The Keeper of Hands

NINETEEN

They waited for him on the street. Werthen was familiar with Siegfried’s daily schedule now, which included mid-morning shopping. They had no desire to beard the man inside the Bower, where his sister could be his protector.

It was 10:23 when Siegfried came out, blinking in the strong sunlight, an incongruous-looking shopping basket in each of his large hands. They let him leave the precincts of the Bower, following a full block behind him. Siegfried made his way slowly through the lanes away from the Danube Canal (which far too many visitors to the city mistook for the Danube itself), looking into the window of a vegetable shop here, a bakery there. When he had gone just beyond the cathedral of Stephansdom, they decided it was time to overtake him. He was again staring into the window of a bakery and, as they approached, Werthen could see that Siegfried was appreciating a display of freshly baked poppy-seed tarts arranged appealingly in linen-lined baskets. Werthen and Gross stood on each side of him, ostensibly admiring the display. He suddenly focused on their reflection and jerked to attention, suspicion in his eyes.

‘Advokat Werthen. Odd meeting you like this.’

‘Fine day for a walk,’ Werthen said by way of reply. ‘You haven’t met my colleague, Doktor Gross.’

‘Good day to you,’ Gross said, nodding his head, his forefinger and thumb to the front brim of his bowler hat.

Siegfried said nothing, just squinted at Gross. There was towel lint, Werthen noticed, caught in the stubble just below his left ear. He had washed, but not shaved.

‘I have to do my shopping,’ Siegfried said, about to move off.

‘I think it might be wise to talk with us first.’

‘I’ve got nothing to talk to you about. You don’t work for us anymore.’

‘I either talk to you first or go directly to the police,’ Werthen said.

Siegfried shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fine. Go talk to them, then. They were friends, both of them, Fräulein Mitzi and Fanny. I’ve told you all I know.’

‘Actually,’ Gross said, his voice assuming the rich sonority it took on when giving evidence in court, ‘it was in reference to a different matter. The death of Count von Ebersdorf.’

‘Der Alte? My sister already explained why we said we didn’t recognize the sketch. We protect the anonymity of our more esteemed clientele. I only saw him now and again at the Bower. They say he died of food poisoning.’

‘He was not so old,’ Gross said. ‘And he didn’t die because of bad shellfish.’

Siegfried began to lose his aggressive demeanor, chewing on the inside of his mouth and assessing the situation.

‘A cup of coffee might be in order,’ Werthen said. ‘Don’t you think so, Siegfried?’

He made no reply, but followed them as Werthen made his way to Himmelpfortgasse and his usual coffee-house, the Café Frauenhuber. Herr Otto, who was on duty, bade them a hearty good day.

‘It’s been too long since we’ve seen you, Advokat.’

To which Werthen smiled and said, ‘Perhaps a corner table, Herr Otto? A bit of privacy.’

‘But of course.’ The headwaiter led them through a maze of marble-topped tables, around Thonet chairs and red-velvet benches to a banquette in the deepest corner of the establishment. A student had spread out his papers on the table, but Otto efficiently and politely informed the young man that the table was reserved, and would it not please the young gentleman to take the fine table nearer the window where the light was better?

The young gentleman was not overjoyed at the suggestion until Otto offered him a refill of his mocha.

Werthen had once proved the headwaiter innocent of petty theft at another establishment and had won the man’s allegiance for ever. A handy thing in Vienna, the loyalty of the Herr Ober at a coffee-house.

Siegfried had watched the affair with interest. ‘So that’s the way you folks make your way in the world, is it?’ he said after Otto had brought their drinks and left again.

‘Not much different from how you folks make your way,’ Gross rebutted. ‘Connections, connections. They bind the world.’

They sat, Siegfried between them. His momentary silence had allowed him to regain some of his old bluster.

‘So, what’s this all about, then?’

‘You had no contact with von Ebersdorf?’ Werthen asked.

‘He was a client. We were hardly pals.’

‘He was Fräulein Mitzi’s regular.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Did she ever talk about him?’

‘What was there to talk about? It was a business matter, not love.’

‘You’re certain of that?’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘The truth, for starters,’ Gross interjected. ‘You see, we have come across a bit of interesting information. It seems you were among the temporary help at the Hotel Excelsior the day of the banquet at which von Ebersdorf died.’

‘So? I help out there a lot. I have dreams, you know. Ambitions. I don’t always want to be herding women around the Bower. I want to become a chef some day. I learn on the job.’

‘I would not put that particular day on your résumé, if I were you,’ Gross said. ‘Poison is hardly among the accepted culinary ingredients.’

‘It was the shellfish. They all said so. Besides, I was just the sous-chef that day. One of several. What? Is the great Chef Marcel trying to shift the blame? He chose the shellfish.’

‘Peculiar that nobody else was taken ill, don’t you think?’ Werthen asked.

‘I didn’t get paid to think. I just got the ingredients ready.’

‘It was the fact that only Count von Ebersdorf was affected by the tainted shellfish that made me curious,’ Gross said.

Siegfried looked back and forth between them, his eyes narrowing to slits, his incisors working the inside of his mouth again.

‘What are you two getting at?’

‘Count von Ebersdorf didn’t die of food poisoning,’ Gross said.

‘Yes he did. They said so in the papers.’

‘No. I rather think the man was poisoned by some enemy who was present at the hotel restaurant. Who had access to his food?’

‘The man’s in the ground. Pretty hard to prove that now.’

‘Well, actually, Herr Mutzenbacher,’ Gross began, ‘that is not accurate. Last I saw of the poor man, he was on an autopsy table at the General Hospital.’

‘That’s impossible. I read about his funeral. It was weeks ago now.’

‘Yes, to be sure.’

Werthen could see that Gross was toying with Siegfried now. Not exactly a cat with a mouse, but toying nonetheless. Hoping the man would panic, get flustered, offer up a tacit confession.

Siegfried must have felt this too, for suddenly it was as if a curtain were drawn over his face. He shut down, let his eyes go blank, said nothing.

‘In point of fact,’ Gross continued, ‘the body was exhumed. Aren’t you interested in knowing what we discovered?’

Siegfried made no reply.

‘Poison,’ Gross said. ‘Arsenic poison. That was the cause of death. Whoever killed von Ebersdorf was clever enough to know that arsenic can mimic the effects of food poisoning, but was not clever enough to know that arsenic remains in the body for a very long time post mortem.’

There was continued silence from Siegfried.

‘Talk with us or we go to the police with this information,’ Werthen reminded him.

Still nothing. Then, after another instant, Siegfried suddenly stood.

‘I have to be going now, gentlemen. Shopping to do. Hungry girls to feed at lunch.’

‘If you are innocent, it is far better for you to talk to us now. Clear up any misunderstandings.’

He said nothing, picking up his empty baskets and waiting for Werthen to move off the red-velvet bench and allow him to leave.

‘It’s only a matter of time, you know,’ Werthen said to him as he passed. ‘So many working in the kitchen that day. Someone is sure to remember something. Seeing somebody tamper with the food, or mark a plate as being specially for von Ebersdorf. Some pharmacist is going to remember the person who purchased arsenic for poisoning vermin.’

But he slipped past Werthen without further comment.

They watched him leave the café. There was nothing they could do to stop him.

‘That went well,’ Gross said, stirring his half-empty cup of coffee.

It took them over ninety minutes to be allowed in for an audience. By that time, Gross’s stomach was beginning to make rather disturbing sounds.

‘The man treats us like we’re his employees,’ complained the ravenous criminologist.

‘We are, Gross.’

‘Never,’ he said with a degree of passion uncommon for him before his first glass of Vetliner. ‘We. . Well, at least you, are a private inquiry agent. A free-lance in the most literal and knightly sense of the word. We choose what cases to investigate.’

‘Do we earn money by so doing?’

‘Hardly the point.’

But Werthen would not let him off. ‘It is the point. We are paid for our services, sometimes quite handsomely. I would call that a form of employment.’

‘And ergo, Franz Ferdinand is the boss and can keep his underlings waiting.’

At which point the Archduke himself came bustling into the antechamber, right hand outstretched, a concerned expression on his face.

‘My dear sirs,’ he said as he got to them, and shook first one hand and then the other. ‘They have just told me you were waiting. I do beg your pardon.’

At which comment, Gross shot Werthen a self-satisfied look.

Franz Ferdinand cast a glance at an ormolu clock resting on the marble mantle of the room’s one fireplace.

‘You two have been waiting right through lunch. You must be famished.’

Werthen was about to voice a polite denial when Gross jumped in.

‘I am hungry enough to eat the nether parts of a skunk, if you must know, your Highness.’

Franz Ferdinand let out a quite unmanly giggle at this comment. Werthen felt his own face reddening: Gross had to be light-headed from lack of nutrition to use such language in front of the Archduke.

‘Well, we shall have to do something about that, shan’t we? Cook came up with a very passable venison ragout for lunch. I wouldn’t doubt there is a bite or two left.’

‘That would be heavenly, your Highness,’ Gross told him.

The Archduke tugged on the brocade pull by the fireplace, and a liveried servant appeared instantly, as if popping out of a rabbit hole. Franz Ferdinand gave orders brusquely, and the man hastened off.

‘You can dine in my office, gentlemen. I assume you have news for me?’

He did not wait for an answer, but set off with a rapid clacking of boots on the parquet, out of the anteroom and down a long sun-filled corridor whose one wall was covered with oil paintings marking the high points of Habsburg history. On the other side of the corridor, a bank of tall windows gave out on to the magnificent gardens below, with Vienna in the distance, the spires of the churches the highest man-made structures visible. It was a scene that filled Werthen with a quiet pride in his city of residence, that made him want to explore its quiet squares and little-known lanes. They were in the Upper Belvedere today, the higher of the two palaces in these splendid grounds, the summer palace, as it was called. Franz Ferdinand maintained his shadow government in the Lower Belvedere, but in the warmer months would repair to the airier upper palace for relaxation.

They both had to hurry to keep up with the Archduke as he made his way along the corridor and around to the side of the palace, to a suite of rooms that seemed large enough to hold a court ball. Of this opulent space — its walls bearing tapestries and enormous oil paintings in the Makart style — the Archduke appeared to be using one small corner, which contained a modest desk and a comfortable-looking leather chair.

No sooner did they arrive in the room than a scurry of servants appeared carrying chairs, small side tables, and table settings for Werthen and Gross. These they set up near the Archduke’s desk with all the expertise of stagehands at the Burgtheater.

Then came another bevy of servants carrying silver-domed chafing dishes, which, when their lids were opened, gave off a rich aroma that set Werthen’s salivary glands on alert.

‘Please eat,’ Franz Ferdinand said. ‘And then we will talk. I have a telegram to send to the Kaiser, but shall return presently.’

Neither Werthen nor Gross waited for further invitations, but tucked into the fare with gusto. The cook had paired the venison with an excellent vintage Côtes du Rhône Villages. Werthen would have taken the Archduke for an Austria-first sort, serving at his table perhaps a Blauburgunder from the Esterházy estates or from the countryside around Eisenstadt to the east of Vienna; he was happy, however, for Franz Ferdinand’s lack of nationalistic chauvinism in this regard.

They were just finishing their repast when Franz Ferdinand returned, a serious expression on his face. Werthen wondered what he and the German Kaiser had been communicating about.

‘Bad news, your Highness?’ Gross said, never one to let protocol get in the way of his native curiosity.

Franz Ferdinand looked as if he was about to upbraid the crim-inologist for his effrontery. But then, squinting first at Gross and then at Werthen, he seemed to think better of it.

‘Alarming news, perhaps. But not from the Kaiser. I just received a dispatch from a man we have in St Petersburg. He talks of rumors of a double agent in Vienna. Someone at the Bureau in the employ of the Russians.’

There was silence for a moment, and then the Archduke shrugged. ‘Rumors. They come cheap.’ He smiled, looking suddenly more relaxed as if the mere act of sharing this piece of information had unburdened him.

‘So, gentlemen,’ he said, sinking into his leather chair, ‘what wonderful news do you have for me?’

‘There have been developments, your Highness,’ Gross said, taking the lead. ‘You have of course received the autopsy report?’

Franz Ferdinand nodded.

‘We may, in fact, have a suspect,’ Gross said.

The Archduke sat up in his chair. ‘Who?’

Werthen knew it was silly to try to withhold the name of the suspect from the Archduke. After all, although he had not actually seen him, Werthen was certain that Duncan had been dogging them every step of the way that morning and would know exactly who they had been talking to. Nor was there reason to withhold the name from their ‘employer’. He therefore explained about Siegfried Mutzenbacher, and how Gross had discovered that he was among the extra staff brought in for the von Ebersdorf banquet. He also told the Archduke about the interview they had had with Siegfried that morning.

‘But why him?’ Franz Ferdinand asked. ‘What motive would he have?’

Werthen had given this some thought. ‘I assume it had something to do with the death of Fräulein Mitzi, the young prostitute Count von Ebersdorf was frequenting.’

‘Not jealousy, surely?’ the Archduke said.

‘He was close to her, that I know,’ Werthen began. ‘How close-’

Gross interjected, ‘Jealousy would hardly seem to be the motive, seeing that the Count was killed after the death of the young woman.’

‘Could he have imagined the Count was somehow responsible for the girl’s death?’ Franz Ferdinand said.

‘That is one possibility,’ Werthen allowed. ‘Herr Mutzenbacher is not being forthcoming. We may have to turn this over to the police now.’

Another nod from Franz Ferdinand. ‘Your decision.’

‘We would of course continue our private investigation on your behalf,’ Gross said. ‘If that is your wish.’

‘Please,’ the Archduke said. ‘It would seem that my fears about Joachim may have been unfounded. His death seems to have had nothing to do with rivalries in the intelligence services, but rather with a tawdry domestic matter.’

‘As I said,’ Werthen replied, ‘that is one possibility. And it would seem, a very strong one. But we ought to pursue other possibilities, as well.’

‘Could this Siegfried Mutzenbacher have killed all three?’ Franz Ferdinand suddenly asked.

Gross and Werthen both shrugged. Then Gross said, ‘There is another possible avenue of inquiry, your Highness. The first victim, Fräulein Mitzi, seems now not to have been such a put-upon and exploited girl as was first thought. Indications are that she was quite experienced at manipulation herself.’

Franz Ferdinand sighed, then stood to signal the end of the meeting.

‘Well, I trust you two to follow your instincts in this matter. I wish to see justice done. Please proceed.’

He made to ring a bell on his desk, to summon a servant to lead them out.

‘If I may, your Highness, one more thing.’

Franz Ferdinand stilled his hand. ‘Yes.’

‘It is about that other matter. Baroness von Suttner.’

‘What is it?’

‘We need your help.’

They reached Werthen’s office by mid-afternoon, only to find Inspector Drechsler waiting impatiently.

‘We were about to contact you,’ Werthen said. ‘You saved me a phone call.’

Drechsler did not appear to be in a happy state. The cadaverous detective looked glum as death, his long hawk nose sniffing at this statement.

‘I thought we had an arrangement,’ he replied, disappointment sounding in his voice. ‘An understanding. Now you make me look like a fool in front of the Giftzwerg.’ By ‘poison dwarf’ he meant the diminutive Inspector Meindl.

‘I assure you, Drechsler-’ Gross began, but was cut off by the detective.

‘You withheld information on a case we are investigating. That’s a crime, you know.’

Werthen’s mind began racing. Which information? He had promised to turn over his files on Fräulein Mitzi and had not done so yet. It suddenly angered him that Drechsler should be accusing him over that, when the police had dragged their feet with her murder for weeks.

‘Lord knows how, but she has some powerful connections,’ Drechsler said. ‘Powerful enough to set that bag of gas Meindl on fire. He threatened to have me on the beat in Meidling if I was somehow involved.’

‘Just what are you talking about?’ Gross finally demanded.

They were still standing in the front office, with Fräulein Metzinger trying unsuccessfully to focus on the sheet in her typing machine.

‘Let’s go into your office,’ said Drechsler. It was a command rather than a suggestion.

Once inside Werthen’s office, with the door closed behind them, there was no lessening of the tension.

‘How long have you known about the von Ebersdorf poisoning?’ Drechsler asked.

So that was it, Werthen realized. The ‘she’ with powerful connections that Drechsler had just mentioned was becoming clearer.

‘When did you learn of it?’ Gross countered.

‘Earlier this afternoon, if you must know.’

‘We assumed copies of the autopsy would circulate to the appropriate authorities,’ Gross said, though both he and Werthen knew this was stretching the truth to breaking point. The Archduke had arranged the exhumation and autopsy privately through the von Ebersdorf family. He had not mentioned sharing the information with the constabulary, and they had not asked whether he intended to do so.

‘We can hardly be blamed for bureaucratic bumbling.’

‘Who ordered it?’ Drechsler demanded.

‘The identity of our client must, perforce, remain private.’

‘Damn it, man, you’re playing with my career here! Meindl thinks that I’m withholding information from him. That I am in some sort of conspiracy to make him look like an incompetent fool.’

‘He hardly needs help in that venture,’ Gross said. This comment broke the tension somewhat.

‘Look, Inspector,’ Werthen quickly jumped in. ‘I assume that Frau Mutzenbacher was the one who brought a complaint to Meindl?’

‘You assume correctly.’

‘She must have some of her clientele under her thumb,’ Werthen went on. ‘Including someone powerful enough to get Meindl to try to stop the investigation.’

‘If memory serves me right, “persecution” was the word used,’ the policeman noted.

‘I assure you we only learned yesterday that Siegfried Mutzenbacher was working in the kitchen where the von Ebersdorf banquet was served. We know that von Ebersdorf was a customer at the Bower; and a steady client of Fräulein Mitzi, who was murdered. In my earlier investigations into her death I found that there was a connection between Siegfried and the girl, but whether it was platonic, as he claimed, or otherwise, is uncertain.’

‘So you assume that his mere presence in the kitchen of the hotel means he poisoned von Ebersdorf?’

‘Something like that,’ Werthen allowed, though when stated so simplistically it did sound somewhat far-fetched.

‘Sound reasoning,’ Drechsler said without a trace of irony.

‘You think so?’ Werthen asked.

‘I must apologize to you, Inspector Drechsler,’ Gross said suddenly, sounding honestly contrite. ‘It was my suggestion that we interview Herr Mutzenbacher directly. I’m sure you understand the eagerness and excitement there is when you think you are about to close a case. I promise you, had we gained a confession, we would have contacted you directly.’

‘And now that you’ve muddied the waters with this Siegfried fellow, I get to clean up your mess. Is that it?’

Werthen and Gross exchanged looks, the latter shrugging as if to say it was time to play their trump.

‘In the greatest confidence, Inspector, I will tell you this. Our current employer. .’ Another quick glance at Werthen. ‘Is a man of great power in the empire. A word in his ear from us would put you in very good stead, that I can promise.’

Drechsler considered this for a moment. ‘At court?’

Gross raised his hands as if to show that they were tied in matters of client secrecy. ‘You could have a protector in him. That is all I can say.’

Werthen thought that was again straining the truth, but it seemed to mollify the detective.

‘Meindl wants you off this case,’ Drechsler said. ‘It is now officially Police Praesidium business. That and the murders of the two women from the Bower.’

Gross was about to respond, but Werthen cut him off.

‘We will confer with our client,’ he said.

‘Meanwhile I want the files from your earlier investigation of Fräulein Mitzi’s death. Everything.’

Werthen nodded. Conciliation was what was needed now, not confrontation or even offers of compromise.

‘She may not have been the poor victimized girl we took her for,’ Werthen added, offering this information as a sign of goodwill.

‘Really?’

‘You’ll see it in the files. But her tale of being forced into prostitution has some holes in it.’