Vienna Secrets

61

COUNCILLOR SCHMIDT WAS SITTING in his room at the town hall, smoking a cigar and thinking about his mistress. She had started to make unreasonable demands. From his experience, all women were the same in this respect. They became over-curious, meddlesome. They always wanted more. Private dining rooms, trinkets, and bouquets were no longer sufficient to keep them happy. They became morose, subdued in the bedroom, and maddeningly inquisitive.

Where are you going tomorrow night? Is it an official engagement? Will there be any society ladies present?

And so on…

He treated these questions as he might the singing of a canary, being barely conscious of the incessant warbling until its cessation.

Inquisitive mistresses were a liability. He did not want them, or anyone, to know his whereabouts. His plans (and he now had many of them) could be endangered by loose talk. The less people knew, the better.

Schmidt leaned back and rested his feet on his desk. The cigar tasted good. It was expensive and had been given to him, with other incentives, by a business associate in return for a small favor. The associate’s lawyer had needed to study a certain title deed in the town hall archive. A promise of future preferment was all it had taken to persuade the archivist to hand him the desired document.

The tobacco was pungent, but teased the palate with a fruity sweetness. Schmidt dislodged some ash and continued thinking about his mistress.

Yes, it’s been diverting enough-especially at the beginning, when she was more vivacious, lively, and appreciative. But the dalliance has probably run its course now. Time to move on.

There was a knock on the door.

Schmidt quickly shifted his feet off the desk, spread some papers, and picked up his pen. Adopting the vexed attitude of someone in the middle of a taxing piece of work, he called out, “Enter.”

The door opened, and his nephew appeared.

“Oh, it’s you.” Schmidt relaxed and tossed his pen across the desk.

He saw that his nephew was clutching his mail. It was Fabian who opened and read all his official correspondence. The majority of which consisted of requests for assistance, support, advice, good causes-the sort of thing he could let Fabian attend to. The mayor’s motto was “We must help the little man.” A laudable sentiment, but in practice remarkably time-consuming and very unprofitable.

“Come in, dear boy,” said Schmidt. “What have you got for me?”

“Uncle Julius,” said Fabian, “you’ll never believe what’s happened. There’s been another murder-a decapitation again, just like Brother Stanislav and poor Faust.”

“Where?”

“The Ulrichskirche. I tried to walk through Ulrichsplatz this morning and was stopped. There were policemen and a journalist. They said it happened in the small hours.”

“And the victim?”

“A Jew, a penniless Jew.”

“A Jew, eh? Perhaps someone with a bit of backbone has finally decided to retaliate, an eye for an eye. What do you think? One of the dueling fraternities? When I was your age, I can remember Strength and Unity was full of high-spirited fellows.” Schmidt stubbed out his cigar. “The reports in the newspapers have been so tame-so assiduous in their efforts to avoid stating the obvious-that it wouldn’t surprise me. The censor is supposed to protect the public interest, not a parasitic minority.”

Fabian handed Schmidt the wad of papers. “Your mail, Uncle.”

“Anything I need to look at?”

“Not really. Oh, no… there was something.” Fabian licked his finger and, leaning forward, rifled through the papers. “Yes-this, from Professor Gandler at the hospital. You must reply today if possible.”

Schmidt took the letter from the pile and began to read.