The Silence vm-3

by J Sydney Jones

  Werthen nodded at this, knowing that he still had one more question for the brother, and was not sure how to broach it.

  ‘I gather Hans was a very sensitive sort.’

  Kurt Wittgenstein shrugged at this. ‘Hardly against the law. Especially in Vienna. Nerves and the waltz. City specialties.’

  ‘Those I have interviewed seemed to make a special emphasis of this sensitivity,’ Werthen said, pushing the point.

  Kurt chewed on his cheek for a moment, squinting at Werthen.

  ‘I suppose if Father employed you, you are a man to be trusted with family skeletons, Advokat.’

  ‘Is that a question?’

  Wittgenstein rubbed his chin. ‘I believe my brother is, as some put it, inverted, sexually speaking.’

  ‘Shy, you mean?’ Werthen said. He knew the phrase, but wanted to make sure.

  ‘Undoubtedly. But more than that. Inclined to one’s own gender.’

  Which explained the priest’s embarrassment at recalling Hans Wittgenstein’s personality and character.

  ‘You’re sure of this?’

  Kurt Wittgenstein shrugged. ‘We are not terribly close as siblings, Hans and I.’

  ‘Meaning he did not confide in you?’

  A sharp nod of the head from Wittgenstein. ‘But one has a sense about such things.’

  It was a very worldly comment for a man like Kurt Wittgenstein, who, frankly, appeared quite unworldly to Werthen.

  ‘I thank you for your candor, Herr Wittgenstein.’

  ‘At least Hans picked someone near to his own class.’ Seeing Werthen’s puzzlement, he added, ‘This Praetor fellow. One assumes. .’

  A quick consultation of the current year’s telephone directory told Werthen that ‘Praetor, Henricus, Journalist’ lived at Zeltgasse 8. The Turks had set up camp on the site of this small street, not far from Werthen’s own home in the Josefstadt, two hundred years earlier when laying siege to the city for the second time. And for the second time, Vienna had proven the bulwark of Europe, turning the Muslim hordes back. The flowing tents of the enemy, however, gave the street its name — they were that close to the city walls.

  Late afternoon and there was an off chance that Herr Praetor would be home this time of day. Herr Praetor was what was called a freelance journalist. Werthen found this a rather inspired usage from the real meaning of the term, denoting a medieval mercenary. The irony in Praetor’s case was that the original meaning was, in a way, apposite: the pen being mightier than the sword. At any rate, there was the possibility that Praetor, with no office to go to, might work at home rather than in his favorite cafe.

  Werthen knocked once at flat fifteen. After a decent interval he administered a second series of raps. He heard footsteps approaching, felt rather than saw an eye being applied to the viewing lens built into the door, and then heard a bolt being freed. The man on the other side of the door as it opened was tall, thin, and aesthetic-looking, dressed something like a Turk himself, in a long silk smoking jacket with a fez on his head.

  ‘Herr Praetor?’ Werthen said.

  ‘Do I know you?’

  Werthen quickly dug out one of his cards from the inside pocket of his overcoat.

  ‘Werthen,’ he said. ‘AdvokatKarl Werthen. I have been employed by the Wittgenstein family.’

  ‘How fortunate for you.’ Said with an acid dryness and a slight sibilance.

  This was clearly not going to be easy, Werthen realized.

  ‘I wonder if I might come in?’

  ‘Please yourself.’ The young man turned and moved with elegant grace from the foyer to a sitting room that was a jumble of furniture of every style from a pine table in Alpine rustic to the heavy black bookcases of Alt Deutsch. Obviously young Praetor was not didactic when it came to furnishing. The same sort of happy serendipity seemed to inform the choice of reading matter stacked in piles and littering the room. Grillparzer mingled with Spengler, while Rilke rubbed shoulders with Stifter. Ernst Mach’s The Analysis of Sensations found a place with Sigmund Freud’s recently published Interpretation of Dreams. In one corner a large Regency desk in cherry wood was scattered with papers and a mammoth Regina typewriting machine.

  Praetor cleared a scattering of books and journals from a sagging daybed.

  ‘Do please have a seat.’

  Werthen ignored the arch tone and, unbuttoning his overcoat, sat. The young man preferred to stand.

  ‘I was employed to find Hans Wittgenstein.’

  Praetor did not change his expression: one of somewhat bemused curiosity.

  ‘Poor Hans. Gone missing, has he?’

  ‘Then you do know him?’

  ‘Would you be here if you doubted that?’

  ‘His family is worried. Nothing has been heard from him or of him in over a week.’

  Werthen ducked as he sensed a sudden movement toward his head. There was a flapping of wings close to his nose and when he looked back at Praetor, the young man held a golden parakeet in the cup of his right hand.

  ‘Now Athena, that is no way to treat guests.’ He set the bird on his shoulder. ‘Birds are famously good judges of character. Seems she doesn’t care much for you.’

  Werthen was taken aback momentarily. ‘You let the bird out of her cage from time to time?’

  ‘This apartment is her cage, Advokat.’

  Werthen looked around quickly for signs of bird occupancy.

  ‘Not to worry. Athena is a most tidy bird. Now, I could offer you coffee. But then I do not think you will be staying that long.’

  Werthen found Praetor tiresome rather than irritating. But he suddenly did not want to spar with him. Perhaps it was the pressure at home from both sets of in-laws; perhaps it was the solemnity of the visit to the morgue; perhaps it was the cheekiness of that damned parakeet lodged on his shoulder. Whatever the cause, Werthen suddenly lashed out at Praetor in the way he knew was sure to injure and frighten the young man.

  ‘I assume you know that an antipathic sexual instinct, if indulged in, is still a criminal offense? No matter if it is between consenting adults or not.’

  It was as if he had struck Praetor across the face. The young man visibly winced, and pinched his eyes at Werthen in an expression of intense dread and hatred. The parakeet flew from his shoulder in a graceful arc into a room leading off the sitting room.

  ‘What you and your friends do is no concern of mine,’ Werthen pressed on. ‘But I want to know about Hans Wittgenstein.’

  Werthen heard his own voice, and was ashamed of himself. He had never before stooped to such moral blackmail. For blackmail it was: any whiff of such sexual impropriety in Vienna could find Praetor, if not behind bars, then definitely ostracized from the journalistic fraternity and from society in general. Men might keep mistresses, they might frequent the seediest brothels, they might even beat their wives regularly, but let it be said that a man had carnal lust for another man and his career was ended, his public reputation in shreds. The emperor himself had banished his younger brother, Archduke Ludwig Viktor, better known as ‘Luzi Wuzi,’ from Vienna for his affair with a masseur and peccadilloes at the Centralbad. Were Praetor’s father to hear of his son’s sexual predilections, he would in all likelihood disown the young man. Werthen was about to apologize, when Praetor suddenly found his voice.

  ‘He was not my lover, if that is what you are saying. Hans Wittgenstein was not, regardless of what you may have heard from his family, a homosexual. I should know. I tried my utmost to convert him. He is, if anything, asexual. In love with his music. There’s no room in his heart for mere mortals.’

  As he spoke, Praetor seemed to find his courage again.

  ‘The sanctimonious bourgeoisie such as yourself have labeled my sexual preferences a crime. I, however, do not. And it gives me great pleasure to tell you and that grasping father of his that Hans is now well out of the reach of his family.’ A momentary pause. ‘No, not as you imagine it, Advokat. He is too full of life and art to kill himself. Instead, he
has set off to create a new life. He stayed here for two days last week, borrowed some money, and then caught the overnight train to Hamburg.’

  ‘He has taken a liner?’

  ‘Very good,’ Praetor said with his arch tone once again firmly in place. ‘You should be a private detective and not a mere inquiries agent. A liner for New York and a new world. He wanted me to come with him, his dearest friend. But you see, in the end I am a coward. Hans’s life is music. He can make that anywhere. But mine is journalism. My language is not international. No. I settled for Vienna and a life lived in the shadows. Is that sufficient for you, Advokat?’

  ‘I really must apologize, Herr Praetor. I would never divulge such information-’

  ‘Do save the platitudes for your wife, if you have one.’

  Praetor was a young man difficult to like, Werthen decided. Difficult even to empathize with.

  ‘I thank you for your information. I shall notify his family of his whereabouts.’

  ‘He sailed four days ago. I greatly doubt the steamship company will allow their vessel to be diverted in mid-sailing, no matter how powerful Herr Karl Wittgenstein is.’

  ‘He is of legal age and can go where he will,’ Werthen said. ‘The family was merely concerned for his safety.’

  ‘I am sure they are. He’s safer away from them.’

  In the end, Werthen did not attempt again to put Praetor at ease vis-a-vis the possibility of scandal. It was obvious that any such overtures would only be met with derision. Neither did Werthen bother to thank him again.

  Outside, it had darkened almost to twilight. Evening was upon the city, and a chill gripped Werthen as he walked along the cobbled sidewalk.

  Not a bad day of work, he told himself.

  A call to Herr Wittgenstein was not enough for the industrialist: he insisted on seeing Werthen in person in the morning.

  ‘But please tell your wife tonight,’ Werthen said. ‘It seems rather sure that Hans is aboard the SS Wertheim.’ For he had checked shipping schedules after leaving Herr Praetor’s flat. ‘The passenger manifest is not available yet, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Manifest be damned,’ Herr Wittgenstein thundered down the line. ‘The boy’s absconded. We shall speak tomorrow. Nine in the morning. Please be punctual.’

  He hung up before Werthen had a chance to respond. Vexing, but not enough so as to put him off Frau Blatschky’s fluffy Germknodel, steamed yeast dumpling, filled with plum jam and topped with poppy seeds, butter, and powdered sugar. He was thankful his mother was not in attendance for dinner, as she would surely raise an eyebrow at such rich fare for the new mother. Which reminded him that he would have to make amends to his parents soon.

  Berthe ate like a prize racehorse, even indulging in a glass of white Gumpoldskirchen wine. Herr Meisner was also at table, but still awfully silent as a result of the ongoing tiff over the naming ceremony for Frieda, who was happily sleeping in the nursery.

  In the end, Werthen and Berthe simply ignored the grumpy older gentleman and he told his wife about the outcome of this first case of the year — withholding the fact of what he could only term his cruelty toward Praetor. It was not something he was proud of, this tacit bit of extortion using the implied threat of revealing to the world Praetor’s homosexuality. Still, the young man was a considerable irritant and he was happy to put the Wittgenstein family at ease regarding the oldest son.

  Dinner ended not long before cries from the nursery let Berthe know her daughter was once again hungry.

  Next morning, Werthen appeared at the Palais Wittgenstein at nine precisely, and was ushered up to the study by the servant, Meier.

  Herr Wittgenstein was engrossed in paperwork at his large desk as Werthen entered, though the man was supposed to be retired. He waved away the servant, and then nodded to a chair for Werthen.

  ‘Fast work, Advokat.’

  Werthen took this as a compliment and nodded, placing the photograph he had borrowed from Fraulein Hermine on the desk.

  ‘I understand you gave Kurt a bit of a shock at the morgue.’

  ‘I felt he would be the best to consult,’ Werthen said tactfully.

  ‘You were wrong, Advokat. I do not need to be handled like an over-sensitive child. You really should have mentioned your deeper concerns.’

  ‘After a week with no word, it was a possibility. Also, I assumed you preferred a degree of anonymity.’

  Wittgenstein let out a low grunt at this. Werthen did not know what it was supposed to signify.

  ‘So he’s taken himself off to New York. Just like his father.’ Herr Wittgenstein seemed almost proud of Hans for the deed. Then, ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘A school friend loaned him money. He seemed awfully certain. We’ll know for sure when the passenger manifest is released.’

  ‘Is it this Praetor chap Kurt tells me of?’

  ‘Henricus Praetor,’ Werthen said. ‘A journalist.’ He wondered if the father shared Kurt’s misbegotten assumptions about Hans Wittgenstein’s sexual orientation. He did not want to have to deal with that question again. Happily, the elder Wittgenstein was more interested in Praetor’s journalism than his choice in partners.

  ‘The man’s a cad, if you ask me. Irresponsible yellow journalism that cost a fine man his life.’

  Werthen was surprised by this sudden outburst, unaware that Wittgenstein was a friend of any sort to those in power in City Hall. It was not just Lueger and company’s anti-Semitism, but also their scapegoating of big businessmen such as Wittgenstein that would seem to make them natural enemies.

  ‘He’ll be back,’ Herr Wittgenstein said at length. ‘I was full of myself and searching for “freedom” just like young Hans. I came back. So will he.’

  Werthen was not so sure of this, but it was not his place to offer such opinions. Instead, he indicated that he had pressing business and rose to leave.

  ‘A payment will be posted.’

  Werthen nodded at this, even though there had been no discussion of fees. He was sure Wittgenstein would know what was appropriate.

  He was led downstairs by Meier and in the entrance hall met with young Ludwig Wittgenstein again, just returning home it seemed, for he was dressed in quite a sporty loden coat with a fur collar and his cheeks were brilliant red from the cold air.

  ‘Advokat Werthen. It is nice to see you again.’

  ‘And you, as well, Master Wittgenstein.’

  ‘Have you found our Hans for us?’

  So the patriarch had not eased family minds the night before.

  ‘He is on his way to America.’

  Ludwig smiled brightly at this. ‘Good for him. And for you for being so clever as to solve the mystery in one day.’

  ‘Thank you. It has been a pleasure.’

  Werthen was about to step out the door when Ludwig added, ‘I hope to meet you again, sir. Under more favorable circumstances. It is now time for my Greek lesson, or I would show you another project I am embarked upon. A working model of Herr Daimler’s motorcycle.’

  A week later Klimt came to the office at eleven forty-five with a smile on his face and a money order in hand.

  ‘Quite generous,’ Werthen said, looking at the amount and happy he had not stated his fees.

  ‘Herr Wittgenstein was most pleased. The family received a telegram from New York yesterday. It seems Hans is safe.’

  ‘All’s well, et cetera, et cetera. It’s awfully good of you to hand-carry this for Herr Wittgenstein.’

  ‘None of that,’ Klimt blustered. ‘I’ve come for my reward. A fine lunch at the Cafe Frauenhuber.’

  Seven

  It was an auspicious date, Werthen thought, the forty-sixth day of the new century. According to his Brockhaus encyclopedia there had been a number of important events that occurred on February 15. Socrates was sentenced to death on this day in 399 BC; Ferdinand III became Holy Roman Emperor in 1637; the Spanish-American War started two years ago. And now, February 15, 1900, he, AdvokatKarl Werthen, was abo
ut to become a landowner.

  To attempt to do so, at any rate.

  It happened this way.

  He and Berthe were avid walkers, and the Vienna Woods afforded them a myriad of favorite hikes. One in particular would take them by the village of Laab im Walde, a pleasant little crossroads with a Gasthaus that served some of the best Reh or venison Werthen had ever eaten. Across the road from this inn was an old four-square: a farmstead from the seventeenth century built in a square like a fort around a Hof or courtyard. The walls of the farm were painted a delicate shade of ochre, reminiscent of the faded golden yellow one saw at the Habsburg summer palace of Schonbrunn. On their last hike, before Berthe grew too close to her delivery date, Werthen had seen a sign posted at the gate to this old farmstead. It was a notice of public sale of the farmhouse and some of the adjoining land. Werthen had just the previous weekend taken another hike to Laab im Walde and discovered that the sign was still there.

  I am a family man now, Werthen had reasoned. How fine to have a place nearby for weekends and summers. He could even imagine the Christmas holidays that could be spent in such an environment, a candle-lit spruce tree giving off flickering shadows in the low rooms of the old farmhouse. He had peeked in a number of windows and could see that the interior of the farm needed a good deal of work, but also that several of the rooms bore exposed beams and one still had a blue ceramic Kachelofen in a corner for heating. He could well imagine fixing up that old farmhouse, and watching his daughter grow into adolescence and adulthood there. There would be other children, too, perhaps a boy with whom he would rough-house in the yard. There was a stable attached to the house; a pair of horses could be kept and his children could learn to ride as he had. An idyllic picture.

  Werthen had duly gotten in touch with an estate agent and was now in the process — with Berthe’s blessing — of proposing an offer for the place.

  The payment from Karl Wittgenstein had finally prodded him into action. Feeling adequately solvent, he decided it was time to make a bid on the farm in Laab im Walde, time to take the first step toward establishing a country house. Grundman, his agent, had spoken with the owners and ascertained that they were eager and ready to sell. All that remained was for Werthen to make a serious bid, a number from which subsequent negotiations could begin. Per Grundman, a serious offer would come in somewhere around sixteen thousand florins. The land agent told Werthen a similar property had sold in nearby Hinterbruhl for that price. Renovations would take another ten thousand, easily. The Wittgenstein payment would be coupled with the belated wedding present of twenty-five thousand florins his parents had presented him and Berthe with.