The Silence

by Sydney J Jones

  ‘Sorry. I’m newly moved in. I left my change purse in the apartment and cannot very well bother the Portier without tip in hand.’

  The woman smiled at this, but her husband, a thin and wary man, simply stared at Werthen as he headed to the stairs and they made their way to a street-level apartment.

  Reaching the third-floor landing, Werthen knocked lightly on Praetor’s door, trying to gather his thoughts, wondering just how he would approach the young man. There was no answer and he knocked again, a bit louder. Another half-minute passed and this time he used the zinc twist knob of the manual doorbell. Still no response.

  He put his ear to the door and thought he heard movement from within.

  ‘Herr Praetor,’ he said to the blankness of the door, feeling rather silly as he did so. ‘It is I. Advokat Werthen. I have come to apologize. Please let me in.’

  He tried knocking once more, raising his voice a notch in volume this time. ‘Herr Praetor?’

  A door opened down the dimly lit corridor and the figure of a woman appeared in a backlit silhouette in the doorway.

  ‘What is it you want, young man?’

  ‘Sorry. Just trying to rouse my friend. We were to meet. He must have fallen asleep.’

  ‘I suggest you take that as an official rejection then and cease with the everlasting clamor.’ She peered more closely at him as if trying to recognize this visitor. ‘And how did you get in if your friend is sleeping?’

  Werthen did not wait for the woman to gather steam; she was sure to start making a grand fuss, summoning the Portier and who knows what all. He did not attempt further explanations. Instead, he sensibly turned on his heels and beat a hasty retreat.

  At home, Werthen made no mention of this abortive visit to Praetor. He enjoyed a quiet dinner with wife and child, and an early night in bed.

  The next morning at the office Werthen sat back in his chair to peruse the morning edition of the Neue Freie Presse. Since the birth of Frieda, his newspaper reading had been confined to the Habsburgergasse. When at home, he liked to be able to give full attention to his beautiful daughter.

  He let out a contented sigh as he began with the front page of the newspaper. His contentment was short-lived, however, for prominent on that page was a report on the mysterious death of a young journalist, whose body had been found in his apartment in the Josefstadt.

  Henricus Praetor – friend to Hans Wittgenstein and the journalist who had first written about financial wrongdoings at City Hall pointing to Councilman Steinwitz – had been found with a bullet through his head, an apparent suicide.

  Eight

  ‘I am not necessarily saying it was murder. But there appears to be something decidedly strange about it.’

  The man speaking, Victor Adler – head of the socialist party in the empire and publisher of the Arbeiter Zeitung – sat at the Werthens’ dinner table on Saturday evening. He was diminutive with a bushy head of hair and wire-framed glasses over bulging eyes. A thick moustache drooped over his lips and extended to the sides of his mouth, giving him a scowling appearance even when smiling. Next to Adler sat his wife Emma, who was a friend of Berthe’s, and who, Werthen decided, was far more appealing physically than her husband. Though in her forties, she still had a glow to her skin and a softness of features that drew one in. Her husband, on the other hand, was above all earnest in demeanor, like a family doctor. Indeed, Adler had been trained, Werthen knew, as a doctor and a psychiatrist.

  As Werthen listened to the man speak, he felt his stomach sinking. When Berthe had mentioned that the Adlers were coming to dinner, he feared that there might be this connection to the death of Henricus Praetor. After all, Praetor had freelanced for Adler’s newspaper.

  ‘I am not at all sure the verdict of suicide is warranted,’ Adler added.

  ‘Suicide is a strange business,’ Herr von Werthen said. Werthen’s parents were in attendance tonight, much to their obvious discomfort.

  Werthen quickly glanced at his father. It was hardly like him to address this taboo topic, given the history of his own dead son, Max.

  ‘Yes,’ Adler allowed. ‘But it is more than that. More than the mere shock of death. More than one wishing to discount the possibility of suicide in one so vital. After all, suicide in one both young and healthy, with all of life stretching before him, is one of those actions that seems an affront to all of us. A challenge to our own predications of the value of this life we lead. It is, in that sense, an assault against the very fabric of society.’

  Emma Adler placed a hand over her husband’s now, as if to restrain him. Did she know of Werthen’s dead brother?

  ‘Not a very pleasant topic, darling,’ she said to her publisher husband.

  Frau von Werthen muttered assent to this.

  However, Adler smiled at his wife as if he had not heard.

  ‘At any rate,’ he continued, ‘the strangeness comes not so much from the deed, but from its context. As you might know, young Praetor was engaged in a series of articles for us on various dealings at the Rathaus.’

  ‘There was the Steinwitz article,’ Werthen said. ‘Perhaps he felt remorse at having possibly brought about Steinwitz’s death through his disclosures.’

  Since learning of Praetor’s death, Werthen had been wrestling with competing and distressing feelings. On the one hand, he was anxious that the newspapers were correct about the cause of death. After all, he, Werthen, had been at Praetor’s flat Thursday evening, and several people in the apartment building had seen him. In effect, he might become a suspect in the event that Praetor’s death was not suicide. But at the same time, if Praetor had committed suicide, was it because of Werthen’s visit? Had he pushed the young man over the edge of reason? Had Praetor thought Werthen had come to further threaten him?

  Werthen had not told Berthe Thursday night about the attempted visit, not wanting to bring up the whole matter again because of the residual guilt he bore about his first interview with Praetor. And now he was trapped in this unspoken lie. The death of Henricus Praetor was the last topic he wanted to discuss tonight.

  ‘There were other articles, as well, weren’t there?’ Frau Adler said. After attempting unsuccessfully to redirect the conversation, she apparently decided to join in.

  Victor Adler quickly nodded at this. ‘Yes. Praetor was looking into the 1873 Vienna Woods preservation act at the time of his death. Our editor-in-chief told me yesterday that the young man felt he was on to something quite important. Herr Praetor was, however, rather secretive. No one at the newspaper knows the direction his investigation was headed.’

  ‘He kept no notes?’ Berthe asked.

  Adler shook his head. ‘Not at his desk at the newspaper.’

  ‘I thought he was freelance,’ Werthen said.

  ‘The roast beef is delicious,’ Frau von Werthen interjected, another implicit plea for a change of conversation.

  ‘There are several desks set aside for those people,’ Berthe explained, and then, to her mother-in-law, she replied, ‘Yes, Frau Blatschky has quite outdone herself tonight.’

  For the next half-hour the talk was of a more domestic variety: extolling the charms of young Frieda, who was approaching one month of age; describing a recent letter the Adlers had received from their son, Friedrich, studying physics in Zürich and how he had made the acquaintance of a terribly talented young student at the Federal Polytechnic, one Albert Einstein; and of the possibility of Werthen and Berthe buying a country home in the Vienna Woods, though there had been as yet no response to Werthen’s offer. The last topic in particular brought out emotion in Herr von Werthen, who pronounced how glad he was to see his son taking part in the world in such a way.

  It was a typical remark, and Werthen did not take it wrongly. The sole worldly participation his father thought valid was the accumulation of property.

  His parents left soon after dessert was served, his father confiding to him at the door, ‘That Adler chap is not half so bad as one would expect. A famil
y man and a businessman. Not the dreadful Marxist one hears of.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Werthen said. ‘He seems a very regular sort.’

  ‘Not a bad looking bride he has, either.’ Followed by a lascivious wink, which took Werthen aback. It seemed that now they were two conspiring males together in his father’s eyes.

  ‘Quite attractive,’ Werthen agreed.

  ‘Rather too much unsavory talk at table, Karlchen,’ his mother chided on her way out. Then she gave him a peck on the cheek.

  After his parents left, the four of them settled in for a brandy in the sitting room, and Werthen hoped they would not resume the discussion of young Praetor’s death.

  ‘Now,’ Berthe said to Adler, ‘you were saying about Praetor’s investigations . . .’

  Werthen let out a barely audible sigh that caught Berthe’s attention.

  ‘Yes,’ Adler said, warming the snifter of brandy in his hand. ‘About his research notebooks. Clearly he kept such notebooks, for his fellow colleagues witnessed him scribbling notes in them.’

  ‘Perhaps at his flat?’ Emma Adler suggested.

  ‘Yes, they must be at his flat,’ Berthe said, a note of excitement in her voice. ‘But why are you so concerned about these notebooks, Victor? Do you want to continue with his articles?’

  Werthen had a very strong premonition of where all this was leading. If he were not so distressed about his own presence outside Praetor’s flat the night of the man’s death, he would take the conversation to that end point at once. Instead, he sat back observing as it unfolded before him.

  ‘Praetor’s father came to me late yesterday,’ Adler said. ‘He thinks his son was murdered.’

  Once this was said, Werthen felt a sudden release; no longer was there any internal conflict. He realized that fear of being implicated in Praetor’s death was far outweighed by the possibility that his visit had tipped the scales and made the journalist commit suicide. Thus, he knew what he had to do. Prove the death was a homicide.

  ‘Why does the father think that?’ he asked.

  Adler turned his attention to Werthen, seemingly relieved that the lawyer was finally taking interest.

  ‘Herr Doktor Praetor knew his son. I am not absolutely certain he was aware of his son’s sexual inclinations, but they were best of friends. The two of them were planning a trip to Ravenna just next week. His son gave him no indications that he was troubled, let alone feeling suicidal. I trust the good doctor’s judgment in this matter. It is more than the self-delusion of a grieving parent. And then there is the matter of the missing notebooks.’

  ‘I understand what you are implying, Herr Adler,’ Werthen said. ‘You feel that these notebooks might supply some motive for Praetor’s murder. But we can hardly say they are missing. Has the father examined his son’s flat?’

  Adler shook his head. ‘The police have secured it until a coroner’s verdict of suicide is given.’

  ‘Then, as suggested, these notebooks could very well be in the flat. I remember seeing a writing desk when I visited Praetor.’

  ‘You mentioned sexual inclinations, Victor,’ Berthe said. ‘What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘Well . . .’ He brushed his walrus moustache and glanced at Werthen for assistance.

  ‘Come now, Victor,’ his wife said. ‘We are all adults here.’

  ‘He is . . . he was homosexual,’ Werthen said.

  ‘You never mentioned that,’ Berthe said to Werthen. ‘Not that it matters, I suppose.’

  Werthen nodded. ‘Yes, it matters. You see, I thought he and Hans Wittgenstein—’

  ‘Were lovers?’ Berthe finished for him.

  Another nod. This was the time to make a clean breast of things. Now. And not let this secret fester a second longer.

  ‘And I cruelly used his secret to force information from him. Not something I am proud of. As it turns out, Hans Wittgenstein was not his lover, merely his old school chum. But I felt miserable stooping to such tactics. That is why I did not mention that I stopped by Praetor’s flat Thursday evening.’

  All eyes were on him now.

  ‘You see,’ he said to Berthe. ‘I was just so embarrassed at my earlier actions that I did not want to mention the name. I decided to stop and apologize again for my brutish behavior. But he would not answer his door. Praetor was in there. I saw a shadow behind a curtain from the street. And then I read the notice of his death the next day in the newspaper. I wondered if my presence had driven him to it.’

  ‘Dear Karl,’ Berthe said, kissing him on the cheek. ‘You can be boorish at times, but not to the point of making one suicidal.’

  This levity from Berthe released the tension in the room, for the Adlers had clearly begun to feel uncomfortable at Werthen’s extended confession. Their laughter at Berthe’s remark was louder than her bon mot justified.

  ‘Well then,’ Adler said in a jocular tone, ‘it would seem you have good reason for looking into this case. After all, you may have been the last person to attempt to visit Praetor. You could be a suspect if there actually were foul play.’

  There was more laughter, but Werthen knew only too well that Adler’s off-hand comment might prove very accurate indeed.

  A telephone call from Doktor Praetor the next day sealed the bargain. The doctor was adamant that Werthen aid in finding the killer of his son. Thus it was that Werthen took on the commission, to be paid for jointly by Adler and Doktor Praetor, to investigate the death of Henricus Praetor.

  Werthen lost no time the following Monday getting in touch with Detective Inspector Bernhard Drechsler of the Vienna police. He spoke to Drechsler by telephone from the Habsburgergasse. Drechsler, at his office in the Police Praesidium on Schottenring, was obviously just getting over a cold, for his voice was scratchy and still nasal in tone.

  ‘I appreciate you letting me know of this,’ the inspector said after Werthen fully explained the contacts he had had with Praetor. ‘And you were home by what, seven, seven fifteen, seven thirty last Thursday evening?’

  ‘Rather closer to seven fifteen, I suppose. I remember my housekeeper, Frau Blatschky, greeted me at the door, happy she did not have to hold dinner.’ He was about to ask the reason for such questions when Drechsler ploughed on.

  ‘Good. I think you can rest assured that you were not responsible for the young man’s death. People like Praetor lead a complex emotional life. It is far more probable that the fellow was despondent over a love affair. These people become fixated on such things.’

  These people. Werthen did not respond to this, however. Instead, he asked, ‘You are sure it was suicide?’

  A momentary pause. ‘No. Though we thought it best to tell the father so. No use causing the man further pain.’

  ‘I’m not following you,’ Werthen said.

  ‘There was no gun at the scene, only a shell casing and a bullet lodged in the wall in back of the body. No suicide note. Thus, the alternate version is that his death was the result of a tryst gone wrong. Perhaps even male rage at an unwanted advance. No telling what such people get up to, is there?’

  ‘Now see here, Drechsler,’ Werthen began, but then thought better of it. After all, he had been guilty of a similar offense regarding Praetor.

  ‘You sound rather agitated, Counselor. No need to be. I am merely explaining why we are giving this death a somewhat lower priority than others.’

  Werthen made no reply at first. Then, ‘Is there any indication when death occurred?’

  ‘At seven thirty-one that evening.’

  So that explained Drechsler’s questions about the time he arrived home: it eliminated him from further suspicion.

  ‘Someone heard the shot?’

  ‘Very good, Advokat. Now I know why our mutual friend, Herr Gross, has such faith in your powers of deduction. A neighbor on the same floor, Frau Czerny. A very acute witness to events in her house. She heard a loud noise and looked immediately to the pendulum clock on the wall. She says she knew the sound was that of a gun goin
g off. Lived through the events of 1848, did Frau Czerny, and seems to have had an intimate relationship with such sounds ever since. She saw you outside Praetor’s flat, as well.’

  The woman who came out when he was knocking at Praetor’s door, Werthen figured.

  ‘Quite good ears for an elderly woman,’ Drechsler went on. ‘Said she heard some crazy person addressing Herr Praetor’s closed door. She recalled quite well that name: “It is I, AdvokatWerthen.” The very words she heard. So you see, it is a good thing we had this little discussion. I was going to contact you today at any rate.’

  Werthen felt doubly pleased with himself for calling Drechsler so promptly.

  ‘We would like permission to enter the apartment,’ he said.

  ‘We?’

  ‘Herr Doktor Praetor and myself.’

  ‘Sounds like you have taken on another case, Advokat. Trust me, though, this is a dead end, for you and the father. Nothing but grief will come from stirring things up.’

  ‘Still,’ Werthen said, leaving the rest unsaid.

  ‘Yes, yes. You’ll get your permission. I’ll notify the men on guard duty to let you in. But remember, this is a possible crime scene.’

  ‘Just as Doktor Gross would counsel,’ Werthen said, getting in the last dig, for it was the criminologist Gross who preached the sanctity of the crime scene and the police who had reluctantly and at long last come to accept that principle. ‘The father simply wants to gather some mementos.’

  It must be my imagination, Werthen thought.

  There was the smell of decay about Praetor’s apartment. The father did not seem to be disturbed by the odor, but instead went about searching his son’s wardrobe and drawers for any sign of notebooks. Afternoon sun poured through the windows.