Well, von Falkenburg thought, if he had only a week to live, at least he could live it with Helena. My God, what a woman! Schmidt should have brought her answer to his note by now.
And Schmidt had. Eagerly, von Falkenburg tore open the little envelope that the orderly had propped up on the mantelpiece next to the clock. The note inside was short and to the point: “The Princess Helena von Rauffenstein regrets that she is unable to accede to the captain’s request for an interview, now or at any other time.”
Von Falkenburg gazed at the note with something of the same mixture of rage and astonishment with which he had heard the major’s accusation of treason the day before.
“Bitch!” he exclaimed as he crumpled up the note and threw it into the fire. “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!”
Von Falkenburg had been rejected by some women before, but never after he had made love to them. He stamped up and down the room, ablaze with anger and shame.
Then he stopped in front of the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece.
“Failure!” he said to his reflection through clenched teeth. He had failed to get any information from Röderer, and he had also apparently failed with Helena. What had happened? Had his lifetime supply of luck suddenly run out?
But self-pity, he knew full well, never accomplished anything. Helena, he told himself with a surge of resolve, would have just been a distraction from his investigation, and he was determined to bring that investigation to a successful conclusion. He had a whole life to win for himself, and there would be far better women in it than she!
Von Falkenburg called the commandant of the prison to say that he wished to talk to Röderer the next day. Perhaps by then the man would be somewhat detoxified, and he could get some sense out of him.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” the commandant said. “Lieutenant Röderer has just shot himself.”
The contempt with which the commandant had mentioned Röderer’s name earlier that day was now lacking. The man had, after all, made use of the revolver with one bullet that was customarily left in the cell of an officer under arrest on serious charges. Röderer had finally “taken the honorable way out.”
So now his sole possible lead was gone, von Falkenburg realized as he laid down the receiver. The fact that the witness against him was also gone was now unimportant, given the existence of von Falkenburg’s signed confession.
Outside, it was beginning to grow dark. Von Falkenburg realized that the first of his seven days was drawing to a close, and that he had achieved nothing. All he had succeeded in doing was to lose a woman he thought that he had. He knew now that he faced a useless, lonely week and a lonely, bitter death.
Chapter Four
Von Falkenburg sat in the Café Landtmann next to one of the windows that looked out on the Rathaus, the City Hall with its Gothic spire. The sun was streaming in, and outside the weather suggested that spring really might have arrived. Von Falkenburg sipped his breakfast coffee and thought about Röderer.
The man had killed himself at the worst possible moment: after he had fingered von Falkenburg, but before von Falkenburg had been able to get any information out of him.
“Damn him,” von Falkenburg said to himself, “why the devil did his timing have to be so bad?”
Bad for von Falkenburg, anyway.
Von Falkenburg held the cup half way to his mouth as he reflected on the point. Röderer’s timing had been disastrous for von Falkenburg, which conversely meant that it had been perfect for von Falkenburg’s enemies.
Could they have had a hand in Röderer’s death? But how would they have gotten Röderer to shoot himself?
No, it looked like von Falkenburg’s idea led nowhere.
Unless….
This time, von Falkenburg sensed that he was on the right track. He paid for his coffee and left, looking around the street eagerly for a cab. Typically, now that he really needed one, none was to be found. Finally, one came by, pulled by a shabby gray nag.
“Prinz-Eugen-Strasse 19, please.”
Rubinstein had done well for himself. The apartment building had a lobby with a polished marble floor, and a bronze statue holding an electric light globe surmounted the carved newel post of the staircase. The elevator was on one of the upper floors, and von Falkenburg strode up the thickly carpeted steps rather than wait for it.
“Good day, Captain. Does the Captain have an appointment?” the receptionist asked. She was quite pretty in a businesslike sort of way.
“No. But please ask the Herr Doktor if he might have some time for Captain von Falkenburg. He knows me personally.”
There was the slightest hint on the receptionist’s face of the disapproval she felt for people – even handsome army officers – who did not make appointments in the regular fashion. Nevertheless, she conveyed his message to her employer, and a moment later reappeared to tell von Falkenburg that Dr. Rubinstein would see him now, and to usher him into Rubinstein’s office.
“Hello, von Falkenburg. What can I do for you? You certainly look fit enough, and besides, you have the skills of the regimental doctor at your command.”
The look of amusement on Rubinstein’s face as he said that showed what he thought of regimental doctors, who were said to rely on only two treatments: iodine and cod liver oil.
“Oh, I’m healthy enough,” von Falkenburg said, “but I need your medical expertise anyway.”
Without going into why he was asking the question, von Falkenburg described Röderer’s appearance and behavior, and then asked Rubinstein if he thought a drug might be involved.
“Sounds very much like it. Mophine, I expect. Detoxification is a very painful process.”
“Now,” von Falkenburg said, “supposing a person was deprived of the stuff and was told he had absolutely no prospect of getting it. Do you think he might kill himself?”
Rubinstein leaned back in his chair and thought for a while. “It’s not at all impossible,” he said finally. “The effect of morphine and related drugs is to produce a euphoria. When they wear off, there is an intense depression.”
“The person I am talking about was in a cell, facing very serious charges for which he was certain to be convicted.”
“An officer?”
“Yes.”
“The deprivation of the morphine could have been a decisive factor, taken on top of the other circumstances which would suggest suicide. As I say, morphine is a euphoric. If your man had kept taking it, he would have stayed on Cloud Nine. Instead, he was in intense physical agony, and in a mental state where his bleak future could have persuaded him to take the step which the idiotic honor-cult expected of him.”
“You fought a duel once back at the university,” von Falkenburg said with a smile.
“I know, and every day I thank my stars that I’m not in the Central Cemetery on account of it.”
“But you’d do it again?”
“Oh yes. I mean, when someone lets his anti-Semitism get as badly out of hand as that little idiot Freiherr von Probern did, one simply can’t let it pass. I’m glad no one got hurt, though. I couldn’t hit the side of a barn of course, since it was the first time I’d fired a pistol.”
“And von Probern was trembling too much to hold his pistol straight,” von Falkenburg added. It was the first duel he had attended as a second.
“One last question,” he went on. “How long after a person is deprived of morphine will the effects of the deprivation really begin to make themselves felt?”
“Depends on the degree of addiction. Hours; maybe half a day after the last dose before the suffering is really at its height.”
“But not longer.”
“No. But the suffering continues for quite some time before the withdrawal symptoms begin to diminish with the completion of detoxification.”
Von Falkenburg did not hail a cab when he got out into the street, but began walking instead. He found that walking was when he could do his best thinking.
He had a lot to think about, too. Röder
er clearly had been receiving morphine somehow smuggled to him in jail – for otherwise, based on what Rubinstein had told him, Röderer, who must have been imprisoned several days, since his arrest and interrogation preceded von Falkenburg’s meeting with Major Becker, would have gone into withdrawal long before von Falkenburg’s visit to him. And that explained why Röderer had asked von Falkenburg if he had “brought it.” Judging from what Rubinstein had said, and from the fact that Röderer was already beginning withdrawal at the time of von Falkenburg’s visit, the supply must have been discontinued shortly after von Falkenburg had signed his confession.
Von Falkenburg ran through the conclusions he had drawn the day before about Röderer. Since the man clearly could not have personally made the forgeries, he had to be merely a part of something much bigger – and a rather subordinate part, at that. He had never met von Falkenburg – the fact that he had not recognized him on sight proved that – so someone else must have convinced Röderer to accuse him.
In exchange for a continuing supply of the drug even though he was in jail? Almost certainly. And perhaps, of a lenient sentence? Possibly, and in that case von Falkenburg’s mysterious enemies had to be more powerful and more highly placed than he had hitherto imagined.
As long as it looked like there might be a chance of von Falkenburg going to trial, he reasoned, his enemies had kept Röderer in reserve. Von Falkenburg had failed to kill himself as they had hoped, something that only his chance mistake in loading his revolver had prevented. But once they had somehow learned of his written confession, Röderer was no longer needed. Why risk having him go to pieces and blurt out the truth under cross examination? So his morphine was cut off, and he behaved as could be expected, committing suicide almost on cue, so to speak.
One thing, at any rate, was clear to von Falkenburg. His enemies knew about the confession. Could the colonel be one of them? Von Falkenburg dismissed the idea almost as soon as it occurred to him. To have simply played as an actor that scene of requesting von Falkenburg’s freely-given word relating to his innocence would have required a histrionic ability which went far beyond anything the colonel could be expected to possess.
And Major Becker? It was tempting indeed to visualize Becker as his foe, but von Falkenburg knew that he should not allow his hatred of the man to cloud his judgment. His enemies were very subtle. If Becker really were part of the plot against him, it would be strange indeed for the man to cast himself so obviously in an adversarial role, with his sarcasm and gloating. Von Falkenburg was inclined to believe that Becker was simply the determined investigator rubbing his hands at the prospect of being about to land a big catch.
Besides, it was very possible that the locus of the conspiracy lay outside of Military Intelligence. Perhaps Becker and his colleagues were simply being “fed” misinformation that originated elsewhere (probably the General Staff, since that is where the espionage supposedly occurred). Updates on the state of the investigation presumably flowed the other way, either in good faith, or because the liaison person in Military Intelligence was part of the plot against him.
Enemies on the Staff…or in Military Intelligence…or in both places. A whole conspiracy, organized around the goal of destroying him. But what could the motive possibly be? Von Falkenburg could imagine that in his life he might have unwittingly made a mortal enemy, but several? And willing to go to this sort of trouble? The elaborateness and the complexity of the plot suggested something that went far beyond mere personal enmity. But what…?
Von Falkenburg suddenly felt himself run into something soft.
“Oh! Sir!” an indignant female voice exclaimed.
He realized that he had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he had walked right into a girl.
“Gnädiges Fräulein,” he said, whirling around and touching his fingers to the brim of his képi, “I beg your forgiveness.”
The girl was obviously, to judge from her clothes, just a shop assistant or something similar. But von Falkenburg felt he owed her the respectful “gnädiges” by way of an apology. Besides, he was respectful to all women, particularly ones as pretty as this one. He had knocked her hat to one side, and the cockeyed look it gave to her made her look appealingly fresh and impudent.
Not that she realized it, for she was already straightening the hat, while saying, “the captain should realize that other people have to use the sidewalks too.”
“Gnädiges Fräulein, I realize that what I did was quite inexcusable.” Then he added, “perhaps I can make it up to you.”
She looked at him with a combination of suspicion and interest.
“How?” she asked with a challenging tone. Von Falkenburg realized that her original genuine indignation at being bumped into was giving way rapidly to a purely simulated one. That was a promising sign.
“By having dinner with me.”
“What kind of a girl do you think I am?” she asked. The inevitable reply. Sometimes von Falkenburg wished that human relations were a little bit less automatic.
“A very charming one.” Oh well, play the game, he thought.
She pretended to think the offer over, then uttered the response von Falkenburg was waiting for.
“All right” – the tone suggested that she was doing von Falkenburg an immense favor by accepting – “but it’s just dinner. I’m a respectable girl.”
If she had answered differently, von Falkenburg would have looked up to see if the sky were falling.
“Of course,” he said. “If I did not think you were a respectable girl, I would not have invited you.”
The girl looked as if she actually believed that. Which was a pity. Von Falkenburg liked intelligence in his women.
Her name was Lisa, and she had to get back to the milliner’s where she worked. He promised to pick her up at eight.
Investigation or no investigation, he would have to eat anyway, and besides, so far his only productive ideas – confronting Röderer and discussing the latter’s case with Rubinstein – had come to him unexpected and unbidden. Maybe some champagne and associated enjoyments with a pretty girl would place his mind in a receptive state for new inspiration.
Since at the present he had no ideas on further pursuing his search for the truth, and since he did not want any rumors to start at the barracks, von Falkenburg spent the rest of the afternoon catching up with his military duties.
Before long, night had fallen. He caught a cab on the Ring and headed out to Sievering, where Lisa lived.
Lisa looked pretty enough when he picked her up, although her too-flashy “best dress” diminished, rather than augmented, her looks. Annie, who had a natural sense of style, always managed to look good even though she had no money and would not ever accept any from him. But all that was long ago.
“How do you like my dress?” Lisa asked.
“Exquisite. It becomes you perfectly.”
“Do you really think so? You know, it isn’t easy for a girl to look nice, what with material costing what it does today. Would you believe how much they charge for a meter of satin, and not top-quality satin, either…?”
She was clearly a chatterbox, and without much of interest to chatter about, von Falkenburg realized ruefully. Instead of helping take his mind off his troubles Lisa was just an added irritation.
Well, it was too late to do anything about that now, and it was his duty to show her a good time. When the waiter led them into the chambre séparée, or private dining room, of the restaurant von Falkenburg habitually used for such purposes, she was suitably impressed with the “elegance” of the gilt-framed mirrors and red-hung walls.
The food was good, décor notwithstanding, and although with every minute von Falkenburg found her empty-headed chatter more trying, he mechanically applied all the charm to be expected of a captain of the Austro-Hungarian Army.
He suddenly realized that the problem was not her, it was this whole hypocritical ritual which he had gone through so many times in the past, and which he now foun
d tedious for some reason.
The champagne was flowing freely, traditional fuel of shop girl passion. Lisa was well aware of the role it was supposed to play, and drank it eagerly.
“You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?” she said with a reproachful giggle, holding her glass out for more.
“Nothing could be farther from my mind,” von Falkenburg replied, noting with interest how changed circumstances could turn a habitual lie into a simple statement of the truth.
She giggled again.
“You (hic!) know, I’m a respectable girl!”
And she began to try to sing the song, “I’m a respectable woman” from that new operetta of Léhar’s.
He was tempted to take her at her word and not touch her. But he knew how disappointed and offended she would be in that case; besides, he had the reputation of the regiment to think of.
At the same time, the thought of going to a hotel and dragging the evening out still farther appalled him. The waiter was gone, and the walls of the room were thick. Von Falkenburg locked the door and then carefully unfastened his sword….
With Lisa deposited in Sievering and told that he would not be able to see her again because he was to be sent to Paris as assistant army attaché, von Falkenburg rode back to the barracks slumped in the seat of a cab. He realized now why the evening had been so unsatisfactory. It was not just that Lisa was a silly little thing. He had enjoyed himself with plenty of other girls just like her. It was that her defects made him think of Helena, whom he wanted so badly. He saw now how annoyed she must have been for him to walk out her life, then announce that he was walking back in again for a time still to be determined.
“I report most obediently,” Schmidt said when he entered his apartment, “a letter for the captain came special delivery while he was out.”
Von Falkenburg looked at the envelope. It was not an official envelope, so perhaps the letter did not mean more trouble. There was no return address, and the unfamiliar handwriting was of a man – so the sender could not be Helena, as he had immediately hoped on hearing there was a letter for him.
Thomas Ochiltree Page 6