The Silence

Eleven

He and Adele had a late night at the Hausmanns’, and Gross had taken one too many snifters of Pierre Ferrand ’65. This morning — a brutal and blustery day — he was nonetheless in a buoyant mood as he made his way to the Ninth District, the Alsergrund, for his meeting with Doktor Siegismund Praetor, father of the murdered journalist.

As far as Adele knew, he was busy in the hallowed halls of the Kunsthistorisches Museum, working on another monograph to be published under his nom de plume, Marcellus Weintraub. He had, to be sure, already published one such article, dealing with stylistic irregularities in the early career of Bruegel, or as the painter called himself then, Brueghel. Gross would probably have to write something about the missing ‘h,’ if only to keep the deception alive with Adele.

Such a thought brought a wry smile to his lips.

He enjoyed this morning’s brisk walk along the Ring, turning off the broad boulevard at Universitatsstrasse and then making his way to Schwarzspanierstrasse, where the elder Praetor had his office. As it turned out, the office was in a building just next to the one — so a bronze plaque at number thirteen told him — where Ludwig van Beethoven had died on Monday, March 26, 1827. Looking at that building with its gabled roofs and crumbling facade, Gross wondered how long before it was torn down to make room for a new block of flats. And good riddance. Gross’s musical tastes had their upward limits with Haydn and Mozart; the excesses of Beethoven rang in his ears like the cacophony of a metal works.

On the other side of this Beethoven death house was a Protestant church which Gross, Catholic that he was, ruefully thought might also be torn down with no great loss.

Prejudices in order, Gross entered the door of house number fifteen, itself a baroque structure, but one kept in much better condition than its neighboring buildings. An odd place to have one’s office, he thought, even if it were just consulting rooms. For surgeries, Doktor Praetor would employ the nearby General Hospital with its three thousand beds.

The doctor’s rooms were on the top floor of the three-story edifice, and Gross climbed the circular stairs with ease. A highly polished brass plaque on a white-lacquered door identified the consulting rooms and told visitors to show themselves in. Gross did so, and the door opened on to a ballroom-sized waiting room filled with the fragrance of a bouquet of yellow and brick-red hothouse chrysanthemums atop a large, oval rosewood table in the middle of the room. Comfortable armchairs ringed the room, but none of them were occupied, for — as he had told Gross earlier on the telephone — Praetor did not have office hours today.

A small door at the far end of the room opened as Gross entered the waiting area, and out stepped a small, neatly dressed man with the reddest cheeks Gross had ever seen.

‘Doktor Gross?’ the man asked.

‘Doktor Praetor,’ Gross responded. ‘Good of you to make time for me.’

The doctor merely nodded by way of reply, and then turned leading the way for Gross to the inner rooms.

Gross was surprised at the extent of Doktor Praetor’s suite of rooms in the old baroque house. There had been some clever partitioning of space under the rafters. Praetor’s office was in one corner of the building; paned windows gave off on to a quiet inner Hof with a large, though bare, linden tree spreading its branches almost to the height of the panes. It would afford, Gross decided, a pleasant green view in the spring, reminiscent of his own office in Czernowitz.

‘Again, it was good of you to see me, Herr Doktor,’ Gross said, taking an offered chair. They did not sit at Praetor’s desk, but instead at an informal Biedermeier grouping nearer the window. Another display of yellow mums adorned the small table between them.

‘Nonsense. It is I who thank you for taking interest in this. The police surely are not.’

‘They have their own theories, of course.’ Gross quickly sized up the man: tailor-cut three piece suit in fawn brown, clean shaven, hair thinning on top and two silvery wings of hair on the side brushed neatly back. No-nonsense, logical, pragmatic.

‘By which you tactfully suggest they subscribe to homosexual jealousy gone berserk. No need to worry about sparing my feelings, Doktor Gross. I have lost my son. I have no need for platitudes, only vengeance. Measured vengeance, to be sure. Legal vengeance. But I want to see the person who killed my lovely Ricus brought to justice. That is my only concern now.’

There was a slight trembling in Praetor’s voice as he said this, but his gray-blue eyes remained steely cold as they fixed on Gross.

‘We will do everything we can to find the perpetrator,’ Gross assured him. ‘But to that end I need to ask you for more information.’

‘Anything.’

‘From what Advokat Werthen tells me, you and your son were close.’

‘Yes. Very. He was, aside from my profession, my whole life. You see, my wife, God rest her soul, died not long after Ricus was born. I raised him, I watched him form as a young man. It is very hard to lose a child.’

Gross, momentarily thinking of his own son, Otto, and their eternally strained relationship, quickly moved on.

‘Devastating, I am sure. Did he confide in you?’

‘I believe he did. Though I have no way of knowing what he did not tell me.’

‘He seemed to be happy, content?’

‘Yes. Very. His work was progressing. Writing was extremely important for him. He took it seriously. He viewed himself as society’s watchdog.’

‘And his own social life?’ Gross said.

‘By which you mean possible lovers.’

Gross arched his eyebrows in assent.

‘I only know that he had recently met someone whom he felt to be important in his life. Ricus did not share the intimate details of his life, nor did I inquire further. It was enough to know that my boy was happy. And, I believe, in love.’

He said this last without the least hint of irony, Gross noted. Doktor Praetor was, he decided, as much a critical scientist about his son as he might be in the diagnosis of a patient. He was, in short, exactly the sort of witness Gross respected.

‘No talk of where the two might have met? Any indication at all about the man’s identity?’

Doktor Praetor squinted at him. ‘The man’s identity? I do not recall saying that Ricus was in love with a man.’

‘I simply assumed-’

‘There was every possibility that Ricus may have met a young woman who finally put him on the right path. Who would make him settle down, start a family. Give me grandchildren.’

Gross internally sighed. It seemed the good doctor was no better than the usual unreliable witnesses: he confused his own needs with those of others. The farther into the recent past his dead son receded, the more Doktor Praetor would reshape him in the form he desired.

‘And the notebooks,’ Gross said, changing the subject. ‘Have you found any trace of those?’

‘None. Ricus lived on his own. He had very few possessions left at my flat. Mementoes of his youth only. Nothing recent.’

‘Did he discuss his work with you? I ask because we have discovered that your son and Councilman Steinwitz appear to have been working together to uncover corruption at the Rathaus.’

‘You mean the councilman who killed himself?’

Gross nodded at this; no reason to go into his suspicions about that death.

‘This is the first I have heard of it.’

After another five minutes of questioning, Gross determined that Doktor Praetor was not as much an intimate of his son as he would like to have been. That too was being reshaped with time, however. But it was not Gross’s job to point this out to his client.

Suddenly the man’s clamoring need for justice outweighed his self-delusion.

‘I want justice for my son,’ he blurted out. ‘One way or the other. Do you understand? Justice.’

Werthen had not expected to see her so soon.

‘A pleasure,’ he said, guiding Frau Steinwitz into his office.

She wore an anxious expression, but that was hardly uncommon for clients seeing their lawyer. Or for someone in fear of her life.

Once seated, she began fidgeting with her fox stole. ‘I do not mean to make a pest of myself.’

‘Not at all,’ Werthen reassured her.

‘I simply wanted to ascertain if what you said yesterday was more than merely conciliatory.’

‘I am at your service, Frau Steinwitz.’ Internally, Werthen cursed Gross for his high-handed generosity with other people’s time.

‘So you do not fear to take on such a responsibility?’

Suddenly she peered closer at his bruised face.

‘Whatever did you do to your cheek, Advokat?’

He shrugged the question away. ‘A collision with a door, I am afraid. Nothing heroic. But to answer your previous question, no, I have no fear in taking on a commission to protect you. I have men whom I can employ to keep a watch on you and your children.’

This suggestion seemed to alarm her more than the prospect of sudden death.

‘That would hardly be au fait. After all, I do have a social life to conduct.’

‘These men can be quite discreet,’ he said, though truth be told, the fellows he was thinking of might stand out a bit at afternoon tea at the Sacher.

‘I must consider it,’ she said. ‘I imagined that you personally. .’

‘Frau Steinwitz, I have a law office to run and an investigation under way.’

She straightened in her chair. ‘I see. Investigating the murder of Herr Praetor takes precedence over protecting a defenseless widow.’

He tried to be reasonable. ‘You must understand that in any circumstance I would have to hire assistants to maintain a watch around the clock.’

But she apparently was little concerned with reason. ‘I only understand that you were my husband’s trusted attorney and that you owe his widow similar allegiance.’

There were so many responses he could make to that absurd contention; instead, Werthen remained silent, steadily looking at her.

Finally she glanced away with a sigh. ‘Forgive me, Advokat. I am under a great deal of strain. Let me consider your offer.’

She stood and he did so, as well. ‘Of course. Take your time. But really I cannot believe that you or your children are in any real danger.’

She merely shook her head at this comment and adjusted the fox stole.

As he was escorting her out the outer office, the pink face of young Ludwig Wittgenstein peeked around the door.

‘Oh, hello,’ he said to them both as he might to old friends. ‘I was just coming to see you, Advokat.’ Wearing his distinctive loden coat with a fur collar, he cast a smile at Frau Steinwitz.

‘Master Wittgenstein,’ Werthen said with a smile. ‘How good to see you. Just a moment while I show this good lady out.’

Frau Steinwitz looked from the Wittgenstein boy to Werthen, squared her shoulders and nodded an adieu.

‘I shall consider your proposal,’ she said once more before leaving.

Turning, Werthen noticed that Master Wittgenstein had already introduced himself to Fraulein Metzinger and in fact was aiding her in replacing the ribbon in her Underwood typewriting machine. Into this charming domestic scene entered Heidrich Beer, freshly back from delivering copies of a will to the Countess Isniack on the Stuben Ring. Like young Wittgenstein, the boy’s cheeks were flushed red with the cold.

‘Good day to you, Huck,’ Werthen said, giving in to the use of the boy’s nickname.

‘Advokat Werthen,’ Huck said importantly, struggling to make his voice deeper than it was.

‘Huck,’ said Fraulein Metzinger. ‘Come and meet Master Wittgenstein.’

‘They call me Luki,’ he said turning his attention from the typing ribbon to the older boy.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Huck said, extending his thin hand.

Fraulein Metzinger smiled to herself as the two boys shook hands with great seriousness.

That done, Huck promptly reported delivery of the documents.

‘Do you work here?’ Ludwig asked, his eyes growing large.

Huck breathed in deeply, expanding his chest. ‘Yes.’

‘That’s wonderful. I mean, you go out into the town and all?’

‘Every day.’

Ludwig simply shook his head in disbelief. ‘That’s the life,’ he muttered.

‘You’ve got a very handsome coat, if you do not mind my saying so.’

Huck had been taking lessons in polite small talk from Fraulein Metzinger and was obviously trying his new skills out now.

‘You think so?’

Huck nodded. ‘Really. Kein Mist.’

He reddened when he realized he had slipped into his old street argot again, meaning ‘no manure,’ or, in this context, no nonsense.

‘So, Herr Wittgenstein,’ Werthen broke in. ‘What brings you here, and. .’ he exaggerated a glance at the door, ‘apparently on your own.’

‘Luki,’ he reminded. ‘And I have to make this quick. I am supposed to be at the Fine Arts Museum with my tutor. We are studying Raphael today,’ he said with a sigh. ‘He left me there for a time to have his gabel Fruhstuck.’

Werthen thought he could do with a mid-morning snack today, too, and led Ludwig into the inner office. ‘And what was so important that you are playing truant?’

Werthen closed the door behind them, and Ludwig promptly pulled out a maroon-colored leather-bound diary from his coat pocket.

‘I thought you would be interested in this. Hans left it with me.’

‘But that is all settled. Hans is in New York.’

‘Yes,’ Ludwig said somewhat impatiently. ‘But Hans told me I should give this to someone I really trust. Someone who could make use of it. I don’t know many people and this has been nagging at me. Please take it.’

The boy handed the diary to Werthen. ‘Anything to relieve you of the burden.’

‘You make a joke about it, but it really has been bothering me. I feel badly about not giving it to you earlier when you were investigating Hans’s disappearance. But you see, at that time I did not know if I could trust you.’

Werthen smiled at the child’s conundrum. ‘And now you do?’

‘Trust you? Well, as much as anyone, I guess. But this diary’s been bothering me so much that I have made no progress at all on the model of Herr Daimler’s motorcycle.’

‘Well, I hope now you can concentrate on your work,’ Werthen said kindly. ‘What’s in it that it is so important?’

Ludwig looked abashed. ‘Gentlemen don’t read other men’s mail or diaries. Papa always says so.’ Then he brightened. ‘You were trying to trick me, right? To find out if I could be trusted. Very good. Now I know I have the right person.’

On the way out, Ludwig and Huck exchanged a few more words. Fraulein Metzinger had another envelope ready for delivery, and so Huck accompanied Ludwig on his way back to the museum.

When the boys were gone, she beamed at Werthen. ‘I really think they hit it off.’

‘And I do believe you would make a fine matchmaker. That letter you gave Huck already went out two days ago.’

She had the good grace to blush at being caught out.

‘I was thinking of getting tickets for the Remington show in the Prater. What do you think, Advokat?’

What he thought was that Remington’s Wild West Show was the most tasteless performance event yet thought up by Americans, in many cases the kings of bad taste. He would never subject even his basest enemy to the supposed jollities of seeing fake Indians slaughtered or herds of buffalo decimated by sharpshooters. Remington himself was a crass businessman and showman whose Wild West Show had traveled several times around the world and was definitely the worse for wear. That’s what Werthen thought.

‘What an excellent idea, Fraulein Metzinger,’ he said. ‘I am sure Huck would love seeing it.’

‘Really, Gross. Each time you come to town, you make everything topsy-turvy.’

Police Praesidium Inspector Meindl was a small, fastidious man who did not like his closed cases reopened. He was ensconced in a massive armchair behind his cherry wood desk at police headquarters and cast Gross a look of exasperation at his request for crime scene photographs from Steinwitz’s office at the Rathaus and for permission to enter the Praetor apartment, which was still under seal, there to obtain the platen and ribbon from the dead man’s typewriting machine.

‘I do not live to complicate your life, I assure you, Meindl.’

Gross used a teasing tone; Meindl had been a former junior colleague of his in Graz before finding higher office in Vienna and well before Gross himself had been elevated to his current position in Czernowitz.

Detective Inspector Bernhard Drechsler, sitting beside Gross and looking more painfully gaunt than usual, followed these proceedings with a sardonic expression.

‘I’ve no objections to Doktor Gross taking those items from Praetor’s apartment,’ he offered. But there was an unpleasant edge to his voice that Gross could not fail to notice.

Meindl, hands on his chest, formed a steeple with opposing fingers. ‘I am delighted to hear that, Detective Inspector. But I thought you put the young man’s death down to suicide.’

‘Well,’ Drechsler began with a Viennese drawl. ‘There could be a loose end here and there.’

‘Such as the absence of the death weapon?’ Meindl peered down at the Praetor report on his desk. ‘What did the gun do, simply walk off by itself?’

Now it was Gross’s turn to watch events and smile inwardly.

Just as quickly Meindl turned his attention back to the criminologist, his former mentor.

‘And what is this about photographs from the scene of Councilman Steinwitz’s death? Are you suggesting his death was not a suicide as well?’

‘It is one possible theory,’ Gross said without offering more.

‘You believe there is a connection between these two deaths?’ Meindl’s voice sounded peevish.

‘Of course if you are unable to assist. .’ Gross began.

‘Who said anything about not being able?’ Meindl sat forward in his large chair now, hands on the edge of the desk. ‘You’ll get your photos and permit to enter the Praetor flat. But please, Gross, keep us posted, eh? I should like to know if we have a killer running loose in Vienna.’

Drechsler left with Gross, maintaining a stony silence as they took the newly installed elevator to street level. Outside the wind whipped up off the nearby Danube Canal; Gross tucked his hands more deeply into his woolen overcoat.

‘A bit dour, Drechsler,’ Gross said, thinking that perhaps the man was ill.

Instead Drechsler stuck his hawk-like face so close to Gross that the criminologist could see the pores in the man’s nose.

‘I do not appreciate being ambushed like that. By you or Werthen.’

Gross jerked away from him as one would from a leper displaying his sores.

‘I assure you, Detective Inspector, that you were not ambushed, as you put it. Werthen and I are investigating a case. Clients are paying good money for us to get to the bottom of the death of young Praetor. You cannot blame us for your own oversight.’

‘You’ve got the luxury to have fancy clients paying your way. Me, I’m stuck with grade G-4 in the Austrian bureaucracy. And I’ve got a full plate what with keeping track of Serbian anarchists and a crime gang that is operating out of the sewers and using runaway children as their proxies. You’ll find that Praetor had a lover who got jealous or that he tried to solicit the wrong sort of gent. I’ve no time for that sort of thing, nor would you if you were in my place.’

The speech was so unlike Drechsler that Gross was momentarily stunned. No one ever accused the Vienna constabulary of being the most gifted lot, but Drechsler had, Gross always thought, stood out from the rest of the pack for whom Schlamperei, or lazily muddling through, was a way of life.

‘What is it, Drechsler? This does not sound like you.’

The thin man’s face contorted momentarily, then he let out an immense sigh for one so narrow in the chest.

‘It’s the wife, Gross. She’s sick. Been so for weeks. Sorry. You’re right. I am not myself lately.’

‘What is it? She’s been to the doctor, of course.’

Drechsler ran a hand over his bony chin. ‘They say she needs an operation. But she’s dead set against it. Had an uncle who was operated on and died.’

‘But if the doctors say she needs it. .?’

‘Oh, she needs it all right. Women’s trouble. But you can’t budge her. Once Traude sets her mind on something, that’s an end of it.’

Gross had a bright idea. ‘You know Praetor’s father is a well-respected surgeon.’

‘There you go with Praetor again.’ But he calmed himself quickly, and shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t know.’

‘He is one of our clients in this affair.’

Drechsler did not reply to this.

‘Perhaps he could talk to your wife. Reassure her. Maybe even perform the operation himself.’

Drechsler said nothing for a time, merely stared at Gross.

Finally, ‘There’s something you should know.’

‘What is that, Inspector?’

‘The gun found at Steinwitz’s office. It was one of those fancy new Roth-Sauer automatic pistols. Fires a 7.65 mm.’ Drechsler paused.

‘Is there something I should glean from that?’

‘We didn’t find a gun at Praetor’s, but we did find a casing.’

‘A 7.65 mm?’

Drechsler nodded. ‘Clearly can’t be the same weapon, as Steinwitz died more than two weeks before Praetor. But it made me wonder at the time. Can’t be too many of the Roth-Sauers around. They only went into production this year.’

Walking from Werthen’s office in the Habsburgergasse, Gross regaled his friend about his morning’s activities, including the forlorn Drechsler, the rather startling linkage provided by similar weapons in the death of Steinwitz and Praetor, and the possibility of securing the inspector’s further cooperation in their investigations.

‘But it is his job to investigate the death,’ Werthen said. ‘He should not need what is tantamount to a bribe.’

Gross shook his head pityingly at his colleague. ‘How many years have you lived in Vienna, Werthen? Not enough, obviously, to let you know how things work here. Connections, connections, good friend. They make our tiny empire go round.’

‘And how can you be so sure that Doktor Praetor will agree to see Frau Drechsler?’

‘Praetor may be an unreliable witness where his son is concerned, but I am absolutely certain of his commitment to see his son’s killer brought to justice. I am sure I can put it to him in such a way that he sees the benefits of such altruism.’

‘You can’t be proposing that he operate without a fee?’

To which Gross merely hmm’ed a response.

When they finally reached their lunchtime destination, the Cafe Frauenhuber, the place was in a state of confusion, as much as such an orderly establishment can be. The Herr Ober standing by the door when Gross and Werthen entered did not give them a polite salutation; yesterday’s Neue Freie Presse was still hanging in the wooden reading rack; and Herr Otto took a full three minutes to get to their table for their order.

For a noble coffeehouse such as the Frauenhuber, this was pandemonium approaching chaos.

‘Unheard of,’ Werthen muttered to Gross.

‘Yes, it is,’ Herr Otto, whose hearing was most acute, agreed as he sidled up to their table. Then, in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘They want to get rid of number fourteen.’ He pulled his pad of paper out of his jacket pocket, the tip of a stub of pencil poised to write. A look of bereavement etched his face.

‘A blasphemy!’ Gross sputtered, setting the bill of fare down resolutely on the marble-topped table.

Werthen did not understand at first, and then it dawned on him. Herr Otto was referring to the classic bentwood cafe chair produced by the Brothers Thonet. The firm, not to mention their famous number fourteen production line, was a Viennese fixture. The very chair he was seated on now had likely been around for several decades and would assuredly last several more. Thonet’s design was simple yet both elegant and ingenious: a mere six pieces of wood bent by steam and assembled with ten screws and two nuts by anyone with access to a few tools. This ease of assembly had made the number fourteen one of the world’s first mass-produced chairs, sold in pieces and put together in a matter of minutes. The chair had taken design prizes and was universally recognized as the cafe chair. Werthen often wished his father had been prescient enough to invest some money in the firm at its outset.

Herr Otto allowed his voice to rise a bit now, sensing a sympathetic audience. ‘You can blame it all on Herr Loos, that’s what I say. Him and that hospital ward he calls a cafe. Though I do not mean to speak ill of anyone.’

‘I could not agree with you more,’ Gross said, a finger impatiently edging the menu. ‘The Cafe Museum is an abomination.’

‘Herr Loos is an architectural pioneer,’ Werthen said. Or at least that was what Berthe told him. Rosa Mayreder, close confidante of Berthe, was married to the architect Karl Mayreder, who had in fact employed said Loos in his architectural firm. Remembering this, Werthen also recalled that Karl Mayreder’s brother, Rudolf, was a city councilor. Was there an inroad for him there?

Werthen did not, however, spend much time in the Cafe Museum, an establishment where ornament had been kept to a minimum.

‘A pioneer he may be,’ Herr Otto allowed, ‘but whoever said we needed any re-inventing of the coffeehouse? A man goes to his coffeehouse for comfort, for a nice quiet and comfortable place to sip his kleine Mocha, not for an education in art.’

The comment made Werthen smile, for he’d made a similar argument to Klimt not that long ago about the decoration of his law office.

‘The management cannot seriously be considering getting rid of this furniture,’ Werthen said.

Herr Otto put pad and pencil down now and jerked his head toward the waiter at the door.

‘Herr Bauer has now become lead Ober. Which means he speaks with Frau Enghart from time to time. The good Frau loves this establishment of course, but since the death of Herr Enghart it has not been easy for her. There are no children to counsel her in the operation of such a noble institution. But now Herr Bauer has gotten her ear. I’m told he takes night classes at the Museum of Art and Industry, even attends lectures on his days off. Oh, he’s got ideas, he has.’

Though Werthen was all for self-improvement, he found it too much that a waiter at his favorite cafe should be the arbiter of taste for interior design.

‘He’s even mentioned getting rid of the potted palms.’

Gross huffed at this comment, again losing interest in the food at such a challenge.

‘We must put a stop to this travesty.’

‘We’ll sign a petition,’ Werthen said. ‘Pass it around to all the customers and get their opinion on these proposed changes. Surely Frau Enghart would listen to reason then?’

‘I wouldn’t want to stir up any trouble,’ Herr Otto said rather too meekly, again preparing to take their order.

Werthen felt that he had been played like a Stradivarius, but that was fine. Herr Otto, after all, had a job to protect, a family at home to support. It was the task of the clientele to preserve such a haven as the Frauenhuber.

‘I’ll make a note of it,’ Werthen said.

This seemed to mollify even Gross’s outrage, for he was already deep in a perusal of the dishes on offer today.

In the end, Gross opted for a Kalbs Beuschel, tender slices of calf lung and tongue in a light puree over Semmelknodel, bread dumplings of the softest consistency. Werthen chose the Bauernschmaus, a hearty heaping of sausages and pork with sauerkraut and a massive dumpling — the perfect food for such a bone-chilling day. They shared a bottle of Gumpoldskirchen Muller-Thurgau, a relatively new Riesling hybrid that was fast becoming a favorite of Werthen’s.

During the meal Gross explained his further progress: he had secured the platen and ribbon from Praetor’s typewriting machine and would send it express mail this afternoon to his eager students in Czernowitz. The photographs were to be delivered to Werthen’s office this afternoon, courtesy of Inspector Meindl, who after all did owe his career to Gross’s tutelage. Not a bad sort, Gross informed Werthen, but like so many small men, inclined to bark at the slightest excuse.

‘I wish I had such progress to report,’ Werthen said. And then detailed the visit of Frau Steinwitz and of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s delivery of his brother Hans’s diary.

‘What is in the diary?’ Gross asked.

‘Afraid I haven’t had the opportunity to look. Seemed like rather a dead end. I mean, that case has been solved.’

‘Yes,’ Gross said, but not very convincingly. He peered more closely at Werthen for the first time. ‘I do not mean to pry, old friend, but isn’t that a bruise you are sporting on your cheek?’

‘How observant of you, Gross. Yes, it is. And I have a matching one on my back. You see, I was attacked on the street yesterday after leaving you.’

‘But why have you waited so long to tell me? You should have telephoned the hotel, sent a pneumatic.’

‘And have Adele discover that you are involved in another case when you promised her not to? Or spoil your evening out? To what end?’

‘You play awfully fast and loose with violent crime, Werthen. And did you consider the possibility that someone might be dispatched to deal with me, as well?’

No conciliatory words from Gross, not that Werthen expected them. He did, however, feel badly about Gross’s second comment. It was something he had not thought of, and he should.

‘What did the scoundrel look like? Describe him.’

Werthen gave as close a description as he could, but realized that he could be giving the particulars of any number of toughs and roughnecks to be hired for a handful of Kreutzer. Truth be told, he had been too intent on merely preserving his life to take real notice of the man’s features, other than that he was hulking and menacing and had at one time or several times in the past broken his nose.

‘Bielohlawek?’ Gross said, echoing Berthe’s assumption. ‘Would he have set someone upon you?’

They were momentarily interrupted by Herr Otto, who wished to know if they would complete their meal with a Mehlspeisen. There was a Kaisertorte today, fresh from Fiegl’s bakery.

Werthen patted his abdomen. ‘I think not, thank you, Herr Otto.’

Gross reluctantly shook his head, as well.

‘I meant to tell you, Advokat,’ Herr Otto said as he totted up their bill. ‘There was a. . certain fellow inquiring after you the other day.’

Both Werthen and Gross pricked up their ears at this information.

‘A large, bullish-looking fellow?’ Werthen inquired.

Herr Otto shook his head. ‘Quite the opposite. Short and thin and dressed in a manner to suggest he perhaps makes his living on the street.’

‘What did he want with me?’

‘To know if you were a frequent customer. I told him that was none of his business and to be off or I would fetch a constable. But obviously he did not take me seriously. He is there now, waiting at the corner of the street. I noticed him a few moments ago.’

Gross stood, tossing his damask napkin to the table and leaving Werthen to pick up the tab as usual.

‘Well, let us see what this chap wants then,’ he said.

Werthen signed the chit that Herr Otto produced, for he now ran an account with the cafe. Gross was halfway out the door by the time Werthen caught him up.

The man saw them coming, but did not budge from his spot on the corner. He wore a shabby derby hat and an overcoat a size too large with patches on the hem and at the wrists. There was something about the way the man stood, feet spread and hands on hips defiantly, that reminded Werthen of somebody. As they drew closer Werthen could see the man’s face. Though the pallor of his cheeks was the sickly gray of the underside of a fish as if he seldom saw the sunlight, there was withal a somewhat robust nature to the man’s face: round and full with a nose that could serve as a beacon. He was grizzled; obviously the fellow could do with a good shave. With a bath as well, Werthen discovered as he got within scent-range of him.

‘You were looking for me, sir?’ Werthen said, standing a meter from him and towering at least a head higher.

‘If you would be Justice Werthen, I am.’

‘Advokat,’ Werthen corrected. ‘What exactly is it you want, Herr. .?’

‘They tell me you have my son,’ the man said in quite the thickest Viennese accent Werthen had ever heard. There were those who swore they could place a Viennese to their home district by their accent; all Werthen could tell by this man’s was that he most definitely belonged to the vast underclass of the metropolis, homeless perhaps, assuredly out of work.

‘Your son?’ Werthen repeated.

‘My name’s Beer. Erdmann Beer. Friends tell me you have my son.’

‘Beer?’ Then it clicked. ‘You mean Huck?’

The man stared at him as if Werthen were insane.

‘Heidl?’ Werthen corrected. He remembered now that Fraulein Metzinger had mentioned a ne’er-do-well father who practiced the trade of Strotter, a rag and bone man scooping out bits of fish detritus from the sewers to be sold for soap fat. Which explained the man’s pallor.

Herr Beer nodded his head. ‘That’s my boy, all right. You do have him, you do not deny that?’

‘Now just one moment,’ Gross broke in. ‘I do not like the sound of that question.’

‘Not to worry, Herr Doktor, not to worry. I know what you aristocrats get up to, and it’s no worse treatment than he might get on the street. It’s just that I thought. .’

‘We are not aristocrats nor profligates,’ Werthen all but shouted at the man. ‘And we do not prey on young boys. Heidl is, in fact, employed in my law office.’

A look of cunning swept over the man’s face at this piece of information.

‘He’s earning an income, is he? That’s more like it. In that case, I can rightfully ask for a small compensation. An apprentice fee sort of.’

Werthen felt his anger rise and knew his face was growing red.

‘You silly man,’ he said. ‘You pay the apprentice fee, or didn’t you know that? I should have you taken to court for non-support of your son.’

‘Now hold on,’ Beer said, shaking his palms at Werthen to calm him. ‘It was just a suggestion.’

‘Or better yet, take your urchin back with you to the Zwingburg where he belongs. I will not be extorted by the likes of you. Yes, that is the very thing. Come with us this very moment and take the boy with you. It’s about time you took on the responsibilities of a father.’

‘Your Magistrate, please listen to reason,’ the man all but wailed. ‘I had no idea of the fine situation my wonderful boy had landed himself in. I’m not trying to pestulate things for him. No, none of that. I’m his dear loving father. Just give him my best and tell him to wash his hands. Little beast never did like washing up. We can just forget we ever had this meeting, right?’

‘And you will not attempt to contact the boy again,’ Werthen said.

‘Never a thought of it,’ Beer said.

‘Then be off with you.’

Beer tipped his dented derby at Werthen then at Gross.

‘And Beer,’ Werthen said, digging into his vest pocket and extracting a crown. He flicked the coin in a gentle arc to the man, who caught it with alacrity.

‘Get some good food in you,’ Werthen told him.

Beer did everything but bite the coin, so excited was he by his good fortune.

‘That’s the first and last from me,’ Werthen said with his courtroom voice.

‘Yes, sir,’ Beer replied. ‘This is the last of Erdmann Beer you’ll be seeing.’

He was gone and Gross looked askance at Werthen. ‘He’ll only spend it on liquor.’

‘I suppose so. He’s got little enough else.’

‘Do I hear the quivering beginnings of a social conscience?’

Werthen shrugged away the question. A moment later he began laughing to himself.

‘Might one inquire what is so humorous?’ Gross asked.

‘It just struck me,’ Werthen said. ‘His name. Erdmann Beer. A fruit, just like his son.’

‘Are you quite all right, Werthen?’

‘You see, we call the boy Huck because his name is Heidl Beer, which if put together means blueberry or huckleberry.’

Gross gazed at him, seemingly unimpressed.

‘As in Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn.’

‘Ah, quite,’ Gross said. ‘And let me then finish your thought. Herr Erdmann Beer’s Christian name could be shortened to Erd. Say both names together quickly and you have — Erdbeer, a strawberry.’

Gross could not restrain himself. He now enjoyed a low chuckle at the absurdity of the names.

‘But,’ he quickly returned to his usual stern demeanor, ‘this is not getting our case solved. First we must send off Praetor’s evidence. Secondly, the crime scene photos from the Rathausmight have been delivered by now. Thirdly, your attacker adds a new dimension. I should think it is time we seek an interview with Mayor Lueger.’