A Matter of Breeding: a mystery set in turn-of-the-century Vienna (A Viennese Mystery)

by J Sydney Jones

  ‘It would help, Herr Advokat,’ the assistant, Herr Simonic, said in a broad, sing-songy Viennese accent, ‘if you could be a bit more specific about your specific research goal.’

  Werthen gave this petty bureaucrat a quick once over and decided, why not?

  ‘Actually, I am looking for any references to the breeding of the Lipizzaner stud, beginning a decade ago.’

  The man shot him a quizzical look, scratching at his cheek. ‘You mean the Premium Breeds contract?’

  Werthen tried to hide his surprise.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘You seem to be familiar with that matter.’

  ‘I should say so,’ the assistant said proudly. ‘That was Baron von Grunfeld’s final action as department chief. In those days I was personal assistant to the chief.’

  He said the last bit with a note of rancor in his voice that Werthen now exploited.

  ‘Inner-office politics?’ he ventured. ‘You seem a capable sort.’

  A nod of the head from Simonic. ‘The new chief brought his own man with him. Wanted to “clean house” as he put it. As if we had soiled the place with our administration.’

  ‘And so you were demoted to archives librarian. That must have been difficult for you.’

  ‘Indeed it was, sir. But I am a loyal servant to his majesty. Far be it from me to complain.’

  Werthen had to bite his tongue to stop him from telling the man that was exactly what he was doing now. Instead he said, ‘Very good of you. I hope your loyalty has been duly noted … About Premium Breeds …?’

  ‘Yes, that was a stroke of luck, I can tell you.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, the fact that outside breeding was urgently needed seemed to come out of the blue. The baron was preparing for retirement at the time and had little time to research such things. So when his good friend recommended Premium Breeds—’

  ‘Did this good friend have a name?’

  The assistant gave him the sort of look one reserves for slow learners. ‘But of course. Herr von Hobarty. You have been asking for records dealing with him for the past two hours.’

  The baron’s home was on Herrengasse, Lords’ Lane, a stately three-storey affair just a few houses away from the ‘Leaping Count’s’ house. Werthen half-expected to see Count Wilczek jumping from his second-storey window – his preferred means of exiting the house and the source of his rather unorthodox soubriquet. Some called him the ‘Jumping Count’, but Werthen much preferred ‘Leaping’. The eccentric count simply loved to bound whenever he could. It was said he also slept on the floor.

  But there was no self-willed defenestration today, and Werthen continued further down the street to Baron von Grunfeld’s address, rang the bell and was amazed to be ushered into the baron’s study with hardly a chance to introduce himself.

  The baron looked up eagerly from a blotter on his elaborate Louis Quinze desk.

  ‘It’s about time,’ he said peevishly. ‘I’ve been waiting the last quarter of an hour for the Large Blue.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, baron,’ Werthen said. ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘You didn’t bring the specimen?’

  Werthen cast a confused look at the baron.

  ‘My Maculinea arion, man! It will be the key to my entire collection.’

  Werthen now saw a butterfly splayed out on the blotting paper in front of the baron, its wings folded down under strips of paper.

  He nodded in understanding. ‘I believe you mistake me for another, baron. I am not a dealer in butterfly species, but rather a lawyer.’

  He quickly introduced himself, yet this did little to allay the baron’s displeasure.

  ‘What do you mean by impersonating another to gain access to my home? A lawyer, you say. You should know that is quite against the law, or at least a breach of decency.’

  ‘I assure you, Baron von Grunfeld, I had no desire to mislead you. I was simply ushered in here without the chance to introduce myself. In fact, I have just come from the Imperial Ministry for Agriculture archives where I was speaking with your former personal assistant—’

  ‘Simonic? Whatever were you talking to that fellow about? Good man, Simonic. I thought he retired.’

  ‘No, baron,’ Werthen said. ‘He is still at the ministry, though in a rather diminished capacity.’

  ‘Yes, I remember now.’ The red-faced, portly old man rubbed his Franz Josef side-whiskers. ‘The new minister took a broom to the place. Ahh, but we had good days there. So Simonic set you on me, did he?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Werthen said. ‘You see, I am interested in the dealings of Premium Breeds, and discovered that you were instrumental in arranging their contract with the Lipizzaner stud.’

  ‘Well, of course I was. Myself and my good friend, Christian von Hobarty. Between us, I believe we helped to save the stud. In-breeding, you know. One sees the results of it in horses and in the Habsburg chin.’ He chuckled at his small joke. ‘Why is that of interest to you? Pardon the observation, but you hardly appear the horsey type, Advokat Werthen.’

  ‘Nor am I,’ he replied. He made rapid calculation and decided to improvise. ‘A client of mine, you see, is interested in investing in Premium Breeds and I am researching the project for him. This client intends to invest rather heavily.’

  ‘Well, bully for him and a good prospect it is, too. Since garnering the Lipizzaner contract, it is my understanding that Premium Breeds has done quite well for itself internationally. The Habsburg imprimatur at work.’

  ‘That is interesting to hear, baron, and very good of you to share the information, I am sure.’

  ‘But do not imagine that I took advantage of my select position to benefit myself or heirs. No. I am not among the investors. Not because I did not want to, I can tell you. But a man has to have ethics, no?’

  ‘I agree whole-heartedly. Herr von Hobarty on the other hand …?’

  The baron shook his head. ‘Never asked, but doubtful. That is not the reason he brought Premium Breeds to my attention. The man is a real patriot. He wants the best for his country.’

  ‘You are long-time friends?’

  ‘Yes, you might say so. We share much the same political outlook, as I am sure you do, Advokat Werthen. Yours seems to be a good, strong German name.’

  By way of answer, Werthen only smiled at this remark.

  ‘Have you met von Hobarty?’

  ‘In fact I have,’ Werthen allowed. ‘On an unrelated matter.’

  ‘Quite a man,’ the baron spluttered. ‘A fine example of the German male. There is breeding for you.’

  Werthen decided to end the interview before he told this pompous, antiquated old bugbear some home truths about his ideology and about his hero, von Hobarty. But before he left, he had one more question.

  ‘Did you know Herr Hohewart before these negotiations?’

  Baron von Grunfeld shook his head. ‘The fellow from Premium Breeds, you mean? Never met him before in my life. But if von Hobarty vouched for him, that was good enough for me. Seemed the sort a man could trust.’

  Meanwhile, Berthe was busily opening a packet that had come in today’s mail, addressed to her and with a Vienna postmark. It was about the size of a legal folder, and when she finally opened the packing paper, she was not surprised to see that it was in fact a folder. The surprise came when she opened it and found a typed note along with several other typed pages. She quickly read the accompanying note:

  Krensky asked that this should be dispatched to you in the event of his death.

  A Friend.

  She felt her heart quicken as she looked from the note to the typed pages. These detailed minutely the phony Lipizzaner breeding regimens that Krensky had described to her when they first met at his café. Dates, locations, breeds; all were there. Obviously these were transcriptions of his interview with his source, the person who was revealing the truth about the scheme. But not a mention of the identity of this mysterious source, and without that, what good were
these details?

  She looked again at the typed pages, noting that the ‘e’ was out of line, somewhat raised above the baseline, and that the lower case ‘p’ key needed a cleaning, for the loop of the letter was obviously gummed with ink, creating a dot-like bowl rather than a circular one. Its descender was also feathered from similar ink accumulation.

  Wonderful, she told herself. But such observations are not going to get to the identity of the source.

  Later at dinner they spoke of the day’s activities.

  ‘You don’t think this Baron Grunfeld could be the mysterious source, do you?’ Berthe asked.

  Werthen almost choked on his knödel at this question. ‘Most assuredly not,’ he managed after clearing his throat.

  ‘Then we are back where we started.’

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘We do have these typewritten sheets. They are evidence in and of themselves. Krensky could hardly have invented these other breeders.’

  ‘But as you yourself said, this information is available at the Imperial Ministry for Agriculture. As a journalist, he could have gotten the names from the archives. Maybe he had a grudge. Maybe he wanted instant fame as a journalist.’

  ‘But he is not going to find evidence of falsified bloodlines at the ministry.’

  ‘He could have fabricated those,’ Berthe said, continuing to play devil’s advocate though she did not believe it herself.

  ‘Or maybe all this about the breeding is true and Krensky was killed because he knew too much,’ Werthen said. ‘The police were much too eager to believe in the theory of Klapper wanting to change his modus operandi to further baffle them. But even if that was the case, I still think that Krensky’s death was far too convenient.’

  Twenty-Seven

  Death was in the air. Next morning Werthen answered an early morning telephone call.

  ‘You might want to come back to Styria.’ It was Inspector Thielman. ‘There’s been a … death.’

  Werthen was aware of Thielman’s careful choice of words.

  ‘A death. Who?’

  ‘Hohewart.’

  Werthen quickly consulted the copy of Imperial Rail they kept by the telephone. He was in luck. There was a Saturday morning Graz express at nine thirty with a connection to Köflach. He went back to the bedroom to tell Berthe of the call and summons. She was cuddled in bed with Frieda, but disappointment registered on her face at this news. He could hardly blame her; this had been her investigation initially.

  But she made no protests. Instead she very sensibly asked, ‘Is it murder?’

  ‘Suicide, apparently. But I get the feeling Thielman has doubts.’

  She considered this. ‘Well, good he called you, then. Be safe. Telephone us if you can.’

  He leaned over the bed and kissed them each in turn. The most precious humans in his life.

  He focused on today’s news in the Neue Freie Presse on the journey southward, trying to keep his over-active imagination from running away with itself. In the event, however, he should have settled for imagination, as the news today dealt largely with the debate in the Imperial Council – the parliament for the western part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire – over emergency decrees regarding the ‘immigration of foreign congregations’ into Austria. By ‘foreign’, the ministers of course meant Jewish. And there were a number of members in the council who wanted to outright ban further immigration of Jews into Austria. The newspaper supplied a lengthy transcription of the debate, and Werthen followed the back-and-forth dialogue for two pages until his eyes hurt. Finally he tossed the paper aside in disgust and watched the rain against the window turn to snow by the time the train reached Mürzzuschlag. When they got to Bruck on der Mur, Werthen realized that he had not dressed warmly enough, for the snow was already piling in drifts at the side of the tracks.

  The train arrived several minutes early in Graz, but Werthen still made his way briskly to track twelve, eager to board the train for the short run to Köflach, some twenty miles to the west. He stopped first, however, at a stand near his platform and bought a pair of hot wurst and semmeln for a hasty lunch. He was happy to find the local train heated and he sat in relative comfort to Köflach, where he hired a fiaker for the last leg of his journey. It was just past two in the afternoon when the fiaker arrived at the village of Piber, and Werthen got out at the door to Premium Breeds.

  He was amazed when Dr Hanns Gross opened the door for him. The two shook hands warmly.

  ‘I thought you were still in Czernowitz,’ Werthen said.

  Gross looked somewhat abashed at this comment. ‘The son,’ he said, wincing. ‘He’s back in the clinic. I traveled with him.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, Gross.’ Werthen had wondered at the wisdom of having Otto visit his parents after his treatment. The relationship between father and son was hardly conducive to rehabilitation.

  Gross suddenly brightened. ‘I had Thielman contact you once I heard of the death.’

  It seemed that Gross, after delivering his son to the care of Dr Anton in Graz, had decided to take his old room at the Hotel Daniel in Hitzendorf. Gross was a creature of habit, to be sure, but Werthen thought this decision not to stay at a hotel in Graz might also have been motivated by a desire not to risk running into Magistrate Lechner again and having to deal with him. It was Thielman who informed Gross of the death of Hohewart that morning.

  ‘You might be interested to see the crime scene,’ Gross said with the hearty enthusiasm of an oenologist at a wine tasting.

  Werthen followed the criminologist into the front office of Premium Breeds and through it to Hohewart’s inner office, where Inspector Thielman, a local gendarme officer, and a rail of a man in a morning coat were gathered. Werthen and Thielman exchanged pleasantries.

  ‘Is this who we were waiting for?’ the thin man said. He sat stiffly in one of the straight back chairs; a black leather satchel at his feet like a puppy waiting to be petted.

  Werthen immediately assumed he was the medical examiner, and his supposition was proven correct when Thielman introduced him as Dr Kastner. The man did not bother standing when introduced.

  ‘You’ve kept us waiting long enough. My wife is planning an afternoon tea for Mayor Kümpel.’

  Gross smiled at the complaint. Then to Werthen: ‘The good doctor has been kind enough to delay his investigation of the body until your arrival. I told him what a valuable colleague you are and how perceptive you can be at a crime scene.’

  ‘There is no crime,’ Dr Kastner scoffed. ‘This is an obvious act of suicide.’

  ‘Be that as it may, Dr Kastner,’ Thielman intervened, ‘it is still best to be sure before we go messing about with the body.’

  The examiner merely shook his head at this.

  Until now, Werthen had been able to avert his eyes from the body of Hohewart, slumped over his desk, a pool of dried blood at one side of his head.

  ‘The cleaning lady found him this morning,’ Gross said to Werthen as they approached the desk. ‘She swears she touched nothing. The gendarme officer on the scene –’ Gross nodded at the young officer also gathered in the room – ‘also avers he left the scene just as it was when he arrived. Hohewart was last seen alive yesterday evening at a local restaurant where he usually dines. So that places time of death anywhere between about nine last night to six this morning when the cleaning lady arrived. Do I have that right, Thielman?’

  ‘Indeed you do,’ Inspector Thielman said.

  ‘And you will know more exactly when you finish with this charade and let me get on with my work,’ Dr Kastner said.

  ‘Now,’ Gross said, turning back to Werthen and ignoring Kastner’s comment, ‘let us examine together and see if you find what I believe I have discovered.’

  Forcing himself to look at the dead body, Werthen could see at first only that this looked very much like a suicide. A pistol – a Steyr-Mannlicher 1900, if he was not mistaken – lay on the desk next to the right hand. Werthen breathed deeply and approache
d close enough to examine further. The man’s head was supine on its left side, providing a clear view of the entrance wound on the right. This was star-shaped with burn marks surrounding it, indicating the gun was held close to the head upon firing, consistent with suicide.

  He felt a momentary nausea, but again forced himself to look further. The top of Hohewart’s head exhibited one edge of the exit wound, with fragments of bone jutting out and pink spongy matter as well. Again, consistent with suicide, as it indicated the trajectory of the bullet was upward. If the wound was self-inflicted, Hohewart would have held the gun at such an angle.

  ‘It looks like suicide so far,’ Werthen said, hoping his voice did not quake.

  ‘See what I told you?’ Dr Kastner interjected.

  ‘So far,’ Gross repeated. ‘There are, however, certain discrepancies.’

  ‘Such as?’ Kastner challenged.

  ‘Such as a suicide note. One generally leaves an explanation, an apology, a plea for forgiveness before committing such an extreme act.’

  ‘Generally,’ Dr Kastner, said, ‘but not always. Hardly proof.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Gross said, which brought a satisfied smile from Kastner. ‘But there are two other damning irregularities.’ This cleared the smile from the medical examiner’s face.

  ‘First,’ Gross said dramatically, as he moved to the left side of the corpse, ‘notice the man’s left sleeve.’ The arm was dangling at the victim’s side, and Kastner, along with Thielman, now approached the body in order to get a good look.

  ‘Upon first examination,’ Gross continued, ‘I noticed that the shirt sleeve of the left arm is not as long as that on the right.’

  ‘Which simply means that Hohewart had asymmetrical arm lengths,’ Kastner muttered. ‘Bravo. Half the population has the same condition. Hardly a reason for suicide.’

  Gross smiled at the comment; Werthen noticed a certain glee in the expression. He also noticed a configuration of writing materials on the desk and thought he knew where Gross was going with this.