[VM01] The Empty Mirror

by J Sydney Jones

  Frau Frosch sat gingerly on the edge of a daybed, offering them seats in straight-backed tooled leather armchairs. Werthen thought she looked as uncomfortable in these surroundings as he felt.

  “I really have nothing more to add than I told the police earlier,” the woman began.

  “I intend to cover new ground. Sometimes it is the smallest thing, Frau Frosch. The least significant detail that is most telling.”

  “Gross, the good lady said she has nothing to offer,” Werthen suddenly interrupted. “Surely the police have gathered any information she could supply. We should be going.”

  “Kindly allow me to conduct the interview, Werthen. And let Frau Frosch determine if she truly has nothing more to add.”

  “Please excuse my colleague, Frau Frosch,” Werthen said, ignoring Gross’s comment. “He is sometimes overzealous in his work. Insensitive of one’s feelings.”

  “Feelings, Werthen, must be put aside for the moment.” Then to Frau Frosch: “May I continue?”

  She nodded at him stiffly.

  “When did you last see your husband?”

  “Really, Gross,” Werthen spluttered. “Is this what you call ‘new ground’?”

  “Enough, Werthen.” Gross’s voice was a low growl, a commanding presence that made the Frau sit up more stiffly in her chair.

  “Now, if you please, Frau Frosch. The last time you saw your husband?”

  “Last evening. About seven. He was on his way for his usual tarok game with friends.”

  The police had checked this, Werthen knew. Herr Frosch was due across the Karlsplatz from this flat, at the new Café Museum, where he was to meet three other pensioners for their weekly game of cards. According to his friends, Herr Frosch never arrived.

  “What was he wearing?” Gross asked.

  “His suit, of course. His Trachten.”

  “A bit warm for it last night, I would think.”

  She shook her head. “It was what he always wore. His uniform, if you like.” She all but grimaced as she said this. “You can examine his wardrobe if you like. Six more hanging there, all the same color and cut. My husband had been in service to the court, you see. A valet and manservant.”

  “A punctilious man, then?” Gross offered.

  She nodded her head vehemently. “Very.”

  Gross swept his hand around the room. “His interior design, I imagine.”

  She seemed to gasp at this suggestion. “But how did you know?”

  “Gnädige Frau, I see you perhaps in lighter surroundings. More floral, more brightness of sunlight flooding the room.”

  “Exactly.” She warmed to Gross now, Werthen noticed. No need for more interruptions on his part.

  “Pardon my asking, Frau Frosch, but you and your husband had a close marriage?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  Werthen thought Gross may have overplayed his hand, but this was not the case. There was silence for a time.

  “We had no children,” Frau Frosch suddenly said. “He said his duties to the empire came first.”

  “I am sure that was a difficult choice for both of you.”

  “His choice.”

  “Yes,” Gross said. “His choice. Was he a drinking man?”

  The sudden change of topic caught her by surprise. A hand flew up to her left eye, touching the bone beneath gingerly. Werthen only now noticed what had probably been obvious to Gross: a bluish tint under pink powder.

  “He liked his wine,” she finally said. “Especially since his retirement.”

  “No hobbies, then? Other than cards?”

  She shook her head, then paused, thinking. “Yes, in a way you might call it a hobby. He said he was writing his memoirs. But I never saw a page of it. I think it was an excuse just to lock himself away in his study all morning long. He really had no idea what to do with his life after leaving service to the court. Anyway, the police found nothing.”

  “Would you mind if I went through his papers?” Gross asked.

  “No, not at all.” She led them to a study at the far end of the hall, a room as dark and heavy as the sitting room.

  “He kept all his papers here?”

  Frau Frosch nodded. “No need to straighten up after yourselves,” she said as she was leaving the room. “This will all be packed up anyway. Everything.”

  “More light?” Gross smiled at her.

  “Yes, Herr Doktor Gross. Much more light.”

  They spent almost two hours going over every possible drawer, nook, and cranny in the study, but found nothing. Gross tapped the parquet in search of a hiding place beneath the floorboards, searched for false drawers in the desk and bookcases, examined the walls behind pictures for signs of a safe. Nothing.

  “Perhaps she was right,” Werthen finally said. “Maybe he just wanted to hide away and drink.”

  Gross made no reply. He was on his hands and knees busy tapping the exterior of a large ceramic pot holding a large palm. No hollow sounds registered. The pot was indeed filled with dirt and roots.

  “There is nothing more to glean here,” Gross said, standing with effort and stretching his back.

  All they had discovered in their methodical search was that Herr Frosch was a man with few outside interests. One drawer of his desk held old bills that covered the last year: rates and taxes including gas, 612 crowns, 38 heller; lease, 1,475 crowns; coal, 241 crowns, 14 heller; dress, wife, 742 crowns, 69 heller; dress, husband, 812 crowns, 98 heller. And so on. Punctilious records kept by a punctilious man.

  Both Gross and Werthen had noted the discrepancy in the clothing allowance. Also that Frosch was careful to use the new denominations of crowns and heller rather than the old florin and kreuzer. Gross himself, as well as much of Austria, was still struggling with the conversion from silver to gold standard, now already six years old. In two years the old florin and kreuzer would join the garbage heap of historical currencies.

  They bid Frau Frosch adieu, and the lady seemed to have a special glint in her eye as she allowed her gloved hand to be kissed by Gross.

  Out on the street, Werthen said, “I think you’ve made a conquest, Gross.”

  “No little thanks to you, my friend,” he replied, acknowledging Werthen’s planned interruptions. “Overriding one’s colleague does help to establish one’s authority.”

  They walked for a time in silence, each marshaling his thoughts from the interview and search.

  “She had reason enough to want the man dead,” Werthen said.

  “Yes, indeed. You noticed the bruise, I assume?”

  “The blighter.”

  “Violence is never excused,” Gross said, “but one never knows what transpires behind the conjugal doors to prompt such behavior.”

  “A jumped-up servant who turns into a bully.”

  “Perhaps. Still I highly doubt the good lady herself could have killed the man and transported his body to the Prater.”

  “And even so, why the others?” Werthen added. “What would her motive be?”

  “Perhaps they were a diversion only, in order to hide the true victim?”

  It was a theory worth pursuing, but suddenly Werthen realized there was no need for such theorizing. “We should talk with Inspektor Meindl,” he said to Gross. “Surely they can no longer hold Klimt now with this latest killing.” Then, almost reluctantly, he added once again, “Our work on Klimt’s behalf is at an end.”

  Gross, however, was not listening. He had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk near the Frosch apartment.

  “Means and motive,” Gross muttered, shaking his head disgustedly. “We are no closer to discovering either of those crucial elements than we were last week.”

  “Our commission is finished, Gross,” Werthen said again. “Means and motive are now someone else’s headache.”

  “Perhaps. But, yes, we shall visit Inspektor Meindl. First, however, I would like to pay a visit to the Café Museum. Do you know its whereabouts?”

  “
But the police reported that Frosch never arrived there.”

  “Exactly my point. Ergo, somewhere between here and there the unfortunate man disappeared. And in relative daylight. At seven in the evening this time of year, there is still another hour of daylight to be sure.”

  Werthen nodded, seeing his point. “Someone must have seen something.”

  Gross nodded. “Vienna’s greatest crime-fighter is its legion of nosy old ladies hanging out their windows. At seven there must have been at least one of these en route who saw an elderly gentleman in heavy Trachten.”

  “And what of the other murders?” Werthen said, feeling the excitement of the chase. “Only the industrialist, I believe, went missing in the middle of the night. The others were last seen in the twilight or early nighttime.”

  “Precisely. They could hardly have been murdered on the streets of a busy capital city at such an early hour without someone witnessing the act. Yet the police scoured the neighborhoods near where the others went missing. No one saw anything unusual.”

  Werthen leaped ahead with this reasoning. “They were not murdered on the streets, then. Somehow the killer enticed or forced them into his transport and killed them elsewhere.” Then he shook his head. “But that can’t be. As you say, no one saw anything unusual.”

  Gross smiled. “Which leaves us with only one conclusion, Werthen. That someone saw something very usual, very common, and made no notice of it. Come, man. Lead me in the most direct route from here to the Café Museum.”

  They followed the Gusshausstrasse, headed for the Karlsplatz. The traffic was heavy along this street, and windows were kept closed against the noise and smell. Just before Karlsplatz, they came to Paniglgasse. Werthen assumed that the fastidious Frosch, rather than skirting the perimeter of Karlsplatz, would instead follow the narrower and more direct line of Paniglgasse to his café.

  As they made their way along this smaller lane, Gross and Werthen both kept their eyes open for possible witnesses. Lounging at the doorway to number 16 was the Dienstmann, or public porter, who acted as the neighborhood mover, message deliverer, and general helper. He would also be the headquarters for local gossip. Dressed in a gray field jacket with epaulets and wearing a blue kepi, this one had the appearance of an ex-military man. The tin badge on his chest enhanced this appearance. However, Werthen knew, this was no military medal, but rather the man’s business license.

  Gross approached the porter and tipped his bowler, introducing himself and Werthen.

  “How can I be of service, governor?” the man asked. Gross moved back, assaulted by the smell of wurst and cheap wine on the man’s breath.

  “Is this your usual location, my good man?”

  “This is where the locals know where to find me if they need assistance of any sort.” The porter puffed out his chest as he spoke.

  “And you were here yesterday, as well?”

  “I was, and that is a fact.”

  “Until what hour? Do you recall?”

  “Well…“The man took off his hot kepi and scratched at the gray bristle of hair on his head. “This time of year with the long days, I do tend to stay out of doors until seven, maybe eight. Last evening-”

  “You were already on your second viertel of wine,” came a voice from the ground-floor window to the right of the doorway.

  The porter did not bother to look around in the direction of the voice. He simply raised his eyebrows at Gross and Werthen.

  “Now, Frau Novotny you’re a great one for exaggeration.”

  The old lady appeared from behind the opaque lace curtain of her open window, a birdlike creature wearing a dust bonnet out of the eighteenth century.

  “And you’re a great one for the wine. There was no sign of you on this street after six last night. Otherwise Frau Ohlmeier in 26B wouldn’t have had to ask me to watch her sack of potatoes as she trundled her other groceries up the stairs.”

  “Well, gentlemen,” the porter said with heavy irony, “there you have it. Straight from the mouth of God it is. I must have left work early last night. Now what is it I can help you with?”

  “Actually,” Gross said, tipping his bowler in the direction of the old lady, “I was hoping to speak with someone who may have noticed the happenings on this street around seven last evening. Werthen, perhaps you could proffer a thanks to this gentleman.”

  As usual, Gross left such incidentals as the dispersion of funds to Werthen.

  The lawyer handed the porter a florin, at which the man stared skeptically for a moment, as if expecting this only child to be joined shortly by siblings.

  “Thank you for your help,” Werthen said with finality.

  Meanwhile, Gross had approached the old lady’s window. He stood almost eye to eye with the elderly woman, who was now leaning with elbows on a bolster that usually fitted between the double windows.

  “I am making inquiries, my good woman, about a gentleman who may have passed this way last evening. He was a man in his sixties wearing woolen Trachten.”

  “You a copper?” the old woman asked with obvious delight.

  “I”-Gross had the courtesy to sweep his hand in Werthen’s direction-“we are assisting the police in their investigation.”

  “Saw a couple of constables messing about the street today, talking to Herr Ignatz.” She nodded with contempt at the porter, who had now taken up a new post across the street. “Knocking on doors.” She shook her head so vehemently, the bonnet slipped down her forehead. Righting it, she said, “Never liked coppers. I didn’t answer when they came to my door.” She cast a shrewd glance. “You two don’t look like police. Don’t act like it, either. They never pay for nothing.”

  “Let us simply say that we can be appreciative of any help given,” Gross said.

  “What’s he done, your old fella in the Trachten?’

  “He seems to have gone missing,” Gross told her.

  “Important enough you got coppers bothering the citizenry, you two dandies looking around for bread crumbs that might lead to him.”

  “Yes.” Gross offered no further explanation.

  “About seven, you say.”

  They both nodded at her.

  “I might have seen him. Can’t really remember clearly, though.”

  Gross glanced at Werthen. “If you would be so good?”

  Werthen sighed with exasperation, but dug out another florin and handed it to the lady.

  She placed it on the bolster between her elbows. “Closer to seven thirty, I would say. That’s the time Herr Dietrich always gets home from work. Puts in long hours, does our Herr Dietrich. Between you and me, I think he’s probably keeping a mistress somewhere. Works so much, but has so little to show for it. And Frau Dietrich always wearing last year’s fashions. Put on a bit of weight, too, the Frau.”

  “Yes,” Gross said, steering her back to the matter at hand. “And you associate the arrival of Herr Dietrich with the man in Trachten?”

  She smiled at them, showing teeth as brown as a walnut. Then she looked down at the lone florin.

  “Werthen,” Gross prompted.

  The lawyer was about to complain when Gross shot him a look of urgency. He added a second florin.

  “Came by just after Herr Dietrich went into number fifteen, there, across the way. Walking slowly enough. Wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t sickly.”

  “And did anyone approach him along this street?” Gross inquired.

  “Can’t say that I noticed. And that’s not a pitch for another coin. I’m not greedy. All’s I can say is he came by here. Took little enough notice of him, other than that he was dressed for winter.”

  “Did you see him speak to anyone?”

  She shook her head.

  “Were there any vehicles parked along the street? Carriages or the like?”

  “There’s always a carriage or two. This isn’t Ottakring, after all. We’ve got a respectable neighborhood here. Sort of place that the municipality keeps up. They was out that eveni
ng even, fixing the sewers.”

  “Did you watch him as he got to the corner of Wiedner Hauptstrasse?” Gross continued.

  “I wasn’t watching him,” she protested. “Just happened to see him a bit. Couldn’t tell you where he went, to be honest. The water boiled over for my tea, and I had to rush back to the kitchen.”

  They made their adieus and proceeded down the street, searching for other open windows that might provide further witnesses.

  “We hardly got three florins’ worth of information,” Gross complained, as if it had been his money spent.

  That evening he and Gross were the guests of honor of Gustav Klimt at the Bierklinik, an inner-city eatery known for its fresh fish and bountiful servings. Klimt, or more likely Fräulein Flöge, had thought to reserve an upstairs room for their use. Present at the meal, besides these four, were Klimt’s mother and unmarried sisters, and the painter Carl Moll, an associate of Klimt’s at the Secession.

  The Bierklinik was one of those restaurants that disabused foreigners of the idea that Viennese cooking was all kraut and sausage. Huge fish tanks flanked the walls of the entryway and from these was selected a trio of well-proportioned trout, poached to perfection with Madeira and a hint of lemon. These were served with parsley potatoes and greenhouse lettuce, crisp and tender, jeweled with Wachauer white-wine vinegar and fresh-pressed rapeseed oil.

  Toasts were made to welcome the painter out of jail and then to the team of Gross and Werthen for helping in the matter.

  But Gross was not about to take kudos for undeserved achievement.

  “Circumstances saved you, Herr Klimt, not our investigation. The fact that you were locked up when the most recent murder occurred was the deciding factor in securing your release.”

  “But you would have proved me innocent, Doktor Gross,” Klimt said with a slight slur to his voice. He was at work on his fourth beer. “Of that I am certain.”