‘Put me on the stand. I’ll say I saw her shove my boy under the wheels of that Stadtbahn train.’
Gross was on his feet, a look of amazement on his face.
‘Thank you, Herr Beer.’ He grabbed the seated man’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘You’ve struck on exactly the line of inquiry we have failed to pursue. The platform that day of young Heidrich’s death was of course crowded, for the trains had only just begun running regularly again after the heavy snowfall. We need to track those passengers down and show them photographs of Frau Steinwitz. Someone, perhaps several, must have seen her there. No one would suspect at the time, of course, that an elegantly attired woman would have pushed the boy. But I guarantee that some of them will remember her presence there; it is not every day that the rich and powerful subject themselves to the hustle and bustle of public transport.’
‘The officer first on the scene must have taken names of passengers,’ Werthen said without a pause, for this was exactly where his thoughts were going, as well. ‘It is standard police procedure.’
‘Perhaps Detective Inspector Drechsler can be of assistance one more time,’ Gross said.
‘I say we just kill her,’ Beer muttered. ‘You know where she is. I’ll do the deed and smile on my way to the gallows.’
‘Were we living several centuries ago, my good man,’ Gross intoned, ‘such a course of action would be the norm. Private settlement of accounts was an acknowledged method in the German-speaking lands. The authorities in such cases merely supervised these private settlements.’
‘Please do not encourage him, Gross.’
‘You seem an ardent man, Herr Beer,’ the criminologist said. ‘Perhaps you would care to join forces with us to see that justice is done?’
‘Is that wise, Gross?’ Werthen said.
‘Done,’ replied Beer. ‘I am your man.’
Fräulein Metzinger merely shook her head at the entire enterprise. ‘She will walk away from the courtroom smiling.’
Gross looked at her long and hard.
‘I promise that will not happen, young lady.’
The private train Wittgenstein provided left from Wiener Neustadt, joining the rails of the Austrian train system a few kilometers to the west. If this was what it was like to be an industrialist, Werthen figured that he had chosen the wrong profession. The car they were traveling in was appointed as elegantly as one of the rooms in the Wittgenstein mansion. The walls were red plush, matching the well-stuffed fauteuils. Hunting scenes hung on the walls. At Werthen’s side table sat a silver bell, which he picked up and jingled. Nothing happened. He jingled it more violently this time and heard the door open and close from the front carriage to theirs in the middle of the three-car train.
‘Yes, sir.’
Werthen had never heard quite so much loathing put into two words before.
‘Beer, I am only doing this for your benefit. You need practice at being a servant.’
Herr Erdmann Beer stood in front of him in deep-blue satin livery, his spindly shanks looking rather pitiful in the silk hose he wore. A sorrier version of Meier, the Wittgenstein house servant, but a real improvement over Beer’s usual attire.
‘What is it you require, sir?’
‘Excellent, Beer. Now you sound like the real thing.’
Gross, seated in another chair closer to the rear of the car, put his evening edition of the Neue Freie Presse down and peered at Werthen over the edges of nonexistent bifocals.
‘You’re enjoying this, Werthen.’
‘Yes, I am rather. What time will dinner be, Beer?’
‘Sir, you can kiss me in the valley of wind.’
Which comment brought a mild chuckle from Gross, who once again turned to his newspaper.
Fräulein Metzinger entered from the other end of the car, from the rear of the train.
‘I do believe you’ve missed your calling, Fräulein,’ Beer said, looking approvingly at the gray and white-trimmed nurse’s uniform she wore.
She blushed at the comment and then straightened her shoulders. ‘I will take that as a compliment, Herr Beer.’
The private train hurtled through the early evening, as the four settled down to a meal together and final plans for the coming day.
Werthen awoke with sunlight in his eyes, pouring through the tiny window of his sleeping cubicle. He sat up in bed and looked at a brilliantly white world under an azure blue sky. In the distance were the Alps, tall, imposing, frozen. Off to his right he could see the icy blue tip of Lake Zürich and the high spires of churches in the city.
A good day for a kidnapping, he decided.
The four of them breakfasted as the train bypassed Zürich, traveling southward along the Lake of Zürich sparkling and inviting under the rising winter sun. Vineyards lay thickly covered under a blanket of snow, grape arbors like stick men dotting the fields. They were attended in actual fact by none other than Meier, Wittgenstein’s loyal servant, who could also be trusted, it seemed, to keep his mouth shut about any adventures he might be part of, as could the engineer driving the train and the brakeman, all loyal Wittgenstein men.
At ten after nine their private train pulled up at a siding near the station of Küsnacht. Out of the train they could see in the near distance their target, the Park Hotel am See. The grounds abutted the banks of the lake and the premises consisted of two large ornate buildings. The older, three stories high with turrets at both sides, fronted the lake; an enclosed portico connected that to another newer, but no less impressive hotel building farther back from lakeside. It stood five stories and had balconies surrounding each floor. Overall, this newer building was fitted out more in the alpine style favored by the builders of mountain lodges, while the older, original building had an air of gingerbread quaintness. Boat pads stood empty this time of year, but Werthen could imagine that in fine summer weather the lawns and launching pads would be a buzz of activity.
‘You know your tasks,’ Gross said to Beer and Fräulein Metzinger. ‘If there is any sign of difficulty, however, you must simply cease and return to the train. We have not come to create more violence. Understood?’
Fräulein Metzinger – dressed in her nurse’s uniform and standing next to a wooden wheelchair with blankets neatly folded in the seat – nodded, but Beer simply stared at the hotel buildings as if in a trance.
‘Herr Beer?’ Gross said. ‘That is understood?’
‘She’s that close,’ he said. ‘The woman who killed my boy.’
‘I promise you she will pay for her crimes,’ Gross said. ‘But not at your hands.’
‘Whatever you say, Professor,’ Beer replied, still gazing at the hotel.
Despite the low sun, the chill off the lake was intense. Werthen was anxious to get things under way. He handed Beer an overcoat that matched his uniform, both with the crest of the Park Hotel am See on them, another gift from Herr Wittgenstein, who seemed to have tentacles everywhere.
Their plan was for Beer to enter the hotel in the guise of one of the staff, then to go to Frau Steinwitz’s room – the number of which was supplied by Drechsler – and to bring mid-morning coffee laced with sufficient laudanum to put her to sleep. Fräulein Metzinger, posing as a nurse, would then go to the room and she and Beer would administer diethyl ether sufficient to render her totally unconscious. Fräulein Metzinger had been advised in the technique by a doctor friend, having told him she was writing a penny thriller. The doctor was only too happy to contribute to her creative efforts.
Beer and Fräulein Metzinger would then put the lady into the wheelchair, bundled up so that no one could see she was unconscious, and wheel her to the waiting train. If noticed by staff or other guests, it would simply appear that she was being taken for an airing.
Gross and Werthen would be waiting in the grounds for their return, keeping an eye out for any watchers or bodyguards. It was, after all, possible that Colonel Gutrum would send someone to accompany his daughter.
‘Good luck to you both,’ W
erthen said. ‘And remember what Doktor Gross said. The first sign of trouble, you both get out of there. We will find another way to deal with her. Is that agreed?’
Agreement came from both, though with little enthusiasm.
Beer set off first, crunching through the snow. Five minutes later, Gross, Werthen, and Fräulein Metzinger followed.
It is finally under way, Werthen thought.
Werthen thought he might freeze while waiting. He knew it would take some time for the laudanum to work. Meanwhile, he tried to keep warm by walking back and forth along the small quay built in front of the hotel. Gross simply huddled in his heavy overcoat, his derby pulled down low over his face, and stared out into the icy waters of the lake. He was strangely quiet this morning, Werthen noticed, but perhaps that was because he was nervous about the success of their plan. Understandable enough. But he missed the criminologist’s usual banter.
Werthen was about to try and bring Gross out when he heard the unmistakable crunch of wheels over frozen snow. There, coming down the path from the back building, were Beer and Fräulein Metzinger wheeling an inert Frau Steinwitz. They had done it. A wave of elation swept over Werthen.
‘Gross. They’re coming.’
The criminologist turned, and Werthen saw his expression turn from relief to alarm.
Werthen looked back and saw now that there was a fourth person coming down the same lane. He was large but agile, and though dressed in finer clothes than before, Werthen was sure it was the man with the broken nose who had attacked him and later Herr Meisner.
‘Behind you,’ he shouted to Beer, but too late, for the thug had already apprehended them and lifted Beer up by the front of his overcoat like a rag doll, shaking him. Werthen could hear Fräulein Metzinger scream. She attempted to push the wheelchair down the path, but the man grabbed her as well, throwing her to the ground like a bundle of old clothes.
Werthen was racing up the pathway toward them, followed by Gross. They had come armed, and as he ran he drew the revolver out of his coat pocket. He could hear Gross panting behind him as he pulled away. The thug had now taken the wheelchair and was returning toward the hotel. This altercation had not yet attracted attention from within the hotel; neither were there strollers about to witness events.
He reached Beer and Fräulein Metzinger, and though shaken, they both seemed unharmed.
‘Let them go, Advokat,’ Fräulein Metzinger said, holding Werthen’s arm. ‘Remember your own rules. We try another day.’
Werthen wanted his own vengeance with the thug who had attacked him and his father-in-law, but knew she was right.
‘Then let me,’ Beer said, struggling with him for the revolver in his hand.
Gross had by now caught them up and wrapped his arms around the struggling Beer.
Ahead of them shots suddenly rang out. They all looked toward the sound and saw the large man topple in the snow. Then another pair of reports from the gun, and Frau Steinwitz slumped in her chair.
Werthen could hardly believe his eyes.
There on the path, gun in hand, was Doktor Praetor. He made no attempt to run away as panic broke out from inside the hotel. He dropped the revolver and simply stood there as a pair of beefy security guards came running down the path and held him. A woman screamed from the terrace at the sight of carnage.
Soon, Werthen knew, the area would be alive with policemen. For now, however, attention was focused on the dead and the perpetrator.
‘We need to leave,’ he said.
They did not run, but forced themselves to walk slowly away from the scene. Turning once, Werthen had the unmistakable sense that Praetor doffed his hat in their direction.
Epilogue
Frieda was wedged between pillows, playing with her silver rattle in the shape of a dreidel, the gift from her grandfather, who was seated next to her on the leather couch in the sitting room looking healthy once again.
‘The one thing I do not understand about all this,’ Werthen said, ‘is how Doktor Praetor was able to track Frau Steinwitz.’
‘Perhaps he went to Detective Inspector Drechsler,’ Berthe suggested. ‘After all, he had saved the man’s wife and with no charge.’
Werthen took a sip of Frau Blatschky’s wonderful coffee. ‘I would never have thought he had it in him.’
Gross stirred in his chair. ‘Doktor Praetor put up a front of formalism, denying that his son might have been a homosexual. Yet he loved Ricus deeply. It was clear to me that he would take matters into his own hands sooner or later. When we finally told him that it was Frau Steinwitz who had killed his son, his reaction was far too muted. I knew he was putting on an act for us. He would have his revenge, one way or the other.’
Werthen looked hard at his colleague. ‘You told him, didn’t you?’
‘Karl,’ said Berthe.
‘No, no. It’s quite all right, Frau Meisner. Your husband is correct.’
Herr Meisner’s attention was taken away from his granddaughter by this discussion.
‘But why?’ the father-in-law asked. ‘Playing God?’
Gross sighed; he suddenly looked very tired.
‘As I said, I knew Praetor would seek personal vengeance. Were we to be successful in bringing Frau Steinwitz back to Vienna to stand trial, it is doubtful any jury in the empire would convict her of killing her unfaithful husband and his catamite. You knew that as well as I, Werthen.’
‘True. But still—’
‘And attempts to link her to the death of the unfortunate Huck are proving equally difficult. Drechsler has found three witnesses who can attest to her presence on the platform that day, but none who saw her shove Huck under the oncoming train. Beyond that, any defense attorney worthy of the name would be able to discredit those people by a simple reference to the picture in Kraus’s Die Fackel article. How can one be sure after all this time where the witness saw Frau Steinwitz?’
‘Also true,’ Werthen averred.
‘So, found innocent, Frau Steinwitz would surely have come into Doktor Praetor’s sights at some time. Better then to end it in Switzerland than Austria.’
‘I don’t follow the reasoning,’ Berthe said.
But Werthen did. It was suddenly clear to him. ‘You mean because the Swiss banned capital punishment there a few years ago?’
‘Exactly,’ Gross said. ‘My reasoning was that it is preferable for Praetor to stand trial for murder in Switzerland than in Austria. That is why I told him the whereabouts of Frau Steinwitz. Of course I had no way of knowing if or when he would arrive. I was only certain that he would try to take her life.’
‘Unlike the gallant Herr Beer,’ Werthen said.
‘Beer played his role quite nicely, as did your Fräulein Metzinger,’ Gross said.
‘I still say you were playing God,’ Herr Meisner said to Gross.
Gross ignored this. ‘I have secured the best defense attorney in Switzerland for Doktor Praetor. A man well respected and well connected. I am also supplying the attorney with all our case notes on Frau Steinwitz so that he can plead extenuating circumstances and perhaps win a reduced sentence. It is better than facing the gallows here in Austria.’
At which point little Frieda emitted a burp of startling intensity.
Werthen looked from Gross to his daughter, and then to his wife. Were someone to harm them, who was to say what he would or would not do.
There are some things about which one would rather remain silent.
Two stonemasons were at work high up in the central spire of the Rathaus. They stood on a wooden platform over the huge clock and felt every vibration from the gears of the monumental timepiece. They had labored all morning carrying blocks of stone and mortar up the three hundred and thirty-one steps to the observation window, and they were now carefully laying stone upon stone to seal the opening.
‘Seems a shame,’ said one of the men, more loquacious than the other.
His companion made an unintelligible grunt at this comment.
&nb
sp; ‘I mean, what a view from way up here. Like you was king of all Vienna. Why would you ever want to go and block it up?’
The other stonemason, a much older and stooped man, gazed out at the vision of Lilliputian Vienna beneath him. He shook his head.
‘Lueger’s the mayor,’ the older man finally said. ‘He knows best.’
The Silence Page 28