The Keeper of Hands

by Sydney J Jones

  Klimt remained silent as he tucked into the repast, punctuating it with large draughts of beer. He wiped his mouth on the swirling gold design on the sleeve of the caftan. Satisfied for the moment, he set down the knife he gripped in his meaty left hand and the stein in his right, and burped under his breath.

  ‘Marvelous.’ He managed to invest the word with both enthusiasm and awed respect for excellence, as if viewing a masterpiece.

  ‘Glad you enjoyed it, Herr Klimt.’ Berthe sat primly on the edge of her seat in the dining room, but did not feel at all prim. She wanted to get on with it, but knew Klimt had his own pace for such things. She marveled at the artist’s seeming lack of curiosity as to the purpose for this requested visit.

  ‘Not sure the past tense is quite correct, Frau Meisner.’ He eyed a roll encrusted with caraway seed and salt crystals, then sighed. ‘But for now, it should do.’ He patted his stomach hidden beneath the veil of the flowing caftan.

  Once again Berthe was struck by the thought that Klimt looked more like a navvy than an artist, his wide fingers meant to wield a pick axe rather than a paintbrush.

  ‘It was most kind of you to invite me for Jause. I was desperate for it today. Amazing that we are just blocks away, yet we see each other so seldom.’

  ‘Karl does seem to run into you more than I do.’

  Klimt chuckled at this, for it was he who had brokered several of her husband’s investigations – including his own, when he was arrested for murder.

  ‘Glad to be of service, ma’am.’ He gave into his baser desires and snatched the salted roll from the basket, tearing it in two and putting a piece to his nose to appreciate the yeasty aroma. Then he set it down on his plate for later.

  ‘I have a feeling the roasting spit has spun round.’

  ‘Perceptive of you, Herr Klimt. Indeed, I believe I have a commission for you, for a change. A portrait.’

  He winced at the word. Half the female population of Vienna were eager to have their portrait done by Klimt. Portraits were his bread and butter; too much so, it seemed.

  ‘My dear Frau Meisner, I much appreciate your efforts, but if I painted nothing but portraits from now until my eightieth birthday I would not come to the end of the requests already on my desk.’

  ‘A very important person,’ Berthe added as bait.

  Klimt shrugged like a bear waking from winter hibernation. ‘They are all important personages.’

  ‘This commission involves intrigue . . .’

  He squinted his eyes at her, saying nothing for a moment. ‘As in your husband’s investigations?’

  ‘Mine in this case,’ she said, ‘but it comes to the same thing.’

  Klimt picked up half of the torn salted bun and began spreading a thick coating of pâté on it.

  ‘Well, perhaps I should hear you out, then.’

  He loved his fine clothes. After his miserable youth in Lemberg, sharing cramped space with his five rowdy siblings, as the third son never having a new suit of clothes and always wearing tattered hand-me-downs, Forstl now luxuriated in his ability to buy whatever he fancied in the way of couture.

  He looked at himself in the full-length glass on the inside of the door of his wardrobe and liked what he saw. Very nice indeed.

  He had left the Bureau early today specifically to prepare himself and his apartment for tonight’s assignation. A beautiful young thing, to be sure. Forstl felt his pulse quicken in expectation. He glanced at the clock by his bed. Still half an hour to go.

  In the sitting room, all was in readiness. Several large bouquets of roses stood in place in solid crystal vases; there had been an ice delivery today and he had carefully chipped some, which was now beading the outside of a silver champagne cooler with moisture. A bottle of Veuve Clicquot was nestled in the ice – not Austrian Sekt, but the real thing. On the sideboard were delicacies ranging from caviar to truffles. Candles were ready to be lit.

  He surveyed his small empire. Yes, he sighed, perfect.

  The knock at his apartment door startled him. He had left word for the Portier to show his guest up. But so early?

  No matter. Forstl did not want to keep his guest waiting. Must be as anxious as I am, he thought, as he went to the entrance hall and opened his apartment door.

  He was momentarily shocked by the sight of his uninvited visitor. He quickly gathered himself, looked about the corridor to make sure no one else was around, and forced a smile.

  ‘Arthur. How good to see you.’

  ‘Were you expecting someone else, Adel? Or is this frock for my benefit?’

  Forstl ignored the comment. ‘Please come in.’

  His mind was racing. What had Schmidt been talking about? He had told Forstl well over a week ago that this little matter had been taken care of. But the man seemed to be in fine fettle.

  ‘A new wig?’ Arthur asked from behind him as he closed the door. ‘Oh my, and such a lovely repast laid on. You are expecting someone, aren’t you Adel? Naughty boy!’

  Forstl felt rage rush upward from his belly. It poured out in a hiss. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘Blood pressure, Adel, remember your blood pressure. It will not do to excite yourself. Save that for later.’ This was followed by a snide laugh.

  Forstl fumed. How could he have ever found this creature interesting? How could he have taken him into his heart?

  ‘The rouge is a bit heavy, don’t you think, Adel?’

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘Well, it must be patently obvious, don’t you think? Our little agreed-upon sum has not made an appearance in my bank account. A man setting up practice in Vienna needs a helping hand. We agreed on that.’

  ‘No.’ It came out as a low growl. ‘You requested, and I said I would give it some thought.’

  And now what? Obviously Schmidt had lied to him. He had not taken care of this little problem at all. There was a pistol in a drawer in the side table. Perhaps he could say he surprised an intruder.

  But just as quickly the calming voice of reason forbade such a wild move. It would all come out then, for Arthur had nursed him in Bohemia. It would surely be in the records. Someone would uncover it if the killing took place here in his own apartment. The connection between the two, perhaps even barracks gossip would be exhumed. And then the tidying up to be done in the flat. All his lovely frocks and delicate slippers, the wigs in four different shades. Those would have to be hastily disposed of. Prying eyes would examine his private empire.

  ‘Such a small amount for such an important man,’ his guest said.

  Suddenly he knew what must be done.

  ‘Yes, you are right, Arthur. I should be happy to help you.’

  ‘And my wife,’ Arthur said.

  ‘Goes without saying. And your wife. After all we shared together.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Adel.’

  No bargaining with the man as he had attempted the first time, telling him that exposing their affair would destroy his own chances of success as a new doctor, as a new husband. But Arthur had only laughed that threat away, telling Forstl that he had so much more to lose as a member of the General Staff. Hence Schmidt’s warning beating – though Schmidt had obviously failed him in this regard. Which called for a new tactic.

  ‘I shall have the amount remitted to your account in a week at the latest.’

  ‘I have been patient, Adel. But patience can wear thin.’

  ‘I understand. But I need to withdraw a sizeable amount like that in dribs and drabs so as not to call attention to myself.’

  ‘So careful in business, so careless in relationships.’

  Neither said anything for a moment.

  ‘Well . . .’ Arthur nodded, and surveyed the champagne. ‘Shall we toast to it?’

  Forstl felt his anger rising.

  ‘Only playing the fool, Adel. I must meet my wife for dinner. Tickets for the theatre, tonight. Vienna is a wonderful place for a professional man.’

  From orderly and nurse i
n the army to a full doctor in less than a decade. Forstl had to give it to Arthur. He had ambition, just as Forstl did. But sometimes a man could overstep himself.

  ‘I shall take my leave now, before your intended guest arrives. Let me guess. A subaltern? No, not in Vienna. Too many prying eyes at the General Staff. Not someone in uniform then . . .’

  ‘Goodnight, Arthur.’ Forstl began leading him to the door.

  As he was leaving, he looked back with that wan smile that had first attracted Forstl.

  ‘Sorry about this, Adel, but a man must get on in life.’

  He almost felt sorry for Arthur. Then the fellow added, ‘I’ll be waiting. Next Monday at the latest.’

  Which wiped out any trace of empathy Forstl felt towards him.

  He closed and double-bolted the door.

  There would just be time before his nephew arrived. Well, not actually his nephew, in fact a distant cousin, but he had taken the young man under his wing, acting like an uncle towards him. Tonight was to have been a gala event, an initiation of sorts, but Forstl was no longer in the mood now. He quickly changed out of his beautiful new dress and silken underwear and into his green tunic and blue pantaloons. Once again an officer of the General Staff. He would take the boy out for a night on the town. Perhaps cards in a private room at the Sacher, then a visit to one of the finer Inner City brothels. Not the Bower, of course, as that was strictly Foreign Office territory. Tonight he would initiate the young man into sexuality of one sort or another. That thought cheered him up. A manly evening out.

  He would need to contact Schmidt about this turn of events. He was one up on the bastard now; at least some good had come out of this. The meticulous agent had not done his job for once – which should serve to make Schmidt even more eager to rid them of the nuisance of Arthur Schnitzel, newly-wed doctor.

  Moreover, this oversight on Schmidt’s part might just buy Forstl more time to obtain the mobilization plans.

  Meanwhile, it would be best if he delayed the début of his pretty frock. Time enough for that later.

  SEVENTEEN

  Fräulein Metzinger kept the grey-faced concierge occupied looking in vain for a parasol she insisted she had left in the breakfast room, while Berthe hurried up the stairs to the second floor.

  As she climbed the stairs, she tried to rehearse what she would say, but words would not come. Her heart was racing and her handbag knocked against her hip. The bulky little box camera sat inside her purse – a Pandora’s box as far as she was concerned, but simplicity itself to use, Fräulein Metzinger had assured her.

  Erika – they were on first-name terms now and addressing each other per du – was a great fan of photography. A great fan of the twentieth century, in fact. Indeed, she often touted the wonderful advances that society would make in the next generation: in science, labour practices, women’s rights. According to Erika, this inexpensive cardboard box camera with the comical name Brownie was another example of such progress. It took not photographs but what were, using the American vernacular, dubbed ‘snapshots’. Although no snob, Berthe could not help being irritated by the creeping Americanisms now current in her country and culture.

  Which thoughts served only to take her mind off the difficult matter at hand.

  She stood in front of the door of Room 205. It was the pigeon-hole for that room into which, several days before, the concierge had placed the handkerchief that Berthe had used as a ruse. The Baron would, she guessed, be a man of habit about such things – using the same hotel repeatedly and the same room, as well.

  At least she hoped that was the case.

  Berthe took a deep breath and then knocked on the door with her gloved hand. At first there was no response. She knocked again, a trifle louder this time. What if she were wrong? Would she have to knock on the door of every room in the Hotel Metropole?

  She heard a stirring inside the room, the scratch of a chair being pushed back on parquet. In another instant the door opened, revealing the tall, thin visage of Baron Arthur von Suttner, who was dressed impeccably in morning coat, wing collar and tie. A tall man, he stooped in the doorway, his thinning reddish-blond hair neatly coiffed. His long waxed moustaches seemed to bristle as he looked at her with grey-green eyes that held both suspicion and disdain.

  ‘I thought you might be the chambermaid,’ he said.

  ‘Who is it, Uncle?’ a female voice inquired from within.

  ‘Good day, Baron,’ Berthe said. ‘I have come with urgent news for you. May I come in?’

  ‘This is rather irregular,’ he said, clearly not knowing what to make of Berthe. ‘Who are you, young lady? And why have you come to our room?’

  Berthe heard the squeak of wheels coming from around the corner of the corridor. The chambermaid was clearly about her work. Berthe did not want to complicate matters with her presence.

  ‘All will be revealed,’ she said. ‘I bring vital urgent news for you.’

  ‘Is it Frau von Suttner? Has something happened to my wife?’

  ‘Allow me to come in, and I will share what I know with you.’

  She did not wait for a response, but simply bustled in past the astonished baron.

  ‘It is as we suspected,’ Gross said, slapping down a sheaf of papers on Werthen’s desk. ‘The Marsh test was positive. Von Ebersdorf died of arsenic poisoning, not bad shellfish.’

  ‘In all of this one thing is clear, at least. We are talking about murder.’

  ‘Three murders,’ Gross added, taking a seat opposite Werthen.

  ‘But of widely different modus operandi.’

  ‘Ah, Werthen, you take a page out of my book on criminal investigation. Every deed is an outcome of the character of the doer. I hope I quote myself correctly.’

  ‘I am sure you do, Gross.’

  ‘But you recall, also from that book, my theory of the staged crime scene? In some cases the perpetrator wishes to confuse the investigators by purposely changing the evidence, adding clues that lead nowhere.’

  ‘So von Ebersdorf’s killer and that of Mitzi and Fanny could be one and the same, but simply chose poison for the Count to throw off investigators.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Thus, we either have two killers or one,’ Werthen said. ‘The three murders are connected or, by the wildest improbability, a matter of coincidence.’

  ‘We continue to knock our heads against the wall of coincidence. We must also remember, however, that even if the crimes are linked, they may not be connected.’

  ‘You might just as well be spouting haiku now, Gross.’

  ‘A convergence despite different motives.’

  ‘Franz Ferdinand implied that the Intelligence Bureau of the General Staff could have had a hand in von Ebersdorf’s death.’

  ‘In fact the Archduke has been as good as his word, now it has been established that it was murder. He has dispatched the long-suffering Duncan to take up guard across the street from this office. I saw him upon entering.’

  ‘More than an implication, then?’ Werthen said, feeling a sudden tightness in his stomach. ‘It would appear that all three are the victims of an absurd power struggle between rival intelligence agencies?’

  ‘I am more comfortable calling them what they really are, the espionage arms of the government. I have witnessed little sign of intelligence thus far.’

  ‘That does not answer my question,’ Werthen replied.

  ‘It’s one possibility,’ Gross allowed. ‘In such a scenario we have Fräulein Mitzi recruited by the General Staff. But how?’

  ‘Perhaps someone knew of her predicament, of the situation with her uncle. Or more importantly that she was working in a bordello. And then threatened to tell her parents if she did not cooperate?’

  ‘Plausible,’ Gross allowed. ‘Or simply paid her for the services.’

  Werthen thought about this for a moment. It simply did not fit the mental picture of Fräulein Mitzi he had built up.

  Gross did not wait for a reply, �
��Recruited her to do what . . .?’

  This was an easier one for Werthen to answer. ‘Gather secrets from someone in the Foreign Office. Compromise them, make them look like amateurs.’

  ‘Yes, good.’ Gross was beginning to enjoy this. ‘But our man from the Foreign Office, von Ebersdorf – who perhaps talked more than he should have done to a sweet young thing – somehow discovers this and kills the informant, the unfortunate Fräulein Mitzi.’

  ‘And the General Staff retaliates by killing von Ebersdorf,’ Werthen added.

  ‘Which leaves us with Fräulein Fanny. You see the problem of course? If von Ebersdorf was the killer in the first instance, he was clearly not around to commit the third murder.’

  ‘He himself or his minions? A man like von Ebersdorf is surely not going to bloody his own hands.’

  ‘Or his minions,’ Gross allowed. ‘Still, why the need to kill the second girl?’

  ‘She knew what Mitzi knew. They were room-mates. Perhaps they shared more than she let on when I first interviewed her. Perhaps she tried to sell her information to the wrong person.’

  ‘In which case the score is not even, is it?’

  It took Werthen a moment to understand what Gross meant. ‘Yes, right. If this theory is correct, it means there may still be a retaliation for the murder of Fräulein Fanny.’

  Gross nodded, solemnly. ‘The stakes would seem to be rising.’