Sent to the Devil

by Laura Lebow

  Mozart studied the page. “33, 27, 54,” he said. “Each number stands for a word?”

  Casanova nodded.

  “Let me think,” Mozart said. “33. Give me a hint. How many letters in the first word?”

  “Two,” Casanova said.

  “If each letter in the alphabet is assigned to a number, then the highest number cannot be more than 26. 26 and 7—that would be z and g. That’s not a word. Let’s try 25 and 8.”

  I sipped the rest of my beer as Mozart and Casanova worked through the puzzle. My bones felt weary, my mind exhausted. After about ten minutes of watching them, I placed some coins on the table, excused myself, and left the two knights to their fun.

  * * *

  It was raining lightly as I walked through the winding streets behind the university toward the Stuben gate. Dusk had fallen, and the torches in the street lamps sputtered in the moist air. Although it was still unseasonably warm, I pulled the collar of my cloak up around my neck as I made my way past the former church dedicated to Saint Barbara, which the emperor had recently given to the Greek community of Vienna. I was so tired that I could not think clearly about everything I had seen on this horrid day. I trudged down the street and turned into the short side street which would take me to the city wall. From there it would be a few steps to the Stuben gate.

  The narrow street was unlit, its stones wet and slippery. I had only walked past the first of the darkened houses when the back of my neck tingled. Footsteps sounded behind me. I hurried past the next two houses, trying not to fall on the damp stones. The footsteps behind me quickened. Ahead of me the light on top of the city wall cast a welcoming pool of light on the street. I hastened toward it, my heart pounding. The footsteps kept pace with my own.

  A moment later, I walked into the light and turned the corner. The Stuben gate loomed before me. A few more steps brought me to the gate. My shoulders sagged with relief as I joined a group of workers leaving the city. Before I crossed under the arch, I turned and looked back the way I had come. A man leaned against the wall of the corner house, resting in the pool of light. I could not make out his features in the distance, but a shiver ran down my back at what I could see of him—his sturdy build, his dark hair, and his forest-green cloak.

  Fourteen

  I was in my office the next day when Benda came in at noon.

  “Any news?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Troger’s men spent yesterday afternoon interviewing Hennen’s neighbors, but no one saw a messenger come to the house, and no one saw the baron leave that night.”

  I sighed.

  “I just passed Richter in the Graben,” he continued. “He was headed toward the Stephansplatz with that crate of his. Now’s a good time to visit his mother.”

  Although the rain had stopped late last night, the sky was still full of clouds. But the warmth continued, and I had left my cloak at my lodging house this morning. “I think we should consider a different theory about these murders,” I said as we walked down the Kohlmarkt toward the Judenplatz.

  Benda frowned. “What do you mean? The only evidence that we have is the baker’s claim that Richter and the general argued in the Am Hof before the general was murdered. What else is there?”

  “Those papers we found in Hennen’s chamber. I think the killer sent them to the baron.”

  “The Dante quotations? That’s a leap!” Benda exclaimed. “As I said yesterday, they could be from anyone. They could mean anything.”

  “But there is more,” I said. I explained about the symbolism of the markings on the victims’ foreheads, and the link to Dante’s Purgatory.

  Benda was silent as we passed by the back of the Am Hof church. “There were no cuttings on the general’s forehead,” he reminded me. “His murder doesn’t fit your theory.”

  “I know.” I sighed. “I haven’t thought the whole thing through yet. But I feel in my heart that there is a connection to Dante.”

  “Perhaps so. But how do we investigate that? Should we search the entire city for people who own The Divine Comedy? There must be hundreds. Even Christiane has a copy in her library, for God’s sake.”

  My cheeks reddened. I made no reply as we walked down the Parisergasse and entered the Judenplatz. The small square had been the home to Vienna’s synagogue in the Middle Ages, and was now lined with modest old apartment buildings. Benda led me to a cream-colored, narrow building on the right side of the square. A tailor shop occupied the ground floor. We entered the side door.

  “It’s at the top,” Benda said. We climbed five flights of steep stairs to the attic. At the top landing, I struggled to catch my breath as Benda knocked on the door to our left. There was no answer.

  Benda knocked again. “Frau Richter?” he called.

  A loud clunking noise came from behind the door.

  “She is blind,” Benda told me.

  “Who is there?” a frail voice called.

  “Frau Richter, please open the door. We’d like to talk to you. It is about your son.”

  A minute later, the door opened. Richter’s mother was small-boned, with a sharp nose, thin lips, and a fleshy wattle at her throat. Her brown eyes stared blankly at us.

  “Good day, Frau Richter,” Benda said. He pushed his way past her into the apartment. I followed.

  The living quarters were tiny, just two small rooms. A small bed, a cupboard, and a small table with two chairs stood in the front room. I righted the chair that she had overturned in her haste to answer the door and placed it under the table. I looked through the doorway to the cramped second room. A small bed had been tucked under the sloping ceiling. Next to it stood a simple wooden table upon which sat a large clock.

  “You gentlemen are friends of my Michael?” Frau Richter asked. She felt her way to the table and pulled out one of the chairs. “Please, sirs, sit down. May I offer you something to drink?”

  Benda and I remained standing. “No, thank you, madame,” I said. “We do not wish to bother you. We need just a moment of your time. Please sit.”

  She sat in the chair. Her hands quivered in her lap.

  “We have a few questions about your son,” Benda said.

  Her hand flew to her throat. “Is he all right? Has there been an accident?”

  “No,” Benda said. “He is fine. We just saw him. We would like you to think very hard, back to two weeks ago, April 8. It was a Tuesday. Do you remember what your son did that night?”

  Her head bobbed up and down as she pondered the question. “All of the nights are the same to me, sir. Which day was it?”

  “Tuesday, April 8,” Benda said impatiently.

  “It was the first day of this warm weather,” I offered, hoping to stir her memory.

  “Oh, yes. Now I remember. It was so hot up here that day. Yes. Michael went to a meeting with some friends of his. He is involved in a group that opposes this terrible war. It lasted very late. Do you gentlemen know Michael from the group?”

  Benda gestured for me to continue questioning her. He quietly moved into the next room and riffled through some papers on the table by the bed.

  “Do you remember what time he came home that night?” I asked.

  Her head bobbed up and down. “It was very late. He was upset when he got here. A man who had been with the troops at Semlin had spoken at the meeting. He told Michael and his friends how awful the conditions in the camp were. There has been a lot of flooding because of the spring rains, and it was beginning to get very hot. Many of the soldiers had watery bowels. Some had already died. Michael told me all about it. He was very angry.”

  “What time did he get home?” I asked gently. Benda had returned to the front room, and was gingerly opening the top door of the cupboard.

  “Let me think. I remember it was late, much later than he usually arrives home. Yes, that’s right. I hadn’t had my supper. Michael is so busy attending meetings and giving speeches. But he always comes home before eight o’clock, to give me my supper and help me
to bed.”

  Benda gently closed the cupboard door and opened the lower one. The hinges on the old wood creaked.

  Frau Richter’s head jerked toward the cupboard. “What’s that noise? What are you doing?”

  “It was nothing,” I said. “My friend just brushed against the cupboard door. Michael didn’t come home by eight that night?”

  “No, he didn’t.” Her voice grew querulous. “I remember it clearly now. I waited and waited. I was worried that he might have been arrested or been injured in a fight. So many people don’t want to hear the truths he preaches. But then he arrived. He was very upset, both about what he had heard at the meeting, and because he had kept me waiting.”

  I shook my head at Benda as he started to close the cupboard door. He left it ajar and remained standing there quietly.

  “Do you remember what time it was?” I asked.

  “About eleven, I think. Yes, I remember. I was sitting here at the table. Michael was preparing my supper. The clock in my bedroom chimed ten times.”

  “It was ten o’clock, then?”

  “Oh, no, sir. The clock needs fixing, you see. It runs an hour slow.”

  “What happened after you ate?”

  “Michael wiped the dishes, and we sat here at the table for a while. He told me all about the meeting. At midnight, he helped me into bed.”

  “Did he also go to bed?”

  “No. He was restless. I heard him moving around in here for a bit. Then I drifted off to sleep.”

  Benda frowned, disappointed that the mother did not indict her son, as he had hoped.

  “But now that I think about it, I remember waking up.” She chewed her lip. “I thought I heard a noise—the latch to the door shutting. I called for Michael but he did not answer. He must have been fast asleep and didn’t hear it.”

  “Did you get up?” I asked.

  “No, sir. I lay awake for a few minutes, and when I did not hear the noise again, I fell asleep.”

  “Did you notice the time?” Benda asked sharply.

  She turned her head to where he stood by the cupboard. “Yes, sir, I did. A moment after I called for Michael, the clock chimed twelve times.”

  Fifteen

  “Was all that necessary?” I snapped as we hurried down the stairs and back into the Judenplatz.

  Benda looked at me quizzically. “What?”

  “Tricking that poor woman—allowing her to believe that we were friends of her son. Searching the apartment without her knowing. Taking advantage of her unfortunate condition!”

  Benda stiffened at my criticism. “Pergen told me you had been involved in a murder case before,” he said. “How can you be so naïve? We’re dealing with a determined killer, one who is striking at the very heart of all that Austria stands for. You of all people should know that in situations like this, the ends justify the means. That woman is no poor innocent. She might be the mother of a vicious killer.” His tone softened. “Consider what we were able to learn. Richter wasn’t asleep when she was wakened by the noise. He had just closed the door and left the apartment. It was one o’clock in the morning. He was going to meet the general in the Am Hof, to kill him.”

  “We can’t be certain of that,” I protested.

  “Where else would he be going, so late at night? None of the lodges meet that late. The taverns are all closed at that hour. No, I am certain that Richter is our man. Now we just have to link him to Alois Bayer and Hennen.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out his watch.

  “I have a meeting at the chancery,” he said. “Afterward I’ll tell Pergen what we’ve learned. Perhaps Troger has found more information about Richter. I’ll contact you when I have news.” He nodded at me and walked toward the street at the side of Richter’s apartment house.

  I gritted my teeth and went in the other direction, down the narrow, curving Currentengasse. I was tired of Benda’s easy dismissal of all of my suggestions and concerns. Ahead of me, a small catering shop had set trestles out on the street. Uniformed lackeys and laborers sat on long benches eating dinner and drinking beer. The aroma of stewed meat rose from the tables, but I had no appetite. When I reached the end of the street, I heard a familiar voice around the corner.

  “What do you mean, you are leaving me?” It was Valentin von Gerl.

  “I’m quitting, sir,” a second voice replied. “I’ve had enough of you.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Teuber,” said von Gerl. “Is this about money? I don’t pay enough? Here, take these.”

  I heard coins clink on the ground.

  “Hello,” I called, turning the corner.

  “Da Ponte! We meet again!” Von Gerl, clad in the blue velvet suit I had admired at his palace last week, turned away from his servant and smiled. The plume on his hat bobbed up and down as he shook my hand. He showed no embarrassment at the memory of the last time we had seen each other, when his face had been buried in the young bosom of my landlady’s daughter.

  “I’m sorry I had to run off after dinner the other day,” he said. “I hope you enjoyed viewing my collection as much as I enjoyed showing it to you.”

  “I did, sir.” I glanced over his shoulder to see Teuber scowling at his master’s back.

  “You must come back, soon. And we must discuss plans for my library.”

  The bells of the Am Hof church sounded the hour.

  “Is it two already? I must be off again, I’m afraid,” von Gerl said. “Good to see you, Da Ponte. I’ll send you another invitation to dinner soon!” He hurried away.

  Teuber stood looking after him, his face sullen. I nodded at him and started down the street that led to the Bognergasse.

  “Signore,” he called.

  I turned back.

  “What happened to the young lady last week? Miss Cavalli?”

  I stared at him. “I helped her find a place to stay. But why do you care? You threw us out of the house.”

  He reddened. “That was by order of my master, signore.”

  “His order? What do you mean?”

  The manservant backed away from me. “I’ve said enough, signore. But don’t worry. He’ll get what is coming to him someday.”

  “What did you say? What do you mean?”

  “Nothing, signore. I said nothing. I meant nothing.” He turned and scurried toward the Am Hof.

  * * *

  I ate dinner and worked the rest of the day in my office. As I was turning into my street a little before six, I met Erich Strasser. My fellow lodger was pale. Small beads of sweat lined his upper lip.

  “Erich, are you ill?” I asked.

  “Oh, good evening, Lorenzo.” He took a handkerchief from his cloak pocket and ran it over his face. “No, I am merely tired—too much work,” he said.

  “We should have a glass of wine together some evening,” I said. “I’d like to hear more about your experiences with the Turks.”

  “Let’s do that, Lorenzo,” he answered. “But now, if you’ll excuse me, I am late for a lodge meeting.” He walked in the direction of the city.

  Stefan stood in front of the house, feeding a carrot to his horse.

  “Good evening, Signor Da Ponte,” he called to me.

  “Good evening, Stefan.”

  “I wanted to thank you, signore, for seeing Sophie safely home the other night,” he said. “I came back for her around midnight but could not find her. Her friend Liesl told me she had left with you and Miss Cavalli.”

  “Why did you leave her alone at the ball?” I asked.

  He reddened and stared down at his shoes. “She was flirting with that baron, von Gerl. I was so angry I had to leave.” He looked up at me. “I swear, signore, I never would have left her there alone, without a ride home. But I couldn’t control my temper. I wanted to punch the baron in the mouth.”

  The horse nudged his hand, and he gave it another carrot. “Sophie is young, signore. She can be very silly. She thinks she can manage every situation, but I knew what he wanted from her. But if I had
hit him—well, I’m not stupid. Even a simple stonemason knows not to argue with a nobleman. I’d have been drafted and sent to Semlin the next day.” He clenched his fist. “If it weren’t for that, I’d take care of Baron von Gerl.”

  “Have you heard anything about the draft?” I asked. I knew that most young men Stefan’s age had already been taken for the army. I was curious how he had managed to evade their fate.

  “My master is protecting me,” he explained. “When the bureaucrats came to register me, he reported that I was a necessary worker. But that won’t last much longer. Our work is disappearing. No one is building anything new, with the war on, and the nobles are all leaving for their estates. They aren’t ordering repairs or additions to their city palaces.”

  “Oh, Stefan, there you are,” Sophie said, coming into the street from the courtyard. She gave me a flirtatious curtsy. “Good evening, signore.” She put her arms around Stefan’s waist and turned her cheek to receive his kiss. He stood stiffly, his arms at his sides.

  “Are you angry with me?” she asked. “Whatever for?”

  “Don’t touch me,” he said, pushing her away.

  “What is it? Are you still upset because I was flirting with that baron? I already told you, he means nothing to me.”

  I took a few steps into the courtyard.

  “You silly boy!” Sophie said. “Come on, why don’t you beat me? I’ll just stand here and take it. You must want to pull my hair out.” Her voice was teasing. “Go ahead.”

  Stefan groaned. “You’ll be the ruin of me,” he said.

  “But what is this?” Sophie’s laugh was light and lilting. “You don’t want to beat me after all? You no longer have the heart for it? In that case, you’d better forgive me, hadn’t you?”

  The courtyard and garden were empty. As I reached for the door, I heard the two young lovers kissing and cooing. I shook my head. I did not envy Stefan his long future with Sophie.

  Inside, the house was silent. My legs grew heavy as I climbed the stairs to my room. The last week had been too horrible, too long. I entered my room and put my satchel on the desk. I hung up my coat and waistcoat, and lay down on my bed. As I closed my eyes, visions of Hennen’s mutilated body came to me.