Thomas Ochiltree

by Death Waltz in Vienna

  Von Falkenburg looked at her blazing eyes, felt the intensity of her love for him flowing towards him like a powerful electric current.

  “This time,” he asked her with a smile, “shall we try it without the uniform?” He was already unbuttoning his tunic….

  Chapter Six

  “Before you answer this question,” von Falkenburg said over the telephone, “let me warn you that you would probably be better off hanging up right now.”

  “But it’s something important to you?” the voice on the other end asked.

  “Mm, rather.”

  “I’ve always liked risks. Go ahead.”

  The man von Falkenburg was talking to was the one journalist he knew, Detlev Count von Horgenhoff.

  “Did you know a man named Lasky?”

  “The little Jew who was bumped off last night? I’m glad you have such a high opinion of me, old boy.” The loss of his fortune, caused entirely by himself, had not made von Horgenhoff any less of a snob.

  “Well, did you?”

  “Yes, in a way. After all, journalism’s a small enough world here in Vienna. I didn’t know him any too well, though. They tend to stick together, our Hebrew friends do. Besides, I don’t think Lasky had many real friends. He was sort of a strange little character.”

  “He was a good man.”

  “You have odd tastes, von Falkenburg, as I’ve always known.”

  “Anyway, would you know who his regular sources were? Particularly for stories on the army?”

  “Not likely. Don’t forget I do the social page and a bit of literary criticism. I try to never get mixed up in anything serious. I tell you what, though. He did have one friend on this rag I work for. I could ask him. A fellow named Eimerband.”

  “Thanks, von Horgenhoff, but I’d hate to put you out. Why don’t I contact him myself?”

  There had never been a countess whom von Horgenhoff was unable to charm, but von Falkenburg could guess how von Horgenhoff’s credit must stand with his Jewish colleagues.

  When he got Eimerband on the telephone, von Falkenburg said to him, “Herr Eimerband, I am a friend of the late Herr Lasky.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes. And I want to help find those who killed him.”

  “So you’re from the police?”

  “No, not in the slightest. Like I said, I am a friend of Herr Lasky. Can I meet with you? There might be some risk in it for you if you let me talk to you, however. I must warn you of that.”

  “But you think you could help find Mordecai’s killers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where do you want to meet?”

  “Let’s have lunch at the Café Landtmann.” If anyone was following von Falkenburg he would not be surprised at his going to the Landtmann, as that was where he usually had lunch. And although his enemies had presumably been tailing Lasky just to make sure he did not contact von Falkenburg, they would have no reason to be following Eimerband, who had no connection with the case and whose name von Falkenburg had from a third party.

  Where Lasky had been short, Eimerband was tall and thin, and very respectably dressed. When he sat down at von Falkenburg’s table in the Café Landtmann, von Falkenburg said to him, “Herr Eimerband, I know you are probably curious about who I am and how I came to know your friend.”

  Eimerband gave an affirmative nod.

  “Well, for your own safety, I want to tell you as little as possible. What I can tell you is this: Herr Lasky contacted me because he felt I could help him in an inquiry he was undertaking about a scandal in the army.”

  Eimerband’s mouth formed an ironic little smile. Von Falkenburg could guess that he did not share Lasky’s enthusiasm for the army. Perhaps because as Jew he had had a hard time of it during his military service. Cases were known.

  “I want to find out who killed him, because he wanted to help me.”

  “And you want to preserve the honor of the army, I suppose,” Eimerband said, with a hint of ironic stress on the word “honor.”

  “I wish to protect Austria-Hungary.”

  “Frankly, the fate of Austria-Hungary is as indifferent to me as the honor of the army,” Eimerband said.

  “You do not regard yourself as an Austrian?” von Falkenburg asked. He knew that as a group, the Jews were probably Franz Joseph’s most loyal subjects.

  “I look rather towards Palestine,” Eimerband said shortly.

  Even some Jews, von Falkenburg knew, were abandoning the concept of Austria-Hungary, the “land of many peoples.” It was disconcerting, but when he thought of von Horgenhoff’s remarks, he could at least partly understand their decision.

  “But you were Herr Lasky’s friend?”

  “Yes,” Eimerband replied. “Lasky didn’t understand a thing about the future of the Jewish people, but he was a fine man. I was his best friend.”

  “Then for the sake of that friendship, tell me who his military sources were – particularly any he might have had any personal connections with.”

  Eimerband thought for a moment.

  “Lasky was always writing or talking about the army,” he said finally. “It was a hobby with him – or perhaps a passion. Sources? I should say his best connection was a Major Korda on the Staff.”

  “Did he see Major Korda socially?”

  “To a certain extent. He was very flattered that a Staff officer would be friendly with him. He used to like to tell anecdotes that Korda had picked up in his world.”

  “And what was Korda’s world?” von Falkenburg asked.

  “His world? Similar to yours, I would have thought. Are you a jour goer?”

  “Not when I can help it,” von Falkenburg said with a voice that clearly indicated what he thought of the jours that he had not been able to avoid attending.

  For the first time a touch of sympathy appeared in Eimerband’s expression.

  “I have an aunt who has a jour,” Eimerband said. “Beastly bore, but I have to go, of course. I try to work for the cause – for Palestine – when I’m there with her Jewish upper bourgeoisie assimilationist friends. Which does not always sit well with them.”

  Every lady in Vienna with any social ambitions, as von Falkenburg knew, had her jour – her “day” when once a month, during the late afternoon she would hold open house for anyone to whom she had sent a jour card of invitation at the beginning of the social season.

  “Is Major Korda a jour goer?” von Falkenburg asked.

  “That’s what Lasky used to say. Korda was honest enough with him about his motives. Said he hoped to marry rich because he had a propensity for fast women, and a fatal attraction to slow horses, and could not afford either on a major’s salary.”

  For an officer who wanted to marry rich, the jour circuit was a natural hunting ground, assuming he could stand the atmosphere of tea and chitchat. No lady with a jour would pass up the opportunity to showcase her unmarried daughters. A hard-up major might not be the ideal candidate for a son-in-law, but perhaps Korda was hoping for a girl who would fall head-over-heels in love with him, and would know how to get her way with her parents. Or maybe one who was not too plain, but was in danger of being “left of the shelf” as the saying had it.

  And a major on the Staff, as long as he was of decent family, physically presentable, and possessed of a reasonable amount of small talk, would have no trouble collecting plenty of jour cards. For a lady with a jour, finding enough men to maintain a reasonable balance of the sexes was always a problem, since many men felt as von Falkenburg did that sipping tea (even tea laced with rum or brandy from the little crystal decanters passed around with it), eating pastry and listening to feminine gossip was not the ideal way to spend their time.

  Besides, for a jour hostess, officers were in particular demand as guests. Their uniforms and martial calling added a touch of masculine dash to the proceedings. By imperial decree they were all hoffähig, or fit to be presented at court, and were thus automatically salonfähig, or fit to be received in genteel com
pany (although a hostess would steer clear of the occasional Röderer who somehow managed to get a commission.) Finally, they almost all knew how to talk with women. Whether hostesses always understood that this resulted from their constant amorous pursuit of females from all social classes was another question.

  “Did you ever meet Major Korda?” von Falkenburg asked.

  “No. My aunt’s jour is the only one I go to, and Major Korda is not an habitué there. In fact, Captain, I’m afraid that I really don’t know anything more about the man. Sorry. For Lasky’s sake, since for some reason I think you really want to find his killers.”

  “You may have been of more help to me than you think, Herr Eimerband. Shall we order lunch?”

  * * *

  Von Falkenburg paced back and forth in the “Small Salon” of Helena’s mansion. He had come at once on being brought a note from her saying, “success! Please wait at my place. I have an errand to do – for you!”

  That had been at seven in the evening. The eighteenth-century French ormolu clock on the marble mantelpiece now showed almost ten.

  Earlier, when he had told her of what he had learned from Eimerband, she had immediately suggested that she make some jour calls; as Princess von Rauffenstein, she was on the jour list of every lady of social consequence in the city, just as every jour-goer who was anybody came to her own jour on the ultra-desirable second Saturday of every month. Her idea was to keep an eye out for Major Korda.

  He had at first tried to dissuade her. After all, the last person who had tried to help him had wound up with a knife between his ribs. But dissuading Helena from something she was set on was not always easy. He had finally yielded to her argument that a fashionable salon was a less dangerous place than a dark alley, and that there was nothing about a call by her on one of her female acquaintances that would attract the least bit of attention.

  Above all, he had yielded to her obviously burning desire to help him, and to the simple logic of the situation. Korda had not even wanted to talk about von Falkenburg’s case with Lasky. That meant that the chance of him receiving von Falkenburg was zero. But who could tell what useful tidbit of information the fortune-hunting Major Korda might accidentally let drop in conversation with a stunningly beautiful woman who was also perhaps the wealthiest widow in Vienna?

  The mantelpiece clock struck ten in silvery notes.

  “Where the devil can she be?” von Falkenburg asked himself. And what could her “errand” be? The word “success!” in her note indicated she had indeed found Korda.

  He heard the front door open, and steps coming towards the sitting room. Von Falkenburg threw himself into a chair, crossed his legs, and sipped the brandy he had poured for himself earlier. Not for the life of him would he let Helena see how impatient he was.

  The door opened, and in walked Helena. Her eyes glowed with triumph, pride, and a hint of malice.

  Von Falkenburg rose and kissed her hand.

  “So you found Major Korda?” he asked casually.

  “Without difficulty. Vienna’s a smaller place than one thinks. It’s late in the social season of course, and there were only three jours of note. He was at the Countess von Goertz’s. I knew to start there because she has three unmarried daughters and plenty of money.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Korda? Handsome. Conceited, but not in an offensive way. He’s a bit superficial, rather obviously a fortune hunter, but all in all, not a bad sort.”

  In fact, her description of Major Korda corresponded very neatly to the idea von Falkenburg had previously formed of the man. Any fortune hunter was bound to cultivate charm, and likely to be superficial – of necessity, if nothing else. But if Korda had not had the moral fiber to risk trouble to help an unknown fellow officer to whom he suspected injustice was being done, he had tried to keep his friend Lasky out of harm’s way.

  “So Major Korda is now your new slave?” he asked. Helena had promised not merely to find Korda but to “enslave” him.

  “Of course. If we women couldn’t enslave men, life wouldn’t be worth living for us. Or for men, either. It was a bit funny, though….”

  “What?” Von Falkenburg was dying for Helena to get to the point, but a Austro-Hungarian officer had to keep up his reputation for cool imperturbability, even with his adored mistress.

  “Oh, Major Korda has, I suspect, has invested a fair amount of his time in drinking the Countess von Goertz’s tea, and the middle daughter seems to keep her eye on him.”

  “And he kept his eye on you?”

  “I’m not too plain, you know, Ernst. No, Major Korda didn’t want to offend Ernestine von Goertz, but he wanted to be amiable to me. All in the same salon.”

  “Did he succeed?”

  “In being amiable to me? Oh yes. And if he made Ernestine jealous, really jealous, we’ll probably see the wedding announcement soon. There is nothing like jealousy for fanning love and passion.”

  “Anyway, Ernst, I did get some information out of him. Just a bit.”

  “About von Lauderstein?”

  “Right. I said that I had met him somewhere, asked Korda if he knew him well, that sort of thing.”

  “And?”

  “Major Korda is something of a gossip. He told me that von Lauderstein is wildly, but passionately, but head-over-heels-in-love with a little vaudeville singer at the Kaminski-Palais-Theater.”

  “Where on earth is that?” von Falkenburg asked. It was a theater he had never heard of, even though he knew most of them.

  “Never been fishing in those waters, Ernst?”

  “No, in fact I haven’t.”

  “Well, it’s way out in the Ninth District. Terrible little ratty run-down place.”

  “You’ve been there?” he asked with astonishment.

  “Of course, to see von Lauderstein’s girl.”

  “You didn’t think it would be better to leave that to me?” he asked, concerned that Helena had not limited her activity on his behalf to the safe world of the Countess von Goertz’s salon.

  “I thought I’d prepare the way…to save time. You see, Ernst, you’re very charming and very handsome, and have impeccable Adjustierung, and those things are all very important to a woman. But for an actress or a singer, there is something that’s even more important.”

  “Namely?”

  “The Big Time!” I told the girl that if she would talk to you, I would get her a week’s engagement at the Ronacher.”

  The Établissement Ronacher was the unquestioned “big time” of Viennese variety and vaudeville.

  “You can manage that?”

  “I can manage a lot of things, Ernst.”

  Von Falkenburg realized that Helena had probably kept up her contacts with the theater world from the time when she was an operetta star.

  “When can I see this find of yours?”

  “Right now.” Helena rang a little silver bell. When Alphonse, her butler, appeared, she said, “kindly show the young lady in, Alphonse.”

  The butler appeared in a moment with a young woman. A pretty young woman, indeed a very pretty one, and von Falkenburg could imagine the spell she might cast on von Lauderstein. Her beauty lacked the depth and elegance of Helena’s but there was something appealingly fresh and impudent about her.

  “Fräulein,” Helena said to her, “let me present to you Captain Ernst von Falkenburg. Captain, Fräulein Adèle d’Églantine.”

  Von Falkenburg bowed and kissed the girl’s outstretched hand.

  “Delighted to meet you, Fräulein d’Églantine.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure.” For all her high-sounding French name, she spoke with the accent of the Viennese working class. It was an accent that corresponded to the kind of prettiness she had, and highlighted the latter in an agreeable way.

  “Gnädiges Fräulein,” von Falkenburg said, “as the Princess has told you, I would like to have a few words with you…ask a few little questions….”

  “That is a full week at the R
onacher, right?” the girl said, turning to Helena and ignoring von Falkenburg completely.

  “A full week. Who knows, maybe two. And not at the bottom of the bill, either,” Helena replied with a smile, adding, “the young lady sings like a nightingale, Captain.”

  “Yes,” Adèle said, “I thought of calling myself ‘The Nightingale of the Vienna Woods,’ but my agent said a French name is better.”

  There was something refreshingly honest about her vulgarity, von Falkenburg decided. He wondered if von Lauderstein loved her in spite of it or because of it.

  “Well, Fräulein,” von Falkenburg said, “what I need to know are the names of people whom a friend of yours, Colonel von Lauderstein, might be particularly intimate with, or seem to have a lot of private discussions with.”

  “Huh! You can’t imagine that I would pay much attention to what he does! He isn’t even generous! Not with me, anyway. I heard from a friend once that he spent a lot of time at Madame Rosa’s….”

  That, von Falkenburg knew, was perhaps the most expensive brothel in Vienna, or even in Central Europe, although he had never been there himself.

  “And?”

  “And the hypocrite told me when I asked him about it that he had to go there on business. Business in a bordello!”

  “You don’t believe him”

  The girl thought for a moment. She obviously liked to run down von Lauderstein, but probably suspected that getting her promised reward from Helena would depend on telling the truth.

  “Maybe. One time when I was at his apartment, the telephone rang. I heard him say, ‘yes, Prince. At Rosa’s.’ It was as if he was making a business appointment. Then he said, “I can’t talk now. Someone’s here.’ ‘Someone!’ That ‘someone’ was me! I asked him what kind of secrets he was keeping from me, but he wouldn’t say. I thought I might have a rival – that the ‘Prince’ might be a code name for some woman – so I kept asking. And do you know what the lout said?”

  The girl looked indignantly at Helena and von Falkenburg as if what her lover had said to her was so outrageous that the whole world must know about it, and be discussing it avidly.

  Helena raised her eyebrows questioningly.