Requiem in Vienna (27 page)

“What are you going to do, Drechsler?”

The inspector shook his head. “I don’t really know. Easiest thing in the world to scare Schreier into a confession, I would
think. It would buy me a weekend in the mountains. I could use the shut-eye, I tell you. I just cannot sleep when the family is away.”

Werthen sympathized with him; his sojourn at Altaussee, away from Berthe, had given him sleepless nights, as well.

“What did Schreier do with the letter?” Gross asked.

“Burned it, as Mahler demanded. Or so he says. And then flushed the ashes down his toilet, also as the letter supposedly instructed.”

“Let’s assume he is telling the truth about the letter,” Gross said. “Why so thorough? A simple demand to destroy the letter would have sufficed, one would think, to keep it out of the hands of journalists.
If
Mahler had actually written the letter. But if someone else had, posing as Mahler, then they might have reason to go to extraordinary lengths to ensure the letter was never examined. Even burnt paper can lend itself to examination, to handwriting analysis.”

“Or let’s assume the letter is Schreier’s fabrication,” Drechsler said. “In which case the fiction of its total and irrevocable disappearance ensures that Schreier’s story cannot be contradicted.”

“There were other visitors,” Werthen offered. “Others with a possible motive and with foreknowledge of Mahler’s love of Turkish delight.”

Drechsler consulted a sheet of paper on his desk. “Right. Leitner and the soprano. They both seemed to be making it up with Mahler, though, by all accounts. Why bother to poison him then?” He glanced at the paper again. “And your man,” he said, nodding at Werthen.

“Yes. Herr Tor. He had to make a change to Mahler’s will.”

“And what change would that be?” the inspector asked.

“I am not sure I am at liberty to tell you that, Detective Inspector. Herr Mahler is, after all, my client.”

“Advokat, I needn’t remind you that this is a murder investigation.”

“Not Mahler’s,” Werthen said. “Not yet. Fräulein Kaspar and Herr Gunther, yes, but have we actually connected those to the attempts on Mahler’s life beyond a doubt?”

“I say,” Gross broke in, “are you not being a touch unreasonable here, Werthen? I mean, after all, we are all on the same side in this.”

“It is not about sides, Gross. It is about principle. If a man cannot have a reasonable expectation of privacy with his attorney, then I don’t know where we are.”

“Civilization won’t crumble, man,” Gross thundered.

“Your objection has no basis in law, Werthen,” Drechsler said. “No such privilege exists in Austria, but I duly note that you object to the sharing of such communications.”

“I really should consult Mahler about this.”

“Lord knows when he will be in any shape to talk,” Gross said. “I think he would, at this point, be happy for any information leading to the person responsible for these attacks. He told you as much as he came off the train.”

Drechsler was, of course, correct, Werthen knew. In Austrian law there was as yet no guarantee of privacy or secrecy between a client and his attorney as existed in England and other countries, but it was something the profession needed to see to in the future. In matters of criminal law, what client would fully divulge to his attorney if said attorney could be forced to share such information with the prosecution? None. At least not one in his right mind. So of course, an attorney could never be sure of his client’s story, making a defense all that harder to mount. Gross, an investigating officer for years as well as a prosecutor, was hardly on the same side as Werthen, a defense attorney, in such matters. However, now was not the time or place to fight such a battle.

“In brief, Mahler wanted to stipulate that his sister Justine, were she to marry Herr Arnold Rosé, would be henceforth written out of his will.”

Drechsler let out a low whistle. “And she knew of this?”

“That I could not say,” Werthen responded.

“Could not or would not?” Drechsler pressed the point.

“I have no knowledge of it. The Villa Kerry is not a spacious domicile. She may have overheard the conference between Mahler and Tor. Check with your man posted there to see if he noticed the sister hovering outside doors.”

“What about domestic staff?” Gross asked. “There must be a cook or a day maid.”

Drechsler and Werthen both shook their heads.

“Mahler would not tolerate any servants in the country,” Werthen explained. “He says they pollute the air and that he is unable to create with them around. Summers are his time for composing.”

“The sister and Frau Bauer-Lechner took care of domestic responsibilities,” Drechsler added. “Perhaps it is time we spoke more closely with this sister, and with her suitor.”

“Delicately, Detective Inspector,” Gross warned. “After all, her brother has just been poisoned.”

“Yes, and she may have done the deed.”

Werthen shook his head at this. “Before you run wild with the idea of the will as motive, Drechsler, I should tell you that Herr Mahler is not a wealthy man. He has what he makes as director of the Hofoper, but his living expenses are not meager. Neither did he save much money at his previous engagements in Hamburg and Budapest. And as a composer, he has earned very little from his symphonies and song cycles. Perhaps in the future, but not now. Thus, cutting his sister out of his will is more symbolic than consequential.”

“Herr Rosé is another matter however, Werthen, right?”

Werthen was uncertain what Gross meant by this.

Gross went on: “As we see with the brother, Eduard, who married another Mahler sister, he was all but driven out of Vienna for lack of work. Jealous and vindictive is our Herr Mahler. Anything that upsets his schedule, his domestic and creative routine,
is the enemy. Perhaps Arnold Rosé feared the same would happen with him and took measures to prevent such a turn of events?”

It was a possibility, Werthen thought, but definitely not a probability. The little he had seen of Arnold Rosé while staying at the Villa Kerry had made him sympathize with the man more than suspect him. Rosé seemed a good and loyal friend to both Mahler and Justine. Somehow he could not imagine this musician doctoring Mahler’s Turkish delight with arsenic.

“If you do not mind, Drechsler,” Werthen said, “perhaps we could conduct those interviews first. They know me and would not be unduly put on guard as they might were a member of the police to question them.”

From what Natalie had told him, though, Justine might be less than amenable to such a tête-à-tête now, blaming him for “deserting” her brother. But he did not tell Drechsler of this possibility.

Drechsler thought for a moment. “Sounds reasonable enough. But I want a full transcript of the interview.”

Werthen readily agreed to that, and then by way of an afterthought he asked, “Is there any way to trace the arsenic?”

“We’re looking into that, as well,” Drechsler said. “But there are major difficulties involved there, as I am sure
you
are well aware.”

He nodded at Gross as he said this and the criminologists returned the nod. Gross had written widely on the subject. He now quickly explained to Werthen that arsenic was readily available from a number of sources. It was prescribed by doctors to treat ailments from eczema and rheumatism to syphilis. It was also used in industry, to cure hides and to work with gold. It was even mixed with tar and worked into cracks in roofs, floors, and walls to protect against rats and termites. Tracing it would prove difficult, especially so as there was probably only a small amount involved in this poisoning.

“Doesn’t sound promising,” Werthen allowed.

“No,” Drechsler said evenly, “it does not. And now if you do not mind, gentlemen, I have a good deal on my plate for this evening.”

“I want to speak with him,” Gross said.

“Who? Schreier?”

Gross nodded.

“What could you hope to discover from the man. I’ve already questioned him thoroughly.”

“A theory.”

“You want to share this bright theory of yours?” the inspector said.

“I shall. Afterward.”

“All right. I will call over to the Liesel and let them know you are coming.”

On their way out Drechsler cocked his head at Werthen.

“I understand you had an intruder at your law offices, Advokat.”

“How did you hear of that?”

“I believe her name is Frau Ignatz. She reported a disturbance to your Josefstadt station. Nothing is secret in Vienna with a
portier
in attendance. Were you planning on telling me about it?”

Werthen felt himself redden. “It was nothing, really.”

“Sounds like police business to me. The lady says you had blood down the back of your neck. Assault, in fact.”

Werthen had no answer for this.

“I assume you will inform the police in the future of such occurrences,” Drechsler said.

“An accident, merely,” Werthen offered, but Drechsler was clearly unconvinced. The inspector clucked his tongue at this explanation.

“We work together at times, Advokat, but you must remember there are some things an inquiries agent is not trained to deal with.”

______

The Landesgericht prison, or Liesel in common parlance, was not far from the Police Praesidium, south around the Ring and in back of the Rathaus, or city hall. Again they walked, for the evening was so pleasant. The park being built around the neo-Gothic Rathaus was not quite finished: plane trees were still held in place by wooden braces, and fountains due to be finished a decade ago were only now beginning to spout water flumes into the gloaming. They stopped at a small
gasthaus
behind the glowering silhouette of the Rathaus, and ate a simple meal of smoked ham and sauerkraut, washed down by foaming
krügeln
of Styrian beer, the best that Austria had to offer. They sat in the garden of the inn, under a massive chestnut tree, and suddenly Werthen realized this was the very eatery he had frequented last year before visiting his friend Klimt, who was, at the time, also in custody at the Liesel.

Gross was tight-lipped about his reasons for wanting the interview with Schreier, so Werthen did not press the issue. Instead he enjoyed his meal, hoping they would not be too late in returning home tonight. Perhaps he should telephone Berthe, but knew how difficult it was to find a public phone.

Gross finished his meal first, daubed his lips with the cotton napkin, counted out some coins—far less than his half of the bill—and was off without a word, leaving Werthen to gulp down the last of his food and take care of financial matters.

This was the Gross Werthen knew and respected. For a time there during this investigation the great criminologist had seemed to be floundering, dithering; now suddenly he had purpose to his stride.

“I am betting he has made his first mistake,” Gross said as they entered the vestibule and gave their names to a desk sergeant, who took them back to the cells.

Schreier was in the B block, reserved for murder suspects. There was one other inmate in this cell, a wiry man with a tattoo on his neck. Werthen recognized the design: it was the Indian
sign for power and the sun, the swastika, but this criminal had inverted the symbol, changing it from the left-facing wheel of life to the right-facing representation of German nationalism and anti-Semitism. Werthen could only guess at the crime this hoodlum was in custody for, but by the terrified eyes of Shreier, who watched as the man was led from the cell to allow for the privacy of their interview, it must have been bad. Most likely Drechsler had arranged such a pairing as a special inducement to Schreier. After all, a man scared half out of his wits is easier to persuade than one comfortable and secure.

“Dr. Gross,” Schreier said in a high, pleading voice once they were alone in the cell. “You’ve got to save me. I am innocent of any crime. Why have they thrown me in here with this monster? He tells me he strangled his female cousin for having sexual relations with a Jew. He thinks
I
am a Jew.”

Werthen could smell the fear exuding from Schreier, a thickset man in his forties with a sallow complexion. Drechsler’s plant strategy seemed to be working.

“Calm yourself, Herr Schreier,” Gross said. He tapped the man’s shoulder and Schreier sat on the edge of his iron bunk. They sat opposite on the other inmate’s bunk after Werthen had given the blanket a quick inspection for any movement. Gross made a quick introduction of Werthen, but the prisoner was interested only in Gross.

“You’ve got to tell them, Dr. Gross,” Schreier pleaded. “I’ve done nothing wrong. He sent for me. It is the lord’s honest truth.”

“He?” Gross asked.

“Mahler of course. He wrote and said he wanted to reach an agreement. I knew he would have to come around sooner or later. The singers were adamant. They cannot survive without us. How else would the public know who to clap for unless we initiate such applause?”

“Where is the letter?”

“I burned it, as Mahler instructed.”

“I cannot help you if you continue to lie,” Gross said evenly. “You are being held for attempted murder, did you know that?”

Schreier shook his head. “Impossible.”

“No. Very possible,” Gross said. “They are drawing up the charges as we speak and hope to have a confession from you by the end of the weekend. I imagine they will be successful in that endeavor.”

Gross said this last bit meaningfully and Schreier obviously understood the connotation.

“They can’t beat a confession out of me.”

“It has been known to happen. Are you a physically courageous man, Herr Schreier? Can you tolerate pain very well?”

Schreier’s eyes grew wider at this comment.

“I thought not,” Gross said. “So, it is time you were honest with me. Where is the letter?”

Schreier looked to Werthen for a moment as if for assistance, but the lawyer maintained a stony appearance.

“The letter, Herr Schreier. I shall not ask again.”

Gross rose as if to leave and Schreier crumbled.

“All right, all right. It’s at my apartment house. I wrapped it in an oilskin pouch and placed it in the cistern over the
clo
on my floor.”