Requiem in Vienna (16 page)

Werthen had returned to Vienna on the early morning train, once it was determined that a member of the gendarmerie was to be installed at the Villa Kerry on a regular basis. Mahler, of course, would not hear of returning to Vienna. His summer weeks for composition remained sacred, even if they were also life threatening.

Werthen, Berthe, and Gross were now seated around the dining table, enjoying a peaceful lunch together. Werthen found it difficult to take his eyes off his wife, who wore a lovely shade of pale blue that contrasted well with her eyes. Her face was long, but not overlong, chin strong, nose slightly curved at the tip. A trace of freckles appeared in summer; she hid them with face powder—her one vanity. Hers was a quiet, domestic beauty, a warm jumble of womanhood that was not on display for the entire world.

He did not want to be going over these matters with Gross right now; he would much rather be ensconced in the privacy of the bedroom with Berthe, telling her how much he had missed her.

He knew this was not the sort of thing proper husbands do in the middle of the day. He was not, however, feeling very proper at the moment.

Frau Blatschky had graced their table with stuffed green peppers and boiled potatoes. The minced pork stuffing was liberally dosed with Hungarian paprika and capers, her secret ingredients. Berthe seemed to be off her food today, Werthen noticed, as he half-listened to Gross explaining what he had been up to during Werthen’s absence.

“Our Herr Schreier, leader of the claque, proved to be an irascible character, as promised. I met him in an impossibly shabby café in a godforsaken outer district.”

There was palpable distaste in Gross’s voice, making Werthen and Berthe smile at each other.

“Yes, that is correct,” he said, attuned to their amusement. “Godforsaken is the only word that can be used to describe such places. Bleak rows of blackened worker flats thrown up every which way. Here and there a remnant of older village life, a charming baroque building dwarfed by hulking tenements. And they call it progress. It was as if you could chew the very air of the place.”

“Herr Schreier?” Werthen prompted.

“Yes, indeed. An apt name,
schreier
, the ‘screamer.’ Even in conversation his voice was amplified and excoriating. Hairs growing out of his ears, no less. It is amazing they even allow him into the Hofoper. He as good as admitted he would like to see Mahler dead. Anything it took, just to be rid of his direction at the Hofoper. Seemed a desperate sort to me. But”—and here he paused for emphasis—“he was not in attendance at the rehearsal the day of Fräulein Kaspar’s death. Three regulars at the café attested to
this along with the proprietor himself. I spoke with that man, Herr Radetzky, privately after my interview with Schreier. No mistaking it. He said Schreier was at his regular table,
stammtisch
, all day, demanding cloudburst after cloudburst after his sole coffee had been imbibed.”

Werthen was impressed with the manner in which Gross had picked up Viennese slang, but then remembered he had an entire section on criminal argot in his groundbreaking tome,
Criminal Investigation.
“Cloudburst” was slang for gratis glasses of water a waiter would bring customers at a café, allowing them to keep their table at no extra cost.

“How can Herr Radetzky be so sure of the day?” Berthe sensibly asked.

Gross nodded, as if to indicate he had already thought of that. “It was his daughter’s twelfth birthday and he had been hoping to close in the middle of the day to buy her a present. But Schreier would not budge from his seat, so the present went unpurchased.”

“Civil of him,” Werthen noted, with no little amazement, for he, like all Viennese, had met his fair share of
uncivil
waiters. Such men were laws unto themselves, reigning emperors in Lilliputian café empires. If you were a favored client, there could be no greater ally, but if for some reason the
herr ober
took a dislike to you, it was best to simply find a new café, for you would always be last served and least cared for. Herr Radetzky seemed to be the exception to the rule of the imperious waiter.

Gross quickly filled them in on his further research, including his interview with Montenuovo and his visiting both the anti-Semitic journalist Hassler and Alma’s admirer, von Tratten. The latter voiced similar distaste for Mahler but had strong alibis for two of the incidents in question.

“Of course,” said Werthen, “such alibis prove nothing. Not if there is an accomplice involved.”

Another understanding nod from Gross. “But of course. It is simply a means for narrowing the initial field. It hardly disqualifies
one from suspicion. Unfortunate you had no opportunity to interview Richter at greater length,” Gross added.

“What I heard convinced me of his innocence, however,” Werthen replied. “It is true that Richter might, of all our suspects, have the strongest motive. After all, he was the obvious candidate to become the new director. Then Mahler usurped his position, even to the point of taking over direction of Wagner operas, Richter’s specialty. In a manner of speaking he did force Richter to resign. But the man was genuinely glad of that at Altaussee. His jubilation was not feigned. He is happy to be departing for London. Of the tenor Franacek I am less certain.”

Werthen’s further information that Alma Schindler had also been in attendance in the vicinity of Altaussee the day of the near tragedy brought a sigh from Gross.

“I was hoping we were narrowing the list of suspects rather than broadening it.”

“In ways, we have,” Werthen replied. “Barring the use of an accomplice, this most recent attack does limit the list to those in and around Altaussee at the time.”

“Barring accomplices,” Berthe repeated.

“And barring the tampering of the brakes at the bicycle factory or shop,” Gross added.

Werthen sighed. There seemed to be no narrowing of this case, only an ever-widening pool of suspects.

They finished the luncheon, and Frau Blatschky delivered a welcome pot of her aromatic and strong coffee.

“I am sorry to be the bearer of more bad news,” Berthe suddenly said, “but the list may be even longer than we initially thought.” She described her dinner conversation with Rosa Mayreder and the possibility that Mahler’s enemy might actually be someone from his past, as demonstrated by the example of Hugo Wolf. Berthe had saved this information until she could share it in the presence of her husband.

“Excellent.” Gross beamed at her. “Something that we have
completely ignored, Mahler’s early years in Vienna. Compliments, Frau . . . Meisner.”

Now it was her turn to blush. Gross had even gotten the name correct, Werthen noted.

“But this is not all bad news,” Gross said. “No. With this latest attempt on Mahler’s life we approach a psychological profile of our man. I posit a romantic by nature. One who is hypersensitive and with an acute sense of persecution. A youngish man of action—witness the ruthless killing of Herr Gunther—yet one who mounts elaborate and rather absurd plans to do away with Mahler. He does not take the direct route. How simple to use a pistol; how much more efficient. Shoot Mahler and have done with it. But no, our man plans symbolic attacks: a fire curtain drops, a podium crumbles underfoot, a bicycle brake is severed. Such are the convoluted strategies of our man. It is obvious then that for Mahler he holds a special loathing, a special grudge. He is extracting vengeance, not merely trying to kill a man. We are getting close to him. Yes, closer and closer.”

“I am glad you think so at least,” Werthen said.

“You weren’t very hungry today,” Werthen said as he and Berthe walked to the law offices.

The Josefstädterstrasse was a hectic thoroughfare this afternoon with horse-drawn carts and streetcars tumbling over cobbles and along metal rails, metal shutters rattling open after the midday closing, and shoppers bustling here and there with wicker baskets already filled with fruit and bread. After the chill of the Salzkammergut, the summertime warmth of Vienna was comforting to him; a perfect day for a postprandial stroll.

“No,” she said, suddenly gripping his hand more tightly. Then, “Karl?”

“Yes, my dear.” He loved the lilting way in which she said his name.

“I have something to tell you, and this is hardly the way I imagined it would occur, walking down a busy avenue.”

Indeed, “What is it?” He felt sudden alarm. Was she ill? But she was so young and hearty.

“Well, I suppose the best way is the most direct. I . . . I mean we, well, we are going to have a baby. I am pregnant.”

This news filled him with sudden elation; he felt his chest swell. A child. Their child. But at the same time he felt a sudden sadness that his parents, who had rejected his marriage, should not be a part of this happiness. Would they reject their grandchild, as well?

“That is wonderful news,” he said flatly.

“What’s wrong. You do want a child, don’t you?”

They had stopped in the middle of the busy sidewalk and pedestrians grumbled as they had to maneuver around them.

“Of course, dear.” He weighed telling her of his concern, deciding against it. Now was not a time to burden her. She needed to focus on the tiny life inside of her. “It is just such a surprise.” He willed a smile onto his face. “A glorious surprise. And you shall be the most beautiful mother in all of Vienna.”

But his false bonhomie served only to chill her.

“I am afraid Gross will be losing his pied-à-terre in Vienna,” Werthen laughed. “Soon it will become a nursery.”

She made no attempt to join in the forced laughter. It should be the happiest day of our lives, she thought.

Instead, they walked the rest of the way into the First District in silence, each deep in his or her own thoughts.

Herr Tor was busy at his desk when they arrived. Werthen was glad for his presence, as he could feel Berthe readying herself to probe him more deeply about his response to her news. Why not just tell her the truth, he thought. She is my wife, she has a right to know my concerns. But a misguided sense of male protection
kept him from burdening her, and thus the misunderstanding was allowed to grow.

They each went about their own tasks the rest of the afternoon, Berthe taking care of billings that were long overdue—Klimt’s among them—and Werthen retiring to his office to deal with the difficulties presented by a trust being set up by Count Lasko, certain intricacies of which Tor did not feel competent to handle. Yet when Werthen took a look at what Tor had accomplished with the trust, he thought it fine. Which left him with free time to ruminate more over the Mahler matter.

He took out a piece of foolscap, dipped his pen in the inkwell on his desk, and made three columns, one for suspects at the Hofoper, one for those at the Villa Kerry, and one for those out of Mahler’s past, particularly his early days in Vienna. The first column, of course, was the longest, despite the fact that several of these people had supplied alibis. Leitner, Blauer, Schreier, and Hassler topped the list. But there were also Richter (a distant possibility) and the tenor Franacek, both of whom had also been in attendance at the Villa Kerry, as was Leitner. These he scrawled into the second column. Additionally, on that second list was Mahler’s prospective brother-in-law, Rosé, and then his sister Justine, and thwarted lover, Natalie. And Alma Schindler, though this seemed rather far-fetched to Werthen, as he had subsequently learned that she had been in the company of her sister and several cousins that day in the mountains. Highly unlikely that she could escape their companionship long enough to adulterate Mahler’s brakes; equally unlikely that all of them were guilty of the deed. But he could not totally dismiss Alma or her companions from his list. The women, of course, would necessarily need an accomplice.

Werthen then added Alma’s name to the first list, as well, for she had admitted to attending Mahler’s rehearsals at the Hofoper.

The third list, Mahler’s past, was the shortest, just Hugo Wolf’s
name. But that was where the investigation now needed to focus, he thought. What other names could be included in that last column? He made several question marks where there might be new names to be discovered.

So many possibilities. At least there was one positive thing that had come from their efforts thus far. As Gross reported, through their investigation, Montenuovo had been enlisted and now the police were also involved. Mahler would at least be under police protection as they sifted the evidence for the killer of Fräulein Kaspar and Herr Gunther.

A light rapping on his door roused him.

“Yes?”

Tor entered, carrying the rest of the Count Lasko file with him.

“I think that about accomplishes the other matters,” he said, placing the file on the desk next to Werthen’s list of suspects.

“Fine,” Werthen said, quickly glancing through the file, admiring Tor’s penmanship as well as the wording.

Tor lingered for a moment close by the desk, scanning, Werthen thought, the three columns of his list of suspects.

“Is there something else I can do for you?”

“If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience, might I leave a bit early today, Advokat Werthen? I am still getting settled, and there are several things I need for my rooms.”

“Of course, Herr Tor. You’ve more than earned the time with your ramble to Altaussee on our behalf. Take the time you need to get settled in. I shall not be leaving town again this summer.”

Tor attempted a smile, Werthen thought. But it came across more like the show of sympathy one might cast a family member at a funeral.

Poor man, Werthen thought. He really is painfully shy. But he had a first-class legal mind and they were lucky to have him. Good for Berthe, he thought after Tor had made his departure, for seeing this jewel in the rough.

Thinking of his wife, he decided to go to her then, to explain himself. But when he went to the outer office, there was a note on her desk:

Karl,
I need to pick up a few things at Gerngross. See you at home later.
B

He read the note twice. Berthe had never, to his knowledge, set foot in the new emporium of Gerngross on the Mariahilfer-strasse. Such a self-styled “department store” on the American model was an abomination to her, a spearhead of a kind of capitalism run amok that she warned would ruin the very fabric of Viennese society, forcing family-run businesses to stay open during lunch, perhaps even on weekends. Unthinkable.