The Strangler's Waltz

by Richard Lord

  “Karl-Heinz …”

  “And did you notice his hands when he was here? Pretty big, those hands of his. Enough to strangle a woman the size of Frau von Klettenburg.”

  “And what about Maria Kolenska? Why would he kill her? She wasn’t one of his patients.”

  ‘Well, maybe he … he listens all day to women telling him these really sexy things, he gets himself all worked up, and he goes down to the district where none of the women will know him, the eminent doctor, and tries to find some relief down there. And Maria does something that gets him really angry, so he … loses control. Wouldn’t be the first time a very respectable citizen commits a terrible crime, would it?”

  “No, it wouldn’t. But I cannot accept that Doktor Freud would be our strangler. I just can’t believe it, and I won’t embarrass myself by hauling him in here for a third degree.”

  “OK, so you get your ‘excused-from-serious-interrogation’ pass for the good doctor, and I get mine for the Turk.”

  Stebbel took a deep sigh. He knew that deals like these did not constitute good police work. He felt that eventually the decision to let both of these men off without investigation might hurt them, but he reluctantly agreed. This is what a partnership between two inspectors entailed. Which is why he wasn’t all that enthusiastic about the idea of partnerships.

  After a short time, he turned back to Dörfner and fixed him with a stare. Dörfner wanted to respond, with either a burst of words or an even more rigid stare, but knew that he couldn’t. The subtext of that stare told him once again that Stebbel was the senior partner; this had been established by the district commander when he first teamed them up. So instead of a stare or a torrent of words, Dörfner simply shook his head. Then, as usual when he was trapped in frustration, he rubbed the back of his head with his open palm.

  Stebbel knew that he could now dictate the full terms of how they were to proceed. But he also knew that a police partnership, like a marriage, meant making compromises that cut deep into your soul. He folded up his stare, turned slightly to the left and nodded.

  “Alright. We don’t bring in either Doktor Freud or the Turk.” He rode a long breath. “Not for the time being anyway.” Dörfner took his hand away from the back of his head and stifled a smile.

  An hour or two later, after tensions had cleared, Dörfner presented Stebbel a peace offering: a small packet of chocolates that he knew his partner was fond of. He then turned the topic to the days ahead.

  “You have any plans for the weekend, Steb?”

  “Nothing solid. A friend has tickets for the theatre on Saturday; some comedy. But I was thinking of getting away, maybe a couple days in a pension outside of town. I guess I’ll wait until Friday afternoon, see what mood I’m in then.”

  “Yeah, that sounds good. Look, you want to do me a favor? You’re the senior partner in this team. Could you assign me to full weekend duty. Maybe going around Spittelberg, questioning the local talent, even doing research here.”

  “How is that a favor?”

  “It will give me a good excuse. You see, my wife wants me to come down to Steiermark for the weekend. One of her uncles is having his 70th birthday and there’s going to be this big family celebration for him. I just do not want to go there.”

  “So you want me to be a callous senior partner, assign you to duty, and rescue you from that family obligation?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Alright. Herr Inspector, you are hereby ordered to cancel all personal plans for the weekend and devote yourself to further, unspecified investigations of the strangler murders.”

  “Thank you, Herr Inspector. I knew I could rely on a fellow grass widower.”

  That was another similarity between Dörfner and Stebbel: they were both grass widowers – or, as German-speakers say, Strohwitwer. Strohwitwer are married men whose wives are away for a while, giving them a license to behave a bit more like unmarried men. Or more than a bit more.

  The term is still used more frequently in the German-speaking world, but was particularly widespread in the Austrian Empire of the time, where divorce was, until 1934, not legally possible.

  The wives of grass widowers could disappear for the weekend, or be visiting the family for a week, a few weeks, even a month. But both Dörfner and Stebbel were long-term grass widows. Frau Dörfner was back in her hometown in Steiermark, Austria, while Frau Stebbel was many miles away in Slovenia.

  Irina Stebbel was a native of Slovenia, which at that time was still a far southwestern protuberance of the Austrian Empire. A beauty, with dark hair framing an oval-shaped, becomingly pale face, she had moved to Vienna in 1903 to study Mathematics at the university. That’s where she met the still charming Julian Stebbel, as suave and polished as any Viennese swell, even though he himself was from Innsbruck.

  The two fell in love quickly, and at the end of Irina’s first year at university, they married. Sometime in her second year of studies, she took a leave of absence, from which she had never returned. For the next few years, both Stebbels kept saying she was going to rejoin the university soon, but eventually it became all too clear this would not happen.

  Her leave of absence, recommended by a physician and approved by the university authorities, resulted from what was described as a “nervous condition”. Starting in their second year of marriage, Irina’s behavior had become steadily more erratic.

  She was finally diagnosed as being “neurasthenic”. This was a catch-all term in that toddler period of psychology for any illness that was not too overt or violent. The doctors saw Frau Stebbel’s case as a classic form of the illness: she suffered from chronic physical and mental fatigue and often found herself locked in the dark cell of depression.

  While two of her doctors felt that she should stay in Vienna and be admitted to a clinic there which specialized in the treatment of “neurasthenic females”, her husband and her own family decided that it would be better if she returned to Slovenia to be treated in an institution there, not far from her hometown.

  Julian took the long, wrenching journey with her and then stayed at her side for two weeks. At the end of that time, he insisted that he had to return to Vienna and his own university studies, which had been disrupted by her illness. He would return during the term breaks, he said, and when he finally took his first degree, he would bring Irina and her younger sister back to Vienna with him.

  Stebbel officially dropped out of university and started his career with the constabulary the following year, and except for repeated trips to Slovenia, he did not resume his married life with Irina. In recent years, his trips down to the Adriatic coast had become less and less frequent.

  The marriage saga of Karl-Heinz and Hannah Dörfner was much more prosaic. Dörfner met his wife when he was 17 and she was 16. In a relationship fueled mainly by adolescent lust on both sides, they became very close – for a while. When he left Steiermark to do his military service, they made the typical young couple’s commitments to each other.

  Every time Dörfner received leave from the military, he would hop the first train back home and spend much of his leave time with his Hannah. Two months after returning to duty from one of these leaves, Karl-Heinz received a sloppy letter telling him that Hannah was “in the family way”.

  An engagement by mail followed and on his next leave, Karl-Heinz and Hannah were married in the local church. The priest officiating the ceremony had to keep from laughing a few times, which actually cracked up the bridegroom. The young man had to make several attempts to get through his marriage vows without mistakes or laughter.

  Their son Eugen was born not a half a year later, and a daughter, Clarissa, followed the next year. When Dörfner received his discharge from the army and secured a post with the Viennese police, the family joined him in the imperial capital.

  But Hannah Dörfner was a small-town girl through and through, and she quickly acquired a resentment of the big city where everything was available. Thoroughly unhappy, she wanted to return w
ith the children to their hometown. Karl-Heinz was himself not very happy with married life, so he agreed to her request. He also promised that as soon as he made enough of a reputation in the capital that he could get a high-ranking job back home, he’d resign from the Viennese police and join her and the kids back in Steiermark.

  But even as he made this promise, he realized it had little likelihood of ever being kept. Karl-Heinz had grown all too fond of Vienna and its many vices and had no desire to go back to the place that he had spent so much energy getting out of. He made frequent trips to see the family – far more regular than Stebbel’s trips to Slovenia – but had no wish to stay longer than he did.

  Neither of these arrangements was uncommon in the Austro-Hungarian Empire in its last years. No one in the police department or in Vienna’s smart society found it strange or distasteful that Stebbel and Dörfner lived apart from the wives on a semi-permanent basis. In fact, their superiors in the department felt it was actually an advantage, as wives were known to hinder investigative work for top inspectors. As one senior official put it, “Wolves who travel with their mates rarely make the best hunters.”

  Chapter 18

  Adolf Hitler was again returning from a client in the city center. This time, though, he chose a different route. He was not going to go anywhere near that alley again after nightfall.

  He had had more success that afternoon, selling half of the paintings he brought along. Now, as he trudged along, tired and cold, Hitler decided that he could splurge a little and catch the tram back to the hostel. He turned and headed back down Laxenburgerstrasse to the tram stop.

  The streetlights on that stretch of Laxenburgerstrasse were out again. Already feeling less tired because of the decision to take the tram, he let his thoughts drift off into plans for redesigning a row of buildings in his district, just south of the hostel. Suddenly, his train of thought was snapped – he thought he heard footsteps from behind. Heading towards him.

  He concentrated and started listening intently. No, he wasn’t imagining anything; there clearly was someone coming up behind him. And the footsteps were heavy, like those a burly man might make. Hitler increased the pace of his walk just a little, then a little more. But even as he sped up, it seemed that the person behind him was also increasing his pace. How fast could a burly man walk?

  Hitler’s breathing became heavier and he peered down the street. How far was that damned tram stop? Were there others waiting there, or nearby?

  Until that moment, Hitler had been reluctant to reach for the knife in his coat pocket. But now he was sure he needed it. He reached into his right pocket and felt around. But where was the knife? Scheisse – had he lost it somewhere?

  His mind started racing now. Had he taken it out at any time during the day? Or the day before? But this was a hell of a time to make that discovery. He reached in once more, more deeply, and slipped his hand into a corner wedge. There it was. He carefully pulled it towards the top of the pocket. As he and his follower moved into a more lighted area of the street, Hitler took a full grasp of the knife handle. He was surprised at how good it felt, how reassuring. He could almost feel confident, though he was still scared. He could now hear the footsteps moving even faster, closing the distance on him. He clutched the handle more securely and eased it halfway out of his pocket.

  Near the corner, he suddenly stepped back and off to the side. He turned on the person who was almost even with him by then. He stared fiercely, the knife ready to slash away. It was a man, a large man … but it was not the killer he had collided with that evening two weeks ago.

  The man turned and looked at Hitler, confused. Then he saw that this strange, frail fellow was holding something in his right hand and guessed that it was some kind of weapon.

  Realizing this, his face stiffened with fear. He shouted out, “Are you crazy?” and started moving quickly in the opposite direction from where Hitler stood. This accusation angered Hitler, and that sense of anger flared in his face. He spat out a retort. “You’d better watch yourself, that’s all. Don’t go sneaking up on people in the dark.”

  The other man just shook his head and continued walking off, though now even more quickly, almost at a jog.

  Hitler felt embarrassed at what had just transpired. But he also felt rather proud of himself. He realized that he had not been afraid to grab the knife when he felt threatened and, more importantly, that he had been quite ready to use that knife. In fact, he was perhaps seconds away from having thrust the blade into the man’s midsection.

  He was glad that he didn’t have to use the knife in any sudden street combat, but he was also relieved to know that he could use if it were necessary. Life was a struggle, after all, and only those who were ready and willing to take part in the struggle could expert to thrive. He was now clearly one of them.

  Then he realized that he was sweating, despite the light chill in the night air. He yanked an almost clean handkerchief from his trousers pocket and wiped his face. He took a few soothing breaths and looked around. The tram stop was within view. He would certainly have a good ride back to Brigittenau.

  Chapter 19

  Less than a week after the murder of Maria Kolenska, a sudden chill swept back into Vienna. The temperatures that evening dictated that people bundle up a bit. This also meant that fewer potential customers made their way to the city’s streetwalker zone. Some of Spittelberg’s narrow streets were virtually empty, as only a reduced corps of prostitutes turned up for work that evening and the few intrepid men driven by uncomplicated lusts produced an unfavorable ratio for those women out there looking for customers.

  One of the women, trying to make the evening financially worthwhile, made an unfortunate choice. Following a few rejected pitches, she approached one man who was not there for the standard offering, but had something much more sinister in mind. Within moments of making her sales pitch, she was dead.

  It was again strangulation, similar in mode and traces as the two earlier murders. This was now looking more and more like part of a series, and the atmosphere was about to get very heated and quite unpleasant in Vienna’s police presidium.

  This time, the victim was a local woman, a former factory worker named Gertrud Prestel. Frau Prestel had been married for a few years, but her husband suddenly took off and left no forwarding address, only a stack of unpaid bills. (Some accounts had him going to America, others claimed he had moved to Sardinia and taken up sheep farming.) Not long after she had lost her husband, she also lost her job. And soon, she was looking at losing her flat as well.

  To support herself, she had taken to the streets and been able to earn survival money by ardently offering her body to strange men with limited amounts of money to pay. Evidently, one of the strange men she was about to offer her body to abruptly pushed her against a wall and proceeded to brutally strangle her. At the police morgue the next day, Doktor Gressler noted that the neck bruises were quite similar to the two earlier cases, though this time, they were even uglier.

  There was also a large purple bruise on her right thigh. Doktor Gressler surmised that the victim had put up some resistance, and the killer had rammed his knee against her thigh, then shoved her against the wall to finish his task. And although it was not Gressler’s job to make such a leap, he was pretty sure all three murders were the work of the same man.

  Stebbel and Dörfner listened to Gressler, glanced back at the victim’s corpse one more time, then thanked the doctor for his work and his thorough report. They already knew that the serious problem on their slate had just become much more serious.

  * * *

  Stebbel sat at his desk, a morose glower on his face and a newspaper spread out in front of him. He reached for his coffee cup, but put it down without taking another sip. He’d already had enough bitterness that morning.

  When Dörfner shuffled into the office a short time later, Stebbel looked up sympathetically. “Have you seen this?” he asked as he shifted the paper around for Dörfner to read
the oversized headline. “DOES VIENNA NOW HAVE HER OWN JACK THE RIPPER?”

  Dörfner picked up the paper, glanced at the headline and the first few lines of the story. He then clucked disapprovingly and threw the paper back onto the desk.

  “I wouldn’t expect anything better from the Neue Freie Presse. They’re just a bunch of greasy sensationalists. They love to stir up trouble and make a lot of money while they do it. You want to talk about dirty whores …” he pointed to the paper, “these are the worst of them.”

  “Maybe so,” said Stebbel. “But they have one of the largest readerships in the city. In all of Austria actually.” He turned the paper around and glared again at the headline. “This is not good. And I’m sure we’re going to find out very soon how not good it is.”

  Stebbel was quite prophetic. Half an hour later, a young desk officer came to tell them that District Commander Schollenberg would like to see them in his office at 10:45.

  * * *

  Sitting in the District Commander’s office, Dörfner and Stebbel were trying very hard not to look as uncomfortable as they felt. District Commander Schollenberg was tossing out shreds of small talk to fill the anxious moments while they waited for Senior Inspector Rautz to join them. He finally arrived fifteen minutes late. As soon as he had apologized and taken his seat, Schollenberg leapt into the sole reason for this hastily called meeting.

  With this third victim, the public was now becoming quite concerned about the strangler. The press was, of course, having a field day with the events, and that meant all the popular newspapers. And those two developments meant that Vienna’s political leadership had also become very concerned. The politicians still had faith in the short memories of the Viennese, but if this string of murders continued up to or even close to the next election, it might mean some serious bruising at the polls for the ruling factions.