Requiem in Vienna: A Viennese Mystery (Viennese Mysteries)

by Jones, J. Sydney

  “Then you will take my case.” For the first time, her face showed honest emotion, a childlike glee.

  “I will talk with Herr Mahler.”

  “You mustn’t tell him it was I who commissioned you.”

  “Strictest privacy, I assure you.”

  She stood suddenly, thrusting her hand forward.

  “Klimt was right about you. He said you were marvelous. I think so, too.”

  He was surprised by the strength in her tiny hand when he shook it.

  Alma Schindler nodded to Berthe on the way out, but otherwise made no acknowledgment of her presence.

  They waited for a moment, listening for the exterior office door to close.

  “Well?” he said.

  “She’s hard of hearing.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t tell me you are, too.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “That little act of leaning across the desk as if to become more intimate with you. Not the reason at all. She just has trouble hearing. I had a friend from school who did the same thing and with the same effect on the boys.”

  “I assure you—” he began.

  “Oh, not to worry, Karl. She is an attractive thing, I will give her that. And smart. A difficult combination for a woman.”

  “What do you think of her story?”

  Berthe gathered her notebook and pencil. “She has an active imagination, to be sure. But then, there is a dead soprano, no?”

  “So, you think it is worth following up?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think, does it? You’ve as much as promised the girl. And pro bono to boot.”

  He felt like a fool. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

  She came across the room to him, placing her warm, soft palm against his cheek.

  “Don’t worry, Karl. I am sure she has gotten the better of many other men, as well.”

  Werthen and his wife took lunch out today, dining at one of their favorite beisln just two doors from the office. The Alte Schmiede was a simple and cozy place with a luncheon menu that changed daily. Today there was leberknödel suppe followed by a spicy goulash served with steamed new potatoes. They drank a red wine from Burgenland with lunch; neither had dessert. They sat for a time over small cups of coffee instead, talking of the morning and planning the afternoon.

  Werthen, after the departure of Fräulein Schindler, had decided to push forward with things, and had placed a telephone call to the Court Opera attempting to get in touch with the director. Mahler, he was told, was at home today, suffering from a severe sore throat. He asked for, and, due to his title of lawyer, was given Mahler’s home telephone number. A call there was answered by a female, who turned out to be one of the musician’s sisters, Justine Mahler. She was chief housekeeper and, it would seem, bodyguard, by the manner in which she so closely questioned Werthen about the purpose of his proposed interview. He had pleaded the importance and privacy of his proposed meeting—and ultimately was able to secure an appointment for two this afternoon.

  “Gustav should be up from his nap by then,” the sharp voice on the other end said. “Otherwise, you will have to wait.”

  He took leave of Berthe, who was off to her afternoon work at the children’s care center in Ottakring. The day was perfect for walking: a light breeze with high scudding clouds in a robin’s-egg blue sky, like something out of a Bellotto view of the city. Strolling through the peaceful cobbled lanes of the Inner City, Werthen felt well with himself and the world. It was all he needed for now: the love of a good woman, a fine lunch under his belt, a day made for walking, and at the end of the stroll, a possible case.

  Mahler’s apartment was just outside the Ringstrasse on Auen-bruggerstrasse, a short lane that led into Rennweg, the diplomatic quarter near the Belvedere. As he made his way up the Schwar-zenbergplatz, he was reminded of the morning he and his old friend, the criminologist Hanns Gross, had left that same palace, the uninvited guests for the night of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.

  Mahler’s apartment, in fact, stood on the corner of Rennweg, a few paces from the Lower Belvedere. It had been built by Otto Wagner, and this apartment block bore the architect’s signature early style of recessed decorative panels at the corners and lines of similar friezelike ornaments underlying the windows of the third and fourth floors.

  A modern building, this one had a lift, which Werthen decided to take, as his leg was acting up after the walk here. He rubbed his stiff knee as the lift carried him to Mahler’s fourth-floor home. The door was opened at the second knock by a female version of the composer himself. Her hair was equally unruly and rather thin, the nose was hawklike, eyes lightly veiled and somehow predatory. She wore a broad tie on her off-white blouse, a wide white belt, and a full skirt that looked as if it were constructed of canvas.

  “You’ll be Herr Werthen,” she said.

  “Yes.” He was unsure how to address her: Gnädige Frau? Unwritten rules turned a fräulein into a frau if they were still unmarried after the age of thirty or so. It was the “or so” that always confused him. He opted for a brief handshake instead of verbal salutations.

  “I suppose you’ll want to come in.”

  With that, she turned, leaving the door for him to close after entering. Short, dark corridors led off in both directions from the entry with several rooms attached. Justine Mahler proceeded through mahogany double doors directly in front. These opened, Werthen soon discovered, into an inner hallway that was much longer and brighter, giving off to a second section of rooms. The Court Opera director was obviously doing very well for himself to be able to afford such a suite of rooms for just himself and his sister.

  He continued to follow Justine Mahler as she turned left. He passed an open door to his right, and looked in as he walked by. A formal dining room with a quite elegant and very modern geometrical-styled dining table and chair. Obviously designed by the Werkstätte, the fine arts wing of the Jugendstil and Secessionist artists gathered around Klimt. Light spilled from the large street-side windows into the room.

  She opened double doors to the next room and they entered a spacious sitting room, a glorious Bösendorfer grand piano gracing the middle of the parquet, its enamel freshly waxed and shining. In a far corner he thought he saw a pile of blankets on a settee; he soon saw that Mahler himself was huddled beneath this mountain of eiderdown, a white sticking plaster at his neck, and a thermometer in his mouth. Werthen had to suppress a laugh; it was like a cartoon out of Der Floh or some other comic illustrated weekly.

  Next to the settee was a small enameled table on top of which lay a carton of loukoumi, or Turkish delight as the British called these sweets to which Mahler was addicted, according to the popular press. One journalistic account Werthen had read explained that the composer had a steady supply sent directly from the Ali Muhiddin Haci Bekir Company of Istanbul; a guilty domestic pleasure that made Mahler seem more human to Werthen. The little cubes of jellylike candy were richly powdered with sugar and smelled strongly of cinnamon and mint.

  Justine Mahler halted abruptly in front of the settee, leaned over and extracted the thermometer from Mahler’s mouth, squinted at it, uttered a humming sound at the results, then tucked the glass tube in her blouse pocket.

  “Please do not tire him. He still has to prepare for the final opera of the season.”

  And she left them. Werthen felt the relief a person experiences when storm clouds blow over. He handed Mahler one of his new business cards. Mahler took it and also swept up a piece of Turkish delight now his sister was gone.

  “Sit down, sit down,” he said, popping the sweet into his mouth, not bothering to offer Werthen one.

  Mahler’s voice, sore throat or no, held authority and was much lower than one would expect, given his size. He reached for the pince-nez at his side, adjusted them on the bridge of his sharp nose, and appraised Werthen, then his card. He chewed the candy thoroughly before recommencing.

  “A trio of personalities,” Mahler said, tappi
ng the card. “Which one visits me today?”

  “Inquiries,” Werthen replied vaguely.

  “So what is this vitally important information you have for me?” Mahler asked as Werthen drew a rather uncomfortable armchair to the settee. Lovely designs, the Werkstätte, but made for looking at rather than sitting on.

  The musician’s dark eyes sparkled. A ghost of a smile appeared on his thin lips. His shock of uncontrollable hair atop his head looked not so out of place here in a sick bed as it did seeing Mahler hatless making his way along the Kärntnerstrasse, his characteristic uneven gait often bringing jeers from children. Even now as he lay under the eiderdown, Mahler’s nervous energy caused the fingers of his left hand to tick out a rhythm against the comforter.

  Werthen cleared his throat and began. “There have been certain incidents at the Court Opera, as I understand. Culminating with the death of Fräulein Kaspar.”

  Mahler said nothing, continuing to hold Werthen in his steely gaze.

  “There was also the instance of a dropped scenery flat, of a poisonous substance in your teacup.”

  “My lord, Herr”—he examined the card again—“Herr Werthen. Had you told me you were coming with a new and quite melodramatic libretto, I would have dressed for the occasion.”

  Werthen felt himself redden, then decided to hell with politesse.

  “I’ve been commissioned to investigate attempts against your life.”

  This clear summation took the supercilious smile from Mahler’s lips.

  “And who might your commissioner be?”

  “I am not at liberty to divulge that.”

  “Yes, of course. It would be Prince Montenuovo. Protecting his investment.”

  Mahler was indicating the feared assistant court chamberlain and supreme administrator of the Court Opera, answerable only to Kaiser Franz Josef.

  “As I said, I am not at liberty to divulge that person’s identity. I have come to ascertain if you agree with such an assumption.”

  “What? That someone is out to kill me? Ridiculous. Grethe, perhaps. Fräulein Kaspar, that is. You can tell your unnamed client to investigate that, instead. Tell him to look at the opera cats who might have had their fangs out for the young soprano. Everyone knew she was my lover. It was an open secret. Plenty of those cats had it in for her, I’m sure.”

  “By cats I assume you mean other female singers.”

  “You are being too kind; many of them call themselves singers. I will soon clean the stables of those untalented old maids in search of a pension. Meanwhile, I merely put up with them.”

  “So you see no threat to yourself?”

  “Only to my ears, having to listen to some of them.”

  If someone actually were trying to kill Mahler, Werthen thought he could understand their motive.

  “Seriously, I may have ruffled some feathers, but I have neither the time nor the patience to worry about popularity. It’s the music. It’s all about the music. Those who do not understand that must go. But a matter of murder? I think not.”

  “And the scenery flat? The tainted teacup?”

  “Accidents. We have more than a hundred people working on both sides of the proscenium. One comes to expect such things.”

  “Yes.” Werthen was putting on his best lawyerlike countenance now, not giving anything away. But suddenly he felt rather a fool. Mahler was obviously right. Accident. Coincidence. Perhaps the death of the Kaspar woman was more than that. But if so, that was a matter for the police. Fräulein Schindler had obviously been allowing her overeager imagination to run away with itself.

  “Well, then . . .” Werthen rose, ready to make adieus.

  “Your card. It says ‘Wills and Trusts.’ Is that true?”

  Werthen was taken aback by the question. “Of course it is. I do not misrepresent myself.”

  “Relax. No insult intended. But I’m in need of someone to write my new will. Certain amendments to be made in light of altered circumstances. When can we begin?”

  No niceties about requesting service for Mahler. He was too used to giving commands for such things.

  “You wish to engage my services.”

  Mahler sat up on the settee now, looking revived and ready for action. He pulled the plaster away from his throat.

  “Herr Werthen, you must forgive my brusqueness. It comes from having to deal with stubborn singers day in and day out. Yes, I wish to engage you.”

  Despite his demeanor, there was something about Mahler that appealed to Werthen. Here was a man who lived life on his own terms.

  “You are Jewish,” Mahler suddenly said. Not a question.

  “I’m not sure how that enters the matter.”

  “Though clearly baptized. Assimilated as it were. As am I.”

  “Yes.”

  “And from Moravia originally, as, again, am I.”

  “You checked on me,” Werthen said.

  “Wouldn’t you in my place? A discreet telephone call to a friend in a high place. No more.”

  “And you were satisfied with what you heard?”

  “Or else my sister would not have allowed you in.” Another tight-lipped smile; irregular but very white teeth showed. “So, what do you say? Am I to be your new client?”

  “Certainly. It would be an honor, Herr Mahler.”

  Mahler’s sister was waiting on the other side of the door to show Werthen out. Good timing or had she been eavesdropping?

  At the front door she tapped his arm lightly, her eyes squinting at him. She had about her the look of a woman about to go to confession.

  “Gustl needs protection. Whether he knows it or not. I, for one, am glad you came.”

  Before Werthen had a chance to ask what she meant, Justine Mahler politely but firmly showed him out.

  THREE

  Werthen and Berthe had begun to grow into a steady yet unstructured domesticity. Their household was run, not by the perceived aristocratic notions—breakfast in the morning room, visitors’ cards laid out neatly on a high table by the entry door, jause of poppy seed cake and coffee promptly at four thirty, endless and rather pointless at-homes—nor was it run to the stricter tempo of an Orthodox household with its kosher kitchen and strictly observed Friday Shabbat and Torah readings. Instead, Werthen and Berthe were slowly developing their own rhythm and their own rituals.

  Breakfast, for example. This morning—the sacred Sunday when all offices and schools were closed—they lounged in the study, each engrossed in a favorite occupation, reading. They had discovered that reading at table had been forbidden in both their families. To be exact, they were not at table now, but bookends at opposite ends of an immense leather sofa that Berthe had insisted they purchase.

  Not at table, but at breakfast, the food laid out on a low table in front of the sofa. For Werthen this meal still consisted of Frau Blatschky’s aromatic and powerful coffee and a kipfel from the bakery in the bottom of their apartment building. Werthen would awaken at five to the first tantalizing whiffs of those rolls as the sweet and yeasty aromas wafted upward in the apartment house. For Berthe, who had been converted to the habit after a brief stay in London, breakfast meant a pot of Ceylon tea and crisps of toast spread with Frank Cooper’s Oxford marmalade. Both tea and marmalade came from Schönbichler’s on the Wollzeile. Berthe had introduced Werthen to the shop’s wonders one rainy March day, tucked away in a durchhaus off the noble Wollzeile. Werthen had never smelled such spicy aromas gathered together in one place before.

  She was reading the Neue Freie Presse before turning to Hermann Bahr’s new book of essays on the Viennese theater, while Werthen was immersed in Engelbert Bauer’s new book, The Practical Uses of Electricity. He loved gaining new knowledge, forcing his mind out of old ways of thinking and learning new and wonderful things about a world that was changing daily.

  This was their Sunday morning ritual even though their marriage was only a pair of months old.

  Frau Blatschky, however, bore an air of aggrieved distaste at
the new informal arrangement. It was quite all right for Werthen, a bachelor, to take his breakfast in the study, but now that he was a married man, the cook had higher expectations for the new lady of the house.

  After the wedding, Frau Blatschky had come to him, offering her resignation, saying that surely the young lady had her own staff she would want to install. Both Werthen and Berthe assured her they would be pleased if she stayed on. Yet it was difficult for her at times. It was not only the informality of the newlyweds that bothered her. The Ericsson phone that Berthe had installed was also a constant source of befuddlement to Frau Blatschky. He would see her standing stock-still in front of the apparatus when it jangled to life, fearful of touching it. No amount of soothing explanation could convince her that she would not be electrocuted if she answered the call. And the fact that Werthen and Berthe shared a bedroom rather than kept separate sleeping arrangements seemed to shock Frau Blatschky in an entirely different manner.

  But Werthen had grown accustomed to her over the years and Berthe put up with her because of the woman’s wonderful zwiebelrostbraten.

  And so they had ignored her look of distaste as she had set down the breakfast tray and left them there, comfortable and cozy.

  “My God,” Berthe suddenly said from behind her paper.

  Werthen looked up from his book. “What is it?” Werthen asked with feigned horror. “Parliamentarians brawling again?” The Viennese parliament was known for its rather rambunctious debates that at times turned physical.

  “No.” Berthe looked at him and Werthen realized it was serious.

  “It’s Mahler. He’s had an accident at the Court Opera.”

  Werthen was halfway out the front door by the time he finally heard Berthe’s suggestion.

  “Wouldn’t it be prudent to telephone ahead first?”

  In his haste, he had completely forgotten about the luxury of the telephone in their foyer.

  “Right,” he said, still flustered.

  “You’re not going to be much of a help to anybody like this. Deep breaths now, five of them.”