The Silence vm-3

by J Sydney Jones

  ‘Calm yourself, Emile.’

  His wife attempted to pat the back of his hand, but he jerked it away.

  ‘But what of the 1873 ordinance?’ Berthe asked quite sensibly.

  ‘Sitte says they have found a way around that,’ Werthen answered. ‘That it is not a legally binding ordinance at all.’

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ Emile von Werthen said, facing his son now. ‘You and Doktor Gross contend that this councilman and also a journalist were murdered to silence them.’

  ‘Correct,’ Werthen said.

  ‘And that it was this secret scheme to sell off the Vienna Woods that is the reason for their deaths?’

  ‘That would appear to be the case,’ Gross answered.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ Herr von Werthen said.

  Werthen was glad to see that his father’s sense of justice was finally aroused; for once he was not focusing on mere self-interest.

  ‘That means,’ Herr von Werthen continued, ‘that you have put us in danger by sharing this information. I warned you that this investigating business of yours would bring ruin to us all.’

  ‘Now Emile. Calm yourself,’ cooed Frau von Werthen.

  Werthen could only groan.

  After his parents left, Werthen brought out the Wittgenstein diary he had taken from the office so that his wife and the Grosses could see it personally. When it came his turn to examine the journal, Doktor Gross examined entries closely preceding the final ones. He also inspected the empty pages to make sure there truly were no more entries, turning all the way to the end pages.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said, finding a sleeve glued on to the inside of the back cover. From this he carefully extracted a folded piece of paper. By the looks of it, this paper had once been crumpled, perhaps balled up and thrown away and then later retrieved by Hans Wittgenstein.

  Gross slowly unfolded the paper, which with closer examination was revealed to be a piece of fine linen stationery. The others now left their chairs and gathered around him. Once the paper was laid out flat on the table, two things were immediately apparent. The letterhead indicated it was from the desk of Karl Wittgenstein, father of the runaway Hans. Secondly, the letter, or protocol as it turned out, was titled ‘Opening and Development of the Outer Ring of Vienna.’

  ‘Meaning the Vienna Woods,’ Berthe said.

  ‘I believe so,’ Gross said, quickly scanning the letter. The others were doing the same and it quickly became apparent to them that this was a draft of a letter by Karl Wittgenstein, representing other unnamed investors, to offer bids on purchasing a large tract of the Woods for an estate development: large villas surrounded by immense grounds.

  Gross thumped his forefinger on the letter. ‘This may explain why the son took leave of the family house.’

  ‘The final straw,’ Werthen agreed, returning to his seat along with Berthe and Frau Gross. ‘That his own father was involved in the scheme.’

  So that was what the youth meant by the last entry, ‘All is lost,’ thought Werthen.

  ‘But what of this Remington person you mentioned?’ Adele Gross asked. ‘Isn’t he the one Herr Sitte said was the prospective buyer?’

  ‘It looks from this,’ Gross said, ‘that Lueger was going to sell the land off to the highest bidder.’

  ‘Auction off the Woods,’ Berthe said. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘But,’ Werthen said, ‘apparently not illegal.’

  ‘What could he hope to achieve by it?’ Frau Gross said. ‘It would be the ruin of him politically.’

  Fair question, Werthen thought. If the sale could be done in private, the development of the Woods surely could not. Public outrage and outcry would follow. Or was Lueger wily enough to deflect his critics? After all, if he could turn anti-Semitism into a winning campaign plank, perhaps Lueger could make the sale of the Vienna Woods appear to be in the interests of the little people, too. But what was it all for? Why this grand risk?

  ‘We now have a template to follow,’ Gross said, interrupting Werthen’s thoughts. ‘Our theory is that Councilman Steinwitz and the journalist Henricus Praetor were both murdered and that there is a direct connection between the two crimes. We lack direct evidence, such as any sign of the various files Steinwitz shared with Praetor or of the journals that Herr Praetor is said to have kept. However, we have ample indirect evidence from Hans Wittgenstein’s diary entries that the two were linked by their involvement in making public the plot to sell off large parts of the Vienna Woods.’

  ‘Indirect evidence substantiated by Sitte,’ Werthen added, ‘and confirmed by this letter from Karl Wittgenstein.’

  ‘Thus. .?’ Gross said, his voice rising at the end as if asking for conclusions.

  ‘There are at least four persons or groups of persons that would benefit from the deaths of Steinwitz and Praetor,’ Werthen said. ‘First, the sellers. Those involved at the Rathaus.’

  ‘You are assuming that Mayor Lueger himself was directly involved in this?’ asked Berthe.

  Gross nodded again. ‘You have a valid point, Frau Werthen. As yet we have no direct proof that Lueger authorized such a sale. His name is not actually mentioned in this letter. However, it would be a strong inference. Who else could authorize such an action?’

  ‘That is something I would like to pursue,’ Frau Gross said. ‘And I believe I have a direction to follow. Perhaps his legion of female supporters could tell us something. Far better for a woman to talk to a woman, don’t you think so, dear?’

  They paused for a moment. Gross was not the sort to appreciate having one of his investigations become co-opted. However, issues of domestic harmony appeared to outweigh other considerations.

  ‘I think that would be a fine contribution to our inquiries,’ he said.

  Werthen cast a smile at Berthe, who raised eyebrows at this suddenly domesticated Gross. Werthen suspected that there had to be other motivation for Gross. Surely if he kept his wife occupied interviewing the Amazons who supported Lueger, they would hardly have time to attend more balls. Clever man, Gross.

  ‘So,’ Werthen continued where he had left off. ‘The Rathaus is surely one avenue of investigation. I believe it is high time that we spoke with Lueger face to face.’

  ‘When he returns from the spa,’ Gross said.

  ‘That should be this Monday,’ Werthen said. Then, ‘Karl Wittgenstein and his investors are another group to investigate, for they would benefit if their bid won and lose out if the newspapers broadcast the scheme. And finally, Taylor Remington, another prospective buyer, would have the same motivation.’

  ‘Kill two people because of a business deal?’ Berthe sounded skeptical.

  ‘Lesser motives have resulted in larger death tolls,’ Gross pronounced.

  But Werthen thought she seemed unconvinced.

  ‘You mentioned four,’ she said to him.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Four persons or groups that stood to benefit. You only talked about three.’

  ‘Right. It is not likely, but Otto Wagner should be on the list. He had opportunity. He was the first on the scene. Gross estimates his stride and footprint could be consistent with the stains left on Steinwitz’s carpet.’

  ‘But whatever for?’ Adele Gross asked.

  Werthen detailed his theory that perhaps Wagner, a close professional associate at the Rathaus and acknowledged friend of Lueger’s, had been offered some sort of commission to build and develop the land sold. After all, he appeared bitter that the majority of his designs had never been built. And after a little digging, Werthen had also discovered that the man was over his head in debt, having built two apartment and commercial buildings on speculation and now having difficulty selling them. The buildings were located on the Magdalenenstrasse on the River Wien, and one of them, in particular, the Majolika Haus, named so after the pink, blue, and green floral faience design on the facade, was termed by Wagner’s detractors as ugly beyond description. Thus far, according to Kraus, two separate purchases
had fallen through, the prospective buyers put off at the last minute by the bad press the projects were receiving.

  ‘In short,’ Werthen said, ‘Wagner is badly in need of an infusion of funds.’

  ‘Aren’t we all,’ said Frau Gross. But both she and Berthe seemed unconvinced with this theory.

  ‘I said it was not likely, but we cannot rule out any suspects at this stage. Right, Gross?’

  He looked to his old colleague for support.

  ‘I rather liked the fellow,’ was Gross’s sole response.

  Fifteen

  The Prater was powdered in a light snowfall. A sky gray and threatening hung overhead, but all around could be heard the delighted shouts and squeals of children. It was Saturday half-day at school and it seemed that most of the children of the city had thronged to Remington’s Wild West Show.

  A tent city had popped up overnight on the grounds of the Prater like a cluster of gigantic mushrooms. Giant hoardings all around proclaimed the delights of the show: ‘Custer’s Last Stand,’ ‘The Buffalo Hunt,’ ‘The Greatest Shot in the World.’ It took several trains to deliver the four hundred white and Indian actors and stagehands, two hundred and fifty horses, twenty buffalo, fifteen elk, a dozen long-horned Texas steers, and all the paraphernalia needed to outfit the show — including an electrical generating plant to illuminate the night shows.

  Gross puffed vapor bubbles into the chill air as they walked on to the grounds.

  ‘What would impel people to hold an outdoor attraction at this inclement time of year.’

  It was not a question, but Werthen offered an answer anyway. ‘The feuilleton writers say Remington thought he was going to Australia. It’s summer there.’

  Gross gave Werthen a look of utter disbelief.

  ‘It is possible,’ Werthen added. ‘After all, there have been numerous American tourists to arrive in Vienna only to be disappointed at its lack of canals.’

  ‘They’ll be searching for kangaroos next,’ Gross muttered.

  Whether by accident or design, the arrival of Remington’s Wild West Show surely did not lack for enthusiastic customers. Schoolchildren, still in their uniforms and with school bags on their shoulders, roamed the grounds like hungry Indians on the prowl. Many of them carried paper sacks full of small puffy white balls. Werthen noticed that these bags came from a number of stands that looked much like a traditional Austrian Wurstel stand. Large signs advertised ‘Popcorn.’ It was something Werthen had read of, this toasted or popped corn, in relation to the early Spanish explorers in the New World. The indigenous people had attempted to sell the exotic food to these explorers, but the Spanish were having none of it. Werthen vowed to try some of this strange confection before he left the grounds. Of course this desire was not something he wanted to share with Gross.

  ‘Go ahead, Werthen. Buy a bag,’ the criminologist said. ‘You look as eager as a schoolchild yourself.’

  Werthen sheepishly queued up at one of the stands, paid his twenty Kreutzer, and took a bite of the puffed corn. He liked the somewhat crunchy texture and the salty taste. Following the example of schoolchildren all around him, he took a handful of the stuff and plopped it in his mouth. Immediate pain erupted as he bit down wrong on an unpopped kernel.

  ‘Verdammt,’ he said, spitting the unchewed mess on to the ground and then threw the remainder of the bag into a nearby receptacle.

  ‘An acquired taste, one assumes,’ Gross said, a smile on his face.

  ‘I believe in future I shall content myself with roast chestnuts in winter.’

  They had arrived ninety minutes early — the first show did not begin until three in the afternoon — but the crowds were already so thick that they had difficulty in maneuvering their way to the tent marked ‘Management.’ They were greeted there by an Indian so large and terrifying-looking that Gross halted in the entryway.

  Werthen, whose sense of adventure was a little more pronounced, entered. He dug out his schoolroom English and dusted it off:

  ‘We would to speak with Herr. . Mr Remington.’

  The Indian, dressed in beaded rawhide top and pants, a full-feathered headdress on, scowled down at Werthen, his massive arms folded across his chest.

  ‘Excuse, please,’ Werthen continued hopelessly.

  ‘Yes, I heard,’ the Indian said in German with a northern accent. ‘And please do not bother with your “Me want speak” English. I’m from Hamburg.’

  ‘Well, for the sake of Holy Maria,’ Gross said, approaching now that he knew it was safe. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  The German-Indian continued to scowl at them. ‘I did.’

  ‘And what are you doing dressed up in that costume?’ Gross asked as if it was his concern. ‘I suppose that is red paint on your face.’

  The man frowned at Gross then finally said, ‘You ever heard of theatricals?’

  This was not going at all well, Werthen realized, changing the tone of the encounter.

  ‘How did you come to be with the show?’ he asked.

  The German now let his arms hang at his sides. ‘I once worked on the docks in Hamburg. Hard work, heavy lifting. Not much future there. Then one day, about five years ago, Remington and his show arrived by boat from America. I helped unload it, and when they left, I was with them. Simple as that.’

  ‘But how did you get the job? After all, you spoke no English, I assume,’ Werthen said.

  The man merely shook his head at the question, amused. ‘You think his name is really Taylor Remington?’

  Neither Werthen nor Gross responded.

  The German looked over each of his broad shoulders, then spoke to them as if confiding a state secret.

  ‘Thomas Remminghaus. Straight from Bavaria.’

  ‘No,’ Werthen said. After all, Remington was an American almost as famous as Mark Twain. He had fought alongside Custer, it was reported; had built an entertainment empire out of his shows depicting scenes from the Old West.

  ‘Too true,’ the German assured them. ‘Went to America when he was twenty.’

  ‘And fighting with Custer?’

  The man put a thick finger to his right eye and pulled down on the lower lid: the gesture for ‘believe that and you’ll believe anything.’

  ‘Why are you telling us this?’ Gross said. ‘After all, we could be the press come to interview your employer.’

  ‘You aren’t the press?’ he said, a look of disappointment sweeping across his rugged features.

  They shook their heads.

  ‘And he is not my employer. Not any longer. He just gave me the sack. Says I’ve been at the schnapps again.’

  Werthen was now aware of the powerful scent of alcohol in the air.

  ‘Feininger,’ a voice boomed out from the depths of the tent, its owner then saying in German, ‘I thought I told you to get out of here. Now. Pack up or I’ll have the police pack you off. And leave the buckskins, you worthless bastard.’

  Remington, a short, stocky man in tall leather boots, long flowing hair and a Van Dyke beard, came out of the shadows.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, reverting immediately to English the moment he saw Gross and Werthen. ‘I did not know we had visitors.’

  ‘They know you’re German,’ the man called Feininger said with apparent enjoyment.

  Remington froze in place.

  ‘We are not from the newspapers,’ Werthen quickly said. ‘We just need a few moments of your time to ask some questions.’

  Remington was so relieved to hear they were not journalists that he did not seem to register the rest of Werthen’s comment. The impresario turned on his former employee.

  ‘Look, you. If I find out you’ve been talking with reporters, this continent won’t be big enough for you. Understand? I have friends, powerful friends, everywhere. Now you take your rotten carcass back to Hamburg where I found you.’

  Werthen expected that he would have to intervene. Surely the much larger and stronger Feininger could squash Remington with one of his gra
nite fists. Instead, the man snuffled once, made a feeble attempt at an apology, which Remington waved off, and meekly left the tent.

  ‘And remember. The buckskins stay here.’ Then to Werthen: ‘But who they will fit, I don’t know.’ He took a long breath. ‘You folks know how to keep a secret, I suppose.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Werthen said.

  ‘Of course,’ Gross added.

  ‘So what brings you here? I mean, other than the show?’

  ‘As I said, we have just a few questions.’

  ‘Are you from the police? My licenses are all in order, I can tell you that.’

  ‘We are private inquiry agents,’ Werthen said.

  ‘You mean like Pinkertons?’

  ‘Somewhat,’ Werthen said, not enjoying the comparison to that agency known for hiring out as a private army for American industrialists to keep their workers in line. He made quick introductions, but Remington had obviously never heard of Gross, nor of his criminalistic studies.

  Gross jumped in as the man appeared to be ready to end the conversation.

  ‘We will trade favors. Our silence about your nationality in return for a short interview. I assume that would be amenable to you.’

  ‘I have a show to put on,’ Remington said.

  ‘Very brief questions,’ Gross said.

  Remington sighed. ‘Follow me.’

  They did so, leaving the reception area in the front of the tent for Remington’s private dressing room in the shadowy depths. He would, of course, be billeted at the Sacher Hotel or some such establishment in the city, but here he kept his trunk of costumes, for he took part in the show as the master of ceremonies, announcing each act.

  They took seats at a deal table in his dressing area.

  ‘Now, what is it?’

  Gross led the way. ‘We understand you are interested in purchasing a tract of the Vienna Woods.’

  The statement took Remington by surprise. ‘Who says?’

  ‘It has been reported,’ Gross replied.

  ‘Damn,’ he said in English. Then once again in German: ‘What is it to you?’

  ‘We want to know if in fact this is true. And remember, we are trading favors here,’ Gross added.