Murder in Vienna

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “It is too much, that I should demand of you ‘do you remember’ after so long. . . .”

  “What’s a quarter of a century?” asked Macdonald cheerfully. “You were in London in 1945. If you’re still alive in 1970—and I see no reason why you shouldn’t be—and you go to London, you’ll still recognise St. Paul’s Cathedral and Westminster Abbey. But you’ll have forgotten how to get from one to the other. That’s how it is with me, but it’ll come back.”

  “What a sensible fellow you are!” said Natzler. “That is as I remember you: first kindness, then good sense: common sense, as you call it, though I myself should not call it so common, not even among Englishmen.”

  “I’m not really English. I’m a Scot,” retorted Macdonald.

  “Ah ha: but I remember you once described yourself as a London Scot,” replied Natzler. “In short, you are a Londoner, as I am Viennese.” He drew out to pass another car, with a “G.D.” plate above its registration number, and he raised his hand in salute as they passed. It was a chauffeur-driven Daimler, and in the back seats Macdonald saw Miss Le Vendre and her silver-haired escort. She saw him, too, and waved to him.

  “Sir Walter Vanbrugh,” said Natzler, “you know him, hein?”

  “No. I’ve heard his name—he was in the Foreign Office, until he retired. The fair girl with him was on the plane with me.”

  “Yes. I saw them drive out from the airport. He will have been to the Embassy on his way home. Sir Walter also lives in Hietzing, in Trauttmansdorffgasse.”

  “And is Sir Walter also a patient of yours?”

  “Quite right. All sorts and conditions of men I attend (that is classical English, nicht wahr?)—from Sir Walter to Herr Vogel. And the devil of it is a doctor can never forget he is a doctor.”

  “You’re not alone in that,” said Macdonald. “It’s a failing which develops with age. Last time I was in Vienna I was in the C.I.D.—as I have been ever since. I was only an Inspector then, and I swear I never gave my job a thought. I only wanted to enjoy myself—and I did.”

  “And it’s harder now,” said Natzler. “You can’t get away from your work: your mind still works on detecting. But that, my friend, is because you are tired. I knew that when I first saw you. You’re tough, as the Americans say, and you don’t look any older than you did last time I saw you, but you look tired. We will change all that! We will have a holiday together, you and Use and I—and Karl. Did I tell you that Karl also was coming home for a holiday?”

  “Good!” said Macdonald. “I shall be glad to see him again, he’s a fine lad. So he’s taken to doctoring too?”

  “Yes: he specialises—tuberculosis. He has been working with Koch in his Clinic near Lucerne, and he will be flying from Zurich, as you did. He hoped to be able to get away to-day and so arrive with you, but it was not possible. I shall be glad for you to see Karl again. He has done well in his work. . . . Sehen Sie! You remember that?”

  He slowed down and Macdonald caught a glimpse of the Schönbrunn Palace among the trees. “Yes. I remember that. It’s a lovely sight. It’s one of the greatest palaces in Europe, though I always enjoyed the gardens and the Gloriette and the clipped trees more than the amazing galleries and the porcelain room and all the rest. I wonder if the old Emperor used to enjoy his gardens.”

  “Franz Josef: he lived there and died there and they took him thence to the Capucine Crypt—the last of the great Hapsburgs, the end of an era. We have seen some thrones tumble in our lifetime, Macdonald—though the British throne seems more stable than ever. There’s something about the British that stands firm.”

  “Is it because they recognise the need for change and change in reply to the need?—and the royal family changes to meet altered circumstances? There’s a difference between Victoria and Elizabeth II—God bless her.”

  “Amen. A difference and yet a sameness. How can I say it? Sir Walter Vanbrugh—we saw him just now: he’s nearly eighty years old. He was in the Foreign Service when Victoria was Queen. Has he changed? I think not.”

  “Well, he’s retired,” said Macdonald. “I’m not going to get involved in foreign policy, so I won’t say ‘a good thing too,’ as I might have done. Is he living in Vienna?”

  “He is. His son-in-law—Gore Spencer—is in the Embassy here, as Sir Walter was himself once, in the time when Franz Josef was still Emperor. There’s a link with the old days for you. The young girl he met at Schwechat would be his new secretary, I think. He is writing his memoirs, he tells me.”

  “Another edition of ‘A Diplomat Remembers,’ ” observed Macdonald dryly. “I often wonder if the diplomats look back with pride over the results of their activities in this century.”

  “Ach—you may well ask: but let us not ask. ‘Throw physic to the dogs’—I remember that one—and diplomacy with it. Foreign policy, it is verboten during your holiday. See, here we turn, away from Schönbrunn to our quiet streets. Altzaugasse, where we live, is quite near the woods, up from the Hietzinger Hauptstrasse—you must learn your way about. Then you can take the car and drive yourself.”

  The quiet leafy roads of Hietzing were very beautiful on that October day: the trees were turning gold, and their warm colours shone against the stonework and stucco of the graceful houses: houses which had fine doorways and wrought-iron grilles over the ground-storey windows. Macdonald found a resemblance to the Regency houses of London, though in this district of Vienna there was a more spacious air, and the architectural embellishments had something faintly rococo about them. It was difficult to determine exactly what the quality was, for they were reticent houses, yet moulding and ironwork, doorway and shutter, each had a character which made Hietzing quite unlike any corresponding residential area in London or in Paris.

  “Ilse will be looking for us,” said Dr. Natzler—and Ilse was. The front door of Altzaugasse 25 was thrown open as the car pulled up and Frau Natzler had no inhibitions about welcoming an Englishman. She put her hands firmly on Macdonald’s shoulders and kissed him on either cheek.

  “You are welcome, dear friend, so very welcome. Franz and I have waited for this day. Kommen Sie—I have all ready to make you a good cup of tea. After so long, you have come to us in Vienna.”

  CHAPTER III

  MACDONALD SPENT his first day in Vienna being lazy: lazier than he had been for years, for generally when he was on holiday his questing spirit sent him walking or driving, intent, on enjoying a countryside or staring at buildings and works of art, only too well aware that there were more lovely and interesting things in the world than he could ever hope to see. But the Natzlers’ house in Altzaugasse was enough of an experience in itself to keep him happy for a while. Everything in it was subtly different from the contents of an English house: the furniture, the pictures, the china, all had their own quality, and when he had browsed among the Natzlers’ books, studied their pictures, even played their piano for a while, he went out into the garden with Marboe’s Book of Austria under his arm—and promptly went to sleep in the mellow October sunshine.

  When he woke up, Dr. Natzler was sitting beside him, studying the Book of Austria, and he looked at Macdonald approvingly.

  “Good. That was just what the doctor ordered. You have had a good sleep?”

  “Very good: two solid hours,” said Macdonald, glancing at his watch, “and just before I woke up, I had solved a very complex case. I suddenly saw the answer and everything was made plain.”

  “Wish fulfilment,” said Natzler. “That tells me you rested well. Can you remember your dream?”

  “Of course I can’t. I very seldom dream and I never remember what I dream about.”

  “We all dream,” said Natzler, “but for those who find life satisfying there is no need to remember the achievements of the subconscious. Nevertheless, if you wished, you could remember your dream.”

  “I don’t suppose I do wish. It was all very unsound—intuition and not evidence. The only evidence was connected with a pair of suède shoes: oh—and that fair
girl who was in Sir Walter Vanbrugh’s car. That’ll please you, you old dream pedlar.”

  “Ach, ja. . . So you do dream. You have never married, Macdonald?”

  “No, I haven’t. And I don’t propose to experiment in riper years, as the English Prayer Book puts it.”

  “Why did you never marry?” asked Natzler. “You would have made a’ good husband.”

  “No, I shouldn’t. I like my job too well: and on various occasions when my job has brought me face to face with a sticky end, I have found time to thank God that I didn’t leave an indigent widow in the offing.” Natzler chuckled. “My English will improve during your visit. A ‘sticky end’—is that English?”

  “No, but it’s very expressive, and you know just what I mean. I’ll say bloody if you prefer it, but the word has lost its meaning.”

  “Gewiss . . . and ‘indigent’?”

  “Penniless. Like most widows. See Traum, likewise Alpendruck, if I remember aright. You have turned my dream into a nightmare. I will go indoors and wash it away.”

  Natzler chuckled. “The man of action . . . but why suède shoes? Did the gnädiges Fräulein wear such shoes?”

  “I didn’t notice, but I’m ready to bet any money she didn’t. If you ever meet her, you can ask her if she likes young men who wear suède shoes.”

  “The plot thickens,” chuckled Natzler. “That dream, I perceive it was classical in form, a text-book dream. This book I lent you, it is a very good book. It tells you all about Austria. I lend it to all our English visitors and they say ‘That is just what I wanted,’ but they never read it, not to the end.”

  “Have you ever read it to the end, doctor?”

  “No. But I have no need. The Pragmatic Sanctions of Maria Theresa——”

  “No,” said Macdonald firmly. “I did Pragmatic Sanctions in the sixth form at school and decided I never wanted to hear about them again.”

  “And me, with your Wars of the Roses. We will leave all that, and this evening we will go to a Heurige in Grinzing. You remember the Heurige?”

  “We will go to a village inn, and it will have a bunch of green branches over the door, which means that we can taste the wines of this year’s vintage—which I shall much enjoy. And I hope there will be a zither player and that everyone will sing.”

  “So . . .” replied Dr. Natzler.

  2

  The next morning Macdonald “turned tourist” on his own: with a map and a guide-book he walked round the city and sorted things out. He sat in an “Espresso” and drank black coffee and listened hard to the conversation around him, trying to “get his ear in.” He found again the church he liked best—Maria am Gestade—and staring up at its vaulting and slender apse, decided that he belonged to the Gothic school rather than the Baroque—though when he went back to look again at the oval dome of Karlskirche and its flanking columns he concluded he was moderately heretical in his convictions, like the Lamas of Shangri La. Later he met Dr. Natzler and stood him lunch at Sacher’s—that most famous of Viennese hotels.

  In the afternoon Macdonald strolled over to Schönbrunn Palace, to renew his acquaintance with the gardens and fountains: it was another lovely sunny day and the warm coloured stones of the palace looked almost golden in the October sunlight. (“Maria Theresa yellow,” the Austrians called that subtle gold of the masonry.)

  It was while he was standing by the garden front of the palace, looking up at the arches and colonnade of the Gloriette on the rising ground to the south that he saw Elizabeth Le Vendre again. She also was looking at the Gloriette, and as she turned and saw Macdonald her quick smile flashed out.

  “Hallo! Isn’t that lovely? I’ve just been over the State Apartments and all that splendour got me down—but it’s perfect out here. Those arches against the sky are sheer fairyland.”

  “Yes, I feel rather the same. The palatial tends to pall, but the Gloriette is always enchanting. You should go up there, the view is grand.”

  He turned and looked at her: she was bare-headed today and her loose cream coat blew away from her slim figure, so that Macdonald thought she looked as young as a schoolgirl. “Are you enjoying the job?” he asked.

  “Yes—or I think I shall when I get into it. It’s all a bit overpowering to begin with. I must tell you—Sir Walter told me who you are. We saw you in Dr. Natzler’s car.”

  Macdonald laughed a bit. “Was it a shock?”

  “No, not a bit. It may sound silly, but it made me feel safe. You see, it’s so different from London here, and I can’t talk to everybody as I do at home, and when I saw you I thought c I can speak to him. He’s quite safe.’ ” She broke off, and then added, “You see, I told Sir Walter I talked to you at Zurich, and he laughed and said c Oh, he’s quite safe.’ I haven’t got used to thinking of people as perhaps c not safe.’ ”

  “I’m glad I was given a good character,” said Macdonald, “so would you like to climb up to the Gloriette and see the view?”

  “Love to—if I’m not being a nuisance. When I came here, I expected to find Glare von Baden here. I knew her at Oxford, and she’s related to Sir Walter in some remote way I haven’t sorted out. It was because of Clare I got this job: she gave me a e good character,’ as you put it. She’s in quarantine for scarlet fever and she can’t come home until she’s clear. So that means I haven’t anybody to go out with just at the moment.”

  “It’ll be all the nicer when she does come,” said Macdonald consolingly.

  “It’ll feel more homely,” she said. “I find it difficult to be dignified all the time.”

  Macdonald laughed. “I think I know what you mean. Very few English homes are formal these days. The passing of the domestic servant has done away with the formality laid down by Mrs. Beeton in her chapters on Household Management.”

  It was Elizabeth’s turn to laugh. “Did you ever read that? ‘The lady of the house receives the guests.’ I used to read Granny’s copy, it’s marvellous. But you’ve hit the nail right on the head. You know how almost everybody lives in England now: we all help in the kitchen, and we often have meals in the kitchen, because it saves bother, and if we have a reliable charlady who really does come every day, it’s heaven.”

  “And the household in Vienna is quite different?”

  “Goodness, I’d say it is. You ring bells for everything, or else bells are rung to indicate what you do next, and the servants are so superbly dignified I hardly dare smile at them. It’s fun in a way—but I can’t tell you what a relief it is to talk to somebody who’s accustomed to kitchens—or perhaps you’re not . . .”

  “But I am,” said Macdonald. “I’m very competent in the kitchen. I cook my own meals when I’ve time.”

  “And eat them in the kitchen?”

  “No, but only because there isn’t room, unless you stand up. My kitchen has ‘ette’ on the end. Here we are. It’s worth the climb, isn’t it?”

  “It’s lovely!” she cried.

  They stood on the rising ground opposite the garden front of Schönbrunn. Above them, the arches of the Gloriette were open to the sky: at their feet the arches were reflected in a formal pool. To the east and north, Vienna was stretched out below them: to the west the Wienerwald climbed to the heights of Leopoldsberg, and to the south, beyond the Gloriette, the ground fell away to open farmland towards the hidden castle of Hetzendorf in the distance. Elizabeth stood facing south, with the keen wind whipping her fair hair back from her face. “It’s lovely,” she said again, “and I’m glad it’s near where I’m living. It’s a good place to come to blow the dignities away.”

  “Isn’t there a dog to take for walks?” asked Macdonald. “Dogs can be very companionable.”

  “Of course they can. I adore dogs. There is a dog, but he’s terribly old—a fat dachshund. It would be a dachshund, wouldn’t it? He belongs to Miss Vanbrugh. I asked if I might take him out—he’s called Fritzel—and she said yes, if he’ll go with you. But so far he won’t, he waddles under the sofa and trembles when
I touch him.” She broke off, laughing, and then said, “Oh, I must tell you. I saw my ‘allergy’ again, still in his camel coat—on a day like this. He was in the palace, in the Chinese room, and when he saw me he just turned on his heel with an expression of pained disgust.”

  “Had he got his suède shoes on?”

  “No. They were new and they must have pinched, because he changed them at Zurich. I know he did, because when we got back in the plane he’d got leather brogues on.”

  Macdonald laughed. “Are you sure you didn’t imagine the suède shoes?”

  “I’m quite sure. He sat in front of me in the bus from the Waterloo Air Terminal, and I particularly noticed his shoes because he stuck them out in the gangway: they were so snappy—quite new, rather long and narrow. What my young brother would call ‘spiv shoes.’ He really is pretty ghastly—but not so ghastly as he thinks I am.”

  “Perhaps he is a poet, after all,” said Macdonald. “They’re very shy birds.”

  “I’m certain he isn’t. He may be a novelist. He’d got a great slab of typescript in his brief-case. I saw him toying with it.”

  “You’re a very observant person, aren’t you?” said Macdonald.

  “Not really. I only note things in bits. I notice clothes; I’m used to men’s clothes because I’ve got two brothers and they’re frightfully fussy. They spend much more on their clothes than I do on mine.” She broke off and then said, “May I ask you to have a cup of coffee with me? They serve coffee in the courtyard down there, and you gave me some coffee at Zurich.”

  “Thank you very much. That would be most agreeable,” said Macdonald. “Perhaps we shall see Dr. Natzler. He had to see a patient this afternoon, but he said he’d come along to find me here.”

  “Oh, I do hope so. I thought he looked a dear, and Sir Walter thinks the world of him.”

  “Well, we’ll keep our eyes open for him, and if I see your ‘allergy,’ I’ll speak to him and try to find out what he is.”