Vienna in Violet

  “Someone considers that song a matter of life or death,” said Vogl. They neared the Belvedere Gallery.

  “Herr Vogl, one more thing.”

  Vogl waited patiently.

  “You were serious when you said that you didn’t know who is behind all this.”

  “Quite serious.”

  “Then you must be very careful yourself,” Kunegunde said.

  “I appreciate your concern.”

  “We do have a performance tomorrow, you know,” said Kunegunde lightly. “Only you can handle Frau Donmeyer. Good night.”

  With Fraülein Rosa inside her father’s house, Vogl turned towards von Neulinger’s. After a few steps he stopped—stopped and sighed. Fraülein Rosa had consciously complimented him. He thought he’d never see the day. The realization disoriented him. He turned around in the street and took a step back towards the Belvedere, but a cold blast of wind returned him to sanity.

  But sanity, in this case, offered no reassurance. Now alone, Vogl felt his confident veneer disappear. He had no better plan to protect the youths whom he had instructed than to stay out of sight. He could not assess the ruthlessness of Schubert’s pursuer. What if he remained nearby? Schubert, and all those with whom he associated that evening could be dead by morning. For that matter, Vogl, now that he was taking an active hand in the game, might not survive himself. The sooner all he knew was in the hands of the authorities, the better. It was not too late to stop by the Ministry of the Interior.

  Then Vogl changed his mind. Probably it was nothing, but one of Kunegunde’s remarks made him pause. She noticed Heinrich’s change of mood after hearing “Die Sonne und das Veilchen”. If the cause of the subsequent trouble was domestic rather than political, the person to tell was the count. He stood a full minute in the increasing wind, now scattering bits of fresh snow about. Vogl felt his wits scattering with it.

  He decided on a third course. Instead of going to the count’s home, he went straight to his own. He half feared that he’d find an official summons waiting for him—one he couldn’t disobey. With relief, he learned that there had been no callers for him. Forgoing offers of refreshment, he went directly into his study and locked the door. Until he was safely ensconced, he did not even remove his cloak. Carefully, he placed Schubert’s song and Eugenie’s original letter down on the room’s central table.

  He stared at them for quite a while, yet they told him nothing. There was that one discrepancy. Eight not five. How could this small change produce disaster? Whom did it affect? No answers came. It wasn’t long before Vogl had paper before him and pen in hand. He started jotting down various names, von Nuelinger (Georg, Eugénie, Heinrich), Diederich and such servant names as he knew. He reviewed the guests who had seemed most affected, Barenberg, Himmelfarb, Tagili, Bellingham, and a few others. As he did so, he experienced a spasm of horror.

  If one of the Auslanders killed Jennie, he still wasn’t safe. For the sake of Vienna’s stability, Jennie’s murder would have a public solution, and a criminal would go to justice. If the real criminal was, for some reason beyond the reach of the count and his associates—either out of the city or too high ranking in aristocratic circles or foreign diplomatic services, there could be a substitute. As he realized before, no one suited that role better than he, Vogl.

  With a shudder he wrote down the names Millstein and Nordwalder, representatives of the Ministry of the Interior, who had some interest in the party beyond the entertainment offered. Nothing became clear other than that any one or group of these people had the capacity to kill without compunction, and the high likelihood that within a day or two, someone’s blood would avenge Eugénie’s death.

  Vogl thus adopted a new line of reasoning, that of a potential victim. Were there available means to protect himself? Unless he could tell what the others could not—who killed Jennie and for what reason—he could not. What did he know that others didn’t? Only that Schubert altered Eugénie’s text. Who else knew of the alteration? Only Eugénie.

  At that moment, Vogl decided that what began in Eugenie’s world would play out there. Intrigue, deception, bluff, and bravado were her means, all of them anathema to Vogl. What was Eugénie really after that night? Who caught sight of her plan? Who chose to thwart it so brutally?

  Vogl dismissed many terrifying answers to those questions with another one—What would Jennie do? Throughout her career she had instigated many dangerous situations, and, until that night, always managed to escape their negative repercussions. She juggled many contingencies, and she knew how to use her considerable gifts to move people out of her way. Someone that night remained immovable, for once one step—only one—ahead of Jennie. With one other turn, Jennie could have attained the upper hand again. Then Vogl knew his course. Right or wrong, he decided the terms upon which he would risk his life.

  He sent for more paper and fresh ink. For perhaps the first time in many years, since the horrible days when he first grappled with life without Jennie, he passed a sleepless night, writing between frequent bouts of pacing the floor. By dawn the writing was done. Jennie might not approve of what he said, but she’d certainly understand what he did. Vogl hoped her killer would do likewise.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Ignatz Nordwalder had had enough—enough of his underlings’ incompetence, enough of reassigning personnel taken from their daily duties to investigate inconsequential matters, enough of the obscurities and absurdities of the English language, and more than enough of the angst generated by his encroachment on extremely dangerous territories outside his own ministry.

  He summoned Captain Millstein and Count von Neulinger to report his conclusions, for conclusions they were. The official inquiries into the deaths of Eugénie von Neulinger and Gert Timmerich were, willy-nilly, about to end.

  “Guten tag mein Herren,” Nordwalder began when the men were closeted in his inner office. “I won’t take much of your time. We have a delicate situation before us. You two men are the most affected by it. Vienna has suffered two unsolved murders recently: that of your wife, Herr Count, and that of your subordinate, Captain. I am now convinced that the same person committed both atrocities. It’s time to exact retribution.”

  “Congratulations for resolving matters so quickly,” von Neulinger said, with a trace of irony.

  “That’s how we do things these days,” said Nordwalder, with equal irony. “Let us look at the case. Here’s what we know: approximately two weeks ago, some irregular economic negotiations set events in motion. Your wife, who had the reputation of being highly skilled in such matters, took part. Is this correct, Count?”

  “Completely correct.”

  “You knew what your wife was doing,” Nordwalder continued. “Come now, Georg. I commend your attempt to maintain the your household’s reputation, but you must admit the truth. Nothing said here will go beyond these walls. Am I correct in assuming that you encouraged your wife to facilitate a secret exchange of platinum rights and technologies?”

  “You are correct.”

  “Thank you, Georg. We’ll return to the point in a moment. But tell me this. Was your wife’s plan to consummate the exchange at her musical soirée?”

  “It was. At any rate, she promised me she’d do so.”

  “Good. In the event, her offer was conveyed through a song performed that evening.”

  “That’s right, Doktor, but …”

  “Georg, did you know in advance what method your wife selected?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Just as I thought. So, the negotiations fell through. I only bring up the matter to point out that the music was important to someone. I then conclude that the same person killed your wife and Timmerich. Timmerich worked for you, did he not, Captain Millstein?”

  Millstein merely nodded, so Nordwalder continued, “Tell us what he did, Captain.”

  “I assigned Timmerich to observe the movements of Franz Schubert, the composer.”

  “Why?” asked von Neulinge
r. He asked this question simply to disconcert his subordinate. Nordwalder himself compelled Millstein to unleash Timmerich.

  “His unexpected appearance at your house, Herr Count, so soon after your wife’s demise made us suspicious.”

  “We now believe that Herr Schubert himself is completely innocent, but his song is important,” Nordwalder continued. “Has a written version of the song turned up, Millstein?”

  “Our … my efforts to recover it have come to nothing. The song has almost certainly been destroyed.”

  “Precisely. Now we must speculate. The last time anyone saw the song was the morning of the countess’s death, when, with Millstein’s permission”—Nordwalder paused to let the blow land with full force—“Schubert carried it out of the house. Within hours, Schubert was under steady surveillance. His rooms have been searched. One of two things must have happened. He could have destroyed the manuscript himself in the short time between leaving your house until the proper deployment of our watchdogs. This seems unlikely since he had no knowledge of the manuscript’s significance.

  “The second possibility is that someone else took it. Perhaps Timmerich himself did. More probably it was someone Timmerich observed. In either event, Timmerich became a threat. His killer needed to eliminate him and the song.”

  “You still haven’t explained why.”

  “Bear with me just a little longer, Georg. Captain Millstein, see to it that Timmerich’s death appears in the papers as an accidental drowning. The count and I will see that his death receives more appropriate, private vindication. Timmerich was devoted to his work. He had few unusual vices and no enemies interested in his sudden elimination. He died in our service. It is up to you, Captain, to quash any outside inquiries. You’re dismissed.”

  Millstein, delighted to be set at liberty, rose hastily, bowed and left.

  “Exit our capitano,” Nordwalder said. “With the buffoon out of the way, we’ll talk more seriously, Georg.”

  “I am all ears, Herr Doktor.”

  “Let’s first clear up this enigma of the song. Timmerich died for it, yet it seems to have no intrinsic worth.”

  “What do you mean, Herr Doktor?”

  “We assume that the song conveyed a disquieting message the night your wife was killed. We know the substance of that message.”

  “Tell me, Herr Doktor …” von Neulinger said, half rising from his seat.

  “Patience, Georg. The countess wanted the song to convey some sort of fiduciary offer. Whatever it was, the terms were unacceptable.”

  “You have no details?” von Neulinger asked.

  “I don’t need them,” said Nordwalder. “It is unwise to ask, as well as unnecessary. Unwise because the offer concerns platinum, which, I’m sure you know, remains of great interest to Metternich. Unnecessary because once the offer was conveyed, your wife had no further interest in it.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Think a minute, Georg. Suppose you offer me a hundred krone to do a service for you, and I want two hundred. You convey a compromise offer through a third party, which I again reject. Can you think of any reason for either of us to dispose of the third party?”

  “Well, if the offer demands secrecy, the third party now knows the secret.”

  “That won’t do, Georg. We are rival negotiators. If one of us kills the countess, the other will know. In the actual case before us, the negotiations were between a Russian and two Germans with the British hoping to step in. If one of the Germans or the Russian killed your wife, the innocent parties would eagerly point us toward the guilty one. The secret—her offer—was made public through the song. Only the countess’s murder allowed us to learn of the song’s hidden meaning.”

  “Eugénie’s killer may have miscalculated.”

  “Possibly, but since no negotiator accused any other, it seems clear that no negotiator turned into an assassin—or hired one. And consider the method: Decapitation with a saber hardly seems a calculated economic decision. The circumstances surrounding the crime suggest, what I’ve thought all along, that passion, not business is at the root of it.”

  “The song has no bearing on the case?”

  “The contents of the song did not motivate the murderer. Do you see what I’m driving at Georg?”

  “In all honesty, I do not, Ignatz.”

  “I’ll tell you. However, I’ll mention no names. To do so would obligate me to arrest the killer. A trial would follow. Baron Hager does not like to encumber our judges with cases involving sensitive politics. Timmerich would have been my usual recourse in this sort of situation. Unfortunately, he is no longer with us.

  “However, if you, properly informed, acted in advance of the justice system, I guarantee that you will face nothing but a few minor formalities afterwards. No man will blame you for avenging your wife. You won’t be prosecuted. I assume you can find a suitable method to exact satisfaction.”

  “You have my complete attention, Ignatz.”

  “Here is the situation: ‘Die Sonne und das Veilchen’ is a song contrived to deceive—to relay information to an ‘enlightened’ few over the heads of an unenlightened many. Discovered deceit is humiliating. There are two people, aside from those who understood the song’s inner meanings, who might feel that humiliation: those who performed the song. There are now two possibilities. The pianist and the singer.”

  “There is a third,” von Nuelinger inserted, “the person assigned to turn pages.”

  “I haven’t forgotten him, Georg. His name is Franz Schober. “Fortuitously, he fell into the clutches of one of our agents last week …”

  “Or she fell into his,” von Neulinger added, showing that he understood.

  “Precisely. They met in a house on the Annagasse. Suffice it to say that they spent a lot of time together on that occasion. Schober is unusually talkative between events, and he brought up the murder to impress her.”

  “I see.”

  “Schober didn’t confess, nor did he try to plant a false scent. His chatter concerned his heroic attempts to warn and then to rescue the countess—pure nonsense.”

  “You’re certain of this?”

  “I can show you Annika’s report if you like … after the actual murderer is punished. I must again emphasize the need for haste in this matter.”

  “Please continue, Ignatz. I won’t interrupt again.”

  “Danke. Now, as I was saying, either the performer did not know that he was doing something underhanded, or he did. In either case, once he realized the song’s true purpose, his shame impelled him to destroy the countess. When the countess fainted, he understood that he was only a pawn in one of her games, perhaps not for the first time. The knowledge infuriated him.

  “More likely, our killer knew the song’s purpose and saw the ploy fail. Perhaps the countess offered some special payment—dare I say ‘favor’—for success, and he, having discharged his part of the bargain faithfully, still expected his reward. Now do you see my meaning, Georg?”

  “I do. I’m impressed by your logic, Ignatz. A scorned suitor, suffering the deepest shame, proceeds to obliterate all traces of his humiliation.”

  “Exactly,” said Nordwalder. “By trailing Schubert, the unfortunate Timmerich stood in his way, hence Timmerich had to be eliminated.”

  Von Neulinger rose. “Thank you, Herr Doktor. I see my course. I thank you also for letting me resolve this affair personally.”

  Bows were exchanged, followed by an unwonted handshake.

  “Herr Count. There’s not much time. Hager expects a full report by the end of the week. His patience is not unlimited.”

  “I think a day, two at the most, will be sufficient. I won’t rest until this matter is concluded.”

  “Good, Georg. That is what I wanted to hear.”

  Von Neulinger’s homeward journey displayed his agitation. He spurred his horse with unusual vigor, almost upsetting a baker’s push cart on the street and definitely upsetting the baker, who controlle
d his curses until the count was well out of earshot. Von Neulinger’s mind whirled, but he soon resolved on a course of action. As Diederich took his cloak, and the count removed his gloves, he ordered, “Send at once for Michael Vogl.”

  “That won’t be necessary, your Excellency.”

  Von Neulinger’s face purpled. “How dare you!” he said, lifting his gloves in preparation to strike.

  Unperturbed, Diederich responded, “Herr Vogl is here, Excellency. He waits in the grand salon.”

  Von Neulinger handed his gloves to Diederich, turned on his heel, and entered the salon.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Vogl sat at the piano but stopped playing on the count’s entrance. He rose at once.

  “I did not expect you, Herr Vogl,” Von Neulinger said, closing the paneled doors of the salon behind him and locking them. “To what do I owe this unheralded visitation?”

  Vogl caught the peculiar strain in the count’s word selection but ignored it. “I come to fulfill my duty,” he said, “my two promises.”

  “Two?”

  “Heinrich and I have talked about his play.”

  “Very good,” said the count. “What happened?”

  “Do not fear your son’s embarking on a theatrical career.”

  “Do you mean that Heinrich has no talent?” said the count, his color rising.

  “It is not that, your Excellency. Heinrich has a decent way with words, and he is not devoid of sensibility.”

  The count began to pace. Vogl calmly held his position at the piano, as the center of the count’s semicircular path. “What, then, prevents him from continuing as a playwright?”

  “Some practical considerations. In its present form, his play is unproducible. Heinrich lacks experience in stagecraft, but I won’t tire you with a technical discussion. If he wanted to, Heinrich could master the mechanics. No, the reason is deeper, and I daresay, more permanent.”