By all accounts, Schnitzler himself was an Anatol character, finding love where and when he wanted. It was said that he had been initiated into the sexual world by an actress at the age of sixteen; and that he kept a journal tallying the exact number of his orgasms with various mistresses.
This year he had created a sensation with Lieutenant Gustl, a short play about a military officer, the lieutenant of the title, who gets into an altercation with a baker following a concert. The baker goes so far as to grab the lieutenant’s sword, but Gustl fails to challenge the man to a duel, fearing that he might indeed lose to this burly fellow below him in class. Instead, he hurries from the concert hall, hoping that no one has witnessed his shame. He spends the rest of the night worrying about his lost reputation – only to discover in the morning that the baker has had a stroke and is dead. His guilty secret is safe. Recovering, Lieutenant Gustl resumes his aggressive ways and makes plans for a duel that he is certain to win.
Werthen read this play when it was first published as a serial in the special Christmas editions of the Neue Freie Press. It had caused a firestorm of protest from the military-loving conservatives, who pilloried Schnitzler for depicting the army in a bad light. The gutter press had resorted to their tried-and-tested theme: anti-Semitism. A writer for the satirical journal Kikeriki asked what more one could expect from such a “Jew writer.” In fact, the same writer averred, the cowardly lieutenant of the title was most likely a Jew himself.
For Werthen it was not this implicit indictment of the military that made Lieutenant Gustl interesting; instead, it was the manner in which Schnitzler told the tale. ‘Interior monologue,’ the critics were calling the device. The entirety of the story was told from inside the mind of the lieutenant, a bold new method Werthen thought.
Werthen had now reached Frankgasse 1, where the portal was guarded by three putti-like stone warriors, seemingly Roman legionnaires, on the façade overhead. The street door remained unlocked during daylight hours; he checked the name-plates to see which was Schnitzler’s flat before entering. He noticed that Schnitzler had never bothered to change his brass plaque announcing him as an ear, nose and throat doctor.
Several minutes later he found the flat on the second floor and was about to ring the bell when suddenly he was gripped from behind by a pair of thick and exceedingly strong arms. He tried to struggle free, but the man had him in an iron grip.
‘Gott in Himmel, if it isn’t Advokat Werthen!’
Werthen would have recognized that choirboy’s voice anywhere. And now, as the owner of the voice appeared, he saw he was right. A week for reunions with the criminal class, it seemed: first Fehrut and now Herr Prokop.
‘Let him go, Meier,’ said Prokop, in that high sweet voice which ran counter to his pugilist’s appearance.
Released, Werthen was able to gather his breath again. ‘What are you doing here, Prokop?’ He swung around and the hulking Meier smiled down at him sheepishly. Both of them were dressed in their usual work clothes: tattered suits and dented bowler hats. Prokop, Werthen noticed, had not had dental work done since their last meeting – he was still missing a front tooth. And Meier’s left little finger had now healed, its stub missing the last joint. Hazards of the trade.
‘I suppose I should be asking you the same question, Advokat,’ Prokop said. ‘Herr Doktor Schnitzler described everyone he knows who might pay him a visit. You were not on the list.’
‘You’re working for Schnitzler?’
The two of them nodded in unison.
‘Whatever for?’
‘Half-crown a day each,’ the literal Meier answered.
At which Prokop merely shook his head in disgust. ‘Ah, then you haven’t heard, have you? The Herr Doktor suffered a vicious beating not three days ago. We have been engaged for protection.’
‘Klimt recommended you?’
A smile appeared on both their faces.
‘Herr Klimt never forgets a favor,’ Prokop said.
Indeed, Werthen and the painter Klimt had earlier secured the services of these two toughs when their lives were endangered by an eminence grise at the Habsburg court; Werthen had also later employed them to watch over the composer Gustav Mahler when someone was trying to kill him.
‘It is good to see you both again,’ Werthen said brightly. ‘But how is Schnitzler? Can he receive a visitor?’
Meier and Prokop exchanged glances, puffed out their lips and stared at Werthen.
‘Perhaps you could ask,’ Werthen suggested. ‘You might tell him it is important.’
‘I suppose I could do that,’ Prokop said. ‘His fiancée is out. She’s been a terror, I can tell you. Won’t let a soul in. Terrified, she is, his attacker will come back. His mother has the adjoining apartment. You would think she’d be the one hovering over the wounded son – but no, she’s off to a spa somewhere. Something tells me she and Fräulein Olga don’t get along very well. She can’t be twenty, but she’s already got the makings of a real Viennese wife, if you know what I mean.’
Werthen nodded, though he was not sure what Prokop meant, other than that the said fiancée must be a strong-willed woman. Anybody who could get Schnitzler to propose marriage must have special talents.
Werthen waited in silence with Meier on the landing as Prokop went to Schnitzler. Meier was not one much for talking. Prokop made up for that deficiency; they made a good team.
Another minute of silence and then Prokop lumbered back out on to the landing.
‘He’ll see you. Seemed almost eager, I’d say. Gentleman like Herr Doktor Schnitzler, I don’t think he’s used to being cooped up.’
Prokop led the way down a long dark hallway to double doors that opened on to a large and bright study, its walls covered in bookcases. A massive potted palm stood in a brass pot near the floor-to-ceiling windows, through which he could just make out the spire of the Votivkirche.
Schnitzler lay on a divan, a white bandage round his head. A boyish lock of hair stuck out of the wrapping, dangling over his forehead. He was a good-looking man, despite a somewhat pained expression on his face. He wore a beard, closely trimmed on the cheeks and longer at the chin. As he looked up, his eyes were inquisitive and sparkling. Dressed in a royal-blue velveteen suit with kid slippers, he held a book in his hands. As he approached the divan, Werthen could see that this was a volume of the works of Lessing.
‘Advokat Werthen,’ Schnitzler said as he drew near. It appeared he was struggling to get up to welcome his visitor.
‘Please Herr Schnitzler, stay recumbent. What a nasty state of affairs.’
Schnitzler leaned back against a mound of white pillows, giving up all thoughts of politesse.
‘Isn’t it just?’ He motioned to a chair near the divan. ‘Please, bring it over here next to me and sit.’
Werthen did so, and sat close to the divan. ‘Who did this? Have the police caught the blackguard?’
‘Well, I assume that is why you are here.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand.’
‘I assume Klimt sent you. He talks much about your deductive powers.’
‘No. Sorry for the misunderstanding. I have come about a completely different matter. I had not heard of your unfortunate circumstances.’
Schnitzler closed the volume of plays, setting it on his lap. ‘And what matter would that be?’
‘I have just come from Altenberg. He tells me that you introduced him to a young woman . . . Mitzi is, or was, her name. From the Bower.’
Schnitzler’s eyes suddenly grew larger. He looked around the room as if fearful someone might overhear.
‘That part of my life is past,’ he said in almost a whisper.
‘I understand that you are recently engaged,’ Werthen said. ‘I do not wish to create any difficulties—’
‘Hardly engaged,’ Schnitzler interrupted. ‘Fräulein Gussman and I have a certain understanding. Still, it would be better if she did not learn of my visits to the Bower.’
‘I understand,’ Werthen said. ‘You know, of course, of Mitzi’s death?’
Schnitzler nodded rather vigorously; the motion seemed to cause him pain. He put a hand to his bandaged head.
‘I sent flowers to the funeral. Anonymously. Such a sweet young girl, she was. A pity. But then, it does come with the profession, doesn’t it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, servicing all sorts of men. One can never be sure of the type of client, can one? It appears she broke the golden rule and met one of her clients after hours.’
‘That is one possibility.’
‘Might I inquire as to your interest in the matter?’ Schnitzler said.
‘Frau Mutzenbacher has employed me to find the murderer. She was very attached to Mitzi.’
‘I see. And you suspect me?’ He said it with arch humor.
‘Hardly. But I was hoping you could tell me something about the young girl. I visited Herr Altenberg earlier today and he indicated that you had introduced him to Mitzi. I thought perhaps you might have known her and could somehow help in the investigations.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, Advokat. But ours was strictly a working relationship. I discovered her at the Bower before she was too much tainted. I grew bored with her services after a couple of months and passed her on to Altenberg. He has, as I imagine you discovered, a penchant for the young ones. Though Mitzi was not the schoolgirl she pretended to be.’
‘Did she mention other clients? Anyone she was frightened of?’
‘We didn’t speak a great deal, Advokat, as I am sure you understand.’
Werthen did not appreciate the man’s tone, but then it was not the most comfortable thing to be interviewed about one’s sex life. He himself might be equally defensive if questioned like this.
‘Sorry to be of so little assistance, Advokat. She was a good girl. I too would love to see the murderer brought to justice. At the moment, however, I have my own concerns.’
‘You thought initially that Klimt had sent me. Why should he have? And why are you employing bodyguards?’ Werthen asked. ‘Surely the police should be able to provide protection if necessary?’
Schnitzler sighed. ‘I see now why Klimt speaks so highly of you, for you have hit exactly on it. The police are not involved.’
‘Why is that so?’
‘You have heard of my recent play?’
‘Lieutenant Gustl?’
Schnitzler nodded, more slowly this time.
‘What does that have to do with the attack on you?’
‘Everything, I believe. It has angered a great many people, some of them very powerful. That play cost me my Senior Physician status in the army reserve. I believe it also brought on this beating. The man who attacked me did so just outside the door of my flat in the middle of the day. He made no attempt to steal anything, made no demands. He merely struck me to the floor with a powerful blow to the head and then kicked me until I was almost unconscious. Thank God he was scared off by the arrival of Fräulein Gussman, who raised an alarm, screaming her head off. In addition to a slight concussion, I suffered two broken ribs and severe contusions. The man who did this to me is a professional. They were sending a message.’
‘They?’
Schnitzler shrugged. ‘I am not a paranoid sort of individual, but I do know how the military works. It defends its honor.’
‘You think it was a lone wolf or someone recruited for the job?’
‘That is what I would dearly love to discover, Advokat. But, why not take on the job yourself? Find the man before he returns to finish the job.’
Schnitzler put out his hand, touching Werthen’s arm.
‘Please, I implore you.’
‘I would gladly, Herr Schnitzler, but as I told you I already have a commission.’
‘Understood. But I am sure a man with your abilities could find a bit of time to spare for my case as well. I and Fräulein Gussman can both provide you with a description of the man. The Portier also saw him flee. A rather nondescript man of medium height. Compact and efficient in his movements.’
‘You really should go to the police.’
‘I can’t, Advokat. If my instincts are correct, they will be of little help.’
Schnitzler fixed him with eyes at once piercing and soulful. ‘Please.’
Werthen paused a moment. ‘Alright, then. But I cannot promise full-time commitment. I suggest you continue to retain the services of Herr Prokop and Meier. Now tell me about this assailant.’
SIX
They sat amidst the ruins of Frau Blatschky’s dinner. They had done justice to her Beinfleish, roasted beef shank with potatoes done to a golden brown. This was accompanied by a chilled white wine from Gumpoldskirchen and followed by Germknödel for dessert, a light yeast dumpling filled with plum jam and covered in vanilla sauce with a sprinkling of poppy seed. They were still lingering at table with their coffee. Frieda was sleeping peacefully in the nursery; Berthe had just returned from checking on her.
Their unexpected guest, Doktor Hanns Gross, suddenly blurted out, ‘If I were not already married to Adele, I would ask Frau Blatschky to marry me.’
This was said just as the lady in question – Werthen’s cook and housekeeper, Frau Blatschky – entered the room to begin clearing the dishes. Her face turned a brilliant red, contrasting with the starched white apron she wore.
‘Doktor Gross,’ she said. ‘You are a wicked man.’ But it was clear she loved the attention. In fact, since Berthe had taken to experimenting with more international fare, Frau Blatschky had sallied even deeper than before into traditional Viennese cuisine.
‘Wicked I may be,’ the criminologist said, ‘but I feel perfectly angelic when eating your meals, Frau Blatschky.’
At which the housekeeper raised her eyebrows and continued with her clearing.
When she was out of the room, Werthen turned to his former colleague.
‘Well, Gross, I must say you do make a habit of turning up at the most propitious moments.’
Gross, the famous criminologist, had been Werthen’s mentor at one time and had been responsible for bringing him back into the realm of criminal law and establishing himself in private inquiries, in addition to the more prosaic field of wills and trusts. They had collaborated on three previous cases; it was as if Gross had antennae that alerted him to the fact that Werthen had a new case.
The head of the first department of criminology in Austro-Hungary, for the past two years Gross had been posted to the Franz Josef University in Czernowitz, the capital of Bukovina. Gross was, of course, elated to develop his department of criminology, but neither he nor his wife was fond of Czernowitz. Gross had more than once termed the city a dusty, dirty claptrap of dodgy buildings, many of them gussied up to look like the Austrian homeland, but largely a Potemkin village. He had also dubbed that metropolis of a hundred thousand souls an overgrown shtetl.
Gross was no anti-Semite, but he did not shy away from using any language he cared to, despite the fact that both Werthen and Berthe were of Jewish background. They were too accustomed to such comments to even attempt a response. And at any rate, Gross meant no harm by such comments; for him, they were merely statements of fact.
Now, with the spring term finished and his wife off to visit friends in their former home town of Graz, Gross had come to Vienna en route to the University of Prague, where he was to interview for a new lectureship. He was full of excitement at the prospect of living once again in a ‘civilized’ environment.
‘It does appear you have your hands full, dear friend,’ Gross said as he filled his coffee cup again.
‘How was I to turn Schnitzler down? He seemed quite desperate.’
‘Well,’ Gross said. ‘I do have some few days before I am due in Prague. If I could be of assistance . . .’
Usually Gross’s intrusion in his cases irritated Werthen. The renowned criminalist had a way of taking charge of things. But in this instance his assistance would be greatly appreciated
and Werthen was quick to tell him so.
‘Perhaps it is doubly fortuitous your being here, Herr Gross,’ Berthe added. Sitting next to her husband, she put her hand over Werthen’s. ‘I didn’t tell you earlier as you were so involved with relating the day’s events, but I had a telephone message earlier today—’
It was as if Werthen could read her mind. ‘Not another case!’
She nodded. ‘I believe so.’
‘You’re making quite a name for yourself, Werthen,’ Gross said. ‘Soon you’ll have to be taking on help. Perhaps I should put my application in now.’
Which comment Werthen chose to ignore.
‘You believe so?’ he said to his wife.
‘Well,’ Berthe said. ‘I highly doubt that Bertha von Suttner wants to see you about her will.’
‘Von Suttner!’ Werthen said with amazement.
‘That peace woman!’ Gross muttered it like a dubious epithet.
‘Yes, Herr Gross,’ Berthe said in her best schoolteacher voice. ‘That woman who very sensibly advocates diplomacy over fighting.’
‘The woman’s an adventurer,’ Gross thundered. ‘Look how she wrapped poor Alfred Nobel round her finger, getting him to endow that idiotic prize.’
Berthe merely shook her head at this, squeezing Werthen’s hand. The first Nobel Prizes – in physics, chemistry, physiology or medicine, literature and peace – were to be awarded this upcoming December 10, the fifth anniversary of Nobel’s death.
‘A sad day for his family, that is all I can say. Left in poverty.’
Again, Gross’s impolitic remarks were met by silence from Werthen and Berthe. Nobel, the Swedish-born inventor of dynamite, had hired the young and impoverished Countess Kinsky, as Frau von Suttner was then, as a private secretary. Although she worked for him for only a matter of days, the two had remained in contact over the years. It was she, more than any other person, who convinced Nobel to do something grand with his wealth. Dubbed ‘the Merchant of Death’ by the tabloids, Nobel lived with great guilt, knowing that his invention had been turned to such destructive purposes.
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