What Happened in Vienna, Jack?

by Daniel Kemp

  “No, I'm not, but where's the incentive for you to do that kind of work?”

  “I was inside for life, Shaun. Banged up in 1968 with no remittance for good behaviour. Smashing my head against the walls I was. I killed the man who killed my brother, but don't you go worrying any, Shaun, as it was a Bridget Slattery who did the murder and the real reason was never divulged. The real Shaun went missing when he was eight. No dead body was found, but I knew what had happened. I waited nine years to find the priest who'd done it, but I never let on why it was I killed him. Wanted no sympathy from any bloody English court.”

  “There are consequences to everything, especially if they're violent. More men could have lost their lives because the robbery went ahead. The one that you and Jack set up.”

  “Am I to feel sorry for that? As sorry as you are for shooting dear Henry dead, Shaun? If it's floods of tears you be wanting then you'd be waiting for a long time as there will be none from me. I'm all dried up in that department. I don't do crying anymore for anyone. Run for home and share your sorrow with the Met Police boyos if that be your wish.”

  We continued our sparring in the kitchen which was as frugal as the rest of the downstairs part of the house. I could smell milk and cornflakes on her breath as I obeyed her orders, and she dried the cups that I had washed-up.

  “Arrived earlier than me and shared breakfast with Jack, did you?” I asked somewhat annoyed and hungry.

  “No, I was brought here last night. Getting first sight of what Mr Price referred to as functioning bedrooms; folding camp beds and an overhead light. There are blankets though. No frills up there, Shaun.”

  “Start on the Scotch, did you, or can I have the honour of deflowering that?”

  “Don't let me stop you, but it's not Scotch, it's Irish. And also while you're about it put away your testosterone for the ladies who might fall for your innuendos. I wasn't made to propagate life. I prefer the company of females to that of the male gender. Be careful to put the seat down in the loo as well, that's after you've made sure to lift it up when you wee. Very particular I am about such things.”

  “A brother and sister relationship without incest, well, I'm glad we've cleared that up. Save on the bruises from a camp bed. Was yours and Henry's relationship so squeaky clean?”

  “I can play roles when asked. Never said that I'd never been with a man, now did I? When I was growing up I had a fancy of being a film star. I had a flair for the acting, so I did. Perhaps, if things had been different, I might have got there, but at least I know where your affections lie. You like the pretty girls and the shooting of Irish terrorists with a boss named Trenchard squeezing your trigger finger. Is that the full pack of cards from me long lost brother so dear to me heart? Would you be on your way to prison if you hadn't answered Jack's call?”

  “Might be better than a bullet in the head if I don't fall in line with his suggestions that I've yet to read. Do you believe all that bullshit he just told us?”

  I didn't refer to the previous night nor how I'd come to know of Jack. It wasn't suspicion that held back my full confession nor was it the fast approaching sense of doubting my newly acquired antecedents. It was, I think, a fear of two things: her displeasure of me and my acceptance of this new challenge too readily.

  “From the little I know of Mr Price the one thing I'm sure he's not is a bull-shitter, Shaun. You, on the other, I'm none too sure of.”

  “Thank you!”

  “You're most welcome.”

  “Why are you in for the ride, Fianna?”

  “Oh, there's many a reason for that, but perhaps if that daughter of Mr whatever letter he was is a lesbian, then I might just have a bit of fun to look forward to. Jack might want me to look after her in her time of trouble. I'm good at cuddles if it's the right one I'm cuddling. But if you're going with the expectation of killing someone, let's hope it's more than the lower half of your anatomy that's loaded and it's a gun you'll be carrying; as Mae West would say.”

  “I don't think that was quite what she said, sister dear.”

  “Be away with yer. I knew that, you dumbhead.” The smile that filled her face was so bright that a book could have been read in the darkest of rooms from its light. I stood in its reflection and marvelled at her personality.

  “Will it be the whiskey you'll be wanting, or, shall I go to the shops and buy some food for me brother's tea? I passed a grocery shop, not a distance away from that car you were so interested in when the motorbike brought you here. Don't look so quizzical, Shaun. I was born nosy. It's got me into trouble more than the once. Named O'Callahan's, it was. The shop that is. Could be the real thing or the headquarters of the local Republican Army. Want me to see while you're having that read? Ask about any Henry Acres being shot while I'm about it and who shot him, shall I?”

  “Ha, bloody ha!” I replied, adding, “I'll phone the local nick and ask about Bridget Slattery while you're shopping me.”

  “Shall we be leaving the past to the historians then, Shaun? Would that be your wish?” I nodded to that suggestion hoping it could be so.

  “In the document you've read are there any names to the letters Jack quoted before he left, Fianna?”

  “Only the one! The host of the gathering, Mr C, was a Kurt Schuschnigg. Mouthful there and no mistake.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sunday

  Mr X

  The outside early Sunday morning silence would have disturbed the quietest of libraries with its concealed secrecy until, that is, I heard the footsteps. Next came the squeak from the gate as it opened then closed on the noisy catch, followed by heavier footfalls along the paved garden path. I never heard a car. The closing of the front door reverberated through the house on his entrance.

  “Are we awake?” he called out, to which Fianna replied, “I am, but can't say about the boy.”

  The smell of frying bacon had wafted into the bedroom where I lay rekindling fond memories of home, but I had not slept with many warm homely thoughts beside me that night. Certain conclusions that I'd drawn from both listening to Fianna's tale, and reading Jack's, had caused me to worry about the task that lay awaiting me; but I had no doubt that it was something I wanted to do. A wiser man may have come to a different answer, mine was, “Yes I'm awake, Jack, and can't wait to get started.” Inwardly I wondered if I had been drugged whilst being persuaded from being a person who wanted to uphold the law to someone who was to become at best a withholder of the truth, but by the time it took to go down the stairs to Fianna's breakfast those thoughts had disappeared.

  “Morning, Jack! How do you want me to kill Mr Kurt?”

  “Bejesus, my lot of papers must have had a page or two missing and no mistake, but I'm glad I wasn't wrong about you, Shaun,” Fianna stated as plates of sizzling bacon with thick buttered slices of bread were placed on the table where Jack had already taken residence.

  “Are you not eating, Fianna?” Jack asked without glancing in my direction.

  “Mine's coming,” she said. “In time for the fireworks, I'm hoping.”

  “I think I've worked out who was Mr A. B is a bit of a puzzle.” Not waiting for Fianna's return I began. “I guess you'll be telling us about any trips you may have taken to the Bahamas, Jack? That's if you have a mind to, of course. Or was it in Paris that you two had a heart to heart? I wonder where his wife was when he was playing games in Vienna? Oh, and if I'm right, didn't he die back in May this year? Are we to hear of the escaped family today and what it is exactly you want us to do with them?” I changed track when she came back into the room.

  “Did you buy any mustard last night, Fianna, or must I go without?”

  “I did not, brother, as I had no inkling of your liking for the stuff.”

  Phlegmatically ignoring my question, Jack replied, “You two seem to be getting along fine.” He had that wide grin cemented to his face, the one I was to remember for years to come.

  “Is it to the Bahamas that we'd be going after this tri
p to America then, Mr Price? I quite fancy a trip there. Mind you, Paris would be nice as well. I've heard it's good at this time of year. It would do at a pinch,” Fianna, standing with both arms folded across her chest reminding me of a school mistress, both asked and announced.

  “While we're at it, could I also get the history on the green jade ring you're wearing?” I responded.

  “You gave it to me the week before you disappeared. That's what started my fears. The priest said you'd run away and 'twas better you'd gone as you were a troublemaker. No one cared enough to see through his lies, 'cept me! It was I who cradled you in me arms when you cried every night till he called for you that last time. I gave myself a birthday present when I turned twenty-one. A nice long, sharp carving knife which I held in my lap after slitting his throat with it. Sat there in his room at St. Mary's Church, Liverpool awash with his blood for hours waiting for the police to come. He had skipped away from Ireland when I was alone in that home so I had to bide my time, but I got him in the end. Are you sure it's to be you doing the killing, Shaun, and not me?”

  “I won't be asking for any tomato sauce now then.” I remarked flippantly.

  “I'm surprised you never asked Fianna that question about the ring last night, Shaun,” Jack replied.

  “I had too many other things on my mind. Like why now, for one?”

  “Now is the right time, as I told you,” he answered.

  “You mean he might meet the same end as his ex-aide; hit by an errant driver if he doesn't agree to your demands?”

  Fianna was enjoying her breakfast as much as we were, showing less interest in what was being discussed than in the cup of tea that was beside where she ate. Death, by whatever means, held no diverting fascination for her, it seemed. How different from last night?

  I heard her singing a sad story of love from the bathroom whilst I was studying Jack's paperwork. I'd taken little notice of the words as it was her divine refreshing tone and the softness of her voice that made me think of standing in a meadow of long grass with a gentle summer breeze fluttering everything around. Until sadly, my dream burst as if it was a bubble from her bath.

  “Did Jack tell you, Shaun, that I'd killed a priest?”

  * * *

  “Before you two came into our sights we had no one who could effectively do what's required,” Jack was quickly into his stride expounding on the task ahead. “The priest that Bridget Slattery murdered was the same one who gave my man, Mr X, sanctuary in Austria during the war years. He went to Ireland, and more specifically St. Patrick's orphanage in Athlone, straight after it ended in '45. The legend we've put together for you, Shaun, involves that priest and the originally named Sternberg family, known now as the Stockfords and more particularly the man I met, Mr X; Alain Aberman. Kurt Schuschnigg might die sooner than his allotted time, but not at my bequest, nor that of anyone I'm directly associated with. I also doubt it will come about at the request of either Richard Stockford or his sister, Leeba; the girl who bore the child conceived in Schuschnigg's stately rooms, but you're going to say Schuschnigg orchestrated Aberman's murder because Father Finnegan told you so as way of a threat against both your lives.” He finished speaking, walking over to his jacket which was lying on the settee.

  “Here's some more reading for you to do. Not as much this time, just an outline of what the priest told you and how it was said. The why you've come to them now is self-explanatory. Shaun ran away in fear when Finnegan threatened you and it's only now that you've met up again courtesy of two strokes of luck. One: you, Shaun, read of Kurt Schuschnigg in The Evening News of last Friday being presented with an award for literature, his published biography, on his seventy-second birthday, one week's time from now. And two: three weeks ago you, Fianna, were told by the family reconciliation services in Manchester of your brother's new address. Happy families all round. We're not as dumb as you may have thought, Shaun. We may even be smarter than you, my boy. The pseudonym of Bridget Slattery was immediately undone by those higher powers I've previously referred to, leaving us waiting for a suitable brother to appear since Fianna went into prison. You not only solve our frustration but open untold doors for yourself on completion of this matter. As to what's in it for Fianna, that depends on many unquantifiable things at this moment, but there is a place in my department for the both of you.” He sat, and Fianna and I stared at one another in bewilderment.

  “How could two children remember a name such as Schuschnigg, Jack? I wouldn't know how to pronounce it now, let alone when I was a toddler.” I stated.

  Once again he avoided answering a direct question, leaving me both confused and astounded.

  “Your flight leaves Heathrow at five-thirty tonight, I will not be at the airport to wave you off. I've somewhere I must be now, but I shall be back before you depart. There's a cab booked for four p.m. By the way, as far as we know none of the surviving family know who the father of Leeba's daughter was. She, as all the others, wore a blindfold throughout the ordeal. Incidentally, and a point to remember please, Penina, Leeba's daughter, does not know that Leeba is her real mother. Both Leeba and Richard have told Penina that she is their younger sister born to their mother, Mayanna Stockford, after their arrival in America. That's the status quo and it must remain the case; understood?”

  It was Fianna who responded first. “Oh, I understand, Mr Price. Too right I do! In order to stop the Yanks and some Red bastards finding out that this Leeba was raped at a party thirty-five years ago, a seventy-two-year-old man has to be murdered. That seems a good enough reason to you, and Shaun here don't seem too bothered by it all as well. I'm thinking to myself that there could just be another reason that you're not letting on about. But I'm a simple Irish girl with no mind to the politics of men, so I'll be keeping me mouth closed and doing me duty in the kitchen as you two discuss the murdering and the like.”

  “There I was a moment ago thinking you had no morals or misgivings over the death of people, Fianna. Was I wrong?” I asked her.

  “Only God is justified in taking a life, Shaun, and sometimes even He can get that wrong. Men, and sometimes women, interpret His wishes purely to fulfil their own ends. The church is more full of corruption than piety.” She lit a cigarette before she spoke again.

  “What I did was worse than what you did. Maybe it was right for you to kill that Henry Acre with him being a terrorist and all that, but it was not right what I done. It's true that filthy-minded priests that abuse kids are beyond God's forgiveness, but they are not there for the likes of me to deliver vengeance upon them. I'm a heathen that's going to hell anyway, what's another body on my conscience? This man's already knocking on the gates of Hades, so I'll hold his hand as he passes through if that's what you need, Mr Price.”

  The harsh reality of acceptance was reflected in her sad eyes and expressed in her short speech, leaving Jack outwardly unmoved, but not me. I was still imprisoned by conscience, but as yet in no need of the word penitence.

  “Fianna has eloquence on her side, Jack. Care to enlighten us with the real reason behind this masquerade?”

  He didn't! We were left to examine the passports, travel documents and other things that he left, with his noisy footsteps echoing along the path on his way out, as our own squeaky gate to hell closed shut on another unanswered question.

  Chapter Ten

  Sunday Night / Monday Morning In America

  Celluloid Characters

  I made my first contact with the Stockford Pharmaceutical Company just after ten-thirty on Monday morning, New York time.

  “Good morning! You have reached the office of Mr Richard Stockford's private secretary. My name is Sandra. How can I assist you today?”

  “Good morning, Sandra, I'm Shaun Redden. I have a message for Mr Stockford from a mutual friend of ours, Sir Horace Butler. If he is available could you put me through, please?”

  “I'm afraid Mr Stockford is engaged with other members of the board, but I can pass on a message if you'd like me to?
”

  “That would be fine, thank you. Tell him that the identity of the person involved in the accident with a Mr Aberman has been discovered and Sir Horace is eager for the two of us to meet. I'm staying at the Metropolitan Hotel, on Fulton Street, in Brooklyn, but I don't know the phone number here. I'm over from the UK with my sister Fianna for a few days. Room number 306. It is quite important that he gets the message, Sandra.”

  “I'll certainly see that Mr Stockford receives it, sir. Your name was Mr Redden, I believe?”

  “Yes, it is, Sandra.”

  * * *

  In 1936 the two brothers of Gregor Sternberg rolled up their film production and distribution company in Vienna, relocating in the fast expanding Hollywood area of California where they began all over again. It was not only the love of celluloid that took them, but also the rapidly growing anti-Semitism in Europe.

  Alain Aberman, although Jewish by birth, believed that his position as first secretary to the Chancellor of Austria would safeguard him through what he described as a passing phase in history. That was the belief he held and the one he told his good friend Gregor until, that is, Gregor was arrested for assisting not only his brother and their families to escape from Austria, but also fellow wealthy Jews. All allegedly for money! Gregor was never dishonest. Such an act of opportunism would have been abhorrent to the Austrian-born captain in the Fifth Rifle Brigade as much as it was to Alain. When Gregor Sternberg was shot for that alleged crime Aberman hastily altered his religious convictions and all the records of him being of the Jewish faith.

  During the hours of the debauchery that Gregor's daughter and the other women and girls suffered, Alain forged Schuschnigg's signature on the documentation Mayanna and her two children would need for their diplomatic covered escape from Vienna aboard a flight to the East Coast of America in the name of Stockford. He then contacted Father Finnegan, asking for help. He never told Finnegan any of what he told Jack. That had come straight from the horse's mouth one Wednesday afternoon at the end of the war over coffee in the Cafe Landtmann. Nowhere in Jack's report did it say that Schuschnigg had killed Aberman. What it did say, however, added up to a plausible reason.