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

by J Sydney Jones

  ‘The arm may indeed be of a different length,’ Gross allowed. ‘But I rather think the sleeve length is due to a garter being in place.’

  At this, he gently pulled up the serge of the man’s suit jacket to reveal that indeed Hohewart was wearing a sleeve garter on the left arm, just above the elbow.

  ‘Wonderful,’ Dr Kastner said. ‘What does that prove?’

  Thielman coughed once, but that was as much comment as he was prepared to make. Werthen got the feeling, however, that he too understood Gross’s line of deduction.

  Gross looked squarely at Kastner as he spoke. ‘My sense is that Herr Hohewart was not the sort to wear ready-to-wear shirts. Rather, I imagine he had his shirts meticulously tailored at Wiebold’s establishment in Graz, or perhaps even Knieze in Vienna, which establishments would get his arm lengths exactly right in the tailoring, obviating the necessity of sleeve garters. Nor do I expect, were I to examine the right arm, that a garter is in place there.’

  ‘Why not look?’ Kastner asked.

  Another smile from Gross at this comment. Without a word, he moved to the other side of the corpse and pushed up the right jacket sleeve, careful not to reposition the arm on the desk. He made no comment at the lack of garter on that arm, but simply nodded his head.

  ‘Still,’ Kastner said adamantly, ‘what does this prove?’

  ‘Herr Hohewart did not wear a sleeve garter because his shirts fit him poorly,’ Werthen interjected, finally losing patience with Kastner’s carping attacks. ‘One therefore wonders what the purpose of the single garter on the left arm was.’

  ‘Precisely, Werthen,’ Gross said. ‘Now you can see why I wanted the advokat in attendance.’ He said this like a proud schoolmaster speaking about the top grades his student had earned.

  ‘Please do not keep me in the dark,’ Kastner responded with heavy sarcasm. ‘Share your brilliant insights.’

  Werthen had the feeling that Kastner and Magistrate Lechner must be friends; their egregious personalities were so similar.

  ‘Hardly brilliant,’ Gross said. ‘Anyone with a bit of reasoning power could come to the same conclusion. The garter is generally worn by those who do figures or a fair amount of writing in order that their sleeves not be dirtied by ink traces. That is one damming irregularity.’

  Kastner was about to speak, but an upheld hand from Gross silenced him.

  ‘The second irregularity is the pen that I see in this holder.’ Gross was indicating a cut crystal inkwell on the desk that doubled as a pen holder. Next to it lay a leather covered ink blotter and a brass letter opener. Gross lifted the pen out of its holder, and squinted at it like a diamond merchant in Rotterdam.

  ‘The nib of this pen is most definitely rounded. Do you not find this significant, Dr Kastner?’

  ‘Why should I? I simply want to get on with my business, which is to have this body removed to the morgue in Graz.’

  ‘You might also notice the configuration of the desk set, Gross,’ Werthen added.

  ‘Excellent, Werthen,’ Gross said, looking at the writing objects and understanding immediately the importance of their placement. ‘Three damming irregularities, then. One, the garter worn on the left sleeve, not the right. Two, the rounded nib of the pen, which is essential for left-handed writers so that, as they go from left to right on the page pushing the nib along, they do not tear into the paper with a sharp point. And third, as Advokat Werthen so correctly points out, we have the location of the desk set convenient to the left hand of the victim. All of which points to the fact that Herr Hohewart was left-handed.’

  ‘Once again, Dr Gross, I wonder at what any of this proves.’

  ‘To put it plainly, it proves that Hohewart was murdered. He was left-handed, yet he apparently decided to shoot himself with his right hand.’

  Kastner’s eyes went quickly to the corpse in front of him, and the pistol lying on the desk by Hohewart’s right hand.

  Werthen decided to stay at the Hotel Daniel along with Gross. It was late afternoon when they arrived and the snow had not let up. Werthen once again rued the fact that he had not brought warm enough clothes and vowed to find a shop in the morning where he could purchase a suit of long underwear. The hotel’s small saloon where they repaired for a bracing tea with slivowitz was crowded with locals still in town for the Saturday market. There were no tables and they finally found a place at the bar and were able to catch the attention of the harried server.

  They were just enjoying the fragrance of the hot drink when a large hand clapped Werthen on the shoulder. Turning, he found himself face to face with Herr Feininger, father of Maria, the first victim, who had obviously travelled from Judendorf-Strassengel for the market. As their last meeting had been none too amiable, Werthen was not pleased to meet up with the man.

  ‘Advokat Werthen, if I remember correctly,’ Feininger said by way of hello. His words were slurred and there was a strong flatus of drink from him. Werthen shot Gross a look to put him on guard.

  ‘Herr Feininger,’ Werthen said with a nod.

  The man seemed to straighten himself as if for physical action. Werthen too steadied himself in case the fellow suddenly lashed out at him.

  ‘I am happy to meet with you again. I have felt poorly about … well, about the last time. You proved a real gentleman not to report me to the gendarmerie. I thank you for that. And I thank you and your colleague –’ he nodded in Gross’s direction – ‘for tracking down that animal Klapper or Kupfer or whatever his real name was.’

  ‘Klapper,’ Gross said.

  ‘His death was too easy.’

  Werthen caught himself automatically agreeing with this sentiment, and wondered how far any of us are from the primitive need for revenge rather than justice.

  ‘I wasn’t myself, you see.’

  ‘It is understandable, Herr Feininger. You were grieving for your daughter.’

  ‘Yes, but it was more than that. I thought the girl was on the wrong path, that she somehow brought death upon herself.’

  ‘I don’t follow, Herr Feininger,’ Werthen said.

  Gross sipped at his Jäger Tee, leaving this discussion to Werthen.

  ‘Well, it was the money, you see. More than she usually made at the spa. I thought some man was leading her astray. But she must have been saving it up. How could I ever suspect my daughter of carrying on?’

  Werthen felt the sort of catch in his stomach that inventors must get when first glimpsing the idea for a new machine. Gross was now also very much paying attention to the man.

  ‘Your daughter had suddenly come into money, you mean?’ Werthen asked.

  The man nodded. ‘A bit. Quite a bit for folk like us. But like I say, she must have just been saving it up over time.’

  ‘I understood that she worked at home, in your dairy.’

  ‘She did the early morning milking to be sure, but after that she went to work at the local spa. Had done for the past few months.’

  It was the first Werthen had heard of this job.

  Victim number two, Annaliese Reiter, had also worked at her local spa in Köflach.

  ‘I can’t see why you would want to go digging into that again,’ Inspector Thielman said next morning when Werthen and Gross went to speak with him.

  Werthen had found some long underwear finally in the local hardware shop, but now he was about ready to settle for being cold again. The woolen undergarment was itching him to the point of distraction.

  ‘It is the first connection we have found between the victims,’ Werthen said.

  ‘No,’ Thielman said calmly. ‘The first connection is that they were all killed and mutilated, and that their killer was Franz Klapper, now deceased.’

  ‘Advokat Werthen may be on to something, Thielman,’ Gross said. ‘After all, we never did establish a motive for the crimes.’

  ‘He was psychotic,’ Thielman said. ‘He didn’t need any more motive than that.’

  ‘Lots of deaths around here lately,’ Gross ad
ded.

  Thielman shook his head. ‘Oh no, Gross. You’re not going to tie in Hohewart’s death to these earlier murders. Those cases are closed, end of story.’

  Gross just smiled at him.

  ‘Why bring this to me anyway?’ Thielman complained.

  ‘Well,’ Gross said, ‘we thought that if we were going to start asking questions again, it would be nice to have some standing.’

  ‘Gross! Lechner would have my liver for breakfast if he found out I was sponsoring you two again.’

  ‘Just a simple letter indicating that we are assisting with inquiries. In case anyone asks.’

  ‘Absolutely not, Gross.’

  ‘But you do need our assistance with the Hohewart matter. You were the one to tell me about the death.’

  Thielman reddened at this reminder, as if Gross were making an implicit threat.

  Ten minutes later they walked out of the Hitzendorf gendarmerie, each carrying a letter from Inspector Thielman.

  The inspector called out to them as they left, ‘If he finds out, I’ll say you forged them.’

  The ‘he’ was obvious: Magistrate Lechner.

  Twenty-Eight

  They split duties: Werthen would head for Judendorf-Strassengel while Gross would begin the investigation of Hohewart’s death.

  They had discussed matters for hours the night before. Was there a connection between all these deaths? Klapper’s final victim had been the journalist Krensky who was attempting to make the Lipizzaner breeding scandal public, and Hohewart was at the very center of that scandal.

  ‘Can we be absolutely certain Hohewart’s death was murder?’ Werthen had asked at one point.

  ‘Death is the only absolute certainty, Werthen. For our purposes, reasonable certainty will suffice. A man in such extremis as to take his own life is not going to risk botching the job by using his non-dominant hand.’

  ‘Then who benefits?’

  ‘If it has to do with the Lipizzaner matter,’ Gross said, ‘then there are any number of people. Disgruntled investors, misguided patriots, perhaps even a government minister who might not like the feel of egg on his face. But it could also have nothing at all to do with horses. Perhaps Hohewart was a Don Juan? A cuckolded husband, then. Or gambling debts left unpaid. People are killed for many reasons.’

  They shared a fiaker as far as Judendorf-Strassengel, and from there Gross continued alone to Köflach to speak with Hohewart’s secretary. They arranged to meet later at the Café Styria in the main square of Köflach.

  Werthen, after suffering from the scratchy long underwear for most of the morning, was happy enough now that he was wearing it. The wind was howling down the valley as he descended from the coach at Judendorf-Strassengel.

  It was Sunday and Werthen was unsure who he would be able to speak with today, but took his chances, heading toward the main square and the modern three-storey building of the Styrian Park Sanatorium. Such establishments, he figured, must be open on the sacred Sunday, and he was right, he discovered as he drew near the entrance. Better yet, Dagmar Henninger, Maria Feininger’s best friend, was on duty at the main desk.

  Werthen wished her a good day and she looked at him closely, trying to place him.

  ‘The main offices are closed today,’ she said. ‘Sales people come on Mondays and Tuesdays only.’

  This was the second time in several days that Werthen had been mistaken for someone in sales. Perhaps it was time to buy a new tie?

  ‘Not in sales, I fear. Werthen is my name. Advokat Werthen. We talked before, about your friend Maria.’

  ‘Right. You’re the one from Vienna. You got your man. Not that it does Maria any good.’

  ‘No, that is true. It’s a terrible thing when a young person dies. All of her life in front of her …’ He paused, then: ‘You didn’t tell me she worked here as well.’

  She shrugged her big, farm-girl shoulders. ‘You didn’t ask.’

  ‘Or that she had an unusual bit of money lately.’

  ‘That I wouldn’t know about. Couldn’t have been from here, though. You’d think they were all Jews the way they pay you.’

  Werthen let the remark go. Should he be happy or sad that she obviously took him for a gentile, someone with whom she could share her anti-Semitism?

  ‘Did she work here long?’

  ‘A few months. I got the position for her. The management was looking for someone to do cleaning up and Maria was tired of pulling cow teats all day long. A perfect match.’

  ‘Did she like her work?’

  ‘She wasn’t one to complain.’

  Out of the corner of his eye Werthen caught a glimpse of someone leaving the side of the building. The man looked familiar, tall and gaunt with the gait of an old man. Then it came to him: Herr Paulus, director of the spa where Annaliese Reiter worked.

  Fräulein Henninger followed his gaze.

  ‘Anything else? I do have work to do, you know.’

  ‘That was Herr Paulus,’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘You are a bright one. Should be a lawyer.’

  He had a great desire to reach across the desk and slap her. Instead, he smiled at her asinine joke.

  ‘Is he connected with the spa?’

  ‘He’s regional manager. Runs both the Köflach Bad Terminus and ours. Now …’

  ‘Of course. Get back to work. Wouldn’t want the management to dock your pay.’

  Thomas Lukasz was also at his post at the train station. The young man immediately remembered Werthen.

  ‘Alone today, I see,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. My colleague did not want to risk another run in with your fist.’

  Thomas blanched at this.

  ‘Only teasing,’ Werthen said. ‘He’s back in England.’

  ‘But he spoke German.’

  Werthen did not bother trying to explain the concept of learning a foreign language for this literal-minded youth.

  ‘I have another question for you about Maria.’

  ‘They caught her killer.’

  ‘I know. This is just personal curiosity. Her father says she had more money than usual just before her death. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘She worked at the spa. I didn’t want her to. Told her I could support us both on my earnings here. But she sort of laughed at that.’

  ‘Did you notice her spending more than usual?’

  He shook his head. ‘But then for the last few weeks we didn’t see much of each other. She was making plans.’

  ‘To become a nun.’

  A nod. ‘But I thought that was strange. I mean, we were both Catholic. Everyone is. But she never said anything to me about having a vocation. And then all of a sudden she was going off to a nunnery. I guess that’s why I exploded with your friend. It wasn’t right. She belonged with me, not with Jesus.’

  ‘I remember her very well,’ Sister Agnes said.

  Werthen was seated in the presbytery of the church of Maria Strassengel, finally managing to speak with the woman who had discovered Maria Feininger’s body and the person with whom the young woman was supposed to meet the day she was killed.

  ‘She was a sweet young girl. Not the sharpest tack in the box, mind you, but willing and kind.’

  ‘Her young man, Thomas Lukasz, did not think she was the sort to become a nun.’

  She smiled. ‘Well, he wouldn’t now, would he. After all, she was leaving him for a life in the Church. But he was right in a way. It was surprising to me when she announced her intention of becoming a nun. I was prepared to talk her out of it, you know.’

  ‘Why is that, sister?’

  ‘She intimated once that she wanted to enter the convent because she did not feel worthy of her young man. She felt ashamed.’

  ‘Ashamed of what?’

  A sigh. ‘Well, that we will never know, I am afraid. We were scheduled to discuss that the very day she was killed.’

  Frau Czerny, Herr Hohewart’s secretary, lived in a modest flat in the center of Köfl
ach. There were four cats that shared the small apartment with her, one of which was currently wrapping itself seductively around Gross’s right shoe and shin.

  The criminologist resisted the temptation to kick the flea-bearing feline, figuring that might not be the best way to get information from the older woman.

  ‘Herbert is the friendliest,’ she said, a fracture of a smile on her heavily powdered face.

  For a moment Gross thought she was referring to her deceased employer, then remembered his name was Maximilian. He looked at the cat spreading hair on his woolen pant leg.

  ‘He loves a bit of a scratch behind the ears,’ Frau Czerny said.

  But there were limits to what Gross would do to secure information.

  ‘Then, so as far you know, Frau Czerny, there were no close relatives.’

  ‘None that I met, and I served with Herr Hohewart for a number of years. One of my boys, I liked to call them.’

  Her eyes were red-rimmed; he had arrived not long after a cry, apparently. Apparently also, Frau Czerny was the devoted sort of secretary who put work ahead of family, for on the massive sideboard, which took far too much space out of the tiny sitting room, there was an extensive photo gallery, but not one picture of a human. No indication of a husband or any children ever in her life. No time for them. Just row after row of cats neatly framed and, by the looks of them, freshly dusted.

  ‘And did Herr Hohewart have close friends … of either gender?’

  ‘Other than his wife, none that I know of.’

  ‘But you said there were no relatives.’

  She looked flustered for a moment and he regretted the edge to his voice.

  ‘Like a brother or sister, I meant.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was a married man,’ Gross said. ‘Nobody mentioned.’

  ‘It was a sadness for him. She’s been hospitalized for the better part of a decade.’ Frau Czerny swirled her forefinger at her temple. ‘Not right up there, poor woman. Has a suite of rooms in the psychiatric clinic in Graz.’

  The same as his own son, Gross thought ruefully. But he forestalled any further painful thoughts by focusing on the interview at hand.