A compact man, he took up not two-thirds of the window seat; the rest of the third-class compartment was empty. Later in the morning, after church services, there would be far more traffic. That was one reason for his early start: Schmidt liked to be alone with his thoughts.
Soon the train entered rolling hills striped with vineyards. They pulled into the station of Hollabrunn, and a family got on to the train, entering his compartment with eager energy that made him purse his lips and focus more diligently on the view out of the window. But he was processing all the time. Schmidt was never simply around other people: he analysed them, dissected them, searched for fault lines.
A farmer and his wife, dressed in Sunday best by the looks of them. Two gangly boys in knee pants, smelling of hay and incense. Just out of church, he registered. An infant in the red-cheeked wife’s arms. The man was carrying a basket covered over with a blue-and-white checked cloth. Off to the grandmother’s for Sunday lunch, bearing what? No yeasty smell of baking. More likely the freshly slaughtered Sunday chicken.
The boys began squirming on the wooden bench opposite him. One was pinching the other. The father barked a command in a strong local dialect that Schmidt barely made out to mean ‘Enough!’ and the boys sat still once again. The older one, the one initiating the tickling, turned his attention to Schmidt, but tried to act as if he was gazing about the compartment or out of the window as he glanced at the valise in the overhead rack and examined Schmidt’s reflection in the window.
All so obvious, Schmidt thought. He would kill the father first, of course. This was a game he played, a game of survival when around strangers. A blow to the thorax should do it. He smiled to himself: most would go for the older boy next, but he was not most. It was the wife second, for her full-throated screams would prove more of a threat to him than anything the adolescent boy could muster. A quick twist to break her neck. Then the older, curious boy. He would use a knife for him and his younger brother. Which left the baby. It would be crying by then. And that meant . . .
But these thoughts were interrupted as the train pulled into the small station of Haugsdorf, his destination.
As the engine lurched to a stop, Schmidt stood, removed his hat and valise from the overhead rack, and nodded at the family as he left the compartment.
They had provided a few moments of amusement.
The day was beginning to heat up as he descended from the train to the platform of the tiny station. Only one person on the platform, a tall stick of a man who wore a station master’s uniform too short at the wrists. He waved the train on.
Schmidt waited for him to finish his duties.
‘Don’t suppose there would be a trap for hire to Buchberg?’
The man looked at him queerly for a moment as if he did not understand German. Schmidt was about to rephrase the request when the man said in a thick country accent, ‘Two in one week. Don’t tell me you want to visit Jakob Moos, too?’
The trap jogged along the rutted dirt track, the sun growing higher in the sky. Schmidt was in luck, for the station master – Platt was his name – could be hired for several hours. On Sundays train traffic was light, so he could take Schmidt on his ‘rounds’ and drive him back to the station. Happily, Platt demonstrated little curiosity about a perfume salesman making the rounds of rural Weinviertel on a Sunday. Who could account for the ways of big-city people?
Instead, he unwittingly filled Schmidt in on the latest tragedy to befall Jakob Moos.
‘We all said it would come to no good when she left. But Jakob always knows better. Sent her off to play housekeeper to her uncle and see what’s happened.’
Schmidt waited an instant. Then asked, ‘What did happen?’
‘Murder, that’s what the man who brought the news said.’
Schmidt’s antennae instantly lifted. ‘A policeman?’
Platt shook his head. ‘No, a fancy one from the city like yourself.’
‘But I’m a simple country man, actually,’ Schmidt said, putting on an ingratiating voice now. ‘Like yourself. Grew up on a farm and hope to get back to it once I’ve saved enough money.’
It seemed his fabrication was wasted on Platt, for the man ignored the comment and continued from where he left off.
‘Come from the city just like you and asked for transport to Buchberg. Come for the Moos family.’
‘Well, actually,’ Schmidt said, ‘I’ve never heard of the Moos family. But my superiors want me to introduce our new product line to citizens of the region.’
‘Not a lot of use for such fancies out here, I can tell you that.’
Platt went silent, tssking at his horse from time to time.
‘And the city man?’ Schmidt finally prompted.
‘Comes with the bad news and leaves right after. Frau Moos took it bad. Jakob, too, but he won’t let on. Says the working classes are always the victims.’
Schmidt filed this bit of information away.
‘Man’s an investigator, I hear,’ Platt added. ‘One of those private inquiry agents you read about. As if the constabulary isn’t enough. Some fancy city fellow has to stick his nose into it, too.’
‘Do they know who killed the poor young woman?’
‘No. Just that some big writer fellow in Vienna is paying for this agent. What a world we live in. I’ll never leave Haugsdorf, I can tell you that. And if I had children, they would never set foot outside neither.’
As they approached the small hamlet of Buchberg, Schmidt could see a scattering of low farm houses, their white plastered walls glistening under the strong sun.
‘Where to first?’ Platt asked.
‘You know, I’ve been thinking,’ Schmidt said. ‘My heart goes out to that family that lost their daughter. Maybe it would cheer the wife up if I left some samples for her.’
‘Your funeral,’ Platt muttered.
He directed the trap to a distant homestead on the north side of the village with a slate-roofed house and whitewashed exterior walls. Schmidt noted the geraniums in pots already in bloom in the low recessed windows. Showed care, he noted. Somebody tending the flowers indoors during the winter to get a bit of color in the spring. A good-luck sheaf of wheat hung over the door. A woman’s touch.
Schmidt descended from the trap, sample bag in hand, and knocked on the front door. There was a shuffling of feet inside and it was opened by a young girl with rosy cheeks.
‘What do you want?’
‘I wonder if I might speak with the lady of the house?’ He looked beyond the girl and saw a plump woman seated at the kitchen table, with two other young girls gathered about her. The woman’s eyes were rimmed in red. Her face was haggard as if she had not slept in days.
‘Good day to you, Madam,’ Schmidt said in his most pleasing voice.
‘Mother is sick,’ the rosy-cheeked girl said.
‘That is a pity,’ he said, stepping around the girl and coming into the room uninvited. ‘Because I have some samples in my case sure to cheer up the darkest day. Perhaps I could just leave them here . . .’
‘Mother does not want to talk with anyone,’ the girl at the door said.
But he hoisted his case on to the table, opened it, and pulled out several sample bottles of cheap perfume.
‘And something for the young ones, as well,’ he said, as he surveyed the room and quickly searched his own mind for some gambit by which he could trick information out of the family and learn something of this mysterious visitor who had brought news of the daughter’s death.
His false cheer succeeded only in making the woman cry harder.
He heard footsteps behind him.
‘What’s going on here?’
Schmidt turned to see the man of the house standing at the door, looking like an enraged bear.
‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’
Schmidt’s eyes continued to scour the room for clues. And then he saw it: a professional card sitting on the shelf of a cupboard by the door.
‘J
ust giving the ladies some samples, sir,’ Schmidt said. ‘A nice bit of perfume.’
‘We don’t use such things in this house,’ Moos thundered. ‘Now get out of here before I throw you out.’
‘But of course. My apologies. Just trying to do my job.’ He hurriedly put the bottles back in the case, and closed and latched it. Then made sure to sidestep Moos to the right, so he came close to the cupboard as he departed.
He paused for a moment at the door and tipped his hat. ‘Good day to you, then.’
‘Out of here!’ Moos barked.
The door slammed behind him.
Schmidt made his way to the trap. As he walked, he fixed the information from the card in his memory: Advokat Karl Werthen, Wills and Trusts, Criminal Law and Private Inquiries.
‘Told you so,’ the dour Platt said as Schmidt regained his seat on the trap.
‘Just trying to be a good Christian,’ Schmidt said.
At which comment Platt flicked the reins and set the old horse on its way.
SIXTEEN
Werthen again made his way on foot to Frankgasse. The morning was beautiful and clear, a sweet scent of lilac in the air. Werthen was happy to be back in Vienna after the weekend cooped up at the farm with Gross, who had insisted on going over and over the accumulated evidence, completely destroying any sense of calm the countryside could impart. It was a relief to be strolling the cobbled streets again, hearing the clop of horses’ hooves. Even the occasional growl of a motorcar was like a blessing to him now.
They had neatly apportioned their separate tasks this morning: Gross to confer with Franz Ferdinand, Berthe to begin her plan vis-à-vis Baroness von Suttner, and he, Werthen, to visit another neglected client, Arthur Schnitzler.
The house door was open at Frankgasse 1, and he went up the stairs to the apartment. Having telephoned in advance, he was expected by Prokop and Meier, who greeted him with more than usual bonhomie.
‘At long last, Herr Advokat,’ Prokop said as he reached the landing. He took Werthen’s hand and shook it mightily.
‘We are glad to see you,’ he said, continuing to pump his arm. ‘Didn’t I just say that the other day, Meier? How good it would be to see the Herr Advokat again?’
Meier grunted something unintelligible that passed for agreement.
‘What is it you want, Herr Prokop?’ Werthen said, finally retrieving his hand.
Prokop put a hand dramatically over his heart as if pained.
‘Ah, Herr Advokat, you misunderstand. I—’
‘We want another job,’ Meier interrupted.
Prokop glared at his burly partner.
‘Is Herr Schnitzler dispensing with your services, then?’
Prokop shook his head violently at the suggestion. ‘No. Not that. But it is more than a man can tolerate sometimes, Herr Advokat. Between the fiancée and Schnitzler, we’re turning into bloody servants. It started off innocent enough, like. Just get a housecoat here, if you please, Prokop, or perhaps fetch a cup of tea there. But the here and there add up, they do. Soon enough they’ve got me running errands for them at the butcher’s, taking a dress coat to the tailor’s.’
‘Go on,’ Meier said. ‘Tell him or I will.’
Prokop again shot Meier a withering look, his lips locked.
‘Flowers!’ Meier said. ‘This morning it was the flower shop for Prokop.’
He let out a snort that sounded awfully like a bull breaking wind.
Prokop squared his shoulders, finally finding his voice again. ‘We’re strong-arm men, Advokat. Not liveried servants.’
‘Well, just tell Schnitzler that.’
Prokop sighed. ‘It’s the fiancée. Fräulein Gussman. She’s the real terror.’
‘It can’t be that bad,’ Werthen said, stifling a laugh.
‘She’s got a tongue on her sharp as a razor.’
‘Roses!’ Meier said.
The vision of Prokop in greasy bowler and tattered jacket carrying a bouquet of roses was too much for Werthen, who had to cough into his hand to hide his amusement.
‘Not funny, Advokat. And we are asking – no, begging you – to find another situation for us. You know what we do best. We’re a trustworthy team. Just no cups of tea or bloody flowers!’
‘I’ll see what I can do, gentlemen. Perhaps a word in Schnitzler’s ear?’
‘You know best, Advokat,’ Prokop said, opening the door for him officiously like a head butler. ‘They are expecting you.’
‘They?’
Prokop shrugged, ushering Werthen into the flat.
A small greeting party was awaiting him. Schnitzler himself was no longer bed-ridden, dressed today in frock coat and tie, the bandage still on his head. He stood uneasily in the hallway. Accompanying him were Altenberg and Salten.
‘What news, Advokat?’ Schnitzler asked by way of greeting.
‘Good day to you, as well. A conference, is it?’
‘Salten brings us news from the Bower,’ Schnitzler said. ‘But I’m forgetting my manners. Let me take your hat. I instructed Herr Prokop on the proper etiquette for announcing visitors, but the man is rather slow on the uptake.’
‘He’s a bodyguard, Schnitzler, not a footman,’ Werthen replied almost testily, removing his hat, but seeing no outstretched hand to relieve him of it, continued clutching it himself.
‘To be sure,’ Schnitzler replied, as if not hearing the criticism.
‘They are quite a pair,’ Altenberg said, eyes twinkling. ‘Surprising that Klimt should know them.’
‘Klimt is full of surprises,’ Werthen said.
‘Shall we?’ Schnitzler waved an arm towards the sitting room and to a group of chairs around a low cherry-wood table. Werthen was left to dispose of his hat on a side table as the others sank into their chairs.
Werthen joined them and three pairs of eyes fixed on him.
‘News from the Bower?’ Werthen said. ‘I assume that would be the murder of the unfortunate Fräulein Fanny.’
‘Such a trusted helper for Frau Mutzenbacher,’ Salten said. ‘She is devastated. First Mitzi and now Fanny. I am not sure she will recover.’
‘She was rather distraught,’ Werthen allowed.
Altenberg took a soiled handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and blew his nose. Even the mention of Mitzi’s name seemed to afflict him. He daubed a corner of the graying linen at his eyes.
‘I expect you see a connection between the two murders?’ Schnitzler said.
‘What I see or do not see is no longer relevant, gentlemen. I am sure Herr Salten apprised you of the fact that I am no longer employed by Frau Mutzenbacher. This is now a police investigation.’
‘Frau Mutzenbacher had mentioned as much, yes,’ Salten added.
‘Where will it stop?’ Altenberg suddenly said, his voice breaking. ‘Are we to be the next victims? Look at poor Schnitzler. Perhaps whoever beat him is also responsible for these heinous crimes. Perhaps whoever it is will attack me next.’
‘I find that rather doubtful, Herr Altenberg,’ Werthen said.
‘Exactly what we have been telling him,’ added Salten. Then to Altenberg, ‘Peter, it is quite alright. It’s the poor women who are the victims here, not the customers.’
Werthen thought of von Ebersdorf and wondered how accurate such an explanation was.
‘But you surely will not leave it at that?’ asked Schnitzler.
‘As I said, Herr Schnitzler, it is now a police matter. On the other hand, I do have news for you regarding your assailant. My colleague, Doktor Gross, has ascertained from a person of some position at the Foreign Office that there is nothing to fear from that quarter or from the military. Whoever attacked you must be a private individual with a private grudge. We are still making inquiries on your behalf – but for now, rest assured that the injuries you suffered were not ordered by any arm of the government. Indeed, I might recommend that you lodge a formal complaint with the police. A man of your prominence, I am sure they will take the matter seriously.’
Silence greeted this report. Werthen cleared his throat.
‘And now I must excuse myself. Monday is a busy day for me.’
‘It won’t do, you know,’ Schnitzler finally said. ‘I appreciate what you have done, Herr Advokat, but there is more to this than meets the eye. If you will not proceed with the investigation, then there is nothing left for us but to carry on ourselves.’
‘By carry on, do you mean investigate these murders?’
‘Yes.’
‘The three of you?’
‘We have been considering the possibility,’ Salten said.
‘Well, then I wish you good luck, gentlemen.’
Which comment deflated the trio. Their bluff had been called.
‘But do not muddy things for the police. They take a rather dim view of amateurs, I can assure you.’ Werthen stood. ‘I really must apologize for making this so brief.’ Then to Schnitzler, ‘I will keep you informed as to any progress.’
‘Had you thought of Mitzi’s uncle, the priest?’ Schnitzler suddenly let out. ‘He had something to hide.’
‘It’s an area the police will investigate, I am sure.’
‘And what of this Count von Ebersdorf that Frau Mutzenbacher mentions?’ Salten said eagerly. ‘His death seems an extraordinary coincidence.’
‘Who will be next?’ Altenberg moaned.
‘I think you should all take three deep breaths, gentlemen.’
He left before they had a chance to present more theories.
Out on the street, Werthen headed back towards his office, once again on foot, enjoying the freshness of the day.
He did not notice the small, compact man who stepped out of a doorway to follow him.
Back at the Werthen flat on Josefstädterstrasse, Berthe was serving Jause, a mid-morning snack. Gustav Klimt, Berthe’s guest, had already breakfasted heartily on his usual fare at the Café Tivoli: pots of strong coffee laced with hot chocolate and creamy white peaks of Schlag Obers, along with fresh rolls piled with mounds of butter and jam. His ten-kilometer circuit walking to the café and then back to his studio began at six o’clock sharp and usually left him with a ravenous appetite by ten. He greedily tucked into the selection of sliced wurst, liver pâté, cheese and rolls, supplemented by a pitcher of Styrian pilsner just fetched by Frau Blatschky from the Golden Cuckoo gasthaus at the corner. With the warm weather, the artist had returned to his usual fair-weather costume of caftan and sandals. The material of the caftan was, Berthe thought, exquisite – obviously designed by his mistress, Emilie Flöge. She had managed to bring Klimt’s palette to the silk brocade.
The Keeper of Hands Page 16