The Silence

Fifteen

The Prater was powdered in a light snowfall. A sky gray and threatening hung overhead, but all around could be heard the delighted shouts and squeals of children. It was Saturday half-day at school and it seemed that most of the children of the city had thronged to Remington’s Wild West Show.

A tent city had popped up overnight on the grounds of the Prater like a cluster of gigantic mushrooms. Giant hoardings all around proclaimed the delights of the show: ‘Custer’s Last Stand,’ ‘The Buffalo Hunt,’ ‘The Greatest Shot in the World.’ It took several trains to deliver the four hundred white and Indian actors and stagehands, two hundred and fifty horses, twenty buffalo, fifteen elk, a dozen long-horned Texas steers, and all the paraphernalia needed to outfit the show — including an electrical generating plant to illuminate the night shows.

Gross puffed vapor bubbles into the chill air as they walked on to the grounds.

‘What would impel people to hold an outdoor attraction at this inclement time of year.’

It was not a question, but Werthen offered an answer anyway. ‘The feuilleton writers say Remington thought he was going to Australia. It’s summer there.’

Gross gave Werthen a look of utter disbelief.

‘It is possible,’ Werthen added. ‘After all, there have been numerous American tourists to arrive in Vienna only to be disappointed at its lack of canals.’

‘They’ll be searching for kangaroos next,’ Gross muttered.

Whether by accident or design, the arrival of Remington’s Wild West Show surely did not lack for enthusiastic customers. Schoolchildren, still in their uniforms and with school bags on their shoulders, roamed the grounds like hungry Indians on the prowl. Many of them carried paper sacks full of small puffy white balls. Werthen noticed that these bags came from a number of stands that looked much like a traditional Austrian Wurstel stand. Large signs advertised ‘Popcorn.’ It was something Werthen had read of, this toasted or popped corn, in relation to the early Spanish explorers in the New World. The indigenous people had attempted to sell the exotic food to these explorers, but the Spanish were having none of it. Werthen vowed to try some of this strange confection before he left the grounds. Of course this desire was not something he wanted to share with Gross.

‘Go ahead, Werthen. Buy a bag,’ the criminologist said. ‘You look as eager as a schoolchild yourself.’

Werthen sheepishly queued up at one of the stands, paid his twenty Kreutzer, and took a bite of the puffed corn. He liked the somewhat crunchy texture and the salty taste. Following the example of schoolchildren all around him, he took a handful of the stuff and plopped it in his mouth. Immediate pain erupted as he bit down wrong on an unpopped kernel.

‘Verdammt,’ he said, spitting the unchewed mess on to the ground and then threw the remainder of the bag into a nearby receptacle.

‘An acquired taste, one assumes,’ Gross said, a smile on his face.

‘I believe in future I shall content myself with roast chestnuts in winter.’

They had arrived ninety minutes early — the first show did not begin until three in the afternoon — but the crowds were already so thick that they had difficulty in maneuvering their way to the tent marked ‘Management.’ They were greeted there by an Indian so large and terrifying-looking that Gross halted in the entryway.

Werthen, whose sense of adventure was a little more pronounced, entered. He dug out his schoolroom English and dusted it off:

‘We would to speak with Herr. . Mr Remington.’

The Indian, dressed in beaded rawhide top and pants, a full-feathered headdress on, scowled down at Werthen, his massive arms folded across his chest.

‘Excuse, please,’ Werthen continued hopelessly.

‘Yes, I heard,’ the Indian said in German with a northern accent. ‘And please do not bother with your “Me want speak” English. I’m from Hamburg.’

‘Well, for the sake of Holy Maria,’ Gross said, approaching now that he knew it was safe. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

The German-Indian continued to scowl at them. ‘I did.’

‘And what are you doing dressed up in that costume?’ Gross asked as if it was his concern. ‘I suppose that is red paint on your face.’

The man frowned at Gross then finally said, ‘You ever heard of theatricals?’

This was not going at all well, Werthen realized, changing the tone of the encounter.

‘How did you come to be with the show?’ he asked.

The German now let his arms hang at his sides. ‘I once worked on the docks in Hamburg. Hard work, heavy lifting. Not much future there. Then one day, about five years ago, Remington and his show arrived by boat from America. I helped unload it, and when they left, I was with them. Simple as that.’

‘But how did you get the job? After all, you spoke no English, I assume,’ Werthen said.

The man merely shook his head at the question, amused. ‘You think his name is really Taylor Remington?’

Neither Werthen nor Gross responded.

The German looked over each of his broad shoulders, then spoke to them as if confiding a state secret.

‘Thomas Remminghaus. Straight from Bavaria.’

‘No,’ Werthen said. After all, Remington was an American almost as famous as Mark Twain. He had fought alongside Custer, it was reported; had built an entertainment empire out of his shows depicting scenes from the Old West.

‘Too true,’ the German assured them. ‘Went to America when he was twenty.’

‘And fighting with Custer?’

The man put a thick finger to his right eye and pulled down on the lower lid: the gesture for ‘believe that and you’ll believe anything.’

‘Why are you telling us this?’ Gross said. ‘After all, we could be the press come to interview your employer.’

‘You aren’t the press?’ he said, a look of disappointment sweeping across his rugged features.

They shook their heads.

‘And he is not my employer. Not any longer. He just gave me the sack. Says I’ve been at the schnapps again.’

Werthen was now aware of the powerful scent of alcohol in the air.

‘Feininger,’ a voice boomed out from the depths of the tent, its owner then saying in German, ‘I thought I told you to get out of here. Now. Pack up or I’ll have the police pack you off. And leave the buckskins, you worthless bastard.’

Remington, a short, stocky man in tall leather boots, long flowing hair and a Van Dyke beard, came out of the shadows.

‘Sorry,’ he said, reverting immediately to English the moment he saw Gross and Werthen. ‘I did not know we had visitors.’

‘They know you’re German,’ the man called Feininger said with apparent enjoyment.

Remington froze in place.

‘We are not from the newspapers,’ Werthen quickly said. ‘We just need a few moments of your time to ask some questions.’

Remington was so relieved to hear they were not journalists that he did not seem to register the rest of Werthen’s comment. The impresario turned on his former employee.

‘Look, you. If I find out you’ve been talking with reporters, this continent won’t be big enough for you. Understand? I have friends, powerful friends, everywhere. Now you take your rotten carcass back to Hamburg where I found you.’

Werthen expected that he would have to intervene. Surely the much larger and stronger Feininger could squash Remington with one of his granite fists. Instead, the man snuffled once, made a feeble attempt at an apology, which Remington waved off, and meekly left the tent.

‘And remember. The buckskins stay here.’ Then to Werthen: ‘But who they will fit, I don’t know.’ He took a long breath. ‘You folks know how to keep a secret, I suppose.’

‘Absolutely,’ Werthen said.

‘Of course,’ Gross added.

‘So what brings you here? I mean, other than the show?’

‘As I said, we have just a few questions.’

‘Are you from the police? My licenses are all in order, I can tell you that.’

‘We are private inquiry agents,’ Werthen said.

‘You mean like Pinkertons?’

‘Somewhat,’ Werthen said, not enjoying the comparison to that agency known for hiring out as a private army for American industrialists to keep their workers in line. He made quick introductions, but Remington had obviously never heard of Gross, nor of his criminalistic studies.

Gross jumped in as the man appeared to be ready to end the conversation.

‘We will trade favors. Our silence about your nationality in return for a short interview. I assume that would be amenable to you.’

‘I have a show to put on,’ Remington said.

‘Very brief questions,’ Gross said.

Remington sighed. ‘Follow me.’

They did so, leaving the reception area in the front of the tent for Remington’s private dressing room in the shadowy depths. He would, of course, be billeted at the Sacher Hotel or some such establishment in the city, but here he kept his trunk of costumes, for he took part in the show as the master of ceremonies, announcing each act.

They took seats at a deal table in his dressing area.

‘Now, what is it?’

Gross led the way. ‘We understand you are interested in purchasing a tract of the Vienna Woods.’

The statement took Remington by surprise. ‘Who says?’

‘It has been reported,’ Gross replied.

‘Damn,’ he said in English. Then once again in German: ‘What is it to you?’

‘We want to know if in fact this is true. And remember, we are trading favors here,’ Gross added.

‘One word of this to the press-’ Remington wagged a stubby finger at Gross.

‘We are investigating two murders, Herr Remminghaus. I can make no such assurances to you regarding this illicit sale.’

‘There’s nothing illegal about it.’ The deal table shook under his pounding fist.

‘Then you should feel no constraints in assisting us in our inquiries. I repeat, is it true you have been involved in negotiations for sale of acreage in the Vienna Woods?’

‘Yes, yes. Not just acreage, but nearly half of it.’

This made Werthen exhale with almost a whistle.

‘Yes, monumental, eh? We Americans do not do things by half measures.’

Spoken like a true transplanted German, Werthen thought.

‘And with whom were you in negotiations?’

‘That’s obvious now, isn’t it?’

Gross looked sternly at him. ‘If it were, I would not be asking. I am not here to waste your time or my own.’

‘With Mayor Lueger, of course. He’s the only one could authorize a sale of this magnitude. A forward-looking man, Karl Lueger.’

‘The asking price?’

‘Now that is going too far. How do I know you aren’t representing the other bidders?’

Gross straightened in his chair. ‘Then you know that there are others involved?’

‘What’s an auction without bidders?’ Remington seemed vastly entertained at the idea of a bidding war. ‘So you’ll understand my reluctance to make the amount of my bid public. Enough to say it’s in the millions.’

‘Crowns or florins?’ Werthen interjected.

Remington looked pityingly at him. ‘Dollars. Greenbacks. Real money.’

‘When are the bids to be tallied?’ Gross asked.

‘You mean when do I know if I won? That would be next Wednesday.’

My god, thought Werthen. They had only a handful of days to prevent this travesty from happening.

‘Very well,’ Gross concluded. ‘I must thank you for your time, Herr Remminghaus.’

‘It is Remington now. All legally changed. I like to do things on the up and up.’

They rose to leave, but Werthen could not restrain himself.

‘If you do not mind telling me, what plans do you have for the Woods?’

‘No, I do not mind at all talking about my Tales from the Vienna Woods.’

‘Pardon?’

‘That’s the name I’ve selected for the park.’

‘You’re making a park out of the Vienna Woods?’ Werthen asked. ‘But it is already a park, a wild park.’

‘Mine will be unique, a very particular sort of park, I can tell you that. One that will bring visitors from all over the world. You see, I have been at this entertainment job nigh on to three decades now. And I tell you, entertainment is the industry of the future. Travel and tourism, those are the growth industries of the twentieth century. Great times ahead.’

‘And in what way is your park going to be “particular,” as you say?’ Werthen queried.

‘Well, Tales of the Vienna Woods will be in the vanguard of tourist destinations for a new century. Your average visitor to Europe, he doesn’t know a whole lot about cultural things. Doesn’t really know where to go and what to see. I intend to simplify travel. Concentrate the experience. I’ve learned a bit with my Wild West Show. So there will be re-enactments. Great moments in Austrian history, from the Habsburg coronation to Mozart at the piano and Strauss leading a waltz. Imagine a re-creation of the siege of Vienna with hordes of bloody Turks at the city gates. Or a fortress like in Salzburg so the tourist can focus his travel. Or the Gross Glockner right here in Vienna’s backyard. Well, a smaller model. Alps with manufactured snow year-round.’

‘But Austria has these things for real,’ Werthen said.

‘Not in one place and in one time. That’s the genius of my travel itineraries. Simplification. Concentration. We are in negotiations for a bit of land near Milan now. It’ll have models of the Roman Colosseum, St Peter’s, the Forum. Put in a leaning tower, the Venetian canals.’

‘That sounds dreadful,’ Gross suddenly said.

‘What’s so dreadful about it? After all, you have the “Venice in Vienna” park right here in the Prater. I’m only expanding on the idea. We’ll have medieval lanes with men in livery, sedan chairs at the ready. I can see it, almost smell it.’

‘And it smells, sir, of offal,’ Gross blurted out. ‘Good day to you.’

Gross stomped off leaving Werthen to attempt a quasi-polite farewell.

‘Your friend has a definite problem,’ Remington said. ‘He should get out of the classroom more. Into the real world of ideas and progress.’

‘I will suggest it to him, Mr Remington.’

‘You’re not staying for the shows?’

‘Maybe another day.’

‘You just tell them at the front ticket window you’re a friend of Taylor Remington. You’ll get a day pass.’

‘Very generous. And thank you for your cooperation.’

‘Remember,’ the man shouted as Werthen was leaving. ‘Thomas Remminghaus exists no longer. It is Taylor Remington. Done all legal in New York City.’

Werthen caught up with Gross just outside the tent.

‘We know now,’ the criminologist said.

‘Yes,’ Werthen agreed. ‘If that is the future, I am not sure I want to know.’

‘That is not the future, I guarantee you. Not if I have anything to do with it.’

‘One thing seems clear,’ Werthen said.

Gross waited for him to continue.

‘It would seem Remington is not responsible for the deaths of Steinwitz and Praetor.’

‘What leads you to deduce that, dear friend?’

‘Well, we are still alive and able to discuss our interview with the man. If those two posed such a dire threat to Remington that he or his lackeys killed them, then would we not also be seen as a comparable threat that needs eliminating?’

‘Good. And the second reason?’

Werthen shook his head. ‘I did not mention a second reason.’

‘Then I shall for you. Remington and his show only arrived in Vienna last Sunday. After the deaths of both men.’

‘How long have you known this?’

‘I ascertained it last night from the clerk at my hotel. It seems Mr Remington is a guest there as well. He must have already been in communication with Lueger before his arrival. But his physical presence here began last Sunday, that is certain. I placed a call to Drechsler this morning to make sure. The foreign registration office shows Remington’s entrance at Braunau am Inn on February 18, along with his menagerie.’

‘Advokat Werthen!’

Werthen turned at the sound of his name and saw Fraulein Metzinger with young Heidl Beer and, of all people, young Ludwig Wittgenstein.

‘I had no idea you were an enthusiast of the Old West,’ his assistant said.

‘Actually we are here on business. But it looks like you are prepared for a good time.’

Both young boys had large bags of popcorn in their hands.

‘And how were you able to effect an escape this time, Master Wittgenstein?’

The boy blushed. ‘Well, I practiced a bit of magic.’

He nudged Heidl as he spoke, for the other boy was obviously in on the scheme.

‘Yes?’ Werthen said. ‘Don’t worry. I am no longer representing your father.’

‘Saturday afternoon is my piano lesson. I go to Madame du Pauly in the First District for my torture and am not expected back until teatime. So-’

‘Allow me a conjecture,’ Gross said. ‘You had your young friend here, Herr Heidl Beer, appear in all his finery at Madame du Pauly’s with a message.’

Young Wittgenstein’s eyes grew large at Gross’s speculation.

‘Ah, I see I am close to the truth. Perhaps the message would be from your parents, stating that you needed to return home. A sensitive young lad like you would not use illness as an excuse; that could have an unfortunate resonance.’

‘You said you wouldn’t tell anybody,’ Ludwig said, turning on Heidl.

‘I didn’t.’ The other boy sounded outraged at the suggestion.

‘Thus, barring medical emergency, I would suggest the unexpected arrival of a favorite relative. An aunt, perhaps. Or an uncle, latterly traveling in South America.’

‘You’re a wizard,’ Wittgenstein said.

Gross shrugged. ‘No. Merely a reader of the “Notables” column in the daily paper. I see your uncle did return from Paraguay this very week.’

Wittgenstein now looked disappointed, and huddled himself into his fur-collared coat.

‘Explanation ruins magic,’ he said.

He sat back in the first-class coach of the Alpine Express and watched the snow-blanketed landscape race by outside his window. The time away from Vienna had done him good; no longer was his left foot so swollen and painful. Gout, the doctors said, but he knew better. It was only a matter of time. He could try to control his disease, but he knew that eventually it would get the better of him.

He lit a Gross Glockner cigar, only his third of the day, and exhaled a wreath of blue smoke into the compartment where he sat alone. He had taken the entire car; his aides were scattered in the other compartments.

The train whistled through the station at St Polten. Its platforms were empty except for a mother and her small daughter standing at her side, thumb in her mouth, staring wide-eyed at the express flying past her, ruffling her long mauve skirts.

How long did he have? No one was saying, but he tried to live each day as fully as possible. Keep your mind in the present; the future will take care of itself.

But events in the present were now intruding on his future. His vendetta against the Habsburgs was so near to coming to successful closure, all his careful machinations about to come to fruition.

Yet at the same time everything was beginning to unravel. He understood from Bielohlawek that investigators were snooping about, picking at the ashes of Steinwitz’s death, nosing around the affairs of the Rathaus. If so, it was only a matter of time until they would make associations, put the pieces together. The press had not come into it yet, but that, too, was only a matter of time.

He had to contain this, at least until Wednesday. Then let the critics wail and gnash their teeth. He would weather it. The Christian Democrats would weather it. He could always count on the small people of Vienna who loved him like a saint. He could always blame it on the Jews. After all, the Jew Wittgenstein represented one group of bidders; Remington, or whatever he chose to call himself, the other. And he, Mayor Lueger, had done his homework on Taylor Remington, formerly Thomas Remminghaus. The man was a chameleon. Not only had he re-created himself as a frontier American, a character out of the pages of Karl May, but before that he had already reinvented himself as a German. For, Lueger and his aides had discovered, the impresario and his family had originally hailed from Galicia, where his name as a young boy was Tomas Remstein. The Jewish Remstein.

Lueger looked at his bearded handsome reflection in the window of his train compartment and smiled contentedly.

Once again, the Jews did it. The despoilers of the country.

And once the money was collected there were a thousand and one ways to conceal its uses. Through years of redirecting ‘gifts’ from industrialists and municipal funds toward campaign expenditures, Lueger and his team had devised a Byzantine structure of funding channels and money redirection and ‘cleaning’ that not even a Swiss bank director could follow. Just get him the money from the sale, and it would be safe.

Lueger looked at the stub of cigar wedged between his forefinger and middle finger. Those fingers were stained almost as dark as the cigar itself. He had long ago given up on trying to eradicate that nicotine stain.

But this stain of disclosure was another matter. Only a few more days of containing this affair.

Was it time to enlist Kulowski’s aid in the matter?

Karl Lueger was a tidy man in his personal habits; he liked to have his desk neatly arranged, his affairs in order. Hildegard, his older sister, looked after domestic arrangements at his simple apartment in the Rathaus. Lunch was always on the table promptly at twelve ten. Clean suits and freshly polished gold cufflinks awaited him every morning after his bath. His life was untroubled by marriage. Like a priest to the church, he felt he was married to politics, to his duties as mayor of the finest city in Europe. He found release with Marianne, but that, like the state of his health, was a closely guarded secret.

Now, his orderly plans were at risk of becoming messy in the extreme. And all because his old school chum Steinwitz had suddenly found a conscience. That was a deep betrayal. Middle-class boys, the both of them. And the Theresianum had been the making of them. They were the bright boys, the day boys, the first of their generation to claw their way into the lair of privilege and nobility. And Lueger had not forgotten his friend Steinwitz. He had taken him with him on his meteoric rise in Vienna politics. He had made the man. And to be paid back in such a pitiless manner. It was really too much. Where was the man’s sense of loyalty? The killing paid him back, though. He could almost understand-

His thoughts were interrupted when the door to his compartment opened unexpectedly, letting in the noise of the rushing train. Kulowski stood there, looking uncomfortable as usual in a suit that appeared at least one size too small.

‘Just to let you know we will be there in ten minutes, chief.’

‘I am quite aware of that,’ Lueger said, irritated at having been torn out of his thoughts.

‘You told me to remind you.’

‘And now you have.’ Lueger waved his cigar dismissively at the man.

After the door closed, Lueger leaned back against the linen-covered headrest, closed his eyes and said quietly out loud, ‘Buffalo.’

But at least Kulowski was loyal.