Requiem in Vienna (34 page)

“We shall dine out then,” Werthen announced, assuming a more cheerful air than he felt. “How about it, Gross? What do you say to a schnitzel at the Café Frauenhuber?”

“I would not protest, my friend.”

After briefly freshening up and as they were about to leave, the phone rang. Werthen answered it only to learn from Drechsler that Herr Redl was not to be found at the address in the Twelfth District. The landlady noted he had moved out weeks before, telling her he was on his way to Bremerhaven, there to catch a ship for the United States.

“The boys on the street will be happy now,” Drechsler added before hanging up. “We can finally cancel the protective force detailed for Mahler and concentrate on crimes that have actually happened.”

They took a
fiaker
to the café, and Gross paid the fare. Clearly they were to have a celebration this evening, so Werthen put aside his own odd feelings and enjoyed a glass of the
sekt
Gross ordered from Herr Otto.

The schnitzels, when they arrived, were appropriately large and the kraut salad was tangy, with just the right amount of wine vinegar and caraway.

Werthen was, in fact, beginning to actually feel celebratory when Herr Otto came to their table with a quizzical look on his face.

“Herr Advokat, I finally remember what it was I have been meaning to tell you.”

“About Hanslick’s South America debacle?” Werthen said merrily.

Otto shook his head. “No, sir. It was about the man who followed you last week.”

“Yes,” Werthen said. “That little matter seems to have been settled.”

“In that case then, I won’t bother you gentlemen. I hope you enjoy your meal.”

But something in Herr Otto’s expression raised Gross’s curiosity.

“Do tell, Herr Otto. What is it you remembered?” the criminologist asked.

“Nothing really. Just a bit of physical description I failed to report earlier.”

And as Werthen listened, he suddenly stiffened. He looked at Gross, and the criminologist was expressing the same concern.

W
onderful seats,” Berthe said. “Such a treat.”

Fräulein Schindler squeezed her hand. “I told you,” she said. “You need to get out more, Frau Meisner.”

“Please,” Berthe said. “Call me Berthe.”

This pleased the younger woman so much that she leaned over and gave Berthe a kiss on the cheek.

“And what about the poor old gentleman to your right?” Herr Meisner said, for Alma Schindler was seated between them in the third row of the orchestra.

Alma leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek, as well.

“Oh, this shall be such great fun,” she said delightedly.

The orchestra began to tune up. They were close enough to hear each instrument separately. Berthe looked around the magnificent hall at all the men in their smoking tuxedoes and the women in tiaras and evening gowns, their opera glasses glued to their eyes, eagerly searching the crowd for friends or, better yet, nobility. One had to be quick at this, though, for Mahler’s new regulations forbade the houselights to be up during performances. Seeing and being seen was thus relegated to these moments before the opera began.

Berthe felt a sense of lightness and elation. They were right, Alma and her father. She really did need to get out more.

Alma’s opera glasses sat in her lap.

“Would you mind?” Berthe said, gesturing toward them.

“Be my guest.”

Berthe slowly adjusted the focus to her eye. As faces came into sharp focus, Berthe began tracking the glasses around the great hall, catching intimate glimpses of those in the first and second tiers of boxes. A glittering tiara here, a mouthful of white teeth there. One fresh young man wearing a hussar’s mustache and an insouciant grin waved at Berthe as she swung the glasses onto him.

Then suddenly she stopped the arc of the glasses, recognizing someone. The figure bobbed for a moment in the frame, but she held the small binoculars firmly and was able to focus clearly on the man.

Herr Siegfried Blauer. Unmistakable with those anachronistic muttonchop whiskers of his. She took the glasses away from her eyes for a moment, to see exactly where her telescoped gaze had wandered.

Yes, she thought so. He was sitting in the second tier of balconies, in Mahler’s special box, quite alone. Putting the opera glasses back to her eyes, she saw him lean forward in his seat, laying his hands on the crimson-cushioned balustrade. Then he began moving his hands quite dexterously, as if playing the piano. It seemed at first a nervous tic, but he continued to move his hands to a silent rhythm, exactly as if at the keyboard.

What an extraordinary man, she thought. And what a chance he is taking sitting so brazenly in Mahler’s box. Berthe well remembered that day when Herr Regierungsrath Leitner had taken her and Karl on a tour of the Hofoper, and he had told her in no uncertain terms about Mahler’s proclamation that no one was to use his box. Leitner himself, part of the opera administration, had concealed from Mahler the fact that he had been sitting in that box the day Mahler’s podium had crumbled underneath him.

She stared up at the distant form of the stage manager, Blauer. What was he doing there, anyway? One would think his proper place was backstage, making certain that all was in readiness.

“See somebody?” Alma said.

Berthe smiled at her. “No, not really.”

Berthe was about to hand the glasses back, but Alma indicated she was more content to simply stare at the bucolic scene painted in gold relief onto the house curtain, waiting for the first glimpse of her beloved Mahler.

Another brief survey of the house accounted for several more familiar faces. Herr Leitner himself sat in a second-tier box near the stage on the opposite side of the auditorium from Mahler’s. He was talking animatedly to a heavyset woman with a low décolletage and a vulgarly large ruby at her throat. His wife? But most men are not quite so animated with their own wives. Then Berthe realized who this was: Mahler’s old flame, Anna von Mildenburg, who was, due to a mild cold, not performing tonight. She was, however, healthy enough not to miss this gala evening. The singer sat back in her chair, wearing an expression on her full mouth halfway between a smirk and a smile.

Then, only two boxes away, she caught sight of Justine Mahler and Natalie Bauer-Lechner, both of them looking rather grim. Not even they were allowed into the sacrosanct precincts of Mahler’s private box. Natalie tugged nervously at a garnet broach around her neck.

This was intriguing, Berthe thought.

Fifteen minutes later and the opera had still not begun. Berthe could hear the unmistakable sound of dogs barking from somewhere deep in the stage behind the house curtain.

“I do not know what the matter could be,” Alma Schindler said, her voice sounding impatient. “Herr Mahler is usually so punctual.”

“More time for us to gawp at all the finery,” Herr Meisner said with a laugh.

______

They looked like ants. Self-important insects all dressed up in their finery, so pleased with themselves to be sitting in the elegant Hofoper, as if a ticket to this spectacle made their inconsequential lives worthwhile.

If they could only know beforehand of the plan, the elegant, final gambit. Those in the first few rows of the orchestra would never know of it. The rest, the survivors, could read about it in tomorrow’s papers.

Only minutes to go now, and finally Herr Gustav Mahler would receive just retribution.

Such a long wait. But it would all be worth it. Minutes left. Just minutes.

“Get those animals assembled on the stage,” Mahler demanded, as the dogs strained this way and that. One emptied its bladder on the wooden base of what was supposed to be a marble column, making the gray paint run.

The trainer was called from the wings, trying to calm his dogs while the flustered cast member who was meant to lead the dogs in a triumphal entrance broke into a fierce sweat.

“Control your animals, will you?” Mahler thundered at the trainer, who now, like his operatic counterpart, began perspiring at an amazing rate, feeling the maestro’s eyes boring into him like hot drills.

“I am sorry, sir,” the red-coated usher said, “but we cannot allow you to enter without a ticket.”

“And I am telling you,” Werthen said, “that this is a matter of life and death. Prince Montenuovo himself has given us free passage.”

This only served to make the usher more disbelieving and suspicious.

“Fine, and the emperor has given me permission to toss out any rowdies. So now leave, gentlemen, or I will call for assistance.”

Unbidden, Gross feigned a fainting spell, distracting the usher and giving Werthen the chance to jump around him and make a dash for the second tier of seating. What they had learned from Herr Otto made niceties such as reasoning with an usher irrelevant.

Werthen knew where he was headed. His initial meeting with Herr Regierungsrath Leitner stuck in his memory, as did the existence of the secret door that Leitner had showed him that day. It led backstage from the second-tier corridor; the one from which Mahler could quickly make his way from his seat to the stage during rehearsals.

Werthen gave no thought to his throbbing right leg as he stormed up the carpet-covered marble stairs, the usher now shouting behind him. Neither did he consider trying to find the administration and stop the performance. There was no time for that. Instinct told him that tonight there would be something conclusive, something dramatic. Something to end it all.

This was really too much; twenty minutes past opening time and still no sign of the conductor. The orchestra had fallen silent, finished with its tuning minutes before.

Berthe, still in possession of Alma’s opera glasses, scanned the audience once more, focusing again on Blauer seated in Mahler’s box. He was in a nervous state, Berthe could see, his hands continuing to move over the balustrade. The man’s mouth was now pinched into an expectant scowl as well.

And then it all became clear to her. It was the mouth that did it, for it focused her attention on that part of the man’s face when
normally his muttonchop whiskers diverted her attention. Now she saw it, the Habsburg chin, or rather the famous lack of chin and the resulting overbite. Blauer had that pronounced hereditary blemish as surely as if he were a Habsburg himself.

But of course he was, if he were Hans Rott’s illegitimate brother. That thought came clear and unbidden into her mind.

Karl had told them about this younger Rott brother, born on the wrong side of the sheets, perhaps the offspring of nobility. That would account for the man’s startling resemblance to the Habsburgs.

And the way he moved his hands over the balustrade. Just like a trained pianist, not a stage manager from Ottakring.

What did they know of Blauer? They had not bothered to track down his bona fides, taking his word that he was who he claimed to be.

And seated in Mahler’s box. Of course. It was meant as a personal affront. To be so public about it meant that Blauer intended to act tonight, to somehow do away with Mahler here and now at the Hofoper in front of the thousands of gathered devotees of music.

My God, it must be so, Berthe told herself. He had the means and opportunity for the attacks on Mahler here at the opera itself. As to Blauer’s presence in Altaussee, they would have to later ascertain his whereabouts during those incidents.

For now, she knew she must act.

Blauer ceased his faux piano playing, suddenly thrusting himself out of his seat and moving out of Mahler’s box.

She rose, as well.

“What is it, Berthe?” Alma said.

Berthe handed her the glasses. “Sorry. I must visit the ladies’ room.”

Her father showed concern and Alma asked, “Would you like me to go with you?”

“No, no. It is fine. I shall be back in a moment.”

What to tell them? That she surmised from a chin and nervous fingers that Blauer was the killer? They would only laugh.

The stage manager had met her before. She could at least approach him as an acquaintance. Speak with him. Find out one way or another.

She knew she was making no sense; so be it. Instinct drove her on. But what would she do once she reached the man?

Werthen did not ask himself why the houselights were not yet out. Something had delayed the performance, and whatever it was, he was thankful for it. The delay won him valuable time. What they had learned from Herr Otto still pulsed in his mind. One bit of description Herr Otto had failed to include: the man who followed him from the Café Frauenhuber the day he was attacked wore muttonchop whiskers.

Not Tor, then. Tor had been made to look the guilty party by someone else; someone who was still at liberty and could still do Mahler harm. That someone was clearly Siegfried Blauer, stage manager at the Hofoper.

The death of Tor could mean only one thing: Blauer intended to play his final hand tonight. Werthen was sure of it. Blauer had to be stopped, and by him. The police protection of Mahler had been canceled following the discovery of Tor’s body, and neither Drechsler nor Meindl could be reached by phone. One had left for his family in the mountains, and the other was somewhere in attendance at the opera at this very moment.

Werthen quickly made his way along the now abandoned corridor to the second-tier stage door, looking quickly around before trying it.

Opening the door, Werthen found himself on the metal balcony high above the backstage. Below him a swarm of dogs were being cowed to submission by a handler. He thought he saw
Mahler for an instant, but the man turned and left the area by a far door.

Then he caught sight of Blauer, just letting himself into the under-stage through a trapdoor in the main stage. Werthen quickly made his way down the metal stairs. A tall, lanky stagehand about the size of Werthen saw him descend, but only tipped his hat to him, thinking that if Werthen knew the existence of the secret door in the corridor, then he must be someone from administration.

“Blauer,” Werthen said to the man. “I need to see him.”