The Silence

by Sydney J Jones

  ‘Hmm.’ Gross did not seem convinced. ‘That is one theory. I suggest, however, that we watch our backs.’

  They reached the Josefstädterstrasse in time for lunch. Frau Blatschky had promised stuffed kidneys.

  They found pandemonium instead.

  ‘It’s Father,’ Berthe said to him as they entered the apartment. ‘He’s been badly injured. The doctor fears for his life.’

  The immediate thought came into Werthen’s mind: Another attack from the Rathaus. But he had no time for other rumination.

  They quickly followed Berthe to the guest room. There Herr Meisner was laid out on the bed, a nasty gash over his right eye. Doktor Weisman, a local physician, was leaning over the man. Berthe began sobbing now that Werthen had finally arrived. It was as if she had been holding herself together as surrogate head of the household, but now that Werthen was here, she could finally let her emotions out.

  ‘It was horrible, Karl. This brute of a man came to the door. Frau Blatschky answered it, and he came storming in, demanding to see you. I screamed when I saw him coming in and Father came out of the reading room, newspaper in hand and demanded the man leave. At that the thug struck him in the face. I am sure he was carrying something heavy in his hand. And Father fell back with such force that he knocked his head against the base of the telephone table.’

  ‘Easy,’ said Werthen, putting an arm around her shoulder.

  ‘I was frantic. There was Father flat on his back, not moving. Frieda was screaming. Thank heavens for Frau Blatschky. By this time she had retrieved one of your shotguns from the study. I am sure it was not loaded . . . but she aimed it straight at his chest. The coward ran without a word.’

  Gross meanwhile was conferring with the doctor, who was shaking his head. Herr Meisner’s breathing was labored, ragged.

  ‘We’ve got to get him to the General Hospital,’ Werthen said, instinct telling him that if they left him here the man could easily die. Weisman was a good general practitioner, but surely he knew nothing of head wounds.

  ‘I would advise against moving him,’ the doctor said. His voice was high, almost a falsetto.

  ‘I’ll take that risk,’ Werthen said.

  ‘Karl,’ Berthe said, holding him tight.

  ‘He may just as easily die here,’ Werthen said to Weisman. ‘Am I right, Doktor?’

  The elderly medical man began to protest, checked himself, and made a curt nod of his head.

  ‘Then let us waste no more time,’ Werthen said. He went to the phone and dialed the number for the city ambulance corps. The dispatcher took the information and promised to have an ambulance there in half an hour.

  ‘But he could be dead by then,’ he said.

  ‘There was a fire in Hietzing this morning,’ the lady replied, her voice taking on an icy edge. ‘Do you still wish to have an ambulance sent?’

  Werthen did not bother replying, but simply hung up the apparatus.

  ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he called to whomever was listening. Racing down the stairs, he reached the street and hurried to the nearest Fiaker queue. He was in luck, for his favorite driver, Bachmann, was there whistling his usual tune from Strauss. Werthen had once done the man a service regarding his challenged birth status, and Bachmann had since been grateful and cooperative.

  He doffed a battered derby as Werthen approached. His thick frame was covered chin to boot top in an ancient and somewhat moth-eaten woolen coat that could have been a hand-me-down from one of Napoleon’s generals.

  ‘A wonderful day, Advokat. Can I be of service?’

  Werthen quickly explained the situation and Bachmann lost no time in leaping to his seat. ‘Get in,’ he ordered. He wheeled the Fiaker to Werthen’s door, tied the horses to the reins pole on the sidewalk, and hurried up the stairs with Werthen.

  ‘You can’t mean to move him by cab,’ the doctor said when they entered the guest bedroom. ‘His pulse is weakening.’

  ‘All the more reason to move him now. Will you accompany us, Doktor?’

  With Bachmann carrying Herr Meisner’s upper body, and Werthen and Gross grabbing a leg apiece, they gently lifted the injured man from the bed. Werthen could now see a large lump at the back of his father-in-law’s head. There was no blood.

  As they made their way down the hall of the apartment, Gross told Berthe, ‘Try to contact Doktor Praetor. As I recall, he has office hours now. See if he can arrange for a specialist to meet us.’

  Frau Blatschky was at the door, her wits about her. ‘We will see to it,’ she promised.

  ‘And get the police over here,’ Werthen said over his shoulder. ‘Call Drechsler. That lunatic may come again.’

  ‘I’ll have shells in the gun next time,’ Frau Blatschky said.

  The trip to the General Hospital passed in a blur for Werthen, with Herr Meisner splayed across the knees of the three men inside. Bachmann used his quirt liberally and the Fiaker rattled over the cobblestone streets in and out of traffic, at one point perilously overtaking a streetcar. But Werthen was focused on one thing: the identity of the burly man who had attacked his family. His first thought had been an attack sponsored by the Rathaus. But now he attempted to evaluate things more methodically. Clearly it was not the same man as at Laab im Walde, otherwise Berthe would have immediately mentioned that. Not the bodyguard, Kulowski, then. Could it be the same thug who had attacked him in the street? He would not know for sure until he was able to speak with his wife again. Who had sent the man? But that was patently clear. On both instances Werthen had just been to see someone at the Rathaus.

  He would avenge this outrage, he promised himself.

  Herr Meisner’s labored breathing seemed to echo in the narrow confines of the carriage.

  ‘His pulse grows weaker and weaker,’ Doktor Weisman said.

  Finally they arrived at the hospital and miraculously Doktor Praetor himself was there, with another doctor whom he introduced as Doktor Sulzman. ‘Foremost man in brain surgery,’ Praetor said as two strong assistants guided Herr Meisner off their laps and on to a stretcher.

  Following closely behind he heard Doktor Sulzman say, ‘By the looks of that lump there could be internal hemorrhaging.’

  They followed the stretcher carrying Herr Meisner as far as they could, finally forced to stop at a door marked ‘No Admittance.’

  They stood there dumbly for a few minutes. Doktor Praetor came out to speak to them.

  ‘No use staying on here,’ he told them. ‘There is a waiting room on the second floor. I will look for you there when there is anything to report.’

  ‘Will he live?’ Werthen asked.

  ‘I will not give you false promises. The gentleman is badly injured. But he will have the best care available, I can assure you of that. Did he fall?’

  Obviously Berthe had not given him all the information. ‘No. He was attacked.’

  Doktor Praetor took a breath. ‘Was it in association with your investigations?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Werthen said. ‘I think the same assailant may have earlier attacked me in an effort to stop the investigation.’

  ‘That it should lead to your family . . .’ Doktor Praetor was clearly shaken. ‘I do apologize. Perhaps we should stop.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Gross. ‘We will not be cowed by such savage actions.’

  ‘No,’ Doktor Praetor said. ‘Nor will I.’

  They were silent for a moment and then Doktor Weisman, who Werthen had almost forgotten, offered, ‘I was the physician who attended him in the first instance. If I may be of any assistance . . . ?’

  ‘A pleasure,’ Praetor said, shaking the man’s hand. ‘I believe you have already been of immense help. Most wise to bring him here post-haste. Head injuries can be notoriously deceptive.’

  Doktor Weisman bowed his head at this, not offering a correction or explanation.

  Praetor hurried back to assist Sulzman, and Doktor Weisman pleaded other obligations and departed. Gross and Werthen found their way to
the second-floor waiting room, already filled with several groups, their faces wearing similar expressions of pinched expectancy.

  ‘Perhaps in the hall,’ Werthen said, going outside where there was a bench. If Praetor came to find them he would have to pass in this direction, and Werthen could not see spending hours in the company of others so filled with tension and anxiety.

  ‘We are close, very close,’ Gross said. ‘Our killer grows frantic. This was obviously a most desperate act.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Werthen said, sitting and leaning forward, elbows on his thighs.

  ‘Where to from here?’ Gross asked.

  ‘Not now, Gross.’ For now another thought filled him with fear and anxiety.

  ‘Sorry. I thought it might take your mind off—’

  ‘He could just as easily have injured Berthe or Frieda. Killed them.’

  He could hardly bear to think of that. His wife, his baby girl. That some demented stranger could force his way into his home . . .

  ‘I can stay here,’ Gross offered. ‘You should be with them.’

  But at that very moment Detective Inspector Drechsler approached, two uniformed men along with him.

  ‘Bad business,’ he said, shaking their hands in turn. ‘I’ve stationed two officers at your flat, Advokat. Not to worry.’

  ‘Berthe?’

  ‘She is holding up. Your cook seems to be solid as a rock. She gave us a description.’

  ‘A large, unkempt man in worker’s clothes,’ Werthen said. ‘Wearing a bowler with a thick growth of coal-black hair underneath. A thickened lump at the bridge of his nose as if it had been broken several times. Spoke in an Ottrakring accent.’

  ‘She told you then,’ Drechsler said.

  Werthen shook his head. He explained to Drechsler about being attacked himself, apparently by the same man.

  Drechsler rubbed his chin. ‘You seem to have turned over a rock someone wants left in place. Care to explain?’

  Werthen glanced at Gross.

  ‘Well, Detective,’ Gross began, ‘I think we have fairly well proved a connection between the death of Steinwitz and that of Praetor.’

  ‘On the widow’s say-so?’ Drechsler shook his head. ‘She came to us and mentioned how she had great nerve stress after her husband’s unfortunate death. That she had even thought for a time that both he and the journalist Praetor were murdered because of some silly newspaper article they were working on.’

  ‘Hardly silly,’ Werthen interjected. ‘Nothing more than revelations about a scheme by Lueger to sell off an enormous section of the Vienna Woods.’

  Drechsler rubbed his chin again at this news, clearly impressed.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ the inspector continued, ‘she said she was recanting any suspicions she had about her husband’s death. She said she could just not stand the shame of knowing he was a suicide, so she let her imagination run away with her.’

  ‘Why would Frau Steinwitz bother coming to the police with this story?’ Gross asked. ‘When we spoke to her earlier, she would not go to you even though she feared for her life.’

  ‘Makes sense then, doesn’t it,’ Drechsler said. ‘She wasn’t really in fear of her life.’

  ‘I repeat my question,’ Gross said. ‘Why come to you at all with this explanation?’

  Drechsler looked somewhat sheepish.

  ‘Out with it, Inspector,’ Gross thundered.

  ‘She said she had spoken to a couple of private inquiry agents who had been very pushy about wanting information. She did not want to be bothered by those men again.’ He turned to Werthen. ‘In point of fact, my man told me you went to pay her a visit early this morning.’

  Gross turned to him. ‘Is that so, Werthen?’

  Werthen explained his visit and also his surprise at the change in Frau Steinwitz’s story. But as events had thereafter overtaken him, he’d had no time to inform Gross of the interview.

  ‘It was quite cordial, I assure you, Inspector. As was our former visit. I had been her husband’s Advokat before he became a council member.’

  ‘Any other evidence except what the widow said and then later recanted?’

  ‘You gave me the first bit of connection yourself, Inspector,’ Gross said, reminding him of the use of the same type of weapon in each case, a 7.65 mm Roth-Sauer automatic.

  ‘Correct. Not the same weapon, though.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Gross peered at Drechsler. ‘Has someone talked to you, Inspector?’

  Drechsler did not look at either man when he spoke. ‘Frau Steinwitz spoke with Inspector Meindl directly. He was furious, of course.’

  ‘He always is,’ Werthen said.

  But Drechsler was not to be humored. ‘I feel awful about this, after what you are doing for my wife with her upcoming surgery and all. But after the drama of last Sunday with the Wittgensteins, Meindl told me to warn you two off. Now, with this latest incident—’

  ‘Warn us off?’ Gross said. ‘Off what? That infernal little toad.’

  ‘He was quite serious this time,’ Drechsler continued. ‘Lueger’s office also spoke with Meindl earlier today. After that call he made it very clear to me that there’s a posting in Carinthia where I will end up tracing cattle thieves if I don’t convince you two to call it quits with the investigation of Steinwitz.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ Gross said.

  The statement shocked both Werthen and Drechsler.

  ‘You do?’ Drechsler said.

  ‘And you may tell Inspector Meindl that as of today we will curtail our investigation of Councilman Steinwitz.’

  Drechsler’s face broke into a wide grin. It was the first time Werthen had ever seen the man smile.

  ‘Thank you, Doktor Gross. And you too, Advokat. I won’t forget this, you can be sure of it. I’ll have every available man looking for the thug that did this to your father-in-law.’

  ‘Much appreciated, Inspector,’ Werthen said.

  Once Drechsler and his two policemen left, Werthen wheeled on Gross.

  ‘Whatever got into you to make that promise?’

  ‘The man’s obviously distressed,’ Gross said. ‘Do you wish him to end up in the cow patties of Carinthia?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘I am sure you will notice that I made no such promise about curtailing the investigation of Henricus Praetor’s death.’

  It felt good to smile. ‘You cunning old dog,’ Werthen said.

  ‘And now tell me, Werthen, just what enticement did you offer that Fiaker driver to take a badly wounded man in his carriage? How much did it cost?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Und bitte,’ Gross said with utter disbelief.

  ‘Truth is I helped Bachmann with some family difficulties last summer. He was very grateful for the support.’

  ‘Legal problems?’

  ‘A strange situation. You see it turns out that Bachmann is actually the son of a certain count, distant cousin to the Habsburgs themselves.’

  ‘Werthen, if you are having me on—’

  ‘I assure you, this is only too real. I do not know if you noticed, but Bachmann moves with a distinct limp.’

  ‘No, I must admit I was too concerned with other matters at the time. Quite unlike me to miss something like that, though.’

  ‘He compensates well, but he was born with a club foot. His parents – well, the count in particular – were most adamant about not having a cripple for a son and heir. So they sought out a fine healthy specimen from the lower classes, a cabby’s son, as a matter of fact.’

  Werthen found himself rather enjoying the recounting of this curious history; it was a distraction from the harsher realities at hand.

  ‘You don’t mean to say they traded sons?’ Gross was indignant at the idea.

  ‘Actually, they purchased the new one and gave their deformed baby in return. All quite legal, I assure you.’

  ‘The aristocracy.’ Gross almost spat the word out.

  ‘Well, the count
’s true son thus grew up with the cabby’s family and later began to drive a Fiaker himself, while the cabby’s son grew up in the count’s family and later went into the military, where, I am sorry to say, he was killed on maneuvers in the Balkans last year. And since the count too had already died, the countess wanted her real son back. She petitioned the courts, and when Bachmann received word of how matters stood, he contacted me. He had heard from other Fiaker drivers that I was an honest man – how they determine that, I do not know other than that I tip well. At any rate, Bachmann wanted no part of any nobility. “A cabman I am and will always be,” he told me. He hired me to write up an official renunciation of the title of count, which would pass to him. Instead a distant cousin in Voralberg is now the count and inherits millions.’

  ‘What a curious story.’

  ‘Bachmann is happy as he is. His adoptive father is long dead, but his mother still cares for him and his wife and small family. He told me he would never renounce that woman, not for all the gold in Budapest.’

  They were interrupted by the approach of Doktor Praetor, who was walking briskly toward them along the hallway.

  Werthen could not read his face.

  ‘Doktor?’ he said.

  Praetor said nothing until he was within arm’s length of Werthen.

  ‘They are still operating. But I think he will survive. There was leakage in the brain from the contusion. The surgeon has now allowed the blood to drain and released the pressure on the brain.’

  He did not sound optimistic, however.

  ‘What else?’ Werthen said.

  ‘We cannot know how much damage was done to the brain until later. There could be lasting effects, with speech, perhaps with movement. We will only know these things in the next days and weeks.’

  ‘The man must be on Lueger’s payroll,’ Werthen said.

  Both Gross and his wife were at dinner, as well as the von Werthens.

  ‘Do you think it is completely safe here?’ Herr von Werthen said. ‘I mean if that animal struck twice, why not again?’