As if by instinct, Schubert headed towards the piano.
“Don’t do that, Franz,” Vogl said.
“I’m not going to play it,” Schubert said. “I just want—”
“They said touch nothing,” Vogl reminded him, and gestured to a horse-hair upholstered love seat, for his friend to sit without inviting trouble.
Reluctantly, Franz complied, muttering, “I don’t see why not.”
Vogl did not feel like explaining how, in an establishment like this, one might easily bore small holes in a wall or ceiling to observe or overhear conversations in the room adjacent or below. He refused to point out what, to him, was obvious: that they were virtual captives in one of the most dangerous places in the city.
Outside of certain government offices, most particularly those charged with investigating violent offenses, such as the ministry Doktor Nordwalder apparently represented, few places in Vienna contained more ruthlessness under one roof. Violence against titled citizens was a crime against the state. Thus Vogl considered himself in a virtual war zone. Having felt the oppression of a blood-thirsty atmosphere before, he had no desire to draw any attention to himself or his comrade. He seated himself in a brocade chair at a right angle to his friend, prepared to endure the wait silently.
Schubert showed no such discipline. “That was the countess wasn’t it?”
Vogl just stared at him.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Quite dead,” Vogl replied. Contemplating the world without Jennie was difficult for him.
“But how? What happened?”
“Her throat was slashed, I should say.”
“You mean…?”
“She didn’t do it herself, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Oh. I wasn’t! Gott im Himmel!…” After a moment’s reflection, Schubert continued, “Was that why the captain asked you about weapons?”
Vogl sighed. “Franz, I envy you. You have neither the motive or the ability to murder Eugénie von Neulinger.”
“But surely, Misha, no one thinks that you …”
“I don’t know what our most senior officials, charged with preserving order in the city, think. But be sure that they will get to the bottom of this unconscionable crime.” Vogl adjusted his remarks for the benefit of possible eavesdroppers. “Now do you understand?”
The men sat in silence for a while, too long for Schubert who flashed back to a previous run-in with the police. Some two years before in the middle of the night, officers dragged him from his bed at the home of his friend, Johann Senn. That affair ended with little more than a few reprimands, but it was an experience Schubert did not wish to repeat, even in memory. Vogl’s comments connected the past with his current plight.
“So much blood,” he murmured.
“Characteristic of slashing wounds from a sword, I imagine,” Vogl replied.
“Horrible.” Schubert shivered. “But, Misha, see here. I have nothing to do with this. I need to retrieve my scene from Alfonso. Surely that has no bearing on … on what happened upstairs.”
“Let the people above us decide that,” said Vogl.
“Well, I hope they decide soon!”
“Amen.”
Not long afterwards, the music room door opened, revealing Captain Millstein and the count, bearing a sealed envelope. “You may go,” said the count. “Herr Schubert, this is for you. You will find yourself adequately compensated for your efforts last night.”
“Danke, mein Herr.” Schubert took the envelope but did not leave the room.
“Well?”
“Excellency,” said Schubert, “I need that folder by the piano. You see, it contains part of an opera…”
“Take it and go!” said Millstein.
“Yes. Yes certainly,” Schubert hastily scooped up his precious folder.
Millstein turned to von Neulinger. “Georg, I am sorry that on this, the saddest of days, you suffer the encumbrance of idiots.”
The remark had an unexpected effect. The count snapped, “I do not seek sympathy, Captain.”
Millstein stepped back stunned—as if slapped.
“Herr Vogl,” the count continued, “you know what Eugénie was, how … well connected … she was to the activities of this city. I expect your complete cooperation and discretion in the coming days. I also hold you accountable for the behavior of your little friend there. You will say nothing of what has occurred here, and neither will he. As far as you both are concerned, nothing is amiss. Is that understood?”
“Nothing is amiss, Your Excellency,” said Vogl.
Schubert nodded.
“Georg, we can examine them further,” Millstein offered.
“Let them go. Herr Doktor Nordwalder has been alone upstairs long enough.”
“That’s very generous, Georg. Your restraint is exemplary.”
“Captain, do not mistake me. I feel the loss of my wife tremendously. I will not abandon my duty to conduct a full inquiry. When it is known who perpetrated this outrage, rest assured that he will come to understand the full power of my displeasure.” This last line was delivered in Vogl’s direction, but it wasn’t clear if the count intended it to apply personally.
Vogl did not inquire.
Chapter Fourteen
On the street, Vogl turned to his friend without his customary benevolent stoicism. “Well, Franz, you have your invaluable manuscript. I hope it doesn’t cost you your life.”
“What do you mean, Misha? You said yourself that no one suspects me of having anything to do with what went on in there.”
“Walk with me a little, towards the theater.”
“But I’m meeting Schober at von Schwind’s.”
“Just a short way. There are things you need to understand.”
“Let’s discuss them this evening, at the Café Lindenbaum.”
“No place indoors is safe. I prefer to talk on the street. Come. Walk with me.”
Sensing his friend’s urgency, Schubert acquiesced.
After a few steps through partially packed snow, Vogl began, “Eugénie’s murder will not go unavenged.”
“I should hope not!”
“Just listen, Franz. The count demands satisfaction. He will have it.”
“The shrewdest minds of the city are investigating.”
“True. But who knows how clever—or lucky—the murderer is? This investigation will inevitably bear fruit. There’s no guarantee that the fruit will come from the proper tree.”
“Misha, are you suggesting—”
“I suggest nothing. As far as I know, von Neulinger is an honorable man. He probably won’t deliberately persecute an innocent person. But he is also a man of action. If he decides, or is persuaded, that someone is culpable, he won’t waste time reviewing the decision—even if he learns later that he was mistaken.”
The chill Schubert felt then was greater than that brought on by the February morning. “But Misha, neither you, nor I …”
“He sent for me this morning. You appeared at the same time. Therefore, neither of us is above suspicion. No one is. Not even the officers with the count now.”
“The captain who was there last night?”
“Millstein. Doktor Nordwalder, also.”
“Why does last night’s soirée matter?”
Vogl pondered this question before responding. Eugénie loved intrigue, but she tempered her love with an almost uncanny instinct for self-preservation. She always sniffed out plots against her and acted to circumvent them. No, Eugénie was taken by surprise. Eventually he said, “Franz, the authorities will solve this crime quickly. There is, therefore, a strong desire on the murderer’s part to see someone other than himself punished.”
“What can we do?”
“Follow von Neulinger’s advice. Say nothing and stay out of the way. Do you understand, Franz?” This last was more a plea than a question.
“I understand, Misha. Guten Tag.”
“Guten Tag.”
&nb
sp; Vogl watched his friend scurry off on treacherous sidewalks into the February chill. Then the full force of the morning’s events hit him. The most compelling force in his life—his love, his hate, his obsession, his nemesis, at times his joy, more often his despair—evaporated, snuffed out in the night. It seemed impossible. What was his world without her? Only one answer came to him. Rehearsal. Rehearsal for which he was late. He trotted through the snow passing a plodding horse-drawn butcher’s wagon on the way to the theater.
Chapter Fifteen
By mid-morning, Franz Schubert running late and still shaken by the hideous events at the start of the day, could not get his thoughts in proper order. The horror in that house was not his concern he knew, but the grisly images didn’t pass quickly. And there was Vogl’s injunction not to tell anyone.
Still he hurried. He was to meet with Franz Schober at his lodgings at von Schwind’s for an important conference about the third act of their opera. They agreed to meet at eleven, and it was nearly noon. Schober hated to waste time. Already he might have abandoned Schubert to embark on another adventure. Upon reaching home, finding himself as usual without a key, he knocked on the front door with uncharacteristic vehemence. Frau Stieglitz let him in.
To his relief, Schubert saw Schober in the parlor sitting quietly, mulling over pages of their libretto.
“Have you been waiting long, Franz?” Schubert asked.
Schober responded with an expansive smile, “Ages, mein apfelkuchen. An eternity. However, I forgive you, for the return of the little Schwammerl into my life has obliterated the indescribable torment I have so patiently weathered just for the sake of this glorious reunion.”
“Pay no attention to him, Herr Schubert,” Frau Stieglitz interrupted. “He arrived not five minutes ago.”
“Betrayed! Bitterly betrayed!” Schober continued, without missing a beat. “Am I fated always to fall before perfidious women?”
Frau Stieglitz left the room, and Schubert smiled for the first time that day. “I don’t think she understands the meaning of ‘perfidious’.”
“With her intellect, probably not. In her soul, she understands perfectly.”
“Franz, that’s scandalous. Why do you always vilify women?”
“Forgive me. It is only because I love them so well. But who are you to talk, Schwammerl? I noticed your interest in Fraülein Schikaneder last night.”
Schubert blushed. “She is charming, isn’t she?”
“She’ll do,” Schober replied with the air of a connoisseur. “But now to business. I see you have the scene with you. Have you made your changes?”
“I haven’t had time.”
“Well, I have precious little time this afternoon.” Softening his voice somewhat, Schober continued, “You see, Schwammerl, a little ‘adventure’ is beginning. I need my rest today.”
“Franz, no adventure of yours can compare to mine of this morning.”
“You haven’t been slaving away at the score? That’s not like you.”
“How could I work? I left the music at the soirée and went back to retrieve it.”
Schober looked amused. “Why, you little imp. That was your adventure? You wanted some time alone with the countess. Well, I certainly don’t blame you. You say you have the music. Did she gratify your every whim?”
“Don’t joke, Franz. She’s dead.”
“The devil!”
“Please lower your voice. I met Vogl there.”
“They say that he and the countess were once quite close.”
“Just hear me out, Franz. Vogl was summoned by Count von Neulinger. He says—”
“The count?”
“Vogl.” Schubert took a deep breath. “Michael thinks that someone who was there last night killed her.”
For once, Schober gave Schubert his full attention. “Killed her?”
“Cut her throat. I saw the body,” said Schubert shuddering. “You know that Count von Neulinger is an associate of”—and here Schubert lowered his voice to a whisper—“Baron Hager?”
“So they say,” was the hushed reply.
Now that the worst was past, Schubert continued more easily. “Michael says that a quick solution to the murder is of paramount importance. Speed matters more than the truth.”
“I see,” said Schober. “So who killed her?”
“I don’t wish to talk about it.”
“We should, though. As you say, until someone is apprehended, we’re all under suspicion.”
“I know nothing about it. I never wanted to go to that house in the first place,” Schubert said.
“Wait a moment, Schwammerl. In my peregrinations over the planet, I have heard accounts of the beautiful countess.”
“This is no joke.”
“I’m not joking. I’m reviewing the people there last night. According to that greatest of all authority, the imposing god Rumor, several people resided within the circle of the Countess’s s particular friends. There’s Vogl himself…”
“Franz!”
“But, at his age, he’s not likely to commit a crime of passion. There’s that Englishman, Lord … Lord somebody … Bellingham?”
“Birmingham, I think,” escaped Schubert’s lips in spite of himself.
Schober smiled. “Birmingham is a city.”
“Bellingham then.”
“Yes, him. Now who else? Are we sure it’s a man? Why not a rival? There’s Zdenka Merlinbeck … or her husband …”
“You must stop this, Franz.”
“And, of course, we can’t rule out the immediate family, the count, his son. Is it possible that our belle inconnue, Fraülein Schikaneder, is actually Eugénie’s illegitimate daughter.”
“Enough!”
Schober stopped, finally. “You’re right, Schwammerl. There are just too many. Let’s return to Adolpho’s confession. We know what he’s done. What’s wrong with the way we have it?”
Schubert accepted this invitation to return to the world of Alfonso und Estrella with alacrity.
Chapter Sixteen
The singers of The Empress of the Common endured a difficult morning. They expected a full run-through of Bildman’s piece with orchestra, but Vogl’s unexpected departure in the middle of the overture made for hurried re-arrangements. These did not please La Donmeyer. Just as a semblance of a run-through gained some momentum, the newest member of the corps, Fraülein Rosa, looking exhausted, stumbled during the act one dance, and knocked over the maypole, causing further delay. Assistant Manager Schmidt, universally regarded as adept at handling mishaps of this sort, was otherwise engaged, ransacking his resources in the all-too-likely event that he’d need to replace Hernando’s father, should Michael Vogl become … incapacitated. Come hell or high water, The Empress of the Common was going before the public in eight days.
Vogl calmly walked on stage to take his part in the sextet that ended the first act, arriving in time to relieve the company’s greatest anxieties, though not to save the rehearsal completely. It was already after noon, and with a different performance slated for the evening, there was no longer time to complete the run-through.
To Vogl’s relief, Schmidt and the orchestra conductor decided to shorten the afternoon break to a minimum—two hours—then to finish the Empress as a Sitzprobe. That course allowed the stage hands time to set up for the evening’s performance of Gluck’s Alcestis, the piece diplomatically chosen to maintain strict and dignified neutrality in the on-going battle between Germanophiles and Italianophiles.
The impending arrival of von Weber had everyone’s blood up. In short, everyone, from over-taxed musicians to under-prepared stagehands, from the put-upon management to artistically frustrated performers, felt like martyrs. With a plethora of friends with whom to commiserate, everyone was relatively happy.
Except Vogl. He chose to remain in the theater during the break, ostensibly to review his music, but his profoundly inartistic experience of the morning was hard to escape. Incredibly, his little Jennie was
dead—murdered. Had he unintentionally played a role in the tragedy? Count von Neulinger suspected him. The heat of the count’s suspicion still burned. Thus Vogl’s vow to do anything in his power to put the count on the scent of the actual culprit was sincere.
But Vogl knew nothing. At their last meeting, Jennie accused him of “ruining everything.” Inured by experience to Jennie’s histrionics, Vogl didn’t take her seriously, but this time her emotional smoke screen must have masked a real fire. What went wrong? What was the purpose behind all that business with Schubert’s song and those letters?
Vogl forced his mind to function systematically. The previous evening, conspicuous police presence created a subtly oppressive atmosphere. What denizen of Vienna dared try anything underhanded in that situation? Only a truly desperate one; and no one, aside from Schubert, betrayed any signs of desperation.
Perhaps one of the foreigners then. Zdenka Merlinbeck’s two German escorts came to mind. They appeared more mystified than moved by Schubert’s music. They might not have known the formidable composition of the rest of the company. But as strangers to Jennie, why kill her? Did Merlinbeck or his wife employ assassins? Preposterous! Vogl could imagine that Zdenka hated Jennie enough to want her dead, but surely she would not resort to swords, even by proxy. Her husband seemed uninterested in everything. Even granting that such unprepossessing, professorial sorts were disguised thugs, bringing them to Jennie’s attention in a social context would have been an inconceivable blunder on Zdenka’s part.
What about those other foreigners, Lord Bellingham and his Russian friend, Pyotr Tagili? Bellingham had a past with Jennie, but it seemed unlikely that after almost a decade he wanted to settle an old score. Vogl reviewed his own exchange with the man. Bellingham mentioned something unusual about the strange Germans and the Balkans and the mysterious “plat’num”. Bellingham’s renewed contact with Jennie seemed to be only an incidental component of his government’s interest in a trade matter—political, not personal, or so Vogl hoped. Bellingham’s Russian companion, Pyotr Dmitrivitch Tagili, remained a complete enigma.
Vienna in Violet Page 11