit of ensuring that a record be made of every conversation that goes on in this office,” he said to Franz. “You understand, I’m sure.”

  “But you weren’t exactly friends, then?” Franz asked the private secretary.

  “We were friendly,” Fraulein Ascher said, writing as she spoke.

  “Were you happy for her?”

  “In which regard, sir?”

  “When she became your predecessor in this position.”

  “Ah. Of course. It is a great honor to work for Herr Gauss.”

  Franz felt this last bit was said for her employer’s benefit, and the man duly puffed out his vest.

  “Fraulein Ascher, of course,” Gauss said, “was my second choice. Which is not to say that she wasn’t better than Fraulein Stach.”

  “Then how did you choose between the two?” Franz asked.

  “Fraulein Stach could type seventy words per minute,” Gauss replied. “Fraulein Ascher could type sixty-seven.”

  “I can now type seventy-two words per minute,” Fraulein Ascher said.

  Both seemed very pleased with this fact. Franz tried another approach.

  “Then you didn’t really socialize with Ulla?” he asked the secretary.