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

by J Sydney Jones

  ‘Not long enough, I guarantee that. He could’ve killed me. The man’s a maniac when riled.’ Another low chuckle. ‘And I knew how to rile him, that was for sure.’

  ‘What was your argument about?’ Berthe asked.

  ‘Argument? Hardly an argument. More a bit of name calling. Yes, those were the days.’

  He seemed to drift off for an instant.

  ‘Herr Prochazka?’ Berthe said.

  Just then the housekeeper brought in the tea things, and Berthe did the honors, filling three cups. ‘Sugar?’ she asked Herr Prochazka.

  ‘Never touch it. Takes my bitter edge away.’

  ‘About the name calling,’ she prompted.

  ‘Yes. Like overgrown school children we were. The Moor. That’s what we called him.’

  ‘Von Hobarty?’ Werthen asked.

  At this, Herr Prochazka gazed at him as if only then realizing he was present.

  ‘Yes, yes. Hobarty. Von. Damned silly bit of affectation. Pardon the rough language. But he is no more an aristocrat than my gardener.’

  ‘Why the “Moor”?’ Berthe asked.

  ‘You don’t know the story?’ He looked honestly surprised at their ignorance. ‘Ah, but then I suppose you young ones wouldn’t. Ever met the man?’

  Werthen nodded.

  ‘Notice anything about his coloring?’

  ‘He seems the outdoor sort. His skin is well tanned.’

  This brought an outright laugh from the Czech. ‘Tanned indeed. His grandmother was a black. An Ethiopian princess, so they say. The grandfather met her while training as an engineer in the lesser parts of the world. A damned romantic tale it was, both of them going against their families. Hers did not want any pale sort of fish in their lineage any more than his wanted Nubian blood in theirs. Story is, she died in childbirth, and the bereaved widower moved away from Transylvania to Austria. Started a new life in Styria working as an engineer and made a packet of money on the railroads. Added the ‘von’ and tried to hide the past. His son, von Hobarty’s father, barely showed his African heritage. Got married to a local belle and had one son before she too died in childbirth. I suppose von Hobarty himself never married because of that curse of death in childbirth. Or maybe he was too frightened that the offspring might be a lot darker than expected. Quite a shock for the man who preaches the master race and the necessity for controlled breeding.’

  ‘The Moor,’ Werthen repeated. ‘No, I don’t imagine he would want to risk having a black child.’

  Thirty-One

  That same afternoon, after finishing his lunch of pork shank, cabbage salad with caraway seeds, and freshly grated horseradish, Gross took a coach to Köflach to speak once again to Frau Czerny. He slept most of the way, having done a bit of damage to a bottle of Riesling along with lunch.

  He was in no mood for cats today, so when Frau Czerny, nonplussed by his return visit, directed him to a comfortable armchair in her sitting room and repaired to the kitchen to make coffee, he gave the first feline to approach his trouser leg a swift kick. Message delivered.

  During her absence he also had time to snoop about the room and was quickly rewarded by the discovery of an Underwood No. 5 front-striking typewriter under a massive tea cozy sort of canvas dust guard. He struck the lower case ‘e’ and ‘p’ keys onto a scrap of paper he found in his pocket; the typological anomalies described by Werthen over the telephone were very similar to what he now saw on the paper before him. Too late, he discovered he was typing on the back of a letter he planned to have delivered to his son at the Graz clinic.

  Frau Czerny returned to the accompaniment of the dull clinking sound of cups and saucers knocking against one another on the tray she carried. No digestif bitters today, thank God; though he could have profited by some after his heavy lunch. Gross made no move to conceal his interest in the typewriter.

  ‘It is my little baby,’ she said, placing the coffee tray down on a side table. ‘A gift from Herr Hohewart. Such a thoughtful man.’ She sniffed as she said this.

  ‘You often took work home?’

  ‘There was just myself in the office all those years. What will become of Premium Breeds now? But yes, I often took correspondence home to work on. The pussies like the clacking of the keys.’

  ‘I believe you typed up a list of names to send to one Berthe Meisner following her interview with your employer. That would be late last month.’

  ‘I may have done. There were so many letters …’

  ‘It bore the return address of Premier Breeds.’

  ‘Well, then,’ she said prissily, ‘it must have come from me. Herr Hohewart was helpless with a typewriter.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gross agreed. ‘Pen and ink were more his style, we have discovered.’

  Frau Czerny obviously did not know how to respond to this, so remained silent.

  She poured the coffee and Gross was subsequently surprised that it was quite drinkable. She did not appear the kind of woman to know how to boil an egg let alone brew a decent cup of coffee.

  He set the cup down and looked at her with his stern courtroom look.

  ‘I do not think you have been quite forthcoming with me, Frau Czerny.’

  ‘How could you say that? I have told you all I know of Herr Hohewart’s work.’

  ‘Yes, but when asked about any recent contacts with your former employer, Herr von Hobarty, you were rather evasive. In point of fact, you met with him quite recently. He had you type up some notes for him, didn’t he? Names, dates, and addresses of breeders and breeding schedules, for example.’

  ‘I never read the communications. I merely transcribe.’

  ‘So you did type the document for Herr von Hobarty.’

  She pursed her lips, her cheeks turning red. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do, madam. I do.’

  ‘There was nothing wrong with my doing so. It was not on office time, I assure you.’

  Despite what Werthen had said about wishing to speak with Herr Prochazka before meeting with von Hobarty again, Gross could not wait. He found von Hobarty an insufferable blowhard and wanted badly to see how he would react to the fact that Gross knew that it was he, von Hobarty, who wrote up and had typed the notes that supposedly had come from Krensky. He decided to save speculations about the man’s Bathory lineage for later, after he’d had more time to discover the veracity of such claims and to mull over their significance if true.

  Said notes were damning enough, according to Werthen, so it could not be that von Hobarty was trying to tamper with evidence in order to invalidate the Lipizzaner investigation. In point of fact, it seemed increasingly that von Hobarty was the source of Krensky’s information.

  So, what could the man’s motive be?

  Gross intended to find out.

  He did not bother to call ahead, not wanting to give the man an opportunity to prepare some fabrication.

  It was late afternoon by the time Gross drew near enough the von Hobarty estate to once again see the imposing spires and parapets of the castle over the tops of the surrounding forest. Dusk was falling early this last week of November as the winter solstice approached. That thought took Gross momentarily back to the gruesome series of murders committed by Franz Klapper and to his bizarre use of phases of the moon to time his crimes. All set as a test for Gross – one which he had failed.

  That realization still rankled. That a man of Klapper’s insignificance should be able to outwit the greatest criminologist of his day … Three a.m. thoughts, indeed.

  Von Hobarty was at home this late afternoon, and was no less haughty than he had been on previous occasions.

  ‘Not more questions about Herr Klapper, I hope,’ he said as Gross was ushered into the chilly climes of the library by a liveried footman. The same footman had been in working clothes last visit. Herr von Hobarty himself was dressed in white tie and tails. The sparkling white of tie and shirt contrasted acutely against the deep brown of his face and the black of his prodigious beard.

  �
��No, not about Klapper. But I see I have interrupted you.’

  ‘A small formal dinner that starts later. A few friends.’ Von Hobarty lifted his hands palms up as if to show what a trifling matter it was. ‘What is it you need, Doktor Gross?’

  ‘You are familiar with Frau Czerny?’

  ‘Familiar? Damned odd way to put it. She used to work for me. I secured the good woman her present … well, former now, position with Hohewart.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gross said. ‘So she told me. A hard-working woman it would seem. She often takes work home at night. Correspondence to be typed. That sort of thing.’

  Von Hobarty cast him a quizzical look.

  ‘Is there a question hidden somewhere in that statement, Doktor Gross?’

  ‘Would you say that Frau Czerny is an honest sort?’

  ‘As the day is long.’

  Looking through the library window to the gloaming at half past five, Gross was not so sure this was the most apposite comparison.

  ‘Then, if I were to tell you that Frau Czerny avers that you had her type up a document for you, the same document which was later sent to Frau Berthe Meisner under the guise of a packet from one of Theo Krensky’s friends—’

  ‘I would say that she is telling the truth.’

  The complacence with which this was stated took Gross aback for a moment, at a loss for words.

  ‘Is that so shocking, Doktor Gross?’

  ‘Surprising, not shocking.’

  ‘That I sent those notes or that I admit to it?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘It should not be. I am a patriot.’

  ‘Whatever does that have to do with it?’

  ‘It is my patriotic duty to stop this breeding fiasco before it goes any further. Before the brand of Lipizzaner is completely and utterly sullied.’

  ‘You act out of pure motives, then?’

  ‘I confess to a feeling of guilt in the matter, having introduced Herr Hohewart at the Imperial Ministry of Agriculture. It was partly on my say so that they adopted his services.’

  ‘That was unfortunate. You knew him well?’

  ‘The minister?’

  ‘Hohewart.’

  ‘Long enough. I thought I could trust the man. After all, he was of good, strong German breeding. But …’

  ‘You were wrong.’

  ‘Yes,’ von Hobarty admitted. ‘Is that what you have come for, Doktor Gross, to hear me admit my mistake?’

  Gross said nothing for a moment, and von Hobarty filled in the silence.

  ‘You see I met young Krensky when he was writing a series of articles on Styrian viniculture. Upon discovering the misdeeds at Premium Breeds, I thought that young journalist might be just the one to bring such a story to light.’

  ‘But why not simply go to the ministry yourself? Surely you still have access to powerful people.’

  Von Hobarty looked down at his desktop as if unable to look Gross in the eye. After a pause, he looked up.

  ‘Well, that is what others might have done. But I make a further confession to you. I wanted to distance myself from these events as much as possible. I had hoped to keep my name out of it altogether. With the death of Krensky, it seemed that the matter had been buried. I did not want that to happen, so I assembled the information I had originally given to Krensky and sent it to Frau Meisner, as Hohewart had told me she was in the employ of none other than Franz Ferdinand himself. I felt this would stir things up again.’

  ‘Oh, it has,’ Gross said.

  ‘I still hope to keep my name out of the scandal, but realize that might not be possible now.’

  Gross said nothing, merely nodding his head in agreement.

  ‘And now, Doktor Gross, perhaps you will share information with me. Did the gendarmerie ever determine how Klapper chose his unfortunate victims? It has been preying on me of late that I might be somehow responsible.’

  ‘You, sir? In what way responsible?’ Gross asked.

  ‘I do not really know. But an idle word here or there spoken and misunderstood. The man was, after all, an obvious psychotic.’

  ‘But you had no knowledge of several of the victims.’

  ‘True. But there was the unfortunate Fräulein Klein who was in my employ. I actually attempted to have the local gendarmerie drive her off, something Inspector Thielman refused to do, of course. Perhaps Klapper learned of this. And Herr Krensky was, as you now know, an acquaintance of mine.’

  ‘I doubt, Herr von Hobarty, that anyone shall ever know the mind of a man like Klapper. I would, however, not unduly burden yourself with feelings of guilt.’

  ‘Well, hardly guilt. More a matter of wishing to put a final punctuation on the matter.’

  Von Hobarty said this in such an overbearing manner that it immediately erased the bit of empathy Gross had been feeling for him.

  Von Hobarty now rose, standing tall and straight behind his desk, to announce that the interview was over.

  ‘By the way, Herr von Hobarty. Where were you on Friday night last, sometime after nine o’clock?’

  ‘I was not in Piber killing Herr Hohewart, if that is what you want to know. I was here, catching up on accounts, looking through the viniculture catalogues for new cuttings, and finally, going through these.’

  He picked a sheaf of papers off his desk and held them in front of his face. ‘Letters of application from over twenty qualified men to take Klapper’s position.’

  ‘Why not Johannes Schmidt? I’m sure he would be a better employee than an enemy.’

  Von Hobarty pointedly ignored this suggestion. ‘And now, Doktor Gross, if you do not mind. I must open the wine for dinner, give it plenty of time to breathe.’

  The same liveried footman saw Gross to the door and his waiting fiaker. Just outside he saw the plump visage of the cook, Frau Anschitz, walking up the drive.

  Gross tipped his hat to her. ‘Evening,’ he said pleasantly.

  As she approached, he could see vapor bubbles coming from her mouth; she had a thick shawl wrapped around her shoulders and in her hand she carried a basket full of leafy greens.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t the famous detective,’ she said. ‘And where is your handsome young friend?’

  ‘Attending to other matters,’ he said. ‘A cold evening for a stroll.’

  ‘Ahh, the new girl is a complete goose. Forgot to go to the hothouse earlier for salad makings. You want something done right, you do it yourself.’

  ‘And I am sure you want to see things done right, Frau Anschitz, don’t you?’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘It is just that I have been wondering. You see, my young friend, Advokat Werthen, told me about your little conversation. That Fräulein Klein was not the first young girl employed by this household to find herself in trouble. You told Werthen that the others had simply been shipped off. One assumes the pregnancies—’

  Slanting her head to the left, Frau Anschitz gave him a stern look. ‘What business is it of yours, anyway? That crazy Klapper did it, did them all. Over and done with. Talk of it now is mere gossip.’

  ‘True,’ Gross allowed. Then he smiled wickedly. ‘But gossip can be fun. Humor me.’

  This brought a sly smile from the cook.

  ‘Why wasn’t Fräulein Klein simply sent away like the others?’ Gross asked again.

  ‘He tried. But Ursula was in love. Can you imagine that? In love and was not going to be shipped off to an angel maker. She wanted the child. Even if she could not have him –’ she nodded toward the castle – ‘she would have the baby.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I am happy someone does. Never could understand the to-do about love. Most overrated emotion I can think of. Now, a hearty appetite, there’s something close to my heart.’

  And with that, she was off, skirting around the front entrance to the kitchen door on the far side.

  Gross was happy to rest his backside in the fiaker once again, and began looking forward to dinner at the Hotel Daniel. He was
of a mind with Frau Anschitz about appetites.

  As his fiaker joggled down the snowy path, Gross thought about the young woman who so loved von Hobarty that she refused to abort their love child. It gave him something to mull on, a metaphorical aperitif for his forthcoming dinner.

  But what did all of this have to with a horsebreeding scandal?

  Thirty-Two

  Kraus was very meticulous about adding the three cubes of sugar to his double mélange with a bit of hot chocolate and schlag obers on top.

  Using the minute spoon lodged on the saucer, he carefully stirred in the sugar.

  Werthen watched this with impatience: Kraus playing thespian when all he, Werthen, wanted, was a bit of information.

  They were seated at the Café Central, where Kraus had agreed to meet. It really did not suit Werthen who was far more comfortable at the stodgy old Café Frauenhuber where he could always count on the professional services of Herr Otto. But Kraus was obviously in need of the see-and-be-seen atmosphere the Central so benevolently provided. Tables full of literary groups dotted the potted-palmed terrain.

  The waiter brought Kraus’s mid-morning snack, a poppy seed bun drizzled with vanilla cream sauce. The rich scent of it was unappealing to Werthen at this time of day. He took a sip of his own unadorned kleine Braune.

  Kraus had a first bite of the poppy seed bun, then licked the sauce off his fork.

  ‘Now what exactly was it you wanted to know about our friend?’

  ‘Origins,’ Werthen said succinctly in the vain hope this would inspire the same brevity in Karl Kraus.

  ‘That, I believe, is a tale to tell. Granted, I have heard variations on the theme, but the standard melody line is that there was an untoward marriage a couple of generations ago.’

  ‘An Ethiopian princess,’ Werthen offered.

  ‘Quite good, Advokat. You have been listening to coffeehouse gossip. Bravo for you. Do you know the entire tale then?’

  ‘I am searching for corroboration, I suppose.’

  ‘True, all true. Von Hobarty is known as the Moor for good reason.’

  ‘How do you know it is not mere malicious gossip, this strain of the Negroid in the von Hobarty bloodline?’ Werthen asked.