The Silence

Twenty-One

What do you tell a ten-year-old boy to make him understand the ways of the world? How do you explain expediency, connections, and the perversion of power? How do you tell him that the world is not always — in fact seldom is — a fair place? That money and influence can trump justice?

Werthen did not bother to try. Instead he said, ‘No, I won’t let her get away with it, Master Ludwig.’

It was only later that he began to believe his own words.

‘You can’t let her get away with it,’ Berthe said, echoing young Ludwig, when Werthen explained matters to her.

‘I feel as angry as you do, my dear, but I do not see what is to be done. As long as she is in Switzerland-’

‘That’s it,’ she said, excited.

‘What?’

‘You must get her out of Switzerland somehow. Kidnap her if you have to.’

Werthen said nothing, thinking of what his wife had just said.

They were lying in bed, their favorite place to discuss matters since the birth of Frieda. Werthen was on his back and Berthe was nestled beneath his right arm, her head on his shoulder. She suddenly pinched him hard on the side.

‘What was that for?’

‘You are going to do it, aren’t you?’

‘I need a plan.’

‘You need Gross.’

The criminologist arrived two days later, after Werthen sent off a telegram and after a trunk call that was most unsatisfactory, voices coming in and out of hearing like a fast approaching and then receding train.

Werthen met him at the station; Gross, who had arranged an emergency leave from his university, looked sullen after the all-night journey from Czernowitz.

‘I believe I have an adequate plan,’ Gross said by way of salutation. ‘One problem only. We must first locate the woman.’

They headed to their favorite rendezvous, the Cafe Frauenhuber, by Fiaker, and over a late breakfast of warm Semmeln, fresh butter, a pot of apricot marmalade, steaming mugs of coffee with milk, and boiled eggs in freckled brown shells served in onion-ware egg cups, Gross explained his idea.

Werthen listened with rapt attention, stopping him once, then twice for clarification. They would quickly find out if such a plan would work when attempting to put the first parts of it into motion.

Gross was correct: the first thing they needed to do was ascertain Frau Steinwitz’s location, and Werthen had already begun work on that part of the mission.

Herr Otto presented them with the bill when it was apparent they were ready to leave.

‘Did you notice our salvation?’ he asked, his face an emotionless mask.

‘How do you mean, Herr Otto?’ Werthen asked, then realized that they were still seated on the wonderful Thonet cafe chairs that had been under threat. He had completely forgotten about the drive to modernize the Cafe Frauenhuber; about his promise to start a petition with others among the clientele to leave well enough alone.

‘How did you accomplish it?’ he asked the waiter in amazement.

‘I am sure you know Herr Reichsrath Nadelman of the Finance Ministry. One of our more robust clientele?’

Werthen knew only too well of the man. He was of such an enormous girth that fellows at the cafe actually ran a lottery — in which Werthen took no part — to determine the man’s exact weight. Another client of the cafe, Herr Bachman, was a functionary at the state stockyards in the Third District, and he invited Nadelman on a tour of the facility. The plan was that they would both mount one of the hoists used to weigh the beasts before slaughter, and then Bachman would simply subtract his weight from the total to determine that of Nadelman. In the event, however, the hoist broke; nothing to do with excessive weight, simply wear and tear. But the irony was not lost on the rest of the cafe clientele. Nadelman was thereafter referred to in whispers as the Ochse, or steer.

‘What about him?’ Werthen asked.

Herr Otto sighed, as if ready to report a death. ‘I regret to say that Herr Reichsrath Nadelman had a nasty accident last week. You see, he was sitting down in one of the new, modern chairs and it sadly fell apart under him. Had a bit of a jolt, landing on the floor. One must be thankful he was not injured, but he did complain mightily to Frau Enghart.’

Werthen surveyed the room and saw only Thonet number fourteen chairs in attendance. Something was missing, however, or in this case, someone. Herr Bauer, the new head Ober whose idea it had been to modernize the premises, was nowhere to be seen.

‘Unfortunate for Herr Reichsrath Nadelman,’ Werthen said.

‘Most,’ Herr Otto agreed, his face still without expression.

‘It seems to have done the trick, though. I assume Herr Bauer no longer has the ear of Frau Enghart?’

‘Sadly, it was thought better that Herr Bauer seek his modernization at another establishment. He will be missed.’

They paid, leaving a handsome tip for Herr Otto.

On the way out Gross muttered, ‘Remind me never to make an enemy of that man.’

They put Gross up in the rooms of the Hotel zur Josefstadt recently vacated by Werthen’s parents. After a quick visit to Berthe and her father, Werthen and Gross set off for the Police Praesidium.

Detective Inspector Drechsler was in his cramped office going over reports. Greetings and small talk were kept to a minimum. They did learn, though, that Drechsler’s wife was recovering nicely from her operation at the capable hands of Doktor Praetor.

‘I suppose you’ve come about that little matter we spoke about?’ Drechsler finally said.

Werthen told him that yes, that was the purpose of their visit.

‘Any luck?’

‘Easy enough,’ Drechsler said. ‘I have a Swiss colleague. I believe you met him, too, Doktor Gross, at the same conference where we met. Inspector Zwingl? A hefty sort of man with a left arm shorter than the right.’

‘Ah, you mean the Kaiser?’

‘Exactly.’

They did not explain, but Werthen assumed the nickname came from a similar affliction which the German leader, Kaiser Wilhelm II, shared.

‘Very thorough, the Swiss. They do keep track of their foreign visitors.’

Drechsler pulled a card out of the middle drawer of his desk and handed it to Werthen.

The address meant little to him, other than that it was in the vicinity of Zurich.

‘It’s a noble spa really,’ Drechsler said, ‘not a clinic at all. In the town of Kusnacht. Taking the waters, she is.’

‘Many thanks, Drechsler,’ Werthen said.

‘Just remember, gentlemen. Kidnapping is a crime.’

‘Not you again. I thought you declared tabula rasa last time.’ Herr Wittgenstein seemed in a fine mood, which was just as well. ‘And you’ve brought a friend with you, I see. Does he need a favor, too?’

‘Doktor Gross, at your service,’ the criminologist said with great ceremony. ‘And yes, I am in need of a favor. But first perhaps you would care to hear why you should help in this matter.’

Gross quickly outlined the case against Valerie Gutrum Steinwitz, putting special emphasis on the fact that she had attempted to kill Wittgenstein’s own son, but killed another instead.

Wittgenstein’s face became suddenly drained of color, his eyes squinted as if a powerful light were shining in his face.

‘The damned she-wolf,’ he said. ‘I’ll see she rots in prison for this.’

‘Exactly what I hoped you would say, Herr Wittgenstein,’ Gross said. ‘And this is how you can make it happen.’

At Werthen’s office they continued to marshal their forces. First Werthen found a gazetteer for Switzerland, noting that from the center of Zurich to the Park Hotel am See in Kusnacht was a matter of only ten kilometers.

A sudden ruckus sounded in the outer office, followed by the door to Werthen’s office being thrown open. Fearing that the same thug had come to finish his work, Werthen jumped to his feet, brandishing a hefty brass paperweight from the desk like a mace.

Herr Beer charged into the room.

‘I know what you’re up to,’ he said.

‘I am sorry, Advokat,’ Fraulein Metzinger said from in back of him. ‘He would not listen to reason.’

‘You should know about this, too,’ Beer said turning to her. Then again to Werthen: ‘You’ve found her, haven’t you? The one who killed my boy?’

‘I really do not know what you are talking about, Herr Beer. Now if you will excuse us, we-’

‘I’ve been following you. Figured a man like you, he wouldn’t let my boy’s death go unavenged.’

Fraulein Metzinger put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It was an accident. There’s no one to blame.’

‘Ask him,’ Beer said, shaking off her touch. ‘He knows different.’

She began to have doubts now. ‘Advokat?’

Gross finally joined in. ‘I think you can put that down now, Werthen.’

Werthen had not realized he was still gripping the paperweight.

‘And you, Herr Beer, please be seated and tell us what you think you know,’ continued Gross. ‘You, too, Fraulein Metzinger. Our precipitate visitor is right in one regard: this does concern you.’

Beer took a proffered chair warily, as if handed a loaded gun. Once seated, he looked from one to the other of his interlocutors with a tight-lipped grimace.

‘It was the coat Heidrich had on when he died. I knew right off that was not my boy’s coat. Then I saw you talking to that young swell near the Karlsplatz the other day.’

‘Young Wittgenstein,’ Werthen said.

‘That’s the one. Say what you like about the rich, but they aren’t all bad. This young one was a bit scared when I approached him at the skating pond in the park-’

‘You followed him, too?’ Werthen was appalled.

‘Don’t get so high and mighty. I didn’t mean him any harm. Waited till this walking cadaver he was with was busy with the skates, and then I told the boy my situation. That I am. . was Heidrich’s father. That I had a right to know. And so, he told me.’

‘Told you what?’ Fraulein Metzinger asked, casting a brief glance at Werthen.

‘It is a sad tale,’ Gross said. ‘We did not wish to involve more people in it than absolutely necessary.’

‘Tell me.’ It was an animal shriek.

Werthen told her the entire sordid story. She listened as one would to a requiem mass, hands held tightly in her lap, head bowed. When he finished, she looked up.

‘Then Herr Beer is right,’ she said. ‘You are planning something.’

‘We want to bring her back to Vienna to stand trial.’

‘Rich folks’ justice?’ Beer sounded skeptical.

‘There is a strong case against her,’ Werthen replied.

‘Circumstantial,’ Fraulein Metzinger said. ‘Unless there is someone you have not told us about.’

She was right, of course. Werthen was well aware of that. Frau Steinwitz’s confession to himself and Gross was a matter of hearsay; they were not officials of the court, merely private citizens who would claim to have heard one thing while Frau Steinwitz and her father would surely aver that no such confession had been made. Further, the Kulowski testimony had already been compromised, by none other than Mayor Lueger himself, no matter what Oberbaurat Wagner might say to the contrary about seeing Frau Steinwitz at the Rathaus the day of her husband’s death.

Also, would Father Mickelsburg be willing to sacrifice his entire career for justice? He sought penance, but self-immolation might be too much to ask of the man. And Ludwig Wittgenstein? Assuming his father let him testify, would his sighting of Frau Steinwitz at the scene of Praetor’s death be sufficient? Would jurors believe the transcribed note salvaged from Praetor’s typing ribbon, suggesting a meeting for the night in question? Would they give credence to Frau Czerny’s attestation to hearing a woman’s voice from inside the flat that same evening? And would these same jurors put these facts together to accept the fact that Frau Steinwitz was also guilty of the murder of the hapless Huck?

Additionally, there was the fact of Gutrum being a major investor in the Vienna Woods deal, which provided Frau Steinwitz’s motive in killing her husband and Praetor. But they had made a bargain with Lueger that that matter should be put to rest. Werthen knew Lueger would do everything in his power to quash such evidence. And he had powerful friends in every strata of the Viennese social, political, and judicial worlds. The gun in the case in the Steinwitz flat could be another circumstantial bit of evidence, that is, if it were still there.

Another factor was Frau Steinwitz herself. Confronted with her crimes, she would either deny them completely, or, if cornered, would opt for the defense of a crime passionel, as Werthen had earlier surmised. Then it would be the job of the prosecutor to show that both murders showed extreme premeditation. There was nothing of ‘killing in the passion of the moment,’ which is at the heart of a crime of passion. Yet demonstrating that depended on a clever prosecutor.

‘You are absolutely correct, Fraulein Metzinger,’ Werthen finally replied. ‘The case is strong, not sure. But bringing Frau Steinwitz back to Vienna to stand trial is the best we can do.’

‘Put me on the stand. I’ll say I saw her shove my boy under the wheels of that Stadtbahn train.’

Gross was on his feet, a look of amazement on his face.

‘Thank you, Herr Beer.’ He grabbed the seated man’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘You’ve struck on exactly the line of inquiry we have failed to pursue. The platform that day of young Heidrich’s death was of course crowded, for the trains had only just begun running regularly again after the heavy snowfall. We need to track those passengers down and show them photographs of Frau Steinwitz. Someone, perhaps several, must have seen her there. No one would suspect at the time, of course, that an elegantly attired woman would have pushed the boy. But I guarantee that some of them will remember her presence there; it is not every day that the rich and powerful subject themselves to the hustle and bustle of public transport.’

‘The officer first on the scene must have taken names of passengers,’ Werthen said without a pause, for this was exactly where his thoughts were going, as well. ‘It is standard police procedure.’

‘Perhaps Detective Inspector Drechsler can be of assistance one more time,’ Gross said.

‘I say we just kill her,’ Beer muttered. ‘You know where she is. I’ll do the deed and smile on my way to the gallows.’

‘Were we living several centuries ago, my good man,’ Gross intoned, ‘such a course of action would be the norm. Private settlement of accounts was an acknowledged method in the German-speaking lands. The authorities in such cases merely supervised these private settlements.’

‘Please do not encourage him, Gross.’

‘You seem an ardent man, Herr Beer,’ the criminologist said. ‘Perhaps you would care to join forces with us to see that justice is done?’

‘Is that wise, Gross?’ Werthen said.

‘Done,’ replied Beer. ‘I am your man.’

Fraulein Metzinger merely shook her head at the entire enterprise. ‘She will walk away from the courtroom smiling.’

Gross looked at her long and hard.

‘I promise that will not happen, young lady.’

The private train Wittgenstein provided left from Wiener Neustadt, joining the rails of the Austrian train system a few kilometers to the west. If this was what it was like to be an industrialist, Werthen figured that he had chosen the wrong profession. The car they were traveling in was appointed as elegantly as one of the rooms in the Wittgenstein mansion. The walls were red plush, matching the well-stuffed fauteuils. Hunting scenes hung on the walls. At Werthen’s side table sat a silver bell, which he picked up and jingled. Nothing happened. He jingled it more violently this time and heard the door open and close from the front carriage to theirs in the middle of the three-car train.

‘Yes, sir.’

Werthen had never heard quite so much loathing put into two words before.

‘Beer, I am only doing this for your benefit. You need practice at being a servant.’

Herr Erdmann Beer stood in front of him in deep-blue satin livery, his spindly shanks looking rather pitiful in the silk hose he wore. A sorrier version of Meier, the Wittgenstein house servant, but a real improvement over Beer’s usual attire.

‘What is it you require, sir?’

‘Excellent, Beer. Now you sound like the real thing.’

Gross, seated in another chair closer to the rear of the car, put his evening edition of the Neue Freie Presse down and peered at Werthen over the edges of nonexistent bifocals.

‘You’re enjoying this, Werthen.’

‘Yes, I am rather. What time will dinner be, Beer?’

‘Sir, you can kiss me in the valley of wind.’

Which comment brought a mild chuckle from Gross, who once again turned to his newspaper.

Fraulein Metzinger entered from the other end of the car, from the rear of the train.

‘I do believe you’ve missed your calling, Fraulein,’ Beer said, looking approvingly at the gray and white-trimmed nurse’s uniform she wore.

She blushed at the comment and then straightened her shoulders. ‘I will take that as a compliment, Herr Beer.’

The private train hurtled through the early evening, as the four settled down to a meal together and final plans for the coming day.

Werthen awoke with sunlight in his eyes, pouring through the tiny window of his sleeping cubicle. He sat up in bed and looked at a brilliantly white world under an azure blue sky. In the distance were the Alps, tall, imposing, frozen. Off to his right he could see the icy blue tip of Lake Zurich and the high spires of churches in the city.

A good day for a kidnapping, he decided.

The four of them breakfasted as the train bypassed Zurich, traveling southward along the Lake of Zurich sparkling and inviting under the rising winter sun. Vineyards lay thickly covered under a blanket of snow, grape arbors like stick men dotting the fields. They were attended in actual fact by none other than Meier, Wittgenstein’s loyal servant, who could also be trusted, it seemed, to keep his mouth shut about any adventures he might be part of, as could the engineer driving the train and the brakeman, all loyal Wittgenstein men.

At ten after nine their private train pulled up at a siding near the station of Kusnacht. Out of the train they could see in the near distance their target, the Park Hotel am See. The grounds abutted the banks of the lake and the premises consisted of two large ornate buildings. The older, three stories high with turrets at both sides, fronted the lake; an enclosed portico connected that to another newer, but no less impressive hotel building farther back from lakeside. It stood five stories and had balconies surrounding each floor. Overall, this newer building was fitted out more in the alpine style favored by the builders of mountain lodges, while the older, original building had an air of gingerbread quaintness. Boat pads stood empty this time of year, but Werthen could imagine that in fine summer weather the lawns and launching pads would be a buzz of activity.

‘You know your tasks,’ Gross said to Beer and Fraulein Metzinger. ‘If there is any sign of difficulty, however, you must simply cease and return to the train. We have not come to create more violence. Understood?’

Fraulein Metzinger — dressed in her nurse’s uniform and standing next to a wooden wheelchair with blankets neatly folded in the seat — nodded, but Beer simply stared at the hotel buildings as if in a trance.

‘Herr Beer?’ Gross said. ‘That is understood?’

‘She’s that close,’ he said. ‘The woman who killed my boy.’

‘I promise you she will pay for her crimes,’ Gross said. ‘But not at your hands.’

‘Whatever you say, Professor,’ Beer replied, still gazing at the hotel.

Despite the low sun, the chill off the lake was intense. Werthen was anxious to get things under way. He handed Beer an overcoat that matched his uniform, both with the crest of the Park Hotel am See on them, another gift from Herr Wittgenstein, who seemed to have tentacles everywhere.

Their plan was for Beer to enter the hotel in the guise of one of the staff, then to go to Frau Steinwitz’s room — the number of which was supplied by Drechsler — and to bring mid-morning coffee laced with sufficient laudanum to put her to sleep. Fraulein Metzinger, posing as a nurse, would then go to the room and she and Beer would administer diethyl ether sufficient to render her totally unconscious. Fraulein Metzinger had been advised in the technique by a doctor friend, having told him she was writing a penny thriller. The doctor was only too happy to contribute to her creative efforts.

Beer and Fraulein Metzinger would then put the lady into the wheelchair, bundled up so that no one could see she was unconscious, and wheel her to the waiting train. If noticed by staff or other guests, it would simply appear that she was being taken for an airing.

Gross and Werthen would be waiting in the grounds for their return, keeping an eye out for any watchers or bodyguards. It was, after all, possible that Colonel Gutrum would send someone to accompany his daughter.

‘Good luck to you both,’ Werthen said. ‘And remember what Doktor Gross said. The first sign of trouble, you both get out of there. We will find another way to deal with her. Is that agreed?’

Agreement came from both, though with little enthusiasm.

Beer set off first, crunching through the snow. Five minutes later, Gross, Werthen, and Fraulein Metzinger followed.

It is finally under way, Werthen thought.

Werthen thought he might freeze while waiting. He knew it would take some time for the laudanum to work. Meanwhile, he tried to keep warm by walking back and forth along the small quay built in front of the hotel. Gross simply huddled in his heavy overcoat, his derby pulled down low over his face, and stared out into the icy waters of the lake. He was strangely quiet this morning, Werthen noticed, but perhaps that was because he was nervous about the success of their plan. Understandable enough. But he missed the criminologist’s usual banter.

Werthen was about to try and bring Gross out when he heard the unmistakable crunch of wheels over frozen snow. There, coming down the path from the back building, were Beer and Fraulein Metzinger wheeling an inert Frau Steinwitz. They had done it. A wave of elation swept over Werthen.

‘Gross. They’re coming.’

The criminologist turned, and Werthen saw his expression turn from relief to alarm.

Werthen looked back and saw now that there was a fourth person coming down the same lane. He was large but agile, and though dressed in finer clothes than before, Werthen was sure it was the man with the broken nose who had attacked him and later Herr Meisner.

‘Behind you,’ he shouted to Beer, but too late, for the thug had already apprehended them and lifted Beer up by the front of his overcoat like a rag doll, shaking him. Werthen could hear Fraulein Metzinger scream. She attempted to push the wheelchair down the path, but the man grabbed her as well, throwing her to the ground like a bundle of old clothes.

Werthen was racing up the pathway toward them, followed by Gross. They had come armed, and as he ran he drew the revolver out of his coat pocket. He could hear Gross panting behind him as he pulled away. The thug had now taken the wheelchair and was returning toward the hotel. This altercation had not yet attracted attention from within the hotel; neither were there strollers about to witness events.

He reached Beer and Fraulein Metzinger, and though shaken, they both seemed unharmed.

‘Let them go, Advokat,’ Fraulein Metzinger said, holding Werthen’s arm. ‘Remember your own rules. We try another day.’

Werthen wanted his own vengeance with the thug who had attacked him and his father-in-law, but knew she was right.

‘Then let me,’ Beer said, struggling with him for the revolver in his hand.

Gross had by now caught them up and wrapped his arms around the struggling Beer.

Ahead of them shots suddenly rang out. They all looked toward the sound and saw the large man topple in the snow. Then another pair of reports from the gun, and Frau Steinwitz slumped in her chair.

Werthen could hardly believe his eyes.

There on the path, gun in hand, was Doktor Praetor. He made no attempt to run away as panic broke out from inside the hotel. He dropped the revolver and simply stood there as a pair of beefy security guards came running down the path and held him. A woman screamed from the terrace at the sight of carnage.

Soon, Werthen knew, the area would be alive with policemen. For now, however, attention was focused on the dead and the perpetrator.

‘We need to leave,’ he said.

They did not run, but forced themselves to walk slowly away from the scene. Turning once, Werthen had the unmistakable sense that Praetor doffed his hat in their direction.