The Silence

Twelve

Lueger, however, would have to wait. A visit to the spa at Bad Ischl had taken the mayor out of town for several days.

There was a flurry of rumors surrounding this visit. The official Rathausline was that Lueger was leading a Viennese trade delegation to the famous Austrian spa — Franz Josef himself summered in Bad Ischl — in hopes of securing contracts for a Viennese glassmaker who had perfected a new process to make the thick-walled, flask-shaped drinking glasses spa guests used. Such flat glasses were extremely handy as they could be easily carried in the patient’s pocket as he strolled from fountain to fountain.

The Vienna rumor mills, such as Neues Wiener Journal and other ‘tabloids’ as they were recently dubbed, had it instead that Doktor KarlLueger was taking the cure himself for an unnamed but very serious complaint. Journalists doubling as spa cognoscenti even attempted a diagnosis of the mayor’s supposed complaints: Bad Ischl was known for high salt and sulfur content in the water and attracted those in search of relief from respiratory and cardiovascular problems. Other spas, such as Baden bei Wien, Marienbad, Karlsbad or Baden Baden, were noted for water with high carbon dioxide content or temperature, appropriate for nervous disorders and digestive complaints, or for their therapeutic mud baths that relieved joint pains, rheumatism, even eczema. Thus, these knowledgeable journalists opined in their tattler columns: Lueger most definitely had a heart problem.

But Werthen was not worried about the mayor’s health this morning. He had a far more unnerving task than long-distance diagnosis. Indeed, in light of the attack he suffered two days ago this task bordered on the reckless, for he was once again in the company of Councilman Bielohlawek, the very man, Werthen assumed, who commissioned the attack upon him.

Gross, however, said the risk was worth it. Easy enough for Gross to say; he would not be playing decoy.

It was all because of the crime scene photographs. Gross, an expert in numerous unexpected fields, also seemed to be one on carpet patterns. In this case it was the Ushak medallion carpet that was in Bielohlawek’s office and that had, according to the photographs received from Meindl, been there also at the time of Steinwitz’s death. As Gross noted, this particular carpet specimen was almost certainly seventeenth century from West Anatolia, and though much of the design was in iodized browns and ochre, it was happily much lighter than some of the deeper maroon carpets of a later period. In the black and white photographs supplied by Meindl, Gross could detect, amid the fecundity of floral ornamentation, a darker patterning that was not part of the design. He would make no further comment on what he could see in the photographs other than that he had to get into Bielohlawek’s office and inspect the carpet first-hand.

Thus Werthen was seated in the Cafe Landtmann just across the Ring from the Rathaus attempting to make small talk.

‘Let us just forget it, shall we?’ Bielohlawek said. ‘As you say, you cannot be held responsible for your colleague’s speech.’

‘I just wanted you to know, face to face, that I did not approve. Herr Doktor Gross can sometimes be a bit. . well, exasperating. Calling you a civil servant.’ Werthen shook his head in disapproval. ‘It was not what I had expected. And I do so very much appreciate you meeting me like this.’

‘Aber, bitte.’ Bielohlawek shrugged the apology away.

‘Allow me to treat you to a bit of strudel as a small sign of my regard. Never too early for a bit of fruit, eh, Councilman?’

‘I really should not.’ Then Bielohlawek glanced at the confectionery cart that Werthen had beckoned over to their table. His greedy eyes fell on a Nusstorte, and it was love at first sight.

‘Perhaps just a bite,’ he said. ‘It will be a long day for me.’

Gross did not know how long he had. He told Werthen to keep the gorilla occupied for half an hour. But there was no assurance he would be able to do so. Gross entered the Rathausby the trade entrance in one of the interior courts. Unfortunately he wasted several minutes trying to then find his way to the second floor of the main staircase, yet he could not have simply entered the main doors, for the former staff sergeant would be seated there directing visitor traffic.

Finally he worked his way along the warren of hallways and stairs to the main staircase, and from there followed the route he knew to Bielohlawek’s office. The hallway was clear. He quickly fetched his key pick out of his breast pocket. The lock on the door was a simple mortise variety with pin-and-tumbler mechanism. Inserting the pick, he expertly tripped the pins out of the cylinder as he’d had occasion to do dozens of times as an investigating magistrate in Graz. Truth be told, the experience still gave him a small frisson, a delighted shiver at this quasi-illicit behavior. In Graz, the deed would be done with warrant in hand. No such conveyances here, however. Though he might have been able to persuade Drechsler to get him entree to the office officially, such a move would have given away his suspicions to the councilman. And Gross was very much beginning to look in Bielohlawek’s direction for a connection to the deaths of Steinwitz and Praetor.

As the lock clicked open, he glanced quickly over both shoulders: still clear.

Inside, Gross lost no time in setting to work. Bielohlawek’s office was well lit by a large window looking down on to the Ringstrasse. Thus, no need to turn on a lamp and risk attracting attention. The primary tool he needed was in the large pocket of his overcoat: a folding magnifying glass made in Birmingham from sterling silver, a birthday gift from Adele. Gross loved the design with a single strip of silver doubled over itself as the handle. The lens could then be folded sideways into the thin cavity created between the two sides of the handle. The lens itself was six-power magnification; any stronger and it would have been too difficult to use by hand. In the same pocket he had a smaller folding lens at ten and twenty times magnification for use once he identified a particular spot for examination.

Gross had not been able to bring the crime scene photographs with him for Meindl had insisted they be returned by courier last evening. He had, however, a mental picture of them and knew exactly what he was looking for. But something was wrong. The pattern of the carpet suddenly seemed at variance with what he had seen in the photographs. Was this the same carpet after all? The poppy and duck motif in the lower left quadrant seemed simply to be missing. Or was his memory faulty?

Gross felt the time slipping away; how long could Werthen entertain the councilman? And where were the telltale poppies?

A sudden inspiration led him to examine the lower right quadrant of the carpet. Yes. That was it. Whoever had printed the crime scene photographs had accidentally reversed the image, easy enough to do from a negative. What he had seen in the left side of the photographs was actually then on the right side of the actual carpet.

This problem solved, Gross did not bother to divest himself of his overcoat or his derby hat. He got down to his knees and closely examined the carpet in the regions he had found suspicious in the photographs. It took less than a minute to find the first example. His heart was racing as he found a second and then a third and fourth similar smudge, each growing a trace darker nearer the desk. In all, Gross tallied six such smudges, each a small elliptical shape, the curves pointing toward the door. No need for the stronger magnifying glass; he knew what this was. He took out a roll of measuring tape from another pocket and stretched it between smudges. The first pair closest to the desk was one hundred and two centimeters apart; from the second to the third smudge was a distance of ninety-eight centimeters. The distances continued to decline, until the last pair spanned eighty-six centimeters.

Satisfied, Gross was just rolling his tape when he heard footsteps outside the door. They suddenly stopped at the door. He hadn’t locked it. A stupid oversight. The handle began to turn. With no time for subtlety, Gross moved with the alacrity of a man half his age.

The door opened inward and the bullish-looking fellow from the other day, Kulowski, the one Werthen had said was Lueger’s bodyguard, poked his large head into the room.

‘Hermann? Time for Wurstsemmel and beer.’

Getting no response, the man stepped briefly into the office, breathed heavily, muttered ‘Scheisse,’ and left, closing the door behind him.

Gross, crouched under the desk and viewing the man through a crack in its front apron, let out a sigh of relief. He forced himself to wait another two minutes, and then crawled out of the cramped space and brushed off his knees. He’d made such a rush of getting under the desk that he had badly dented his new derby. That would take a bit of explaining to Adele.

Werthen could no longer keep Bielohlawek without making him suspicious. He walked with him partway back toward the Rathaus.

‘We must do this again, Advokat. Perhaps we might even have some work for a smart young yid like you, eh? Scratch each other’s back. You know Lueger’s philosophy. He’s the one to decide who’s a Jew and who’s not.’

Werthen was so astounded by the crassness of Bielohlawek’s comments that he was speechless. He found himself smiling like a harlequin at the ignorant beast when a part of his brain wanted only to attack the fool with his walking stick and feel the satisfying crunch of skull under the brass knob. It was one thing to hear rumors of such outlandish behavior, quite another to experience such blatant prejudice first-hand.

Bielohlawek tipped his top hat and made off across the broad boulevard. Still speechless, Werthen could only watch the man leave, hoping that Gross had gotten out of the office by now.

‘The man’s more of a fool than I took him for initially.’

Werthen spun around at the voice. Gross was grinning at him from one of the benches lining the Ring, huddled in his coat with derby drawn down over his eyes. There was, Werthen registered, a V-shaped dent in the hat.

‘You may be a “yid,” but I dare the man to say again that you are young.’

The comment made Werthen smile, losing some of the anger he felt.

‘That was fast.’

Gross beamed up at him. ‘Yes. And productive.’

They had taken a private carriage.

Over the objections of her mother-in-law, Berthe had brought Frieda with her. The baby had slept most of the way to Laab im Walde, lulled by the rocking motion of the vehicle and the rhythmic clopping of the four pairs of hooves. Meanwhile Herr von Werthen stuck his nose in a copy of the latest auction catalogue from the state-run Wiener Versatz- und Fragamt, or Viennese Pawn and Query Bureau. Though its new headquarters in the Dorotheergasse were not yet finished, many Viennese were already calling the state-run pawnshop by a new name, the Dorotheum. Also in the carriage, Adele Gross and Frau von Werthen made small talk about country homes and the importance of roots.

Berthe liked Frau Gross; she was not the woman she had expected as the partner of the overbearing Doktor Gross. Adele Gross was no shrinking violet, but neither was she confrontational. Watching her and Gross at dinner last night — for she had insisted that they come after learning of their presence in Vienna — Berthe could see that theirs was a union, a relationship unique to themselves. It was not a caricature of the hen-pecked husband nor of the browbeaten, dominated wife. Werthen had told Berthe of the unhappy circumstances vis-a-vis their son. However, whatever their differences in that regard, the couple appeared to have a deep and abiding respect for each other, even if a degree of prevarication were still needed to maintain marital happiness.

Berthe had been sworn to secrecy by Werthen: there was to be no mention of their new case in front of Adele. But he had also suggested that she, Berthe, devise some entertainment for the woman, so that she did not grow suspicious of Gross’s absences.

The primary topic of conversation last night had been the reply to Werthen’s offer for the farmhouse in Laab im Walde. Grundman, the land agent, had, after almost a week of waiting, just received a counter offer from the owners: they wanted seventeen thousand florins.

‘Which means sixteen as a compromise,’ Werthen had allowed at table. ‘Exactly what Grundman recommended in the first place.’

‘Will we pay it?’ Berthe asked.

‘Die Katze im Sack kaufen,’ Herr von Werthen said sternly.

He was somewhat nettled that he had not been asked to inspect the place and seemed to take real pleasure in warning against buying a cat in a sack. Suddenly Berthe realized that she was also relying on her husband’s glowing descriptions of the place. She only knew it from the outside.

Thus was born the idea for today’s outing.

The carriage deposited them at the inn, where they would later take their lunch. Berthe was happy to see that venison was on the menu, and before she set out, she had the Ober set aside four orders of that delicious meal. Their carriage driver would remain at the inn while the party of five inspected the place. Grundman had been contacted, but was unable to supply a key on such short notice. He nevertheless assured Berthe they could see the various rooms from the windows.

The weather was a little less inclement today, though the wind was blowing across the empty fields, ploughed under for the winter, as they made their way down the single-track road to the house that could be theirs soon. Berthe had Frieda wrapped tightly in a blanket and held her close to her bosom inside the bulky Wetterflecke, the loden cape she wore. Only the baby’s small, smiling face stuck out of the top buttons of the cloak. She wore a white cap with embroidered buttercups that Berthe herself had knit out of fine lambswool. Seeing the ochre-colored four-square in front of her on the narrow road, Berthe’s heart began to swell with sweet expectation. A place to raise a brood of children.

‘It looks lovely,’ said Adele Gross.

‘Why, it’s just a farmhouse,’ Herr von Werthen said as they drew nearer.

‘Of course it’s a farmhouse,’ Berthe said. ‘A beautiful old fortress of a farmhouse.’

She noticed Frau von Werthen take her husband’s hand and give it a squeeze. It did not appear to be an act of affection, rather of reproof.

‘Well, yes,’ Herr von Werthen said. ‘Farmhouses can have their own sort of charm, one supposes.’

They entered the courtyard created by the sides of the farmhouse and Berthe noticed that the For Sale signs had been taken down. Obviously the owners were confident that they would meet their revised offer.

There would be a good deal of renovation, Berthe saw immediately, even from an exterior view. She must have seen the building first in bright sunlight, which disguised some of its faults. But now she could see tiles off the roof, a drainpipe hanging loose from the side of the building, patches of white undercoating showing through the paint, cracks in several of the windows and in one of the walls. But these did not deter her; she was still in love with the place, in love with the idea of a country home for her children to grow up in.

They all went to the windows, looking in the various rooms.

‘What a lovely Kachelofen,’ Frau Gross said.

‘And this would make a fine nursery,’ Frau von Werthen added, peering in another window.

‘Quite,’ her husband said.

‘Say, what are you lot doing in here?’

The voice was gruff and commanding.

Berthe spun around from the window. Three men stood at the entrance to the court.

‘Are you the owners?’ Berthe asked. ‘We checked with Herr Grundman before coming.’

The name obviously meant nothing to these three. Two of them were dressed in heavy coats and leggings as if working in the fields.

‘This is private property,’ said the one in the middle, a large man who appeared almost to burst out of his clothes. Unlike the other two, this one had a suit on under his heavy overcoat and wore no hat; his hair was cropped short like a criminal’s. ‘I’m telling you to get out of here.’

‘My good man-’ Herr von Werthen began.

‘Now!’ the big man spat out.

‘We are here to view the property,’ Berthe said. ‘We’ve made an offer on it and are here legitimately. And that is no way to speak to people.’

‘You’re trespassing,’ the same man said, now with an edge of menace to his voice.

The three men began approaching.

‘If I were you, I would take that baby out of here before someone gets hurt.’

‘This is really too much,’ Herr von Werthen said, moving protectively in front of Berthe and the baby.

‘Look, old one. You take these ladies along home now. And don’t come back.’

‘The police will hear of this,’ Adele Gross intoned.

This remark got the attention of the one doing all the talking. The other two men looked at him quizzically.

‘Lady, you are the trespasser. Who do you think the police are going to arrest?’

This brought rough laughter from the other two men.

‘Now, out of here.’ He came closer to Herr von Werthen, who stood his ground. The man gave him a sudden shove, and Herr von Werthen landed on his backside in a spot of mud.

‘You brutes,’ Frau von Werthen yelped, hesitating as if deciding whether to slap the ruffian or help her husband up. She finally opted for the latter.

‘I don’t know who’s been talking to you, but this place is not for sale. Understand? Now leave.’ The man made a fake bowing motion and swept his hand toward the road.

‘See here,’ Herr von Werthen said, struggling to his feet.

But Berthe stopped him. ‘We should go now,’ she said to the others. Frieda had begun to cry, frightened by the gruff voices. This was hardly the joyful outing they had planned.

‘That lady’s got some sense,’ the stranger said.

Before they left, however, Berthe made a close observation of each. She would be able to identify them later if need be.

‘Why, that is assault,’ Gross fumed. They were gathered at Werthen’s flat later in the day, and Berthe had informed them of their misadventure at Laab im Walde.

Werthen returned from the foyer where he had been on the telephone to Grundman.

‘They’ve taken it off the market,’ he said.

‘But they can’t do that,’ Berthe said. ‘Can they?’

‘Afraid they can,’ Werthen said, taking her hand. ‘No reasons. Grundman just says the owners have reconsidered.’

‘Draughty old farmhouse, anyway,’ Herr von Werthen said.

‘These men,’ Gross asked, ‘did they identify themselves as the owners?’

Adele Gross answered the question: ‘No. Though Frau Werthen asked directly.’

Gross had Berthe and the others describe, once again, their assailants. Werthen listened closely as she described the leader of the three, but the description — other than of a large man — did not tally with that of the man who had attacked him. That man wore an old bowler and had a thick head of hair. Neither could he see any connection between his attack and his wife’s visit to a property for sale.

‘Shouldn’t we contact the owners?’ Berthe suggested. ‘Try and trace these men? It seems awfully odd that last night the farmhouse was for sale and suddenly today it is off the market.’

‘I suppose we could,’ Werthen allowed. ‘I don’t quite see the point, though, unless we want to prefer charges.’ He looked at his father. ‘What do you say, Papa? After all, you were the one pushed to the ground.’

‘It was hardly a fair fight,’ Herr von Werthen said. ‘The blackguard gave me no warning.’

‘That is not the point, Emile,’ his wife counseled. ‘Karl wants to know if you would like a legal solution.’

‘Police, you mean? I don’t think so. Not for me, at any rate.’

Werthen imagined his father would not be over fond of having his name in the newspapers in connection with such a sordid little affair.

‘But surely you will not let those ruffians get away with their bullying,’ Adele Gross interjected. ‘They scared poor little Frieda.’

‘I think she will survive,’ Berthe said, for she too was losing her sense of outrage now.

‘I’ll have a word with Grundman,’ Werthen said, by way of addressing Frau Gross’s concern. But Berthe sensed his disappointment at losing their dream house. Perhaps it was better just to put the whole thing in back of them.

Adele Gross looked squarely at her husband. ‘Does this have anything to do with the case you and Werthen are occupied with?’

This statement brought absolute silence for a moment to the sitting room. Gross glanced at Werthen as if to accuse him.

‘Nobody told me,’ Frau Gross said. ‘So do not go bullying Werthen or his lovely wife. You do realize, Hanns, that you are far too happy lately. That cannot simply be the result of esoteric studies of a dead Flemish painter. And most definitely not the result of your attendance at Viennese balls or dinner parties. Ergo, you must be involved with a case. Every time you visit Vienna you do so.’

‘My dear Adele,’ Gross said. ‘I had no idea. You are quite the detective yourself.’

‘No. Just an observant wife.’

‘It would have been a fine place for our children,’ Berthe said when they lay together in bed that night. ‘But it’s not to be.’

‘We’ll find another place,’ he told her, wrapping an arm around her warm body.

‘With all the to-do, you never mentioned what happened with Gross’s visit to the Rathaus today.’

‘It was as he thought. There were blood traces leading from the desk to the door.’

Gross had explained that the thickness of the smudges nearer the desk meant that someone had stepped in the blood and then tracked it out with them, the smudges getting fainter as the person continued to walk.

‘Which proves. .?’ Berthe asked.

‘Fairly conclusively that Steinwitz was murdered. And by the same type of weapon used to kill Praetor.’

‘Perhaps the police fouled the scene?’

‘No. Gross checked with Drechsler. The police were there immediately following the shooting. They were careful to stay to the edges of the room, just as he has been advocating for them to do in order to avoid contaminating the scene. Drechsler guarantees that none of his men could have stepped in the blood.’

‘So it was murder,’ she said with a shiver. ‘You’ve got to be careful. Both you and Doktor Gross. These men. .’

‘There is one other possibility,’ he said, trying to steer her away from these fears. ‘The architect Otto Wagner was the first to discover the body. We do not think he entered the room, but Gross wants to interview him to make absolutely sure.’

Which reminded him that he wanted Berthe to contact her friend Rosa Mayreder and see if she could arrange a meeting for Werthen with her brother-in-law, Councilman Rudolf Mayreder. He might be able to provide further inside knowledge from the Rathaus.

‘I am sure she would be happy to help out,’ Berthe said when asked, and then yawned.

‘Are you a tired mother?’

She nodded. But before sleep, she also had information to impart: her contacts at the Arbeiter Zeitung had come up with nothing more than what Adler himself had stated the other night at dinner: that Praetor was supposedly involved with the 1873 Vienna Woods preservation act.

‘Nothing there, then,’ Werthen said. Or was there? Was it mere coincidence that their own plans about the Vienna Woods had been thwarted? He and Gross suspected that whatever Steinwitz and Praetor were working together to expose got them killed. Did it, in fact, have something to do with the Vienna Woods?