City of Lost Dreams

EIGHT

Sarah strode through the Naschmarkt, searching the stalls for a glimpse of Bettina. Had she not left town after all? Was she following Sarah? What game was this woman playing? Another message arrived.

There is something in the refrigerator of my apartment that must be returned. Use maximum discretion. No police.

Whatever was in the refrigerator, Sarah was guessing it wasn’t leftovers.

What is it? And who do I return it to?

But the return message read only: Paniglgasse 18. The concierge will let you in. Tell no one or I will not help you.

How do I know you will help me? Sarah texted furiously. This wasn’t what she had imagined would happen in Vienna. This wasn’t how scientists operated. . . . This was as bad as fucking Prague!

I can save your friend. Do this for me. I will contact you tomorrow.

Sarah got directions to Paniglgasse, which wasn’t far. It was a lovely residential street, with nothing sinister about it. An efficient Viennese mom unloaded two strollers and a standard poodle from a smart car while her somber towheaded children in wool coats with velvet collars waited like tiny sentries. Sarah tried to be reassured by this as she walked through an arched entrance into the courtyard of Bettina Müller’s Neo-Baroque building. A large golden retriever lay protectively across a doorway, and at her approach sat up and barked. This action was followed by the opening of a ground-floor-level apartment door and the appearance of an exceptionally tall and thin old man, bald, his trousers belted slightly below the region of his armpits. He stood glaring at her like an Austrian eagle. Sarah introduced herself in German.

“Yes!” he interrupted sternly. “I am Herr Dorfmeister. Frau Doktor Müller has told me to expect you and that you would be picking up a package.”

“Yes.”

“I will give you the key.” He frowned. “I have been instructed to do so.”

It occurred to Sarah that it was probably a good idea to make as many friends as she could with people who knew Bettina Müller. She needed allies. Or someone to run screaming to if Bettina’s refrigerator contained a human head.

“Herr Dorfmeister, what is the name of your dog? She is very beautiful.”

The transformation was magical. Herr Dorfmeister melted. He patted Sarah on the shoulder. He smiled. He introduced his dog, very formally. Her name was Candy, after Candice Bergen, whom Felix Dorfmeister admired as a great actress, particularly for her work in the television show Murphy Brown. Sarah was familiar, of course, with Murphy Brown?

Sarah, who had no idea who Candice Bergen was, smiled agreeably and, when Candy brought Sarah a mangled tennis ball, instituted a vigorous game of fetch in the courtyard. Apparently thoroughly charmed now, Herr Dorfmeister found the key and showed her to where the old cast-iron elevator was and how to work the doors.

“Apartment 6,” he said. “And Frau Doktor Müller asks that you not let the cat in under any circumstances.”

Sarah entered Bettina’s apartment to the sound of gentle tickings, whirrings, buzzings, and clickings. She saw that the kitchen was directly to the right of the entranceway, but Sarah needed a sense of who this woman was, and decided to explore. She moved into a large, high-ceilinged room and revolved slowly in the middle of it, her eyes wide.

She was surrounded by clocks. Clocks of all sizes and shapes. Clocks in brass, silver, gold, pewter, porcelain. Long case clocks and smaller mantelpiece clocks mounted on shelves. Clocks surrounded by carved figures, clocks with swinging pendulums, clocks that showed the movements of the planets, pocket watches mounted in glass cases. The actual furniture of the room was IKEA utilitarian and very light on personal ornaments: no photographs; no figurines or mementos. More shocking to Sarah was the absence of books.

She looked over the rest of the apartment and found a small room that seemed to be used for random storage and laundry, a large bedroom, and a bathroom. The bedroom and bathroom showed signs of normal use: all the closets contained clothes and shoes and the bathroom cabinets were crammed with cosmetics and unguents. Bettina used a heavy perfume, something with a lot of musk in it. The bedroom had a giant flat-screen TV and huge Bose speakers. And about a hundred more clocks. Not all of them were functioning, but the ones that were seemed to be working harmoniously with one another. Their tickings gave the apartment a strange sort of pulsing vibrancy. Like being surrounded by heartbeats, Sarah thought. No. Like being inside a heartbeat. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was actually kind of . . . soothing. The apartment was very stuffy, though. She was sweating.

The kitchen had all state-of-the-art appliances. A half-drunk glass of wine and plate of rice and vegetables in congealed sauce sat on the table next to take-out cartons. Sarah turned to the refrigerator. An Einstein magnet held a schedule of the Vienna Chamber Orchestra to the door. Several dates were circled, including one for the coming Friday.

Sarah opened the door. No food, not even shelves, which had apparently been moved to make way for a large white box.

A box large enough for, in fact, a human head. Maybe even two.

It wasn’t terribly heavy. Sarah set it on the floor and loosened the lid. Inside, she found a rather beautiful golden model ship with a clock on its prow. It was elaborately constructed, with little figures on the deck and furled masts and everything. The whole contraption sat on wheels. It looked old. And valuable.

Stolen? Bettina was obviously an obsessive clock collector. It was hard to imagine a dangerous black market for clocks, but Sarah knew that art smuggling was big business, and this thing was definitely art. It would account for the secrecy. No police.

Why had Bettina put it in the refrigerator, which she couldn’t even lock? Sarah’s mother, who cleaned houses for a living, had once told her about a client who kept her diamonds in the freezer. Was it something like that? Or because it was really hot in Bettina’s apartment and the heat would damage the clock? Sarah threw open the kitchen window to let in some fresh air. There was nothing on either the object or the box to indicate where it came from, or where Sarah should return it. This was going to be tricky.

Sarah sat down at the table, trying to re-create Bettina’s evening in her mind. She had returned home from work, enjoyed a little pad Thai, and then she had gone to the ball. To meet her accomplice in trafficked goods? To get in a little waltzing? Sarah had thought the woman seemed thoroughly spooked and she had—according to Nina—jumped on a train before receiving a message that her lab had been broken into.

Was Sarah being set up? Or had Bettina gotten into something way over her head and was hiding out now?

Out of the corner of her eye Sarah noticed a thin gray cat sitting on the windowsill, staring at her. Crap! Herr Dorfmeister had said something about not letting a cat in. The animal gave her a triumphant glance and streaked straight across into the hallway, where it began furiously scratching at one of the closet doors. Sarah managed to get the cat by the back of its neck, holding it out at arm’s length. The feline attempted a few wild scratches on Sarah’s arm before she tossed it back out the window and shut it.

Okay. She needed to move smoothly, swiftly, and in a planned direction. First thing was to find out where this contraption belonged. Sarah pulled out her phone, took a few pictures, then began searching the Internet. It turned out that the item was pretty unique, and that the combination of “ship clock gold” was all it took.

It belonged in the British Museum.

The person with obvious museum connections was Max, but Sarah was reluctant to involve him. There were limits to what you wanted to do for your ex. And he might tell Harriet, and Bettina had told her to tell no one. Nico was another obvious choice, but Nico was better at stealing than returning.

It would be better to get it into the hands of a local museum curator somehow, someone who would be able to see it safely restored to London. Sarah thought about whom she could ask for help without implicating them.

By the time Sarah had repacked the ship and found a bag under Bettina’s sink to put it in, it was all settled. She had texted Alessandro, asking only if he knew anyone in the museum world in Vienna, and he had suggested Renato, a second cousin of his whom he had never met but who was a Facebook friend and worked at the Kunsthistorisches, Vienna’s gargantuan art museum. Within a couple of minutes, Sarah and Renato were also Facebook friends, and she sent him a message asking if he would advise her on an “art-related problem.” Renato messaged back that he was working late at the museum this evening, but could meet her at nine, in Maria-Theresien-Platz, and they could go for a drink. Anything for a friend of a Facebook friend/cousin/Italian.

Social media, plus nepotism, plus nationalism. Fifteen minutes, a couple of messages, and she was in.

And so Sarah set off across Vienna, carrying the ship in a bright yellow BILLA supermarket bag. She hoped she looked like a local on her way home from shopping, and not like a newly minted art thief.