Vienna in Violet

  Nordwalder turned his attention away from those closest to the countess towards his own colleague, Captain Millstein.

  Millstein was not ruled out by circumstances. His servants operated under a standing order never to discuss his movements or whereabouts. Nordwalder knew their loyalty to the captain, having trained some of the men himself. Nordwalder’s best chance to trap Millstein came when he sent for Millstein on first hearing of the murder. Millstein was at von Neulinger’s when Nordwalder arrived. With deliberate haste Millstein could have arrived before him, but Millstein might have been in the vicinity all along.

  For motive: Millstein was an officer of the old school, shown not only by his living among people completely loyal to him, but also in his desire to rise through the ranks. He willingly accepted favors of women as well as men. That he was von Neulinger’s underling did not mean that he intended to remain an underling forever. Nordwalder did not know of any shortcuts Millstein was attempting, but Nordwalder did not know everything. Millstein might risk some clandestine maneuvers under the noses of the ministry, and he was capable of acting decisively if they went awry. Hager preferred to employ daring, resourceful men. Millstein possessed no dominating intellect, but he was courageous.

  “In addition,” Nordwalder reminded himself, “there’s Millstein’s blunder during the preliminary investigation. Perhaps it was deliberate.”

  Still Nordwalder viewed the prospect of Millstein’s culpability with reluctance, similar to that which he felt about the foreigners.

  If any of them murdered the countess, there would be no trial. Von Neulinger would insist on a duel likely to culminate in either an undesirable international incident or the loss of at least one of Baron Hager’s trusted agents. Nordwalder saw no positive outcome to his investigation if Millstein, Bellingham, Tagili, Himmelfarb, or Barenberg were the murderer.

  Fortunately, Nordwalder had another suspect. This man fit all criteria: He had not gone straight home. He had a longstanding association with the victim. By his own admission he knew the rudiments of saber fighting. Best of all, he lacked direct connection to any affairs of state. Privately acknowledging a lapse in objectivity, Nordwalder expected that the murderer of Eugénie von Neulinger would turn out to be precisely who it appeared to be—the aging, over-rated thespian, Johann Michael Vogl.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Saturday afternoon found Vogl fully immersed in Hofoper business, ostensibly rehearsing for The Empress of the Common. But he was not singing. He dispensed solace or advice as needed against the tizzy approaching panic amongst the company. Von Weber’s impending arrival disconcerted them. As a senior member of the company, and veteran of more than one Grand-Opening-of-World-Changing-Significance (after all what was this Freischütz, compared to Fidelio?), Vogl dispensed opinions on matters ranging from the technique of singing German in operatic style to the technique of acquiring tickets for the Freischütz premier. He even comforted La Donmeyer, who for no apparent reason broke down after finishing her second act aria, weeping at the thought of “new fashions making her musical quality obsolete.”

  Relief finally came when Assistant Manager Schmidt announced the end of rehearsal for The Empress of the Common, reminding those performing in that evening’s Alcestis to return in three hours. Hastening to leave the theater, Vogl was nonplused when Schmidt, a single-minded autocrat blind to everything except the immediate needs of the each impending Hofoper show, asked him to stay behind.

  Schmidt’s superiors “feared the impact of the opera across town.” Sensibly, the management wasn’t offering competition on the night of Weber’s opening, but someone mentioned that “Bildman’s Empress was German, too.”

  “What of it?” Vogl asked. “If Der Freischütz triumphs, the public will enjoy our foretaste of it.”

  “Yes, unless the Italians object, The Empress may then cause a riot.”

  “Nonsense! Our piece is a singspiel. We’re not breaking new ground.”

  “I agree with you, Vogl, but consider the Italians. They’ll press any advantage.”

  “True,” said Vogl. Then after a moment he added, “As far as I know Domenico Barbaja is still in charge.”

  “Yes, he is. The most vicious dog in the pack.”

  “Well, why not give the dog a bone?”

  “Feed his vanity?”

  “No, appeal to his taste.”

  “We can’t do anything Italian, Vogl. When aroused, Germans are even more dangerous than Italians. The directors want me to postpone The Empress and mount a French piece next week.”

  “French? No one will come.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Der Freischütz is on everyone’s minds …”

  “And we’re preparing for a mob.”

  “I see your difficulty, Herr Schmidt. I may have a solution.”

  “Anything short of armed violence.”

  “We won’t go that far. Weber arrives in Vienna five days before we launch The Empress. Public attention will certainly turn from Weber’s opera to Weber himself.”

  “So?”

  “If Weber demonstrates appropriate deference to the Italians, our harmless singspiel may proceed in peace.”

  “You expect Weber to command a truce?”

  “I do.”

  “Why? Do you know the man? Is he not in the limelight precisely because he threatens Barbaja?”

  “He is. And a truce requires the blessing of an Italian.”

  “You’re mad, Vogl. Barbaja is determined to discredit Der Freischütz. Remember his attack on Rossini six years ago.”

  Vogl shuddered. “I attended the performance. Despite that night’s fiasco, The Barber of Seville has survived. Indeed, it thrives. Barbaja’s contribution to the chaos was never proved.”

  He probably has agents in the field already gathering eggs to throw at the stage when the curtain opens.”

  “Not this time. Barbaja’s too shrewd. This time, there’s one man even he must respect.”

  “Who? Metternich? The Emperor? We can’t recruit them.”

  Vogl permitted himself a little smile. “Have you forgotten, Schmidt, the name Salieri?”

  Moments later, hurrying homeward, Vogl felt almost pleased with himself. He envisioned something devious enough to please Jennie von Neulinger, a final intrigue to honor her memory, as it were. Antonio Salieri, the eminence grise of Viennese music, though no longer producing anything of consequence, still carried symbolic weight. As much as anyone he deserved credit for Italian opera’s original conquest and continuing dominance of the Viennese stage. The man was now in his seventies and determinedly hors de combat, but his very neutrality anchored Vogl’s plan. He smiled in memory of Schmidt’s reaction on the plan’s unveiling.

  “What are you saying? That old man hasn’t touched an opera for more than twenty years.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “He always steers clear of opera houses and their politics.”

  “Yes. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Nothing on earth will convince him to come anywhere near a guaranteed scandal. If by some ill star he learns of Der Freischütz, he’ll come down on the Italian side.”

  “Natürlich.”

  “So how can Salieri help?”

  “Schmidt, where do we see Salieri nowadays? No answer? You should get away from the Hofoper more often. Salieri shuns the opera houses, but he goes to the court and sometimes to church.”

  With his influence as a theater composer waning, Salieri had turned to writing sacred pieces. When even these received little attention, Salieri redefined himself as the city’s preeminent teacher. Although Salieri was officially retired and no longer taught regularly, he generously granted time to almost any composer desiring to make his mark in the complex, competitive musical world. One was always encountering this or that prodigy visiting the city for a “session with Salieri.”

  Whatever his artistic influence over his pupils, the claim that one studied with Salieri still opened doors in Vien
na. No less a personage than Ludwig van Beethoven used this entrance into the city’s musical circles. More relevant to the moment was that an oratorio by another of Salieri’s disciples, Friedrich Schneider was to form the major part of the afternoon mass at St. Stephen’s on the Sunday before the Tuesday opening of The Empress of the Common. Salieri would almost certainly attend. All one had to do was entice Weber to go to St. Stephen’s and arrange an introduction. Better if the introduction preceded the performance. All Vienna would adore the image of the rising German star and the fading Italian star in worship together.

  Schmidt saw the beauty of Vogl’s scenario. “But can you make it come to pass?”

  “I have hopes,” said Vogl. Vogl also hoped to bring a third party to the meeting, another Salieri pupil of long ago, Franz Schubert.

  Complacently, Vogl congratulated himself. According to Schubert, Salieri had already written von Weber. If the two giants met, Schmidt’s singspiel was saved and Schubert would have his chance with von Weber.

  Vogl’s complacency evaporated at once. Among Schubert’s greatest talents was his ability to squander opportunities. Anxiety on his friend’s account convinced Vogl to turn his steps towards the Wipplingerstrasse.

  Chapter Nineteen

  With his plan of attack fully formed, Doktor Ignatz Nordwalder sent for Captain Millstein and spent the hour before his subordinate’s arrival writing a series of orders, recalling some agents, dispatching others. One spy would now serve for the two Germans. They were cared for well enough by the loose network of informants housed in their inn. A larger assemblage was assigned to the artists. All was ready when Millstein appeared.

  “Implement these at once,” he said, presenting Millstein with the packet.

  “Jawohl, Herr Doktor,” Millstein responded. Then, as Nordwalder expected, the captain hesitated.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Timmerich.”

  “Yes, Timmerich. He is in your employ, is he not?”

  “Of course. But in a matter of this kind…”

  “I’m sure you can find a job for him that will keep him out of trouble.”

  “If I must. But why Timmerich?

  “We’re short of personnel,” said Nordwalder, knowing that Millstein wouldn’t believe him. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  Millstein turned and left without saying another word, looking just as agitated as Nordwalder hoped. Sometimes over the board, it was desirable to make a purposeless move to distract one’s opponents from the real object of one’s attack.

  Gert Timmerich was, in Nordwalder’s view, just a pawn, but he realized that involving him in routine surveillance was a calculated risk. Timmerich fought in the war against Napoleon and was badly scarred by his experience, literally and figuratively. At the age of eighteen he was carried off the field at Austerlitz, unconscious because of a bit of shrapnel in his skull. When he recovered consciousness, he was missing three fingers from his left hand. From then on he carried with him a deep, permanent hatred not only of all things French, but also of his own officers, who he felt had betrayed him. Until coming under Nordwalder’s care, he lived the life of a beggar. A decade of service for the Ministry of the Interior gave Nordwalder ample time to discover the most effective uses for this embittered veteran.

  In the abstract, Timmerich was as loyal as a German Shepherd to the Austrian empire. As long as he didn’t face any unfamiliar aristocrats, from whose class his military superiors were drawn, he reliably followed all orders with great zeal, occasionally too great zeal.

  That was the danger. In action, Timmerich was fearless and reckless. He lacked both patience and judgment. No one, not even Nordwalder himself, understood exactly what set Timmerich off or how to stop him. Twice the pawn had embarrassed the ministry by killing someone he was supposed only to frighten. Thus, Nordwalder found him most useful in extreme situations. The decidedly delicate inquiry into the death of Countess von Neulinger did not suit Timmerich’s talents ideally.

  But Nordwalder had his reasons. Timmerich was becoming harder to manage of late. A time-consuming, thankless task might restore his self-discipline. If he failed…well, there were other zealots in the ministry who could rectify matters.

  Still, Nordwalder’s primary purpose for Timmerich was to occupy Captain Millstein. Millstein had a deficient intellect. He was now asked to use a man who couldn’t be trusted near any foreigner or any aristocrat. Even the slow-witted captain would eventually find the only possible deployment for this loose cannon and make the forced move.

  More to the point Timmerich was the only agent Nordwalder had at his disposal who would tell him what Millstein was up to, the only double agent Nordwalder was able to plant in Millstein’s stable. The captain was also a suspect, after all.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Are you satisfied, Schwammerl?” Franz Schober asked, lifting the blotter with authority from his newly-penned line.

  “Read it again.”

  “‘The abyss of my sorrow cannot be measured by man.’”

  “Well, it’s not bad, but—”

  “Not bad? Listen. Weber arrives tomorrow. We must present him with a complete score. We have less than twenty-four hours.”

  “There’s short time until the morrow, ere the score must truly scan,” Schubert sang, and continued with, “The abyss of my deep sorrow cannot measured be by man.” His short concert concluded, Schubert returned to speech. “D minor. Fear not me.” Then he snatched the pen from Schober.

  “Schwammerl.”

  “I’m setting that melody down before another replaces it.” He grabbed a page of the score at random, turned it over and scratched out five lines to create a staff. In his haste, Schubert tipped over the inkwell by Schober’s right wrist. Schober, concerned for his cuffs, jumped back. “Watch out!”

  But Schubert was in another world. The pen worked feverishly for a moment then halted abruptly. “Dummkopf—six eight,” he muttered, scratched out what he had written and dipped the pen in some ink on the tabletop not yet dry.

  Schober recovered enough to grab the fallen ink bottle from the table. Schubert extended his pen for one more dab and looked up at his friend.

  “Franz Schubert, if you don’t stop this madness right now, I’ll hurl this bottle at your head.”

  At this undignified moment, Vogl arrived. “Ah, gentlemen, business as usual, I see.”

  Both Franzes became all smiles. “Exactly so, Herr Vogl,” said Schober.

  “Thanks, Misha, for sparing me from a raging tiger,” said Schubert.

  “You plan to entertain von Weber with such comic interludes?”

  “Tomorrow, we’ll be on our best behavior,” Schober assured him.

  “Then there’s a meeting?”

  “Well, not exactly. But we do know where von Weber is staying.”

  “Where?” Schubert asked excitedly. Both Schober and Vogl ignored him.

  “Ah. You plan to lie in ambuscade outside his lair.”

  “We want to approach him before he starts rehearsals for his own piece,” Schubert said.

  “His own piece? Franz, suppose you wanted to become acquainted with the Duke of Wellington. Would you waylay him before or after Waterloo?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I do,” said Schober. “Herr Vogl believes that Weber is preoccupied. He won’t pay any attention to us.”

  “But once he sees Alfonso …”

  “If you pounce upon him, he’s likely to see two madmen. He’ll have you arrested, or worse. It has not been so long since Kotzebue’s assassination. Weber’s adherents may shoot you.”

  “Shoot us? Misha. Do you really think we’re in danger?”

  “Of course he doesn’t,” said Schober. “But I see your point, Michael. We’re not going to ‘waylay’ von Weber. We’re simply going to be present at his arrival. At an auspicious moment, we’ll present ourselves.”

  “And if no auspicious moment presents itself?”

  “We
have other strings on our bow,” Schober muttered.

  “Wunderbar,” said Vogl, as Schubert simultaneously sabotaged his friend by asking, “What other strings, Franz?”

  Vogl seized the moment. “Please don’t take offense when I tell you that I have means of enriching your arsenal.”

  “Bows aren’t stored in arsenals,” Schober said resentfully.

  “Then I abandon metaphor. I propose to introduce you, Schubert, to Carl Maria von Weber under auspicious conditions.”

  “Misha! You can do that?”

  “No. Salieri can.”

  “Maestro Antonio!” Schubert said. “Has he written Weber about me?”

  Vogl replied, “Plans exist to have Salieri and Weber hear Schneider’s oratorio at St. Stephen’s a week from Sunday.” Vogl did not add that the plans existed only in his own head.

  “What of it?” asked Schober, never one to remain in the background too long. “Franz is ten times the composer Friedrich Schneider is.”

  “Talent is not the point. Salieri is going to the performance.”

  “And von Weber?”

  “He will go also, if someone explains that the concert will benefit him. I propose to be that someone.”

  “How can you gain access to Weber when we cannot?”

  Vogl reacted as if Schober’s question was an insult.

  “Unlike you, I am welcome at the Theater an der Wien …”

  “Where Der Freischütz is being staged.” Schubert’s re-entry into the discussion diffused the incipient quarrel. “Brilliant, Misha.”