Requiem in Vienna: A Viennese Mystery (Viennese Mysteries)

by Jones, J. Sydney

  “We are working on a new investigation.”

  “That is more like it,” Gross said. “I knew that once you got your teeth into the criminal world again, you would be hooked. Who is involved?”

  “Mahler.”

  “The composer? Whatever has he done other than assault our eardrums with his music?”

  “Not what he has done,” Werthen explained, “but rather what someone is trying to do to him. It appears he is the target of a killer.”

  “Marvelous.” This time Gross clapped his hands in delight. “By the way,” he said in an aside to Berthe, “do you think we might move on to dessert?” Then beaming again at Werthen, he said, “Explain away.”

  Over coffee and strudel, Werthen detailed the investigation thus far: what appeared to be individual accidents, but which, when put together could suggest several failed attempts on Mahler’s life.

  “I take it you have somehow investigated this Schindler girl?” Gross suddenly interrupted.

  “Investigated?” Werthen asked.

  “Checked on her particulars,” Gross explained.

  “I know what the blasted word means, Gross. But investigate her to what purpose?”

  “To ascertain that she is, in fact, not the perpetrator.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, man,” Werthen exploded.

  “No. Dr. Gross makes a valid point,” Berthe joined in. “After all, what more do we know of her than that Klimt was pursuing her, just as he pursues anyone in skirts. But if she is so smitten with Mahler, then she might be trying to gain his attention, win his goodwill.”

  “By trying to kill him?” Werthen replied.

  “Quite the contrary, old man,” Gross said. “By seeming to come to his rescue. By raising the alarm in the first place.”

  “She has made it quite clear that I am not to divulge her identity to Mahler.”

  Gross nodded. “Yes . . .”

  “But there is nothing to stop her from doing so,” Berthe said.

  “Exactly my point,” Gross said, nodding appreciatively at Berthe.

  Werthen was beginning to feel outnumbered and outflanked.

  ”It is essential,” Gross announced, “as your wife suggests, that we take all possibilities into account.”

  “We?” Werthen blurted out. “Hold on now, Gross. What about your conference?”

  Gross made a dismissive “pahh” sound. “The matter of a few hours here or there. While this case poses tantalizing possibilities.”

  “It’s hardly a case yet,” Werthen countered. “And I doubt the Schindler girl will be able to produce a fee.”

  “Yes, but you say Mahler has given you the go-ahead. And you are his lawyer.”

  Werthen felt suddenly very protective of his investigation. He was not sure he wanted Gross nudging his way into it and, of course, attempting to lead it. This was his investigation; Mahler was his client.

  As if reading his thoughts, Gross took a final sip of his coffee, daubed at his bristling mustache with the linen napkin and said, “Of course, it is your case, Werthen. I shall merely provide ancillary support, as it were. A consultant, I believe it is called.”

  “Paid or unpaid?” Berthe wisely asked.

  Gross feigned shock. “You do me a disservice, my good woman. Unpaid, naturally. Or should I say that I shall thereby repay your kindness and generosity in inviting me to stay with you rather than book a room at the Bristol. Taking that into account, I will be well remunerated for any services I shall be able to provide you.”

  Werthen and Berthe looked at each other for a moment.

  “Deal?” Gross finally asked.

  Werthen slowly nodded. But he had to admit to a twinge of disappointment that Gross had so neatly maneuvered his way onto the case.

  It was one thing for Gross to say he would simply consult, but quite a different matter for him to actually take second chair in any investigation.

  The next morning at breakfast they began mapping out a course of action. Berthe wisely remained silent while the men conferred. They quickly agreed on the first order of business. Alma Schindler and her motives would come later. For now, the initial step was to check into the life of the unfortunate Fräulein Kaspar, who died under the fire curtain. If she were not the intended victim of that “accident,” then it would go a long way toward indicating that Mahler was.

  As luck had it, Gross knew the examining magistrate of the Waldviertel region from which the young soprano hailed. A call to him could begin the process of gathering information about her: had she left behind a jealous or rejected lover? Perhaps a voice teacher that she had outgrown? Was there someone, anyone, who might have a motive for killing Fräulein Kaspar? Interviews would also have to be conducted at the Hofoper to see if there were other singers who might see the girl as a threat to their career.

  “Professional jealousy can prove a powerful motive,” Gross intoned. “The theater is a most dangerous place to work.”

  Werthen nodded. “And let us not forget that there may have simply been a baser form of jealousy at play. Mahler did say he and Fräulein Kaspar had been lovers. Who knows how many other singers the man has wooed and which of those might not appreciate having a new paramour paraded in front of her?”

  “Anna von Mildenburg for one,” Berthe suddenly said. She was speaking of the Austrian Wagnerian soprano who had recently been brought to the Hofoper from Hamburg, where Mahler himself had previously conducted.

  “How do you know that?” Werthen wondered aloud.

  “By reading the lowbrow papers, as you call them. One can discover all sorts of valuable information. The papers were full of the affair when von Mildenburg was hired. It seems she and Mahler had a relationship for quite some time in Hamburg.”

  “There you have it then, Werthen,” Gross said. “A starting point.”

  Once such preliminary measures were settled, however, the two immediately hit a stumbling block on how next best to proceed.

  “The list of Mahler’s enemies could be quite extensive,” Gross said. “I have heard he is a stern taskmaster. A perfectionist. Not the sort of personality to hit it off with certain Viennese, I should think.”

  Gross was referring to the Viennese, if not Austrian, custom of schlamperei, or sloppiness or laziness in one’s job or profession. Mahler required more of a singer than a mere performance; he demanded the best from his performers, or they were asked to find employment elsewhere. Werthen imagined there were many at the Hofoper who had been rubbed the wrong way by Mahler’s perfectionism, but at the same time he did not want to encourage Gross with a reply. He knew where the criminologist was going with this line of reasoning.

  “First we need to assemble a list of possible suspects,” Gross said, confirming Werthen’s suspicion. “I highly doubt, however, that we will get much cooperation from the opera administration. After all, it is their task to assure the world that everything is just fine at the Court Opera.”

  Gross waited a moment for some reply, but when none was offered, he went on unconcerned. “No, what we need is more good, old-fashioned gossip from someone who knows where the bodies are buried. Perhaps even a journalist of some sort.”

  Gross pronounced the word “journalist” with such distaste that Werthen could not help but smile. Indeed, Werthen knew the very man for the role of informer, the young writer Karl Kraus, for he had made Kraus’s acquaintance when submitting one of his short stories to the literary journals. Despite his youth (he was only twenty-five), Kraus had already assumed a prominent role in the Vienna literary scene, serving on the editorial boards of several of those journals. Initially joining the Jung-Wien literary movement peopled by the likes of Bahr, the vagabond, sandal-wearing Peter Altenberg, Richard Beer-Hofmann, Hugo von Hofmannstahl, and Felix Salten, Kraus had ultimately broken with those men, writing a scathing satire of the destruction of their favorite coffeehouse. He had also taken on the Zionist leader Theodor Herzl in another satirical article, decrying such separatist views. Like Werthen,
Kraus was a Jew who believed in assimilation.

  Earlier this year, Kraus had begun his own journal, Die Fackel, or The Torch, which he wrote almost single-handedly, attacking Habsburg hypocrisy and corruption, and poking fun at movements from psychoanalysis to German nationalism. Kraus most assuredly knew, as Gross had said, where the bodies were buried in Vienna. And best of all, he was a supporter of Mahler, applauding his work at the Hofoper of “cleaning the stables,” as he had termed it in one article.

  But this too could wait. First Werthen needed to make a point, and make it strongly.

  “I believe, Gross, that we diverge here. You may seek to find the perpetrator or perpetrators, thus halting further attempts on Mahler’s life. In effect, to ‘cure’ the malady. I, however, see another option—prevention.”

  “You’re not proposing a bodyguard, are you, Werthen?” Gross said.

  “Karl, Mahler would never put up with that,” added Berthe.

  Werthen tapped his nose. “What he doesn’t know. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure any day.”

  “And who do you propose for such a role?” Gross asked. “Surely not yourself.”

  Werthen shook his head.

  “And not one of Klimt’s thugs, I hope.” Gross was referring to several criminal characters with whom the painter Klimt was acquainted. Klimt, had, in point of fact, established those men as bodyguards for Werthen and Gross when it was clear that their labors in Klimt’s defense had put their lives in danger.

  Werthen did not reply to Gross’s suggestion.

  Berthe let out a low laugh. “Karl, you are incorrigible. Have you already contracted those men?”

  “The idea only came to me last night. I’ve hardly had time to implement it.”

  “Yet, you mean?” she said.

  “So we are at an impasse, then,” Gross said. “You propose one course of action, I another.”

  “Is there a reason we cannot follow both courses simultaneously?” Berthe reasonably suggested.

  Werthen, still smarting from the fact that Gross had made himself part of the investigation, was not feeling reasonable at the moment; nonetheless, a truce was called.

  Later that morning, Werthen managed to contact Klimt, who in turn, put Werthen into contact with two of the fellows who had helped them out the year before. Herr Prokop and Herr Meier were their names, and Werthen had a speedy and rather clandestine meeting with them at their favorite local—a wine bar near the Margarethen Gürtel underneath the tracks of the new Stadtbahn. Werthen, not a small man, felt like a pygmy amidst the hulking men gathered at this bar, playing cards and laughing at stories of battered skulls and stolen carriage horses. Prokop and Meier were as bulky and ominous-looking as Werthen remembered them from their previous encounters, but even they looked like meek friars as compared to some of the other bowler-wearing toughs gathered there.

  Prokop was missing a tooth since their last meeting; Meier wore a soiled bandage on his left little finger, whose final joint appeared to be missing. Prokop, who did most of the talking, had a choirboy’s voice to counter his boxer’s demeanor. Their discussion was continually interrupted by the rattle of trains overhead. Each time one passed, their wineglasses danced about the chipped table. After taking a sampling of the wine, Werthen left his glass on the table to dance.

  A fee and plan of action were agreed upon: the two would maintain a half-day surveillance each on Mahler. Leitner at the Court Opera indicated that tonight’s performance would be the final one of the season, to be conducted by Hans Richter as Mahler was still recovering from his injury. Thus the services of Prokop and Meier would, at first, be restricted to watching the composer’s flat. Werthen wisely brought a recent news photo of the composer with him, for these two would surely never have heard of the man. Another surprise, however, for Meier turned out to be a great fan of operetta; Strauss’s Die Fledermaus had played at the Hofoper in honor of the man’s passing, and Meier had been in attendance, seeing Mahler conduct the performance himself.

  The agreement was marked by handshakes and a large swig of the rancid wine.

  Two hours later, Werthen was still suffering from that ritual. He and Gross were on their way to an appointment with Anna von Mildenburg at her Ringstrasse apartment. Von Mildenburg lived in the Sühnhaus, at Schotten Ring 7, the northwestern section of that boulevard. The address seemed ominous, for the apartment was built on the ruins of the Ring Theater, which had burned to the ground in 1881, killing hundreds of those attending the night’s performance. Werthen remembered that incident only too vividly. A teenager, he and his family were in Vienna for the Christmas season and had tickets to that evening’s performance of Offenbach’s Tales of Hoffman. But his maman had come down with a bout of intestinal influenza and their father decided that it would be ungentlemanly for the rest of the family—his younger brother, Max, had still been alive at that time—to be enjoying themselves while his wife was bedridden. For once, his father’s “gentlemanly” code—forever aping what he thought to be the mannerisms of the titled classes—served them well.

  The emperor himself had ordered the building of this “House of Atonement,” a magnificent structure combining elements of Gothic and Renaissance styles, surmounted by churchlike spires. The building contained apartments, commercial properties, and a memorial chapel as a remembrance to those who had died. Despite its elegance and its quality address, the Sühnhaus was always a safe bet for a quick rental, for the Viennese were a superstitious lot, and the address was not a favored one. But for someone who had the cash and was in urgent need of upscale lodgings, the Sühnhaus was a popular short-term address. The singer surely had enough for the monthly rent: Berthe had informed him that von Mildenburg had been hired at the unheard of sum of 14,000 gulden, as much as some advisors to the emperor earned.

  Their appointment had been arranged through the singer’s agent. Berthe had easily found the man’s name in the annual agent’s list and had made the call while Werthen had been engaging Prokop and Meier. As far as the agent or the singer knew, Werthen, accompanied by his “assistant” Gross, had a commission from Mahler. Berthe had wisely left the nature of the commission up in the air.

  (“A fine addition, that wife of yours,” Gross had muttered as they had earlier left the Josefstadt to walk to their appointment. For Gross, that was high praise indeed.)

  Von Mildenburg lived on the top floor, overlooking the broad Ring. The Stock Exchange was just across the street, while a close neighbor on the same side of the boulevard was the Police Praesidium.

  They stood in front of the door to the singer’s apartment and Werthen touched the bronze clapper that was shaped like a Dutch clog against the doorplate. The singer herself answered the door a moment later: Werthen recognized her, for he had seen her in the role of Brünnhilde at the Hofoper. Usually stars of the stage are much smaller when encountered outside the theater. However, Anna von Mildenburg was actually bigger in life; not a heavy woman for a Wagnerian soprano, but substantial, like the building she lived in. She was tall and thick-boned and wore a flowing wrap, half kimono and half robe. A shock of dark brown hair was held aloft with pins and combs; her face was punctuated by a broad Roman nose. She gazed at them curiously.

  “You would be Herr Werthen,” she said, extending her hand.

  Werthen took the warm hand in his, feeling an electric pulse from her. Actresses and singers always had this effect on him: he blushed up to his hair roots and had trouble finding his voice as she led them into a sitting room. Everything here was right angles and geometric designs as if a decorator from the Werkstätte had been given free rein, just as at Mahler’s apartment. Werthen finally stammered introductions all around and found a seat next to Gross on a settee covered in a fine byzantine, mosaiclike design that Klimt himself could have painted.

  “So you are investigating these attempts on Mahler’s life.”

  Werthen was caught off guard. He looked at Gross, who simply nodded an assent to her.

 
“But of course I called Mahler after your assistant made such a mysterious appointment. We have nothing to hide from each other.”

  “It would appear so,” Werthen finally said.

  “And you, sir,” she said, turning to Gross, “are not the nameless assistant Herr Werthen makes you out to be, are you?”

  “Well—” Gross began.

  She cut him off. “Of course you’re not. I may be merely a performing artist, but I am no fool. I have seen your photo before. The criminologist, Dr. Hanns Gross, if I am not mistaken.”

  “You are not,” Gross allowed.

  “Then this is serious,” she said. “Not merely one of Gustav’s flights of fancy.”

  “He is subject to such things?” Gross inquired.

  A sly smile from von Mildenburg as she settled back in her Hoffmann chair, drawing the Japanese robe demurely over an exposed ankle.

  “He is a creative genius. The world reveres him for his flights of fancy.”

  “At the podium or piano, however,” Gross added.

  “One cannot compartmentalize one’s life,” she said. “Or can one?”

  Werthen had by now lost any and all awe of the singer; in fact, he was becoming increasingly irritated by her manner. And Mahler. What was the man thinking of to blurt out the nature of their mission to his former lover? He was hoping to catch the woman off guard or at least off balance. Now, however, she was in control of the interview. They might just as well call it a day.

  “Why so perturbed, Counselor?” she said. “As I said, Mahler and I share no secrets. We may no longer be engaged, but the spiritual connection remains.”

  “To be sure,” Werthen said, eager to move on to another subject. “You knew the young Kaspar girl, did you not?”

  “Of course. She was a singer at the Hofoper, as am I. Were we friends? Intimates? Hardly. She was far too jejune a creature for me. But for Mahler, oh, she was just right. Malleable. Someone to form, to build.”

  “As he did with you?” Werthen bluntly asked.

  She nodded. “As he did with me. But then, I had already had the wonderful coaching of Rosa Papier at the konservatorium at the beginning of my career, and later the invaluable help of Cosima Wagner herself in interpreting her husband’s works. Whereas Fräulein Kaspar . . . well, she had Mahler.”