The Trail of Four

by Manjiri Prabhu

  ‘Exactly! Perhaps that’s why it’s perhaps too much of a cliché to be the spot. Perhaps Reinhardt deliberately avoided a place which would be so obvious that even a child could decipher the clue.’

  Isabel shook her head again. ‘I am stuck. I can’t think of any other place where the Fours play. Plus, there’s this tagline, “as I look on”.Who looks on? Is it Max Reinhardt that looks on?’

  ‘Perhaps his portrait? In the Library?’

  ‘Nah,’ she wasn’t convinced.

  ‘In that case, there’s only one thing to do. We’ll have to retrace our steps and begin from the lake entrance again. The four steps, the four trees…’

  Isabel’s head jerked towards him, her face bright with excitement again. Re’s eyes began to glint too. By mutual, silent consent, they instantly rose, their coffee forgotten, and clattered down the broad stairs, through the Great Hall and out into the terrace.

  At the lake front, they stood between the seahorses and faced the Schloss. It spread like a map from left to right with the garden maze, rose bushes, trees and the sculptures as foreground. To Re’s quick artistic eye, it appeared resplendent in the early evening sun, the windows like mini box-eyes staring down at them with curiosity.

  ‘You said that these gardens were laid by Reinhardt, right?’

  ‘Yes. When Reinhardt bought the Schloss, only swampy land with wild overgrowth surrounded the castle. First, an avenue was created, followed by the pond, where you can find the Hercules statue. Then trees and shrubs were planted by him. He was obsessed with the park and wrote long letters about its care from wherever he was. And in addition to the statuary, many parts of the Schloss itself were rebuilt by him.’

  From where they stood, a concrete path ran between the gardens, leading to the raised open terrace where some marble-topped tables and cozy cane chairs squatted invitingly. The terrace steps were flanked by four tall trees, two on each side, their tops dipping gracefully with the wind. The arch of the Marble Hall gallery formed a kind of shaded passage over the terrace, before leading to the wooden and black metal door entrance to the Great Hall.

  ‘Look, on either side of the terrace, four ancient-looking lamps. Come on!’ Re clutched her hand and led her to the terrace.

  The sit-out was beckoning an invitation to relax and gaze into a lazy view of the glittering calm lake and for fleeting moments Re considered the temptation longingly. He felt so tired. Mentally fatigued, too.

  ‘Four arches of the gallery,’ Isabel counted, bringing his focus to the present with a snap.

  The thick pillars of the huge arches were covered by a mass of thick, flourishing ivy, the lush green and rich auburn shades entwined like gigantic, colourful braids. They walked through the arch and halted under it.

  ‘And look! Four busts, two on either side of the Great Hall door!’ Isabel’s voice rose. ‘“Where the fours play!” So many fours—steps, trees, lamps and busts!’

  ‘And we walked right past them and didn’t even register! It’s a good lesson for us to to henceforth proceed step by step, inch by inch. But where’s the “as I look on” bit?’ Re wondered.

  Isabel wheeled around and went back to their original position by the lake. ‘It’s got to be here somewhere.’ She scoured the palace wall from top to bottom, her hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun.

  ‘Surely no portraits would be hung outside?’ Re asked

  ‘No, but a sculpture or a—got it! Look!’ she pointed to a sculpted face right above the arch and the terrace door of the Marble Hall. The face was minutely detailed, with a long neck, a flowery collar and an elaborate hairdo which looked almost like a crown. It formed the centrepiece, as its scarf flowed into the wall of the Schloss to roll out on both sides to join two other faces. These were of men with beards and open mouths, as if shouting something. It was the projecting horns that signified an element of drama.

  ‘That’s Max Reinhardt’s representation of a happy face from theatre. You’ll find a similar face in the Library along with a masked face. They both represent his two sides. I recalled seeing this but wasn’t sure where. Can you see any other faces?’

  Re scanned the walls for a sculpture, but there wasn’t any.‘You’re right,’ he concluded. ‘This has got to be “as I look on”. Good job!’ He smiled appreciatively at her.

  She nodded her acknowledgement. ‘Helps when the Schloss is your workplace and you think of nothing else but Schloss history and the people in it,’ she replied modestly.

  ‘And now “for the one that inclines”… something should be pointing the way, and we will be done with this clue.’

  ‘That’s easy, too. The first bust near the door is different from the others.’

  They hastened to the busts and Re noticed that Isabel was right again. The busts posed on tall stone pillars, two on each side of the entrance to the Marble Hall. Three were of men, with short cropped hair, in stately robes, wearing a look of pride on their faces as they looked straight towards the lake. Only the one on the immediate left of the huge wooden door sported long curly hair, and an inclined head.

  ‘As if it is looking at the door!This is the one,’ Re sounded close to exhilaration.

  Isabel nodded, suddenly mute. Re curbed his excitement as he expertly moved his hands over the bust, looking for a hiding place. The bust was smooth and hid no crevices. His hand slipped under it. It slid slightly, and he glanced excitedly at the historian, who was watching him with a great deal of restraint. The bust was heavy as Re lifted it a fraction of an inch and swept a hand underneath to check. But there was nothing. He gripped the bust at the bottom and suddenly his little finger slipped inside the bust. There was a hollow there! Re probed deeper, his heart beginning to thud in anticipation. The next instant, his fingers touched something soft. Within seconds, he had withdrawn another oilskin roll, a look of triumph and relief on his face.

  ‘My legs are shaking, I need to sit,’ Isabel whispered, astonishment mingled with shock in her voice.

  Re grinned. ‘You are making it a habit, ma chérie.’ ‘Can’t help it. History, schatz, is coming alive.’

  Re laughed, delightedly. ‘Come on, want to do the honours?’

  ‘It would be a privilege.’

  They settled down by the table on the terrace. Isabel carefully extracted the folded sheet of paper, yellowed with age, and spread it out on the wooden surface. The handwritten words sent a thrill down Re’s back as she read them aloud.

  ‘Excellent show, I must say, that you’ve reached this far!

  In gentle blue robes, sits the Big Cheese, telling tales,

  And in the serenity of the frail sheets, all other truth pales.’

  For a few moments, Re allowed the ambience of the surroundings to fill his senses. The glistening lake, the auburn ivy on the arches, a pale sun which touched the landscape with a gold-yellow fluorescence and a rain-laden wind which sent a chill down his semi-wet shirt and trousers. His limp pony tail was beginning to puff up untidily and he ran his fingers through them.

  ‘I like the way he’s conversing with us,’ Re commented amused.

  ‘Max Reinhardt was a producer and a director. He knew how to engage people with his theatrics and drama. Sometimes I wish I had been born in his time. I would’ve loved to meet him and work with him.’

  ‘It’s one thing to be in love with an image and quite another to actually meet that person. There is always a huge possibility that the two do not match and you could be bitterly disappointed,’ Re said with an air of wisdom.

  ‘Not with Reinhardt. I’m sure I would’ve liked him.’ Isabel sounded confident. ‘And by the way, I am not in love with him. It’s just that I’ve studied him so much—he’s been my favourite companion night and day—that he almost feels alive. And now this. What more could I ask?’

  ‘The answers? Finding out who stole the heart and who tried to kill twelve innocent people to prove some unfathomable point? And the person who tried to drive us off the boat and who this very moment ma
y be plotting and planning his next disaster in Salzburg,’ Re ended.

  Isabel glanced up, startled at the bitterness and anger in his voice.

  ‘You are right.’ She looked a little abashed. ‘For me this whole episode is like tracking history but for you it’s all too real. All too much a part of your psychic realization.’

  ‘It’s more a manifestation of an unpleasant vision,’ Re remarked drily. ‘A vision which I would rather not have, but paradoxically am glad I do, because of what I can do to help prevent it from becoming real. I sound like a crazy, confused guy, n’est-ce-pas?’

  ‘Not at all. I perfectly understand what you mean. You don’t want it, but you do. Makes sense.’

  Re glanced at her for a moment. Her hair was drying in the sun, golden wisps sticking out oddly at angles. Her legs were stretched out under the table, encased in comfortable black canvas shoes. Her chin jutted out, determined and at the same time with a soft expression on her face, as she stared at the clue in her hand. Her total connection to the past was pleasant to observe. She glanced up just then and their eyes locked.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’ She sighed.

  ‘And what is that?’ Re raised an eyebrow.

  ‘That till this morning I was pining for my lost husband and yet here I am, enjoying solving the Trail. Right?’

  ‘Wrong.’ Re shook his head.

  ‘You don’t think it’s strange that I should enjoy myself?’

  Isabel leaned forward lightly, studying his face curiously.

  ‘Non. I think it’s very selfless on your part that you agreed to join me in the first place, and help us on with the Trail. Without you and your extensive knowledge of the Schloss and Salzburg, none of this would be possible. The fact that you feel you are enjoying yourself, is an inherent part of your survival instinct. Your inherent will to make the best of the situation. You are not having fun.You are courting danger, as you just experienced.’

  ‘Wow! You do—’ she searched for an appropriate word, ‘read people well’.

  ‘Mais bien, I do.’ He grinned suddenly, revealing his neat row of teeth.

  ‘That was accurate, by the way,’ she responded with a smile, her eyes lighting up from within. ‘Oh, the weather’s changing. Look at those clouds. Where did they come from? They look lovely, don’t they. I feel like touching them.’

  ‘So touch them,’ Re said.

  ‘Touch them? What do you mean?’ She turned to him with interest.

  A cool breeze had picked up and sudden dark patches had appeared in the sky. Birds skimmed across, making the sky their playground, flying in now straight, and then curved lines.

  ‘You see that dark patch, right there? And that little opening in the dark clouds? Like a window?’ Re pointed.

  Isabel nodded.

  ‘Now hold your hand up and close one eye. See, you can almost touch it.’

  Isabel followed his instructions. ‘I can!’ she exulted.

  ‘Now, slowly, with steady fingers, clear away the dark clouds and make that little window larger. Make it large enough to bring out the brightness and let the darkness recede.’

  A small smile lifted the corners of her lips and an amused expression crossed her eyes, as she played with the cloud. ‘Nice!’

  Re shrugged. ‘I call it my eye-piece vision. I do it all the time with my camera. Close one eye and look at things that seem to appear far away, out of reach and unfathomable. And then I see them clearly and find them so accessible. Then I can touch them, clear away the smudges, make changes and permutations and combinations. I figure them out. And voila! They no more seem far and unreachable.’

  Isabel turned to look at Re, a hint of admiration touching her face. ‘Amazing!’

  ‘You can do it too. In fact, you just did it. Cleared the cloud and brought out the brightness,’ he reminded her gently.

  ‘I did, didn’t I? Wow.’ Isabel stared back at the cloud which had moved on, the window of bright light swallowing up the darkness. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. And so, we get back to work?’

  Isabel nodded.

  ***

  ‘Richard’s description has been circulated to all the stations,’ Kurt, the deputy officer, reported. He was a strapping young man with tireless energy. Stefan liked and trusted him.

  ‘Gut.The moment you have any news, you let me know at once, is that clear?’ he ordered.

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Any report from the bomb squad?’

  ‘All clear so far.’

  Stefan nodded and Kurt took his leave.

  So far, so good, but he still wasn’t confident enough to call off the search. That guy seemed like a lunatic, he thought uneasily, obsessed with Reinhardt’s Gift. If he could attempt to kill innocent people with the help of a stylized drone without a qualm, why would he not plant a bomb? Each and every structure in Salzburg was not only of archival value, but was an example of historical artistic brilliance. Not to mention the innocent Salzburgers and tourists who might suffer in this dangerous game. He could not afford to call off the bomb search, until the entire Altstadt was combed and the culprit was caught, which had to be soon. The police would now be on the lookout for a suspicious character who resembled Richard, if at all that was his real name. Not that they had much of a descriptive lead. But at least they had something.

  His thoughts slipped to Joanna and Perth. What a funny situation! Who had booked the rooms for them at the Schloss and why? There seemed to be no obvious connection to the theft of the Archbishop’s heart either. The two seemed clueless, too, unless they were both very good actors and were hiding something from him. But Stefan doubted it. Normally, he could detect a lie a mile away.

  The only person who had him totally flummoxed was Isabel. But then Isabel was different. Always had been. Even when they were dating. She had that constant edge over him. Of superiority. Of knowing clearly what she wanted. He particularly recalled that look in her lovely eyes, just before they used to go skiing together down the hills in winter, that look of mute challenge before she slipped on her goggles… Stefan shook his head. There he was again, thinking and reflecting on the days gone by, never to return, remembering Isabel with a twinge of regret and…with an effort, he thrust thoughts of her away. He wasn’t going to think of her now. He wasn’t! Not with regret, not with love, which sometimes felt as fresh as when he first loved her!

  He turned to his laptop and idly checked his mail. A new one caught his eye. Parisgirl? His interest peaked, he opened to the mail. It was brief: ‘Ask Re what happened to his sister. And what happened to the necklace from the Paris collection that he was supposed to make a film on? It was never found!’

  ***

  ‘In gentle blue robes, sits the Big Cheese, telling tales.

  And in the serenity of the frail sheets, every other truth pales.’

  Isabel read the clue aloud.

  ‘Big Cheese in blue robes,’ Re repeated, a thin line of concentration on his forehead. ‘Any idea what Big Cheese stands for?’

  ‘Never heard of it.’ Isabel shrugged.

  ‘It can’t certainly mean the cheese that we eat,’ Re chuckled. ‘Blue cheese—in Paris you’ll find tons of dishes cooked with blue cheese.’

  ‘But this isn’t that cheese, I’m sure.’

  ‘I was thinking more along the lines of an eatery where blue cheese is served.’

  ‘There’s the restaurant across the lake. The one we took the boat from, but you are kidding, right?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he smirked. ‘Let me look up the Net to see what Big Cheese could stand for.’

  He flipped through his cellphone and within minutes, he glanced up with a triumphant look on his face. ‘I thought as much,’ he crowed. ‘Big Cheese is like Cat’s Meow—slang of the 1920s for a most influential or important person. Like a boss.’

  ‘Big Cheese as in Boss,’ Isabel was reflective. ‘That could mean Max Reinhardt himself, couldn’t he?

  ‘Yes, th
e most influential person would be Reinhardt himself,’ Re agreed. ‘Is there any picture of him in blue robes, anything, or a place where he could read or narrate tales?’

  ‘Reinhardt had a few special spots, although he loved the entire Schloss. The Library, which holds his ingenious creation—the secret staircase which goes up to his personal suite. His office, which opens right next door to the Library. His suite, with its adjoining meeting room, and finally, the sun terrace where he would take his walks. As his workload for the Salzburg Festival became heavier, Reinhardt barely had time to exercise, so he set up this terrace on the roof of the Schloss. He would go there to enjoy the sun, have breakfast and read.’

  ‘Any other places where an old portrait could be hung or found?’

  ‘The attic. It’s a lovely space on top of the Schloss, almost empty but for some old furniture. And of course, the director’s apartment on the third floor of the Schloss, which used to once be Max Reinhardt’s studio where he would hold his auditions.’

  ‘That’s a lot of places. Perhaps we should begin our search with the Max Reinhardt suite. Most likely place to hang your own portrait, right? I mean, if it is still there. Also frail white sheets imply a book of sorts. Could there be a diary in his suite?’

  ‘Now that I think of it, there could’ve been a portrait,’ reflected Isabel, ‘but it could’ve been removed. When the Nazis took over the Schloss, they literally plundered it. A lot of stuff went missing. Luckily for Reinhardt, although he didn’t know it then, Princess Stephanie Hohenlohe, who was close to Hitler at that point, was given charge of the Schloss to “Aryanize the Schloss and Estate Leopoldskron” and turn it into a guesthouse for important artists of the Reich. Princess Stephanie knew Reinhardt from before the Anschluss. As a kind gesture, she managed to garner permission and sent sixteen carts of his stuff, including books, furniture, silver and porcelain, to him in America. But Reinhardt apparently wrote back saying, “Yes, the stuff arrived, but what are sixteen crates when you have lost Leopoldskron?” Anyway, the point is that the portrait in blue could’ve been shipped to him in America.’