Vienna in Violet

  “Your Excellency?”

  “I speak now as a father.” This apparently was not easy for the count. “What do you know of my son’s theatrical aspirations?”

  “I believe he has a manuscript he wants to show me.”

  “Natürlich.” Jennie’s favorite word again. The count didn’t pronounce it with Jennie’s enthusiasm.

  “So far he hasn’t shown me anything.”

  “If he does, do all you can to discourage him.”

  “I’ve promised him an honest critique. Usually that suffices.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Herr Vogl.”

  “Think nothing of it, Herr Count.”

  On the street Vogl reviewed his performance. The more he reviewed, the more chilled he felt—not because of the ambient cold, from which his greatcoat protected him. But rather because one of his worst suspicions was realized. Jennie prevented her husband from seeing the poem that Schubert set. Loyally, until his interview, he had not divulged Jennie’s method of getting her text to Schubert. Vogl hoped that he had adequately deflected attention from his friend, whose only connection to the crime came through the song. Without a direct connection between the composer and the countess, Schubert was safe—unless someone found it convenient to forge that connection. Vogl shuddered.

  Somewhat more comforting was that Fraülein Rosa remained out of sight from the officials—for the moment, and possibly forever. Count von Neulinger himself promised to protect her as long as she had no involvement in the murder. If he deemed Kunegunde innocent, Nordwalder would probably not overrule him. As for stretching the investigative web to include Schober, well Schober could take care of himself. At least he possessed resources far greater than either Schubert’s or Kunegunde’s.

  Vogl’s instincts about Jennie and the song were correct. “Die Sonne und das Veilchen” caused an unexpected upheaval. What went wrong? He sang what Schubert gave him. Unless Schubert altered the text somehow, which was highly unlikely, what disturbed Jennie? Perhaps she noted a response from one of the other auditors. If so, why castigate me? Vogl thought.

  “I didn’t say anything, mein herr,” a puzzled street sweeper responded.

  Vogle hurried on. It was all too much. He simply had to await developments. Amidst much anxiety, he, too, suffered the throes of a frustrating week.

  Thursday morning Vogl’s luck began to change. He found Schubert at von Schwind’s and told him about the engagement at the Belvedere Gallerie on Friday. He purposely did not tell Schubert any details, except that he would be paid. Vogl then tried half-heartedly to persuade Schubert to come to the Hofoper to rehearse that afternoon. He withheld the name of the person Schubert was to accompany. If Schubert knew that Kunegunde, a female whose singing voice was unfamiliar to him, was involved, he’d refuse instantly.

  Schubert pleaded his new piano enterprise and begged off anyway. Vogl was not disappointed. He took his personal copies of Schubert’s songs to the Hofoper, and accompanied Kunegunde himself.

  In an abandoned rehearsal room, after the day’s labors on The Empress, Kunegunde ran through a gamut of emotions: delight that Schubert had agreed to play the following evening, disappointment that Schubert was not present, gratitude that Vogl had Schubert’s songs for her to practice, amazement that Vogl could play the piano parts himself.

  “I thought you were a singer. I never guessed that you were also a musician.”

  Vogl, too, experienced an array of emotions, but unlike Kunegunde’s progression, his were amalgamated. Amusement, envy, self-satisfaction, and despair, all utterly beyond reason, ebbed and flowed like voices in a Bach fugue. While inordinately entertained by Kunegunde’s enthusiasm, Vogl felt irrational jealousy because she expressed more interest in Schubert than in him. His despair grew from his as yet unfulfilled desire to receive an unqualified compliment from her. All in all, the sensations exhilarated him.

  Artistically, the session went reasonably well. “Gretchen am Spinnrade” proved too difficult to prepare on short notice, so they concentrated on the lighter, less demanding “Die Forelle”. By the end, Vogl determined that even in the presence of exceptionally discerning auditors, Kunegunde would not disgrace herself. Her voice was not completely trained, but she understood what she sang about, the essential quality when attempting Schubert’s lieder, and treated the music with commendable respect for both pitch and rhythm. While she lacked the power to engross a large theater full of strangers, in her father’s house, among friends expected to be kind, she could produce a modest success. Everyone in the room would have experienced far worse performances and the attendant burden of having to say nice things about them. Such were the hazards of Viennese cultural life. If disaster loomed he would be there himself to save the situation. Vogl felt sufficiently prepared.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Friday evening, the forces of chaos still flourished, but the spirit of futility passed. A pivotal moment occurred at shortly before seven o’clock that evening, when Schubert’s path literally crossed von Weber’s.

  It happened this way: Schubert, running slightly behind schedule, met Vogl at the head of the Belvederegasse. Together, they started towards the palace.

  “So Misha, what are we singing tonight?”

  “We are not singing.”

  “Very well. What are you singing?”

  “I am not singing. You are playing for someone else. Have no fear, the young lady is quite proficient.”

  Schubert stopped walking. “Young lady? Misha, have you gone mad? I don’t play for strangers.”

  “This girl is no stranger. You know her as Juliet Schikaneder.”

  Schubert’s face grew red—either anger or bashfulness. “Misha, I won’t do it.” He turned back, but Vogl blocked his path.

  “Her real name is Kunegunde Rosa. Her father is hosting this little affair.”

  “Misha, get out of my way. I will not help you pursue that girl. Find some other way to pull the wool over her parents’ eyes. I never suspected anything like this from you.”

  “Don’t talk rot, Franz. This doesn’t concern Fraülein Rosa or myself. Among her father’s guests tonight is a German, Carl Maria von … someone.”

  “Von Weber? Why didn’t you say so? How did you manage it?”

  “I’ll tell you some other time”—as soon as he found a few minutes to construct a suitable fiction. “You must prepare yourself, Franz. Fraülein Rosa has agreed to sing “Die Forelle” as part of the program. I assume you have it with you.”

  As Schubert struggled to dig the music out of his folder, a slim man hobbled past going in the other direction. “Misha isn’t that …?”

  “I think so.”

  “Where is he going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  By the time Schubert realized that the limping man was indeed von Weber, the moment to initiate conversation with him was gone.

  At the gallery things were in a mild uproar. Weber had not been told that after the viewing a reception and a recital were part of his host’s agenda. He stayed only to see the paintings. He expressed regret that he could not stay because of a looming rehearsal and hurried off. For Kunegunde, his departure produced relief. The feverish intensity in von Weber’s large brown eyes utterly disconcerted her.

  “I could never sing for him,” she told Vogl later. The rumor persisted that Rosa wanted to induce Weber to find a place for his daughter in Der Freischütz, but Rosa was too busy playing host to show any unhappiness. His guests were equally diplomatic about having to stay past the guest of honor’s departure.

  Vogl, too, was gracious. When Herr Rosa explained to him with great earnestness, “Weber’s time for social events is very limited,” Vogl nodded his own earnest understanding to mask his private embarrassment. In spite of his thwarted desire to arrange (and claim credit for) a meeting between Schubert and Weber, he merely let events take their course.

  The frustration of this near-miss was alleviated by Rosa’s next sentence. “He’s a
ttending Mass at St. Stephen’s on Sunday. Until then he’s devoting all his time to his opera.”

  Vogl vowed to make the most of his reprieve. Schubert, too, would go to St. Stephen’s on Sunday. Vogl hoped to bask in unearned gratitude then.

  Schubert’s excitement at being within a foot of his quarry dissipated with the disappointment of missing him. He muttered resentment against Vogl for dragging him away on “a fool’s errand.” This, in turn was superseded by the realization that the red-headed Fraülein Schikaneder, rechristened “my daughter, Kunegunde,” was extending her hand to him. The smile that so dazzled Vogl galvanized Schubert, who dropped his music folder. She knelt down with him to retrieve it, and their formal introduction was concluded at knee height.

  “I’m so glad you’re playing for me, Herr Schubert” she said. “Danke.”

  “The thanks belong to Vogl,” Schubert muttered, then added to his own surprise, “but the honor is entirely mine.” He meant it. A few minutes later, he and Kunegunde huddled in conference by the piano. From the rubicundity of Schubert’s face, Vogl concluded that Schubert was engrossed by his current companion and no longer worried about von Weber.

  To a person, Rosa’s dozen invited guests, having met von Weber earlier, found the rest of the evening most enjoyable. To begin with, they rarely saw anything as comical as Schubert’s unceremonious entrance. When the music started, Kunegunde’s singing proved to be entirely respectable. Accompanied by Schubert, she sang her Italian and French selections with confidence and correctness. Her performance of “Die Forelle” seemed to please the listeners, all friends of Rosa liberal enough to tolerate the innovative German piece. Schubert adjusted easily to Kunegunde’s interpretation, which was not unlike Vogl’s own. At the end of the evening, Schubert received satisfactory payment from Herr Rosa and even more generous thanks from his daughter.

  “I cannot tell you, Herr Schubert, what a treat it is to sing with one of Vienna’s greatest musicians.”

  Schubert was unused to such praise. Vogl overheard his clumsy attempt to respond gallantly,

  “You sing quite nicely, too, Fraülein.”

  “I hope we perform together again sometime.”

  Confused, Schubert then said, “Herr Vogl’s waiting,” and quickly withdrew.

  All in all, Schubert experienced a very pleasant evening. On his solo walk back to von Schwind’s, he entertained himself with bittersweet memories of seeing von Weber and performing with Kunegunde. He recalled in no particular order her earnest singing, her entrancing red hair, and her apparent desire to see him again.

  Twenty paces behind him, Gert Timmerich entertained different ideas, mostly obscenities at memories of his two superiors, Captain Millstein and Doktor Nordwalder, but Schubert figured prominently in them as well. Separately, Nordwalder and Millstein denied his request to be relieved of surveillance duty. Furthermore, when Timmerich offered to “toss the rat into the sewer at once,” Nordwalder vetoed the proposal. “Just tell Millstein where he goes,” Nordwalder counseled, “and tell me what Millstein says. If anything more is required, you will be given every consideration.”

  Timmerich suspected that Nordwalder scoffed at him. Dark thoughts formed around the theme that he brooked no disrespect from anyone, of any rank. His temperament and training as a special agent forbad him from telling Millstein how Nordwalder had planted a traitor in his camp, but Timmerich longed to rebel. His right hand twitched in his pocket around the bone-handled knife.

  What if he killed the little twit anyway? The plump little piglet didn’t even know that he was being shadowed, after three days. Subconsciously, Timmerich, trained to hold back exactly twenty paces behind his subject, sped up and gained three paces on the oblivious Schubert. Would Nordwalder really mind if this nonentity ended up face down in the gutter? Timmerich’s unrefined philosophy about hunting murderers was literally to eliminate all the suspects. Surely one of them was guilty, and thus the murder would be solved.

  As he always did, Schubert led Timmerich to the Wipplingerstrasse where he entered the same abode he always entered. Timmerich returned to routine—a ten minute wait in the shadows before heading off to report to Captain Millstein. Millstein always accepted his reports at face value. Why didn’t he request evidence, say a tooth or even a finger?

  Such were the fancies with which Timmerich satisfied himself as he made his way back to base through the cold.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Doktor Ignatz Nordwalder felt a different kind of satisfaction that Friday night, after an inauspicious beginning. The British Embassy informed him that Lord Bellingham was away on business but would receive the Doktor early the following week. Thus Nordwalder turned his attention to Zdenka Merlinbeck. He sent word to her husband’s home, where he was received at once. He entered a ground floor sitting room to discover Zdenka sitting on a settee. The count stood beside her.

  Some women rely on mobility to emphasize their charms. Perpetual motion of the facial features or subtle gesticulation can produce marvelous effects. Zdenka Merlinbeck’s beauty was of another kind. Her strong, chiseled features beneath a coiffure of jet-black hair, enhanced by glints of strategically placed jewelry, begged for the kind of perusal given to statuary. Her eyes were a dusky violet. Alone they had inspired at least two poets to paroxysms of ecstasy. Zdenka was aware of the impression she made. When she moved at all, she moved languidly. At the moment Nordwalder entered the room, she sat quite still.

  “Please sit down, Herr Doktor,” Merlinbeck offered.

  “No thank you, Excellency. This is not a social call. I’m here to discuss the von Neulingers.”

  “A horrible business,” said the count.

  Zdenka, motionless until this moment, lifted her gaze to Nordwalder’s face and said with velvet voice, “My husband speaks for both of us. Yet the tragedy there has nothing to do with us.”

  “Contessa,” said Nordwalder, unmoved, “please tell me about your two companions that evening.”

  “Himmelfarb and Barenberg? They are more my husband’s associates than mine.”

  “But your husband did not sit with them at the soirée, you did.”

  “That’s right. I had one of my headaches,” the count volunteered.

  “I remember that evening quite well, Kurt,” said Zdenka with surprising force. “I know all about your headaches, but the Germans’ business was with you, and I assume that Doktor Nordwalder is inquiring about the Germans’ business.”

  When the count offered no reply, Nordwalder stepped in. “Perhaps, Count, we can talk later. At the moment I’m piecing together the events of that evening. Did either of you notice anything unusual about either of the men or about anyone at all, for that matter?”

  Zdenka, in complete repose, took a moment to consider. Nordwalder waited, his stillness matching hers. Though not completely experienced in the matter, he had competed with women in the past, at least in chess. At last the countess said with a little sigh, “Alas, I noticed nothing. In terms of conversation, the Germans were rather dull. They said little, and when they did speak, all they spoke about was platinum.”

  “Platinum?”

  “That’s right. Doktor Barenberg seemed fascinated by the differences between platinum and gold.”

  Doktor Nordwalder brightened a little. “That is most interesting, Contessa. What precisely did he say?”

  As decorum demanded, Count Merlinbeck remained with his wife, but as the discussion devolved to an intricate exploration of the potential utility of platinum, he found an excuse to leave the room.

  “We won’t see much more of him this evening,” Zdenka said casually. “He spends a lot of time these days with his collection.”

  “His collection?”

  “Bottles. Brandy bottles.”

  “I see,” said Nordwalder. Zdenka’s alteration of her position on the board was one to consider carefully.

  “In any case, we won’t be disturbed. Please have a seat, Herr Doktor.” This time Nordwalder acc
epted. “May I offer you some refreshment? Coffee, perhaps.”

  “No thank you, Contessa. As I’ve said, this is not a social call.”

  “Some other time, then.” For the first time Zdenka gave a slight smile. Few women of her age dared such a gesture, but she still had a complete set of perfect, nearly white teeth, which she used to her great advantage.

  “Perhaps,” Nordwalder said. “This evening I must perform my painful duty. Frau Merlinbeck, it is well-known that you and the Countess von Neulinger did not get along.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way, Herr Doktor. In earlier days a certain rivalry developed between us, but as one matures, one puts these matters aside. Eugénie and I were not intimates by any means, but there is… was … no longer any bad blood between us.”

  “Nonetheless, I understand that last Thursday was the first time you were invited to her home.”

  “That is not strictly true, Herr Doktor.” Again Zdenka permitted herself another slight smile.

  “You were invited before?”

  Zdenka emitted a small laugh. It betrayed a hint of her upbringing, at the hands of Hungarian peasants—a little wildness beneath her hard-won veneer of aristocracy. “I wasn’t invited last week either. Eugénie invited my husband and his two German associates. Kurt … feared … expected … one of his headaches. He arranged for me to join them.”

  “Why should the Germans be invited, but not you?”

  “From their limited range of interest, I suggest that the cause was platinum.”

  “Their presence at the musicale concerned platinum?”

  Zdenka again took a moment for motionless reflection, the perfect stillness of the tigress. Then she began slowly, “I hope you won’t think ill of me when I tell you this, Doktor Nordwalder. I rarely speak conjecturally, but I now see some events of that evening in a different light. Will you keep what I tell you in strictest confidence?”

  “You have my assurance, Contessa.”