The Silence

Three

Werthen let Fraulein Metzinger know he would be out most of the morning and perhaps the rest of the day. He had no scheduled appointments at the office today; Klimt’s timing could not have been more perfect.

The snow had let up now, but the world was muffled in its whiteness. Soon enough it would melt and be a filthy nuisance, but for now Vienna was transformed into a winter wonderland. A number of truant children were out in the Volksgarten, sledding along the pathways on discarded planks of wood to the great disapproval of older pedestrians. Werthen did not bother trying to find a Fiaker, but instead cut through the park on foot on his way around the Ringstrasse to the Alleegasse. As he walked, he tried to sort out his questions for Herr Wittgenstein. He knew the importance of confronting a man of such power with his own assured plan of attack.

Along with most other Viennese, Werthen was well aware of the importance of Karl Wittgenstein. Born in 1847, the industrialist was, like Werthen, just two generations removed from the land and from his Jewish roots. His father had run a successful dry goods business and converted to Protestantism. Instead of following the family route into business, Karl Wittgenstein became a draughtsman and an engineer and went to work for the Teplitz steel-rolling mill in Bohemia. By a mixture of hard work, overweening ambition, and a willingness to take huge risks, Wittgenstein built an empire from this humble beginning. Five years after starting work as a lowly draughtsman for the Teplitz Rolling Mill, Wittgenstein was running that business. He sold train rails to the Russians during the Russo-Turkish War of 1878, making a huge war profit for his company, and staged another coup by gaining sole European rights to a revolutionary steel manufacturing process. With these rights in hand, he leveraged other businesses, acquiring the Bohemian Mining Company and then the Prague Iron Company, creating a vertical monopoly in steel production in the Czech regions of the Austrian Empire. He repeated this success in the German regions with purchase of the Alpine Mining Company, and at the same time established the first rail cartel in Austria. It seemed to many that Wittgenstein had a finger in every economic pie in the empire, with seats on the boards of powerful corporations, including the Creditanstalt, the most powerful bank in the monarchy.

Then, in 1898, amid a firestorm of criticism over his shoddy treatment of workers, his monopolistic practices, and his attempts to artificially drive up the price of his steel stocks, Wittgenstein stepped down from the directorship. He became a patron of the arts, but knowledgeable observers knew that he still had a strong hand in the day-to-day operations of his far-flung industrial empire. His home at Alleegasse 16 had become one of the foremost salons in Vienna. Johannes Brahms premiered his late clarinet quintets here; Klimt and other members of the Secession first presented their work to the public in the immense rooms of that city palace. Through marriage, the Wittgensteins were connected with lawyers, doctors, industrialists, and ministers. Herr Wittgenstein could obtain a visa, an introduction to a general, medical advice, or an inside tip on investments with a simple telephone call.

At the same time, because of his cut-throat business practices, there were plenty of people who might want to harm Wittgenstein in some way. There were other businessmen whom he had driven into bankruptcy; angry shareholders of those competing businesses; workers seeking redress for long hours, low wages, and dangerous working conditions; socialist-anarchists who wanted to make an example of this ruthless American-style capitalist; consumers incensed at his monopoly pricing. All these in addition to a garden-variety kidnapper after money or a crazed anti-Semite. The list was long, Werthen knew.

By the time he reached the Karlsplatz, the sun had come out and the temperature had suddenly risen at least five degrees. Werthen was almost too warm in his heavy coat as he made his way to the back of the immense Karlskirche and on to the Alleegasse, home to many of the nouveaux riches of the empire. The last generation had seen construction of immense and ponderous city mansions throughout this neighborhood, not just in the Alleegasse, but in the intersecting Schwindgasse, all in the various historicist styles of the Ringstrasse. Here was an aggregation of wealth eager to show itself off. Neo-baroque mingled with neo-classic and renaissance styles. Amidst this milieu of ennobled industrialists was a smattering of town houses belonging to lower princes and even an archduke — though it was said the archduke in question was in attendance there far less frequently than was his mistress.

As Werthen turned into the Alleegasse he could see, beneath the now melting snow on the cobblestone street, that straw had earlier been spread. As he progressed up the street, he saw that the dried stalks extended for several blocks. It was a Viennese custom to spread straw to muffle the traffic noise for those of wealth, power, and/or prominence who had been taken ill.

The Palais Wittgenstein was an impressive, if dour town house of two floors, its banks of second-story windows seeming to frown down on the Alleegasse while the bottom floor presented a fortress-like appearance. The facade was at least fifty paces in length. Werthen entered through a pair of heavy oak doors, behind which a Portier was stationed and directed him via a forecourt with an impressive fountain and ample grillwork to an entrance hall huge and imposing. The floor was done in mosaic, the walls in carved paneling. Frescoes also adorned the space as did a statue, which Werthen thought might be the work of the French sculptor August Rodin. He passed through stone arches and went up six marble stairs to glass double doors. There he was met by a liveried servant who led him up the central red-carpeted marble stairway to the second floor and ultimately into Karl Wittgenstein’s study, appointed in the most opulent gilt furnishing Werthen had seen outside a museum. Incongruously, modern paintings hung on the red plush walls, artists from Vienna and Munich, with Klimt prominent among them. On an immense carved walnut desk in the middle of the room were several small sculptures, obviously the work of Rodin. A fire pulsed in an open porcelain fireplace.

Wittgenstein sat at the desk, a bear of a man, who seemed even larger once he stood to greet Werthen, offering a crushing handshake. The man’s dark hair was cut short (and perhaps dyed at the temples) and he wore a thick black moustache. He appeared much younger than his fifty-two years, wearing a frock coat, striped silk vest, maroon paisley bow tie under a fresh collar, and sporting spats — the newest fad from America. Werthen could not stop his eyes from traveling to these white canvas shoe coverings; for him they were too similar to the splatterdashes he had worn as a youth to protect his riding boots from mud to be considered high fashion. But fancy young men from Manhattan to Paris were wearing them this season, and it seemed Karl Wittgenstein or his tailor had decided to join the throng. It was hardly a fashion statement Werthen would have credited the man of business with.

‘Your good friend Klimt sings your praises,’ Wittgenstein said as he finally released Werthen’s pummeled hand. The man’s voice was deep and booming.

‘He is too kind,’ Werthen said, sitting in the pale-blue Louis Quinze chair Wittgenstein waved him toward. The industrialist sat in a matching chair, facing him, and crossed his legs by placing his right ankle over his left knee, American style.

‘I suppose he’s filled you in on the commission?’

‘He mentioned a missing son.’

‘Mein Gott. Hardly missing in the strictest sense. But he hasn’t shown up for work in a week. He’s the manager of mining interests at my Vienna offices on Kolowatring. Lord knows what the boy’s thinking of. Always did have his head in the clouds. Wanted to be a musician of all things.’

Werthen registered this, but was not yet ready to follow the path of inquiry that comment might lead to.

Instead, he said, ‘Perhaps we could review the facts. When was it first noticed that your son was missing?’

‘Well,’ the big man re-crossed his legs, ‘Poldi, my wife, remarked last Tuesday, I believe it was, that Hans had not taken his dinner with us as is our custom. He is single, you see, and has a suite of rooms here. Then I found out from Prohaska, the second in command at the mining division, that Hans was not there on the Monday, either. No message. Nothing.’ Wittgenstein shook his head. ‘No sense of responsibility.’

The age-old complaint, Werthen thought: The younger generation is going to the dogs. Parents had been complaining of it since ancient Greece.

‘Perhaps I might speak with your wife after we are finished here?’

Wittgenstein shook his head so violently that jowls, until now undetectable, shook.

‘Afraid she is indisposed. Worry over her son has brought on migraine.’

Which, Werthen now understood, explains the straw in the street outside.

‘I must be blunt, Advokat Werthen. It is because of Poldi that I have summoned you. She needs the reassurance.’

‘And you, sir?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? The boy’s taken himself off for a fling. I did the same thing myself when my father insisted I go into his property management. Ran off to New York and played guitar in a saloon for a year before I came back home, tail partly between my legs. I hardly credit Hans with the temerity to run off to the New World, though. He’s probably holed up with some sweet young thing in the Inner City. Just trying to show his independence. But he’ll be back. In the end, he’s a Wittgenstein. We know our duty.’

Werthen marveled at the man’s self-assurance. He could only imagine his own emotions were a child of his to go missing for a week.

‘Has your son been missing before?’

‘Skipped the odd lesson, I should say. My children are educated at home. The best instructors. Hans would hide out from Latin lessons to play his piano. Poldi, you see. She is a great one for the music. All the children play instruments. Other than that, no. .’

The statement had the tone of uncertainty.

‘Nothing?’ Werthen pursued.

‘The blasted Theresianum. I blame that school.’

The Theresianum was the most prestigious Gymnasium or preparatory school in Vienna. It was called the ‘knights’ academy,’ for Empress Maria Theresa had established it in the eighteenth century to educate the young aristocrats of the realm to become administrators and political leaders. The nobles were still the only ones admitted as boarding students; the bourgeoisie had been permitted admittance as day students for the last half-century. Jews, assimilated or not, rarely gained entrance. Werthen knew this only too well; he himself had been denied admission. In any case it had not been his wish to attend the snobbish Theresianum, but rather his parents’. He had felt great relief being forced to attend the more liberal and secularized Akademische Gymnasium leading up to his entrance to the University of Vienna.

Werthen figured that Wittgenstein must have paid very dearly indeed to get his child into the exclusive school. He most likely pulled in debts of all sorts from influential colleagues and far-flung relations to win that coup.

‘You said your children were educated at home.’

‘Yes, well, Hans did mope about so that I relented in his case. Allowed him to study at the Theresianum for two years. He fell into bad company there. It was then he began digging in his heels about going into the family business.’

Just as you had earlier, Werthen wanted to remind the man, but knew it was not his place to do so.

Herr Wittgenstein paused for a moment, then said, ‘Ultimately, they chucked him out. Missed his lessons, forever playing the piano.’

‘Anyone in particular?’ Werthen asked.

Wittgenstein shot him an uncomprehending look.

‘The bad company Hans fell into.’

‘How should I know?’ Herr Wittgenstein said with sudden impatience. ‘I was engaged in business at the time. But it was then he started his campaign to become a composer. I told him to leave the composing for Sundays, but he became even more sullen than before. You would think the masters at the Theresianum would have knocked some sense into the boy. After all, one paid enough for the education.’

There followed a momentary pause. ‘I don’t want to take up more of your valuable time, Advokat Werthen.’ Wittgenstein stood, smoothing down his trousers as he did so. ‘I’ll let you get on with it. I can pay a retainer now, or-’

‘That won’t be necessary, Herr Wittgenstein. We will talk about fees after I find your son. I will, however, need to speak to other members of the family and domestic staff.’

‘Certainly. Meier will direct you. The servant who showed you in. Knows his way about the house, does Meier. Been with us since we moved here from the Schwarzenbergplatz in ninety-one.’

Wittgenstein moved to the door and pressed a small ringer. The door soon opened, revealing the same liveried servant who had shown Werthen to the study.

‘Meier, please take our guest to Fraulein Mining. She should be in the conservatory now.’

Then to Werthen: ‘That is my oldest child, Hermine. She is the family brick, the one to go to in times of crisis. She can give you the lay of the land here. Tell you who’s who and what’s what, if that is any help. She can show you Hans’s room and all that. There’s Kurt as well. A year younger than Hans and of a more sensible nature. Then Rudi, a younger brother. But he’s a dreamer, like Hans. Wants to be an actor. He’ll be a fine director one day. And I do not mean of the theatrical sort. I don’t know if they can help you in your inquiries. They tell their mother they know nothing of Hans’s whereabouts.’

‘Thank you, Herr Wittgenstein.’ Werthen was about to follow Meier out of the room, but decided on one final attempt to get through to the man.

‘You’ll pardon me for saying so, but you do not seem troubled by this disappearance,’ he said.

Wittgenstein, about to sit again at his desk, seemed surprised by the statement, then irritated.

‘Troubled? Why ever should I be? Young scoundrel’s probably off with a pretty girl, like I said.’

‘There have been no ransom demands? No communication?’

Wittgenstein’s face reddened. ‘Why should there be?’ He was like a patient diagnosed with cancer yet unwilling to take it seriously.

‘You keep mentioning some pretty young thing. Was Hans having an affair?’

‘I have no idea. That is Hans’s business. He is, after all, a young man. And please do not ask Mining such a question.’

‘This may not be the appropriate time for decorum, sir. Your son’s been missing for over a week.’

‘I really must attend to certain matters, Advokat. If you will excuse me. Meier, Advokat Werthen wishes to see my daughter now.’