Vienna in Violet

  Yet a calm exterior did not always mean that calmness reigned within.

  At the von Merlinbeck’s, for instance, that very afternoon, as the count napped upstairs, the Countess Zdenka had an intense colloquy with her two German metallurgists. Their conversation was not sentimental.

  “With Eugénie out of the way,” Zdenka insisted, “you can make the Russians another, less costly offer.”

  “We can,” Jurgen Himmelfarb replied, “but we won’t. My colleague’s mania for platinum is nonsense. I’m going home.”

  Zdenka, unruffled, turned to Barenberg. “You do not share this opinion, Johannes?”

  “Platinum will transform modern warfare. There has never been enough of it available to make a difference until now. We must gain control of this vital resource before the Russians realize its value.”

  “We’ll never get their platinum,” Himmelfarb snapped back. “We’re begging for mining rights, which the Russians will rescind as soon as they understand what they have.”

  Barenberg, mildly exasperated, waited patiently for the last reverberations of Himmelfarb’s defeatism to subside. He then continued. “You reinforce my argument that we must act quickly, Jurgen. Tagili thinks we’re chasing lead. The Russians need money. We can get in and get the platinum out before the czar catches on. If we don’t, the English will. Give me a little time for calculation, and I think another attempt—”

  “Attempt it without me. We know they want too much money. With no von Neulinger to help us, we are powerless.”

  Himmelfarb’s remark energized Zdenka. “Perhaps I can act in Eugénie’s stead,” she said, placing a hand lightly on the big man’s shoulder, to forestall his next outburst. She rose from her sofa and languidly paced the room. The two men were mesmerized. When she stopped and turned to speak, they hung in suspense, like members of an audience watching William Tell lift his crossbow. “Doktor Barenberg, how much time do you need?”

  “A couple of days,” Barenberg said, but seeing Jurgen’s look of impatience mirrored in the countess’s face, he finished, “but I can give you a rough idea in under an hour. It’s merely a matter of calculating—”

  Zdenka cut him off with a disarming smile. “Will you do so now?”

  “With pen and paper, peace and quiet.”

  “We can supply all of that,” said Zdenka, still smiling.

  “I require some papers from the inn.”

  “I’ll send for them.”

  “They’re private,” Barenberg snapped, but facing more scowls he added, “but I can manage a rough estimate without them.” Under the countess’s spell, Barenberg soon found himself ensconced in a well-appointed study with an ample supply of writing materials.

  “Now, Jurgen,” said Zdenka, resuming her seat on the sofa, “what shall we do while Johannes is occupied?”

  Zdenka rejoiced in having cleared a significant hurdle in her quest to return to the front of Vienna’s political battles, despite the fools she had to manage. With polished grace, she pressed the advantage provided by her practiced method for dealing with men in tandem: divide and conquer.

  While the Germans hammered out platinum dreams at the Merlinbeck’s, Ignatz Nordwalder moved on the murder investigation.

  “That explanation will not do, Millstein. You committed a grievous blunder.”

  “Yes, Herr Doktor.”

  “Explain this lapse of judgment.”

  “I cannot, Herr Doktor.”

  “Captain Millstein, I ask again: why did you let those papers out of the house?”

  Ignatz Nordwalder displayed his impatience consciously. Far more important than Millstein’s explanation was the manner in which he delivered it. Nordwalder respected the Captain’s loyalty while doubting his intellect. Allowing Vogl and his friend to leave the house with some scraps of music was not so much a grievous blunder as a foolish one, merely a weak move, not a catastrophic error. Nordwalder sought proof that his colleague was merely a fool.

  Millstein began slowly. “I thought that the papers had no bearing on the situation.”

  “And who are you to make that assessment?”

  “I asked Georg first.”

  “The count, at the height of his grief, in the throes of his loss?”

  “Well, you were otherwise occupied.”

  Nordwalder simply glared at the captain, who sniveled, “What could some nobody’s music have to do with what happened upstairs?”

  “Yes, Captain, that is the question. Now that you’ve let the music go, we may never know the answer.”

  Millstein shifted his feet.

  Nordwalder let the silence linger. Eventually he said, “Perhaps the situation can be salvaged. Perhaps we can retrieve the music.”

  “I’ll send for the composer right away,” said Millstein.

  “No, you won’t.” Nordwalder felt quite relaxed. “Think Captain. Think like a criminal. If you have in your possession papers implicating you in a murder, and someone asked you to produce them, might you not burn them or slip in some alterations or substitutions?”

  Millstein said nothing.

  “We will get the music back, if it still exists, without alerting our quarry. Do you have a man capable of such an undertaking?” Nordwalder was indulging himself. Millstein’s minions were as good as any in the ministry in getting what they needed from ordinary citizens.

  “Of course, Herr Doktor.”

  “I expect the music here tomorrow before noon.”

  “You will have it.”

  “Keep Schubert under observation until you get it.”

  “Timmerich is watching him now.”

  “Danke. You’re dismissed.”

  With a bow and click of the heels Captain Millstein left the room.

  Nordwalder felt satisfied with his interview with Millstein. He contemplated his next endeavor—taking on the English. Might as well eliminate all the fools first.

  Eugénie’s decorous funeral rankles. She deserved to be thrown to the dogs. But etiquette requires that the world give the guttersnipe her final triumph. That situation could not be rectified. But her evil survives her. Her last machinations, thwarted or not, must never come to light. The source was stopped, true, but all vestiges of her doings must be eliminated, root and branch. Until that is done, Honor cannot rest.

  All is safe for the moment. Why not let time take care of the rest? Too risky. What, then? Whose memories must be stilled before they triggered the realization of Eugénie’s unspeakable desires? Not many. Only one or two. Just a couple more sacrifices to Eugénie’s perfidious nature. Nothing too difficult to manage. All will soon be well.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “A most attractive offer,” Zdenka Merlinbeck said, assuming a most studious expression, one capable of transforming bookworms into lapdogs. Johannes Barenberg rewarded her with a modest bow.

  “I’ll submit it to the Russians without alerting the English,” Zdenka continued.

  “I’ll prepare a more thorough proposal tonight,” Barenberg said.

  “Wonderful! Now, Johannes, please stay for some refreshment with me before you go.”

  “Jurgen expects me at the inn.”

  “He can wait. He left because he has no interest in your new proposal. Therefore, he has no reason to complain while we review it.” As always, when she set out to impress Barenberg, the countess’s logic was impeccable. “Nor would he begrudge you a cup of coffee. I always take some at this time of the afternoon.”

  “Very well, I accept, Countess.”

  “Jurgen concerns me,” the countess said once the servants finished delivering the coffee. “Why has he lost heart? I barely persuaded him to give us another week.”

  “Homesickness,” said Barenberg.

  “Of course he’s homesick. He’s also impatient. Bavaria’s mountains will be there when he returns.”

  “Jurgen doesn’t understand the ways of the city.”

  “I admire his bluntness,” said the countess, “but bluntness rar
ely works here. Paradoxically, when a great number of people trample the straightest path, the person taking a more circuitous route often wins the race.”

  “Quite so,” said Barenberg, impressed.

  “On the other hand, with only a week to work with, our plan must infuse subtlety with audacity.”

  In terms of logic, the countess was correct, but she was already too late. That very afternoon, Pyotr Dmitrovitch Tagili, took advantage of certain lapses in his host/captors’ attention entailed by Eugénie von Neulinger’s funeral and slipped away from the British embassy. He presented himself before the French ambassador, determined to arrange safe passage back to the Urals. Having seen his soaring, avaricious scheme for selling mineral rights he didn’t actually possess return to earth with Eugénie von Neulinger’s interment, he felt the need to abandon Vienna with haste. In his own way he, too, was homesick.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “You’re no fool, Vogl,” Count von Neulinger said, presenting the singer with a glass of wine, “and you mustn’t take me for one. That is why I’ve arranged this private discussion. We will speak frankly.”

  “I understand, your Excellency.”

  The two men sat in the anteroom in von Neulinger’s house where Vogl last saw Jennie. Vogl occupied the chair in which Eugénie sat; the count remained standing. Vogl appreciated the count’s conscientious calculation. This “frank” discussion would not be an exchange between equals, at least not for awhile. The count towered over Vogl, asserting his command.

  “I doubt you do,” said von Neulinger. “This is not part of the official investigation. Doktor Nordwalder is responsible for that. Of course, if anything we say becomes relevant, I will pass it on to Nordwalder. Otherwise, this discussion stays just between us.”

  “What are we discussing?”

  “Suppose we begin with platinum.”

  “Platinum?”

  “It’s a metal with properties similar to gold. Until quite recently, it was considered so rare as to be of no practical use. But some Russians apparently have discovered a vast quantity of platinum in the Urals. Whoever masters platinum’s practical difficulties will gain huge strategic advantages, or so our government believes. As laymen, our only interest, Herr Vogl, is that several governments covet platinum in large quantities. I know this, and my wife knew this.”

  “That explains the presence of some incongruous guests last Thursday evening,” said Vogl.

  “Precisely.”

  “The two Germans?”

  “Himmelfarb’s a Bavarian mining engineer; Barenberg’s a prominent metallurgist. We know less about the Englishman, but the Russian, Tagili, is being courted by several embassies. He came under English ‘protection’ that night.”

  “But your Excellency, what has this to do with me?”

  “You talked to an Englishman.”

  “Lord Bellingham.”

  “Yes. Did he say anything about platinum?”

  “Come to think of it, he did mention something strange. He associated it with a Lord …Wallace or some such.”

  “Wollaston?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Wollaston is Barenberg’s counterpart in England, a professor of metallurgy.”

  “I see. Please inform Doktor Nordwalder with my compliments.” Vogl could not resist the moment to remind the count that they were having a casual discussion.

  “He’ll be informed. Now, about your commission.”

  “Commission, Excellency?”

  A flash of anger crossed von Neulinger’s eyes. “Your commission from my wife for a new song.”

  “Of course. Forgive me.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “There’s not much to tell. Eugénie requested a fresh song for her soirée. She supplied the text. I had my accompanist, Franz Schubert, set it to music.”

  “When did she give you this text?”

  “Two days before I sang it.”

  “That didn’t give your composer friend much time.”

  “Schubert was up to the task.”

  “As were you. You sang from memory, I recall.”

  “I’m a quick study,” said Vogl.

  “Indeed. Did you work on the words while Schubert wrote the music?”

  “I did not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Franz doesn’t allow it,” said Vogl with a slight smile. “He insists that all material is exclusively his until we rehearse it.”

  “So you never saw the original?”

  “No, I didn’t. Is that important?”

  The count paused for a moment. Then he said, “You saw the effect the song had on Eugénie.”

  “She fainted. At the time I thought it remarkable.”

  “I did, too, Herr Vogl. Alarming, in fact, not at all like Eugénie. When she recovered, she sent for you.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Was that not odd, Herr Vogl?”

  It was Vogl’s turn to pause briefly. “I suppose so. Now. I sang the song as Schubert set it. I have no idea what upset her.”

  “You’ve already told me that nothing of importance passed between you and my wife when you last spoke with her. Do you still stand by that?”

  “I can’t think of anything substantial. Eugénie expressed her displeasure, but aside from giving me the letter to leave on the sideboard, which you know about, she did nothing else. I apologized. She was quite brusque with me.”

  “How like my wife,” said the count almost to himself. Both men knew how Jennie managed to accomplish a great deal while revealing almost nothing. For the first time during the conversation, Vogl sipped his wine. The count, seemingly in no hurry to end the interview, observed him in silence. Eventually, Vogl put down his half-empty glass. “Herr Count, I have some other engagements this evening. You know I am always at your disposal …”

  “One more thing, Herr Vogl.”

  Vogl, half-risen, sat back in his chair, realizing that he had overplayed his hand. The count was calling his bluff. Thus, he was not altogether blindsided by the question he dreaded most, “Who is Fraülein Schikaneder?”

  Vogl began, “The lady who came with Schubert and me to your home last Thursday,” carefully balancing his inflection so that the remark could be interpreted as an innocent question or a plausibly responsive answer. He wouldn’t appear uncooperative.

  “No one has seen her since she left my home in your company,” the count continued smoothly, without rancor.

  Nonetheless Vogl sensed the threat. To circumvent a lot of unpleasantness, he said “I can produce her, if I must. But will you accept my word, Count, that she has no significant knowledge of anything that went on here?”

  “I might, if I knew more about her. I assure you, Vogl, that I protect young women’s reputations as well as the next man, but from Eugénie’s letter, I assumed that Fraülein Schikaneder was her acquaintance, not yours.”

  Vogl confessed, “There is no such person. At my behest, one of my theatrical colleagues assumed the name ‘Schikaneder’ for the evening. She was eager to meet the countess.”

  “What wonderful colleagues to have, Herr Vogl. How did my wife come to accept this one?”

  “She didn’t. She wrote the name ‘Schikaneder’ on the envelope, and I persuaded the lady in question to play the part.”

  “That was foolish.”

  Vogl caught a trace of amusement in von Neulinger’s assessment; he played to it. “I don’t improvise well. I delude people only with the aid of a script.”

  “If you say so.” The count did not sound convinced. “But why did my wife address a letter to a total stranger?”

  “Our—my ‘Fraulein Schikaneder’ was not the intended recipient.”

  “Then who was?”

  When Vogl paused this time, it was for conscious effect. With a hint of a sigh he said, “I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” von Neulinger did not disguise his impatience. If Vogl intended to withhold information, the count ha
d both the means and the resolve to change his mind.

  This Vogl knew well. He continued, uncomfortably. “I can’t. I thought I knew. If anyone but Eugénie had given me the charge, I could answer you, but … I can’t.”

  “Explain!”

  “The name on the envelope was a ruse, Excellency. I took the letter to the home of a family von Schwind. I am always admitted there, because my accompanist, Franz Schubert lives there. The missive was to go directly to Schubert. I thought Eugénie was just being playful.”

  “Franz Schubert?”

  “So I thought. He wasn’t in, so I left the letter on a sideboard. You will remember, Herr Count, that I asked Eugénie to give Schubert an honorarium?”

  “I paid him myself.”

  “Precisely. Some time afterwards. Until then, I assumed that the letter contained the payment. Obviously, it did not.”

  “Obviously?”

  “Herr Count, Franz Schubert is utterly without guile. Had he received any money he’d have spent it. Had the countess written anything interesting to him, he’d have told me.”

  “But you left the letter for him at von Schwind’s.”

  “I left it there, but I don’t know who picked it up. Others enjoy free admittance to the house. There is, for instance, von Schwind himself, a painter. Frequently, I encounter Schubert’s friend, the playwright Franz Schober, there. The von Schwinds adore the arts, though they lack the wherewithal and taste of the von Neulingers,” Vogl finished diplomatically.

  “Schober. I’ve met him.”

  “He attended the soirée. Schubert wanted him. I believe they are working on a project together. Schober came along as Schubert’s page turner.” What else Schober was and did, the count could discover for himself.

  “I remember him now. He talked with Heinrich.”

  “That’s the man. He and your son both aspire to make marks in the theater.”

  “Thank you, Vogl. You’ve been most helpful,” said von Neulinger, at last condescending to let Vogl go. He stepped back from the chair, permitting the actor to rise. As Vogl reached the doorway, the count spoke again. “Vogl.”