***
“Tell me, Inspector, is there any more news about the dead man?”
We were in the drawing room. Tea had been served and Müller had withdrawn. Inspector Schneider was making heavy weather of balancing a china plate laden with too many sandwiches for one helping, a napkin, a bread fork, and a cup and saucer. He needed practice for these English tea-time gymnastics on laps and tiny side tables of the most unstable design. I hoped I would be putting him at a distinct disadvantage.
I quietly observed him as he struggled. Not so old, considering he was an Inspector — perhaps only thirty-five or six. A mere boy compared with the usual types one saw as senior officers in any Austrian Imperial service. Dark-haired, but I liked that. No moustaches but a well-defined strip of beard that gave him the feel of an artist more than a policeman — I liked that especially. And grey eyes — not the “steel grey” of cliché, but the grey-blue of a wintry sky.
Swallowing down the last of a sandwich he was able to answer my question: “News? Only that your great uncle wants to give the found man a decent burial. He says no matter who he is, he deserves a wooden box and grave that can be recognised, even though it will have no name.”
“How very peculiar,” I added. Uncle Berty could very nearly give the whole game away by showing too much care for this “unknown” corpse.
“Your great uncle has suggested the grave be identified by the only mark we have — the laundry number.”
Uncle, I thought, that is far too near the truth for comfort. He’ll be ordering the regimental band to turn up next.
And then he slipped it in, the shell from his personal Howitzer: “And may I ask what is your interest in The Union of Servants?”
Good God! How could he know that? Had he traced the card from The Invalides? Should I bluff this out? But perhaps he could trap me. Then a brainwave:
“My butler is, I believe, a member. I went there the other day. I wanted to check that they do have social evenings on Saturdays — otherwise I am concerned that my staff may be having nocturnal rendezvous on a far too regular basis.”
“Well, that explains it. You see we’re keeping the place watched. Your carriage was noted; you were noted. Our man there is very thorough.”
“And in what connection?”
“Oh, nothing to do with our case. No, this is something else entirely. For the last few months — in fact from about November of last year — coinciding with the sudden arrival of this ‘Union,’ there have been a spate of thefts all over the city. Nothing very large taken at any one time — a jewelled tie-pin, a watch and chain, gold cuff-links, ladies’ adornments of various kinds including a complete set of jewels which were only paste, and I cannot believe the thieves would be so ignorant. These are all things servants could so easily purloin themselves.”
“So the ‘Union’?”
“It crossed our minds that the Union might be the fence for all this stuff. It certainly wasn’t coming into the regular places — the pawnshops and the shadier dealers down on Dlouhá Street.”
I was thinking of a panic Karel had got into a couple of weeks ago. Now that was a watch-chain, with a particularly valuable emerald fob. But it somehow reappeared or he managed to find it again, so it certainly wasn’t one of these mysterious disappearances.
He went on: “We turned the Union offices over a few days ago. It was done carefully so it should not have been noticed — but there was nothing there. Just the records of their members and the usual correspondence.”
“You impress me,” I said only half jokingly, “with all the vocabulary of crime, I mean — ‘fence’, ‘turning somewhere over’. So I assume what you are looking for must be — in your parlance — a ‘snitch’, no?”
Schneider laughed. “Well, we couldn’t get one of our own men in there — that is, as a member. These Union fellows checked his credentials and found, of course, that he wasn’t engaged at the address he’d given. He was refused membership, turned away.”
I was feeling more relaxed now. I didn’t think his pursuit of the Union had anything to do with old Alois. I shifted my position in my chair quite deliberately. He would have caught a flash of stockinged shin if he was sharp, or eager.
“There’s another curious feature about the place,” he went on. “At the Fenix Theatre, in the square — and as you’ve noticed, the Union’s offices were once part of the theatre and despite the fact that it’s closed at present, once a week a very grand crowd arrives.”
“That’s hardly odd, is it? It is simple to find out who is organising private concert parties or the like.”
“No. It’s not that. Our chap stationed in a room overlooking the office entrance couldn’t help noticing that so many of these distinguished people arrive by tram. Not one in a carriage.”
“And the evening is a Saturday, I suppose.” I was already having an idea about this.
“Yes. It is. So it is.” Schneider looked at me in that condescending way men do when a woman dares to have a thought of her own, especially one a step ahead of his thinking. So to even the score I tapped my cheek very gently in the social semaphore that indicates to the viewer that he has an enormous eyesore of a crumb in the corner of his mouth. He quickly dispatched his napkin to mend the offence while I smiled benignly with what I hoped was coquettish menace. I decided to end the interview while I was on the high ground, so to speak.
I rang the bell and Müller appeared to show the young Inspector out whilst we exchanged the usual meaningless pleasantries.
“You will see on my card I have written my private telephone number. If ever the need arises —”
I cut him off politely: “Oh, I am sure I shall not feature in any of your investigations again. But do let me know if there are any more developments in the matter of the dead man. It must have been a mix-up with his laundry, of course — but then that means —”
“That we still don’t know who the gentleman is. Only one of them can be Alois Tager. Good day, Your Ladyship.”
***
I had nearly four days to wait until Saturday evening, for then I was sure I would find out something of great interest about this Servants’ Union; it must be connected to the balls or concerts that were held on Saturday evenings in the theatre. There were just too many odd events happening that led back to this one place, once called The Tontine Theatre.
Hold the apparatus for me, will you, Müller?” Müller dutifully held the part like a candlestick and proffered the earpiece to my ear. “That’s a good man.”
After what seemed an eternity, Uncle Berty was brought to the telephone at the other end.
“Good Lord, Trixie. I thought it must be an emergency — or my wife. Nobody telephones one at one’s club.” I could sense Uncle’s mild apoplexy.
“Uncle, will you still be there in an hour?”
“Well, yes — of course. I’ll be having luncheon at…”
“Thank you. Good-bye, Uncle.”
Müller replaced the earpiece on its rest. “Be so good as to send Sabine to me again, will you?” I said. Servants at least give women some opportunity for ordering men about. Common courtesans have that chance, too, I supposed. Men turn to jelly at the hands of a woman who will — well, I can’t say “give” exactly. We all have our price of one kind or another.
I had hardly got back to my boudoir before Sabine was once again there. It hadn’t been many minutes previously that she had been occupied on the new reduced-time hair-brushing regime and pulling the corsets back only to fifty-four centimetres — just a little more comfortable for a woman of adventure.
“Sabine,” I announced, “I want to see my husband’s wardrobe.”
Due to our economies, Karel’s valet had had to go. The butler and the maid attended to his dressing requirements between them. Men’s attire is, after all, so simple to put on compared to that of a lady of fashion. And he
looks well in whatever he wears. He’s slightly built, so clothes hang well — and not too much taller than I. “The best gifts come in the smaller packages” he was always reassuring me, before we were married. It wasn’t his vanity which precluded him from ever saying “the smallest packages,” for he knew very well the size of the minute box that might contain a ring with a very fine diamond, or a pair of ear-rings to match, for that matter. As I had reflected earlier, we all have our price.
In a short time I stared at the mirror: Could I possibly get away with this? — I wondered. But I knew this was a time of change for me…change and challenge, and I was ready for both!
***
The Deutscher Club was on Na Příkopě — the grand street that once ran along the moat of the Old Town’s fortifications, and faced the town walls. During the last century, following the demolition of the walls, the other side of Na Příkopě has been built up with grand commercial and institutional buildings, such as Uncle Berty’s club.
Karel was a member but rarely went there, and on the one occasion I was invited, being a woman — although a Countess — I had to use the side entrance, very much like some woman of the night, and visit Karel for coffee in the Stranger’s Salon. “Stranger” was, I presumed, the club’s euphemism for the female sex. That attitude was certainly never conducive to introducing any intimacy into the cold, arranged marriages of the high-ranking military staff and politicians who were the club’s mainstay.
The club’s entrance hall was lined with tall, grime-dulled equestrian portraits — old men on young horses; surely there was some metaphor there? There were few paintings of the battles these warriors had fought, for the Austrians had had a run of losing most of them over the last hundred years. To make the club member feel illustrious and the visitor tiny, the rooms were as tall as cathedrals.
The head porter eyed me suspiciously. I could feel his eyes searching out various items of my apparel with disapproval. They lighted first on the carnation I had bought from the flower-seller on the corner of Panská Street — I thought one of these new colours so much more fetching than the normal red that Karel wore. Then the eyes travelled across to the rather jaunty way that I (and Sabine) had tied the silk cravat. I felt my heart pounding — so loudly, I imagined, that the man behind the desk must have heard it.
I was hesitating, expecting him to initiate the conversation, such as it should be. Women should not be so forward…except that I wasn’t a woman at this moment. I started to ask for “General Schönbur…” and suddenly I stopped. My voice…I simply hadn’t thought of it, having devoted all my attention to looking like a man. Now I would be giving myself away. I converted my first utterance into a coughing fit, while preparing my voice to descend to the lowest octaves I could reach…
The head porter finally deigned to look up at me, at my face, and took off his pince-nez. “So you’re another one of these theatricals?” he asked, but he did not wait for a reply, nor even asked my name. “I shall have the General informed of your presence. He will be found in the Reading Room.”
I walked as boldly as my timidity would propel me, hoping not to see myself in a mirror — for surely then I would have given up this nonsense. One male booted foot, filled out with two socks, boldly stepping out, followed by its companion. Where on Earth did I get this ludicrous bravado? If I were unmasked, it would be the biggest scandal to hit Prague since the morganatic marriage of Archduke Ferdinand. But on the other hand, this was a test — if I could get away with this, then I could get away with murder…but, on second thought, that wasn’t such a good analogy.
At last — and the ten or twenty seconds had seemed to last an age — I could see him from behind. I recognised that distinguished head of grey-white hair, in front of which was the daily from Vienna, the Wiener Zeitung. In one move he folded the paper, rose and turned. There was a look of excited anticipation on his face, I swear it. He was not actually disappointed as he got closer, but it certainly wasn’t the same expression — like a dog salivating before a huge bone — that he had worn for that brief moment before. Who on Earth was he expecting?
“Good Heavens! Trixie, I shall call the authorities. You just can’t do this. It’s never been done.”
“Uncle, the Tontine, remember — and your late batman? It’s very serious, you must know that. I need to see you.”
“God, Trixie, I suppose you’re right. In prison, having broken club etiquette will hardly seem relevant.”
“We are in this together, remember? I have some news.”
“Well, you’d better stay for some lunch. Only club food, I’m afraid. We men rough it when the distaff side isn’t around. Makes us feel like hunter-gatherers rather than affected French boudoir chasers.”
“Talking of which, Uncle, who are these ‘theatricals’ who visit you here?”
Uncle Berty went crimson — no, beetroot red. He skillfully fielded the question:
“Remember the Tontine, Trixie. As you said, we are in it together.”
As we made our way to the Dining Room, Uncle Berty bent forward and whispered in my ear: “By the way, I think that is more of a summer suit. You should wear a black frock-coat in the winter. Karel knows the form, of course.”
I said neither of the two rejoinders that crossed my mind — not ‘But Karel is the last person on Earth I would confide in’, nor ‘And do your theatricals only wear black?’ Uncle Berty was known — and feared — as a once ferocious old warrior, so I chose not to antagonise him any more than I had already. I ran my hand through my hair, trying to smooth down the newly cut ends which I felt were sticking out like the quills of a porcupine. Of course this was a risk, but it was sort of on home turf. If I could get away with this, then perhaps I did have what it would take to be the detective needed for this mystery. And it would keep all the money in the family — no strangers dipping into it.
When we were seated he leant across in a very confidential manner: “Trixie, for God’s sake, keep your voice down.”
I determined to speak a whole octave lower.
“So there’s news from The Invalides. I got it just this morning. Our patient spent yesterday until darkness sitting and staring at the door to his room. This morning — and he doesn’t sleep there — he resumed his watch. At about ten-thirty two gentlemen, escorted by the warden, entered his room. They asked the inmate if he was Alois Tager, to which, after a moment or two, he gave a cursory nod. At this the two gentlemen left. After ten minutes, by which time the two gentlemen had left the establishment, our inmate stood up, took another coat, put on a hat, and simply marched out of the place.”
Uncle Berty had an explanation:
“As is customary at this time of year, and again in another six months, I get a letter by pneumatic from the directors of the Tontine Financial Association to say that a certain number of nominees are still alive, and my share is therefore…well, now it’s just two lives and half shares. Those were the doctors doing their twice yearly visit. Judging by the speed of the communication, they must have already done old Pinkerstein’s nominee.”
“Pinkerstein?”
“He’s now the only other shareholder in the game. Banker fellow, lives opposite the Jewish Town Hall — owns the whole block, the one they have been rebuilding on the site of a corner of the old ghetto. I shouldn’t think he gives a damn. In the last twenty years his fortune has, I am told, increased twenty times over.”
“By owning a bank? I thought banks hadn’t been doing so very well.” I realised, after the event, that this gem of wisdom had been given me by Karel. It could well have been one of his stories to cover losses on horses, Tontines, or baccarat. I hoped his losses didn’t include the expenses of tarts — he wasn’t charismatic or wealthy enough for a high-quality mistress.
“No. He bought an invention and the company which manufactures it.”
“Manufactures what?” I asked.
“
The common suspender clip. Humble, but prolific.”
“Yes, I read an article in some magazine only the other week. They say that the suspender will take all the romance out of underwear. Who could possibly find such complicated engineering romantic compared to simply untying the silk ribbon of a garter?”
“I think wearing men’s clothing is making your tongue too loose, my dear. I am blushing at the thought.”
But how wonderfully we had steered clear of his ‘theatricals’. Were any as pretty as me, I pondered as finally a very ordinary meat soup with noodles was served. I had heard that such behaviour is common in the army, but I hardly expected it from — well, from somebody I knew and respected. This certainly was a time for discovery. I hadn’t decided yet whether the notion — that my own uncle might be “one of those” appalled me or enthralled me.
“I suppose your attire is because you are now a detective, on the scent — eh?” he enquired, and I told him about what I had found out so far — and the police suspicions of The Union of Servants.
“There’s something certainly going on,” said the crusty old fellow when I’d finished. “For example, I can’t find my medals at the moment. Now that’s strange, isn’t it?”
***
It was Saturday evening. My carriage went past the theatre first, at my command. The streets were slippery from the melting snows, and Tylovo Square, where the New Town meets the slopes of Vinohrady, reminded me, as so often Prague did, of the boulevards of Paris. Umbrellas were down, however, as for the moment it was not raining.
“I want to see what’s happening first, before I get down. Go round once more,” I called out to the coachman.
Indeed there was quite a throng around the porticoed entrance to the Fenix Theatre, and a very smartly turned-out crowd it appeared to be. There were bound to be people I knew. They could tell me all about it, surely this mystery, whatever it was, could be solved in a trice, I felt certain (the foolish optimism, of course, of the beginner). But it was strange — mine was certainly the only coach in the square; there were none outside the theatre, not even a fiacre or two. As we were again on the far side of the square a horse-tram drew up, and out came ten or twelve more guests from a common tram. What could be going on? Had Society embraced socialism without my having the faintest inkling?
The Countess of Prague Page 4