Then suddenly she stopped the arc of the glasses, recognizing someone. The figure bobbed for a moment in the frame, but she held the small binoculars firmly and was able to focus clearly on the man.
Herr Siegfried Blauer. Unmistakable with those anachronistic muttonchop whiskers of his. She took the glasses away from her eyes for a moment, to see exactly where her telescoped gaze had wandered.
Yes, she thought so. He was sitting in the second tier of balconies, in Mahler’s special box, quite alone. Putting the opera glasses back to her eyes, she saw him lean forward in his seat, laying his hands on the crimson-cushioned balustrade. Then he began moving his hands quite dexterously, as if playing the piano. It seemed at first a nervous tic, but he continued to move his hands to a silent rhythm, exactly as if at the keyboard.
What an extraordinary man, she thought. And what a chance he is taking sitting so brazenly in Mahler’s box. Berthe well remembered that day when Herr Regierungsrath Leitner had taken her and Karl on a tour of the Hofoper, and he had told her in no uncertain terms about Mahler’s proclamation that no one was to use his box. Leitner himself, part of the opera administration, had concealed from Mahler the fact that he had been sitting in that box the day Mahler’s podium had crumbled underneath him.
She stared up at the distant form of the stage manager, Blauer. What was he doing there, anyway? One would think his proper place was backstage, making certain that all was in readiness.
“See somebody?” Alma said.
Berthe smiled at her. “No, not really.”
Berthe was about to hand the glasses back, but Alma indicated she was more content to simply stare at the bucolic scene painted in gold relief onto the house curtain, waiting for the first glimpse of her beloved Mahler.
Another brief survey of the house accounted for several more familiar faces. Herr Leitner himself sat in a second-tier box near the stage on the opposite side of the auditorium from Mahler’s. He was talking animatedly to a heavyset woman with a low décolletage and a vulgarly large ruby at her throat. His wife? But most men are not quite so animated with their own wives. Then Berthe realized who this was: Mahler’s old flame, Anna von Mildenburg, who was, due to a mild cold, not performing tonight. She was, however, healthy enough not to miss this gala evening. The singer sat back in her chair, wearing an expression on her full mouth halfway between a smirk and a smile.
Then, only two boxes away, she caught sight of Justine Mahler and Natalie Bauer-Lechner, both of them looking rather grim. Not even they were allowed into the sacrosanct precincts of Mahler’s private box. Natalie tugged nervously at a garnet broach around her neck.
This was intriguing, Berthe thought.
Fifteen minutes later and the opera had still not begun. Berthe could hear the unmistakable sound of dogs barking from somewhere deep in the stage behind the house curtain.
“I do not know what the matter could be,” Alma Schindler said, her voice sounding impatient. “Herr Mahler is usually so punctual.”
“More time for us to gawp at all the finery,” Herr Meisner said with a laugh.
______
They looked like ants. Self-important insects all dressed up in their finery, so pleased with themselves to be sitting in the elegant Hofoper, as if a ticket to this spectacle made their inconsequential lives worthwhile.
If they could only know beforehand of the plan, the elegant, final gambit. Those in the first few rows of the orchestra would never know of it. The rest, the survivors, could read about it in tomorrow’s papers.
Only minutes to go now, and finally Herr Gustav Mahler would receive just retribution.
Such a long wait. But it would all be worth it. Minutes left. Just minutes.
“Get those animals assembled on the stage,” Mahler demanded, as the dogs strained this way and that. One emptied its bladder on the wooden base of what was supposed to be a marble column, making the gray paint run.
The trainer was called from the wings, trying to calm his dogs while the flustered cast member who was meant to lead the dogs in a triumphal entrance broke into a fierce sweat.
“Control your animals, will you?” Mahler thundered at the trainer, who now, like his operatic counterpart, began perspiring at an amazing rate, feeling the maestro’s eyes boring into him like hot drills.
“I am sorry, sir,” the red-coated usher said, “but we cannot allow you to enter without a ticket.”
“And I am telling you,” Werthen said, “that this is a matter of life and death. Prince Montenuovo himself has given us free passage.”
This only served to make the usher more disbelieving and suspicious.
“Fine, and the emperor has given me permission to toss out any rowdies. So now leave, gentlemen, or I will call for assistance.”
Unbidden, Gross feigned a fainting spell, distracting the usher and giving Werthen the chance to jump around him and make a dash for the second tier of seating. What they had learned from Herr Otto made niceties such as reasoning with an usher irrelevant.
Werthen knew where he was headed. His initial meeting with Herr Regierungsrath Leitner stuck in his memory, as did the existence of the secret door that Leitner had showed him that day. It led backstage from the second-tier corridor; the one from which Mahler could quickly make his way from his seat to the stage during rehearsals.
Werthen gave no thought to his throbbing right leg as he stormed up the carpet-covered marble stairs, the usher now shouting behind him. Neither did he consider trying to find the administration and stop the performance. There was no time for that. Instinct told him that tonight there would be something conclusive, something dramatic. Something to end it all.
This was really too much; twenty minutes past opening time and still no sign of the conductor. The orchestra had fallen silent, finished with its tuning minutes before.
Berthe, still in possession of Alma’s opera glasses, scanned the audience once more, focusing again on Blauer seated in Mahler’s box. He was in a nervous state, Berthe could see, his hands continuing to move over the balustrade. The man’s mouth was now pinched into an expectant scowl as well.
And then it all became clear to her. It was the mouth that did it, for it focused her attention on that part of the man’s face when normally his muttonchop whiskers diverted her attention. Now she saw it, the Habsburg chin, or rather the famous lack of chin and the resulting overbite. Blauer had that pronounced hereditary blemish as surely as if he were a Habsburg himself.
But of course he was, if he were Hans Rott’s illegitimate brother. That thought came clear and unbidden into her mind.
Karl had told them about this younger Rott brother, born on the wrong side of the sheets, perhaps the offspring of nobility. That would account for the man’s startling resemblance to the Habsburgs.
And the way he moved his hands over the balustrade. Just like a trained pianist, not a stage manager from Ottakring.
What did they know of Blauer? They had not bothered to track down his bona fides, taking his word that he was who he claimed to be.
And seated in Mahler’s box. Of course. It was meant as a personal affront. To be so public about it meant that Blauer intended to act tonight, to somehow do away with Mahler here and now at the Hofoper in front of the thousands of gathered devotees of music.
My God, it must be so, Berthe told herself. He had the means and opportunity for the attacks on Mahler here at the opera itself. As to Blauer’s presence in Altaussee, they would have to later ascertain his whereabouts during those incidents.
For now, she knew she must act.
Blauer ceased his faux piano playing, suddenly thrusting himself out of his seat and moving out of Mahler’s box.
She rose, as well.
“What is it, Berthe?” Alma said.
Berthe handed her the glasses. “Sorry. I must visit the ladies’ room.”
Her father showed concern and Alma asked, “Would you like me to go with you?”
“No, no. It is fine. I shall be back in
a moment.”
What to tell them? That she surmised from a chin and nervous fingers that Blauer was the killer? They would only laugh.
The stage manager had met her before. She could at least approach him as an acquaintance. Speak with him. Find out one way or another.
She knew she was making no sense; so be it. Instinct drove her on. But what would she do once she reached the man?
Werthen did not ask himself why the houselights were not yet out. Something had delayed the performance, and whatever it was, he was thankful for it. The delay won him valuable time. What they had learned from Herr Otto still pulsed in his mind. One bit of description Herr Otto had failed to include: the man who followed him from the Café Frauenhuber the day he was attacked wore muttonchop whiskers.
Not Tor, then. Tor had been made to look the guilty party by someone else; someone who was still at liberty and could still do Mahler harm. That someone was clearly Siegfried Blauer, stage manager at the Hofoper.
The death of Tor could mean only one thing: Blauer intended to play his final hand tonight. Werthen was sure of it. Blauer had to be stopped, and by him. The police protection of Mahler had been canceled following the discovery of Tor’s body, and neither Drechsler nor Meindl could be reached by phone. One had left for his family in the mountains, and the other was somewhere in attendance at the opera at this very moment.
Werthen quickly made his way along the now abandoned corridor to the second-tier stage door, looking quickly around before trying it.
Opening the door, Werthen found himself on the metal balcony high above the backstage. Below him a swarm of dogs were being cowed to submission by a handler. He thought he saw Mahler for an instant, but the man turned and left the area by a far door.
Then he caught sight of Blauer, just letting himself into the under-stage through a trapdoor in the main stage. Werthen quickly made his way down the metal stairs. A tall, lanky stagehand about the size of Werthen saw him descend, but only tipped his hat to him, thinking that if Werthen knew the existence of the secret door in the corridor, then he must be someone from administration.
“Blauer,” Werthen said to the man. “I need to see him.”
Werthen’s failure to add the “Herr” to the name of the stage manager only confirmed in this man’s mind that this interloper belonged.
“Herr Blauer is below stage,” the worker glumly told him.
“Yes, I know. If you’ll allow me.” Werthen made for the trapdoor, but the stagehand stopped him.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the man said.
“I need to speak with him urgently.”
“No one is allowed down there but the stage manager during performances. The revolving stage is too dangerous.”
One dog, its tail docked and ears long and silken, managed to escape its lead and started dashing about the stage.
“Get that dog,” shouted the handler.
The stagehand averted his attention from Werthen for a moment to make a lunge for the hunting dog, and Werthen made a dash for the trapdoor.
In the under-stage, Blauer heard the trapdoor open overhead and to his rear before he could reexamine the charge he had earlier set. The delay in the start of the opera had made him skittish; he had to once again assure himself that all was in order. Now, however, he instinctively moved out of the dim light, partly concealing himself behind the massive iron support used to help revolve the stage from one scene to another. The barking of the hunting dogs grew louder as the door opened, and then a tall, slender man began descending the stairs, poorly backlit by the light coming from above.
That meddlesome lawyer again, Blauer thought, for Werthen and his friend Gross were much on his mind. He should be celebrating, Blauer told himself. But if the lawyer had come to the opera, it could mean only one thing. His intricate ruse had failed.
Blauer was suddenly disgusted with himself. He should have killed Werthen that day at the law office. Caved his head in for him properly, not just given him a warning tap. But Blauer had planned it to look like a break-in gone wrong, not a homicide. One further bit of diversion. After all, how could the guilty party be the humble and bumbling Herr Tor if he was in Altaussee when the attack happened?
But then later, when it was discovered that Tor was not in fact in Altaussee on the Wednesday, suspicion would be thrown on him all the more heavily.
Blauer would like to have gloated more over his many intricate maneuvers. Now, however, was not the time. Mahler would die tonight. And this idiotic lawyer was not going to stop him. He leaned over, plucking a razor-sharp dagger out of the sheath in his boot just as the new arrival reached the bottom step and ventured toward the stage-revolving machinery.
Berthe lost her way as she mounted the stairs toward the balcony boxes. By the time she had reorientated herself and found Mahler’s box, it was empty.
So Blauer had not returned. Had he left the Hofoper altogether? She doubted it. After all, a stage manager’s place was behind the curtains. It was what he did. It had to be where she would find him. She recalled the secret door Leitner had showed her and Karl, and leaving Mahler’s box, she headed for the wall at the far end of the corridor.
They had wasted enough time with the dogs. Now it was time to begin.
Mahler pushed his shoulders back and strode through the side door into the auditorium. The lights began to dim as he marched solemnly to the orchestra pit and took his position at the podium, tapping his baton on the top of the music stand.
This would be a performance to be remembered, he told himself.
“Marvelous, isn’t he,” Alma Schindler whispered in Herr Meisner’s ear as Mahler raised his arms, ready to commence the first notes of Wagner’s overture.
“He does have the proper bearing,” Herr Meisner returned in a whisper. “But poor Berthe. No getting back in now until the second act.”
From behind, a florid woman in a sequined gown shushed them.
Blauer let the man pass the iron support behind which he was hiding before he made his move.
“Herr Blauer,” the man called out.
Blauer cupped his left hand around the man’s mouth and drove the blade upward into his back. There was a satisfying crunching sound as the blade went home. Air escaped the man’s mouth and onto Blauer’s cupped hand. He withdrew the knife and struck three more times, finally allowing the corpse to collapse to the ground.
There was no stopping him tonight.
______
Werthen paced nervously by the trapdoor, waiting for the stagehand to return. The fellow had released the loose dog and gripped Werthen’s arm just as he was about to lift the trapdoor. He’d refused to let Werthen pass, and was about to raise a stink about it, perhaps drawing Blauer’s attention.
Instead, Werthen had requested the stagehand to go below and fetch Blauer. He told the astonished worker that Herr Regierungsrath Leitner himself needed to see him urgently about the closing scene. There was to be a last-minute change.
“Isn’t that just like them,” the stagehand muttered. “Throw a wrench into things at the last minute and expect us to fix things.”
Werthen commiserated with the stagehand, but was firm about him fetching Blauer.
But the worker had been gone too long now. Werthen was suspicious. This was not a good sign.
He heard the first notes of the overture coming from the orchestra and at the same time he inched the trapdoor open again.
Berthe opened the secret door to the backstage just as Werthen began descending the stairs under a trapdoor. She paid no attention to the admonitions of a stagehand that admission was restricted. Neither did she pay heed to her own body’s warnings, the nausea returning that was a constant reminder of her pregnancy.
Karl might be in danger. That was the only thought on her mind.
Wagner’s music filled the under-stage so that Blauer did not hear the trapdoor lifting again. Neither had he bothered to turn the dead man over and discover his mistake.
He saw that his
deadly charge was still in place, and smiled. Just one more of those things, like wielding a knife lethally, that one learned from a life on the streets.
Again the white heat of anger rushed through him, thinking how his life had been formed—and ruined—by Mahler. If not for him, then Hans would have been a great musician, perhaps himself the director of the Hofoper, and he, Wilhelm Karl, could have also become a musician of note. Hadn’t he shown his composition abilities with his coded note to Werthen and Gross? All these years of work and planning to get even with the man—assuming the persona of Siegfried Blauer and becoming a stage manager, just so he could get close to his quarry—and now he was within minutes of success. Now he must leave this dungeon-like under-stage before the first scene change.
As the music swept around him, Blauer turned to go.
“What are you up to, Blauer?”
Werthen stood facing him and Blauer gave a jump as if seeing a ghost.
Then Werthen glanced down at the still body of the stagehand, sudden rage filling him. “You animal.”
Blauer did not say a word, but uttered a snarl, leaping onto Werthen and tumbling them both to the ground.
Werthen tried to roll away from the man, but Blauer had him in a bear hug, squeezing the life out of him. This was no time for gentlemanly behavior: Werthen brought a knee up into the man’s testicles and heard him groan in pain. Blauer relaxed his grip for an instant and Werthen moved out of reach, but Blauer kicked his legs out of under him as he was rising. Pain seared through his right knee, but Werthen still tried to stumble to his feet.
In the dim light he caught the flash of a steel blade as Blauer swept his hand up from his boots. Sparks flew as the stage manager swept the knife at him, missed, and struck the iron stage support instead. Werthen quickly took his jacket off and wrapped it around his left arm as the other rose and circled toward him. Blauer feinted to the left and then struck to the right, but Werthen leapt back, out of reach.
Requiem in Vienna: A Viennese Mystery (Viennese Mysteries) Page 27