In the Gothic magnificence of the Stephansdom the shadows were deepening as the afternoon sun sunk lower in the west: quite unabashed by the solemnity of the vast building, Webster said:
“There’s a coupla’ chairs over there. Nice and peaceful here—my feet gets tired after a long day. That’s better. Now what was it you was saying, sir?”
“Why did you use the word alibi, Mr. Webster?”
3
“I may not be educated, but I’m not plain silly, sir. I see how things is—you getting busy on all the passengers in that Viscount on Monday: quite right, too, seeing what’s happened. But it’s not a comfortable feeling. And all these pressmen, they’re routing out the bits and pieces, dead on the mark they is. You reckon that Walsingham got put paid to in Vienna, sir, don’t you, not in Hietzing as appeared: some of them have routed that out. You see they’ll tell me anything, sir. Uncle Ernest’s got the pictures. Now the long and short of it is, I was in Vienna last night—and not that far away from the Kärntnerstrasse. I told you so, sir.”
“You did. You said you went to the Apollo Cinema and on to the Liesingerkeller.”
“Quite right, sir—and I’d like to be able to prove it. I’m a commonplace-looking cuss myself, short and fat and shabby: dozens like me—but this Stratton’s quite a different cup of tea.” Mr. Webster pulled out his photograph again. “Striking, as I said. So I went to the Apollo, and I went to the Liesingerkeller, and I showed these pictures and I said ‘Do you remember this young chap now?’ The waiter who served us both Lagers, he remembered Stratton and he recognised me, and he knew we stayed there till closing time.”
“Don’t you think you would have been wiser to come to me, and let me deal with the matter, Mr. Webster?”
The stout little man met Macdonald’s eyes squarely. “Yes, sir, if we’d both been in England and you’d been doing the job. We trust our police in England, sir, and by our police, I mean you. But you’re not doing the whole job here, sir. No offence meant, but you’re in the same box as me: you don’t speak the lingo, do you?—not easy. It’s these Austrians are asking questions here, sir, and I’ve heard a bit about the police here from Auntie. She don’t trust them, and she’s a very intelligent old lady, is Auntie.”
“She certainly is,” said Macdonald, “but if you don’t speak German, how do you talk to the waiters at the Liesingerkeller, Mr. Webster?”
“Same as you, sir—interpreter. I got on to young Stratton on the telephone, just after you left. I knew he was staying with that Vogel—a lawyer, isn’t he? Stratton wouldn’t come and help himself, but he gave me the name of the young fellow he chummed up with last night—name of Schneider. He came with me in his lunch hour.”
Once again Macdonald was impressed with the sheer calmness and aplomb of the stout little man who sat beside him in the Stephansdom: Webster sounded quite unruffled and completely certain of himself.
“Lovely bit of carving on that pulpit,” murmured Webster to himself. “I’d like to get a picture of that. I wonder if you could help me to get a permit, sir—I believe they’re very difficult. After all, one good turn deserves another.”
Mr. Webster was shuffling his photographs again and produced the one of Waldtraut Körner at Schönbrunn.
“The old gentleman with her now: he’s a lawyer—a notary is it they call them here? Auntie recognised his face when I showed her this picture. Herr Heinrich Guggenheim—real mouthfuls these names and no mistake.”
“That’s very helpful,” said Macdonald.
“I want to help, sir. If you could only get it into your head that I want to help,” pleaded Webster. “There’s a lot of talk about some car: it was the pressmen told me about it, sir—wonderful the way these boys talk English. Mr. Walsingham came into Vienna by car last night, so they’re saying. The old man at the car-park saw him—and making a good thing out of it, I’ve no doubt. A big grey car, pre-war model, was that it, sir?”
“You seem to know as much about it, as I do, Mr. Webster.”
“Well, sir, maybe I know more in a manner of speaking. These pressmen, they’ll talk to Uncle Ernest when they’re not that keen on talking to their own police: that’s how it is. The boys know Mr. Walsingham went to see Waldtraut Körner at her hotel—you can’t keep a thing like that dark. The head porter and the Herr Ober, they’re careful enough, but there are the pages and the floor maids and all the rest: anyway, you can take it from me that the press boys know about where Mr. Walsingham went. And about that car, sir. I haven’t said a word to none of them. I reckoned I’d be seeing you around. I told the boys straight, if you think you’re a jump ahead of our Macdonald, I told them, you think again.”
Had he not been in the grave shadows of the Stephansdom, Macdonald would have laughed aloud. The stout little man was surpassing himself.
“And you was quite right when you said I’d been chasing the old dame all round Vienna, sir. I’ve paid good money to get in a position to take some of those pictures,” said Webster. “I got that picture outside the Opera House on Wednesday—three o’clock it was—and I saw the old dame get in a car with the old Guggenheim gent. I took a taxi, sir, reckoning there might be another picture to come. That’s how I got to Schönbrunn, following the grey car with the old dame in it.”
“Was Herr Heinrich Guggenheim driving the car?” asked Macdonald.
“Bless you, no, sir. I reckon he’s eighty if he’s a day: not that the shuffer was a chicken—old chap, he was, but smart enough in his regimentals—brass buttons and that. I was alongside when they pulled up at the Schönbrunn Palace entrance: come to think of it, I’ve got a picture with that car in, just as the old lady was handed out. And I heard the old gent talk a lot of gruff to the shuffer—shouted, at him about something. I don’t know what it was all about, but I heard the shuffer’s name—at least I reckon it was his name.”
Mr. Webster paused: a good melodramatic pause, giving Macdonald time for another guess. After all, his guesses had been founded on probabilities as well as information received. And he was right.
“If I heard aright, sir, the name was Pretzel—funny sort of name: stuck in my mind, somehow. And that’s about all from yours truly at the moment.” Mr. Webster sighed, and then mopped his forehead, though it was cold in the great church. “I’m not used to all these excitements,” he said. “I’ve taken pictures of any amount of characters in crime stories, but I’ve never got muddled up with the story myself. But I do reckon I’ve got a scoop here, in the picture line. It’ll be front-line news in London, too, this about Mr. Walsingham going to see the Waldtraut Körner just before he was laid out—and I don’t want to miss the bus.” He looked at Macdonald pleadingly. “Anything against my getting home, sir, on the first plane that’s got a free seat? Then I could place my pictures to advantage: getting in first’s everything in my job.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Webster, but I’m afraid you can’t do that. Your evidence may be essential—and your photographs, too.”
“As you say, sir. But I’ve told you all I know—and I thought maybe you’d stretch a point. Anyway, could you help me by getting my pictures on the plane, sir, so that they could be picked up by a friend of mine at London Airport? I reckon the pilot or navigator might oblige, especially if you put it to them. . .
Macdonald studied Webster’s round candid face: was this simplicity or the reverse? Again Webster spoke.
“If you’re asking yourself ‘Is he phony?’ I ask you, sir—haven’t I been straight with you since I first set eyes on you at Schwechat? Haven’t I given you the dope as I picked it up? I reckon it’s a bit hard to be looked at like you’re looking at me.”
“Detection’s a hard trade, Mr. Webster.”
“Maybe. Oh, well—no use crying over spilt milk—and if you’d like these prints, sir, you’re welcome. I’ve got others, and I know you won’t do the dirty on me getting them published without leave—as some might.”
He got up and looked about him. “Light’s going—but I
might still get a shot or two. ‘Sunset over Schönbrunn.’ Wonderful effects you get with those clipped trees—like a rampart against the sky, they are. One thing I’ve thought of—‘Moonlight on the Gloriette.’ Now that’d be a picture—and the moon’s nearly at the full. They turn the public out at sunset, but if a chap stayed put, behind them hedges, well, they can’t search the whole blooming grounds, could they, sir? The place is too big.”
“You can’t expect me to encourage you to break local by-laws, Mr. Webster—and-thank you very much for the photographs, and for trusting me with them.”
“You’re welcome,” beamed Webster, “and as for trusting, you’re English police. That’s good enough for me. I’d trust you right through—to the end of the road, as the old song has it. And now I’ll just hop on a tram and get to Schönbrunn. I can just make it if I’m slippy.”
CHAPTER XVI
PRETZEL. Macdonald remembered the name all right: while he was worrying out the complexities of this case, he had wondered if Pretzel would appear again. In Macdonald’s experience, the supers in a case did often make another and inglorious entry before the case was finally finished off. Herr Pretzel was the patient who had been to see Dr. Franz Natzler before his keys had disappeared and Macdonald had wondered whether he himself, Dr. Natzler’s guest, had provided reason for the theft of the key-ring. “Did somebody think life would be simpler if I were removed and that possession of the keys of the Natzlers’ house might facilitate my removal?” he had thought. But it was Pretzel himself who got “removed.” Even before Macdonald and Nauheim had had time to go out to Gaudensdorff to interview Herr Heinrich Guggenheim, the Vienna police had fished Pretzel’s body out of the Danube Canal. The canal is a loop of the Danube, connecting the heart of Vienna with the mighty river which flows south east along its flood plain, not through the city itself (though antiquaries say the line of the canal was the main course of the river in prehistoric times).
It was near the Franz Josef Bahnhof, below the bridge which connects Alserbach Strasse with the Wallenstein Strasse, that Pretzel’s body was found, not a mile from the Ringstrasse itself. There was nothing on the body to identify it, but Macdonald and Nauheim were both mindful of the driver who had brought Walsingham from Hietzing into Vienna.
“I think this will be Pretzel,” said Macdonald. “Webster has a knack of being right. Pretzel saw too much, so Pretzel was disposed of.”
Herr Guggenheim was a very old man, and a very frightened old man. He was so old, his face so livid with fear, that the detectives dared not press him too closely. He looked ready to pass out into a world where no detectives could tackle him. The story he told was simple and innocent: The Waldtraut Körner was indeed an old and a well-beloved friend: he had known her since her debut in the Staats Oper, over fifty years ago. He had, during his professional days as notary, given her advice about her contracts and other business matters. “I did not see her for many years, alas,” he went on. “After her retirement she left Vienna. I was overjoyed when I heard she was coming to stay here again. I went to her hotel to greet her, and finding she had no car, I begged she would make use of mine.” After a pause (for his voice was shaking and uncertain), the old man told of the visit to Schönbrunn.
“I walked round the gardens with her, but I am no longer strong enough to walk very far. She wished to see the State Apartments—the great gallery where she had sung for the Emperor Franz Josef himself. I went and sat in the car until she returned. As you must realise, she is much younger than myself, and she insisted on doing the arduous round of the State Apartments.” Herr Guggenheim was unable to tell them if the lady had met or spoken with any friends at Schönbrunn. He had put his car at her disposal each day, and yesterday evening she had rung him up, before going to the Opera, to ask if the chauffeur could bring a friend—Herr Waldemar—out from Hietzing to see her at the Emperor Maximilian Hotel. It was agreed that Herr Waldemar should be picked up at the corner of the Lindengasse. “And that is all I know,” wailed the old man. “I gave orders to my chauffeur, Humpfinger: I know he took the car. I know the car is now again in the garage, and that Humpfinger has not come to work to-day. I can tell you no more.”
“You say your chauffeur’s name is Humpfinger,” said Nauheim. “Did you always call him by that name? I am told you called him Pretzel.”
The old face grew more livid, but Guggenheim answered with an effort at contempt. “Pretzel? Yes: an old nickname: he has served me since a boy. We used to call him Pretzel then, and the name stuck, as such foolish names do.”
Macdonald wondered very much if the old man was capable of standing up to much more questioning, or if he would collapse on their hands, but Nauheim went on, quietly and persistently.
“You knew that Fräulein Waldtraut Körner came to Vienna to transact some business, Herr Guggenheim?”
“I knew that, yes. Everybody in Vienna knows it. She had some valuable literary property to negotiate. But I, alas, was too old to advise her. I have retired from professional work long since.”
“Do you know her present legal adviser?” asked Nauheim.
“I cannot tell you. Indeed, I did not ask. It was better so. I knew—for she confided in me—that she no longer had the means to instruct a lawyer of note. Costs are very high to-day . . . and life is hard.” He mumbled uncertainly for a moment, then he added, “She was conducting these negotiations herself: against my advice, I might add. But I am too old to deal with these things.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. “I am very tired, Herr Inspektor. I cannot talk any more. It has been a shock to learn that my old friend is so ill . . . she who was the pride and ornament of our Staats Oper, the greatest of them all.”
Nauheim was very persistent: he went on, “I think, Herr Guggenheim, that you must be aware that Fräulein Waldtraut Körner employed an intermediary in this matter,” but his persistence was useless. The old man’s head leant back feebly against his chair and his jaw dropped. He was still breathing, but he looked terrifyingly old and frail. Macdonald got up.
“It’s no use—he’s on the verge of collapse. I’ll get his servant.”
As they went through the hall Macdonald said, “I think we can see the way things went, and sort it out for ourselves. Proof will be forthcoming eventually.”
As they left the gloomy hall and the front door was opened, the faint evening light shone on their faces. The western sky was still a glory of fading rose, dappled clouds changing to grey even as they watched.
“Sunset over Schönbrunn,” murmured Macdonald. “I wonder if he got his picture.” Then he turned to Nauheim. “You’ve got plenty of jobs to do—jobs I can’t help you with, not in Vienna. I think I’m going to back my fancy and see the full moon rise over the Gloriette. If I get caught, you can bail me out tomorrow.”
Nauheim looked horrified. “You’re not going alone. I’ll send a couple of men with you.”
“No, don’t do that,” said Macdonald. “I’ll take Karl Natzler with me. He’ll be back from Zurich by this time. After all, if an Englishman is taking liberties in the precincts of Schönbrunn, it’s picturesque justice for an English policeman to deal with it. All you need do is to give me a laisser-passer for the man in charge.”
“I don’t like it,” said Nauheim. “I’ve got a man tailing all of them——”
Macdonald laughed. “I shan’t be at all surprised if Ernest Henry Webster has evaded his shadow. He may be simulating a grizzly bear in the Tiergarten by this time: but I have an idea he’ll be there to shoot his coveted picture, ‘Moonrise over the Gloriette’—and if he is, I’m going to see him do the shooting.”
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“I’m going to back my fancy and see the full moon rise over the Gloriette.” So Macdonald had said to Nauheim, and an hour later Macdonald chuckled silently to himself as he remembered his own words. In England he seldom had a chance of “Backing his fancy” as he was doing now; back home he was responsible for handling the routine work, for giving orde
rs to his men. The responsibility was all his—in England. Here in Vienna there were many things he could not do: it was the business of the Austrian police to marshal their own forces, to shadow the suspects, die watch the roads, the railway stations, the airport: to check alibis, to interrogate minor witnesses. How good they were at the job Macdonald had no means of judging: he knew he could not get the “feel” of a foreign police force after working with them for only a few hours. He hoped they were good—as good as he knew his own men to be in London: as tenacious as Reeves, as patient as old Jenkins. But now he had left the Vienna police to their own methods, and he, Macdonald, was standing in the deep shadows of the clipped trees which rise like forty-foot box hedges flanking the approach to the garden front of Schönbrunn Palace.
Macdonald and Karl Natzler had been admitted by the Tiergarten: it was the wisest entrance, for in the Tiergarten there were always keepers on guard at night, and comings and goings did not attract attention. Karl was now on the far side of the gardens prowling silently on his own.
As he stood in the darkness Macdonald could hear some of the animals calling in their cages: nocturnal animals to whom the night brought their time of greatest awareness. It was a bit like being in Regent’s Park at night, where the call of lions and the howl of wolves mingled with the rumble of the London traffic. Here, as in London, there was a glow in the sky, a glow which had replaced the afterglow of the sunset. In the eastern sky, the myriad lights of Vienna were reflected up to the misty clouds, and Macdonald knew that when his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he would be able to see the open arches of the Gloriette up there on the hill, opposite the garden front of the palace. Had the players in this most un-Viennese melodrama used the Gloriette as a rendezvous? Macdonald remembered Mr. Webster’s hopeful voice saying “They can’t watch the whole blooming grounds. . . . If you got shut in after the gates were closed . . .” Was that an invitation, a bait? A hope that even a London C.I.D. man would lose his head in the atmosphere of Vienna? “Perhaps I am in the process of becoming light-headed,” thought Macdonald, who knew he was far nearer to laughing than was customary to him when he was on duty: it was the effect of being free of routine: free to prowl, like a nocturnal animal, in the fragrant shadows of the Hapsburgs’ gardens—“in the shadow of the Hapsburgs Folly”—but no one who hasn’t been in Vienna will ever appreciate Ernest Henry’s caption, thought Macdonald.
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