Cemetery of the Nameless

by Rick Blechta

  “I still like the idea of confronting Schatzader. I could tell him I know about these profiles in von Heislinger’s safe. It just might goad him into doing something rash.”

  “Like trying to kill you.”

  “Not if I take precautions. Come on! You yourself said there isn’t much time. Getting that safe open might take weeks, if the Austrian legal system is anything like it is in Canada or the U.S. Schatzader can’t be sure what that safe contains. It might have evidence of Drost’s murder. I’m willing to bet that Schatzader will take the bait.”

  Ertmann looked at me strangely. “Your courage is admirable, but this is a very dangerous course of action. Very dangerous.”

  I shrugged. “So what else is new. See these scars on my hand?”

  “Yes, I know all about them. I already know that you are a brave man, Herr Lukesh. Brave and often foolhardy, someone told me.” He sighed. “Very well. Our time is limited, since the trial of your wife has been moved ahead. There is little choice if you are to be on time with this information. So if you do attempt this thing, the Observationsgruppe will be watching. That we can do.”

  “Always remember that the light at the end of the tunnel just might be the headlight of a fast-approaching freight train.

  —Anonymous

  Chapter 31

  TORY

  The first thing I noticed when I woke up was that my throat felt like I’d gargled with razor blades. The second (and far more frightening) was that I could not move. Raising my head, I saw that I was strapped onto what looked to be a hospital bed. I fought down rising panic and tried to piece together what might have happened. I had no memory of being brought here from my jail cell. A second quick glance told me I was most definitely in a hospital room, one with three beds—and bars on the windows. The heavy-looking door to the room was shut.

  “Hey!” I croaked as loudly as I could manage. “Can anyone hear me? Hey!”

  Eventually, someone came, unlocked the door and looked in. A guard. Fortunately not the old witch who’d been on duty on my floor the night before and had seemed to delight in staring balefully at me through the bars.

  “You are awake, Fräulein?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You had a fit of some kind last night, ja?” He smiled. “You struck one of the guards. I have heard that her nose is broken.”

  I noticed then that my left hand was throbbing, and there were scrapes on two of the knuckles. What the hell had been going on? “Can you loosen these straps? They’re cutting off the circulation.”

  The guard smirked. “No, I cannot do that. You will have to wait until the doctor arrives. It will not be long.”

  It must have been over an hour before three people came in. Some man who looked rather doctorish, that pig Müller and Doc Seidelmann.

  “Can someone please take these straps off my wrists? My fingers are completely numb.”

  The doctor looked at Müller, who nodded curtly. Stepping forward, he came to one side of the bed and fumbled with one of the buckles. Seidelmann, with a disgusted expression, went around to the far side of the bed and worked on the other.

  “How are you, my dear?” he asked as I rubbed my wrists.

  “Sore, confused, angry, depressed.”

  “Do you remember what happened last night?”

  “If you don’t mind, Herr Doktor,” Müller interrupted, “I will be asking the questions here!” He stepped forward. “Fräulein Morgan, you cannot fool me with your displays. I know of what you are capable and what you are trying to do. You will remain in jail until your trial, no matter how much you try to deceive us. Now you have assaulted one of the guards and seriously injured her. Charges stemming from that attack will be brought against you. Do you understand me?”

  The oddest feeling came over me, and with growing horror, Müller’s face began changing, becoming that bastard von Heislinger, returning to finish the job he’d started. The next thing, without even thinking about it, I spat square into his face, and the wrist straps were again being slapped on. Seidelmann looked stricken.

  “I have told you she is very ill, and you are only making it worse!” he said to Müller in German, but I understood enough of his words.

  “This woman will do anything she can to wriggle out of these charges. You are a fool if you cannot see that, Seidelmann, a fool!”

  With that, Müller spun on his heel and stormed from the room. The police doctor opened his case and began preparing an injection.

  Seidelmann bent close to talk to me. “Tory? Do you understand me?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. You must try to stay calm, and you must try to keep yourself under control. It does you no good when you allow these things to happen. I will come back to see you later today. We are bringing in more specialists. It is simply a matter of making the court understand what is happening.” He smiled sadly. “Your husband sends his love.”

  I felt a stab in my arm and almost immediately everything began drifting out of focus. The last thing I remembered was the smiling face of Seidelmann hovering over me like a benevolent Buddha.

  ROCKY

  Ertmann had dropped me back at the hotel, where only two longsuffering paparazzi were still around, hopeful as always. I got to my room, where I found a note from Roderick saying that he and Elen were off for a spot of research on the origins of the manuscript. They didn’t say where they’d gone or when they’d be back. Damn! I’d wanted to tell them how close we were to figuring out the whole thing. I spent the rest of the evening thinking about all I had learned from Ertmann and weighing my options. At midnight on the nose, the phone rang. Marty—and he sounded strangely subdued.

  “What’s the news?” he asked.

  “Not much different from the last time we spoke, except that Tory’s trial begins in a week. That, and they’ve thrown her back in the clink.”

  “I’ve heard, I’ve heard. She’s still all over the news here, of course, and the comments are not good. As a matter of fact, they’re awful. They’re even making a big deal over the fact that she moved to Canada and is taking out citizenship.”

  “Things aren’t any better here. We’ve got some irons in the fire, and we may be on the track of something good...but I can’t say any more at the moment.”

  “Well, Rocky, I know you don’t need to hear this, but I’m afraid we’ve reached the end of the line. I mean, every single one of Tory’s bookings has disappeared, and her goddamn record company has written her off, too. She’s washed up. Finished, no matter what happens.”

  “And?”

  “And so am I. Rocky, I know you’ve been through a lot, but I have too. I’m cutting my losses. I can’t continue. There’s no reason to. I’m letting Tory go.”

  “You mean you’re just walking away? Why, you little bastard! How can you? She’s the reason you’re where you are now. Who did you manage before Tory? Huh? No one of any consequence!”

  “There’s no need to get abusive!” he shot back hotly. “I’m doing you a favour. You two owe me money, and I’m willing to walk away from that debt.”

  “I’ll show you a favour, you piece of—”

  “And I’m also willing to do you guys another favour. I won’t announce what’s happened. It will be between you and me until she’s convicted. I wouldn’t want the fact that someone like me is bailing out to prejudice Tory’s case.”

  I was almost incoherent with rage at Marty’s unmitigated conceit. “You...you...snivelling piece of shit!” I held up the phone. “Do you hear that, Marty? That’s the city of Vienna, no, the whole goddamn continent of Europe cheering that Tory won’t be represented by you any more.”

  “Do you hear this, Rocky?” he countered as I heard a muffled noise in the background. “That’s the sound of the last goddamn contract your wife is ever going to get being torn into tiny, little pieces!”

  I slammed down the phone so hard, the whole thing bounced onto the floor. Standing there fuming, I then tried to kick it across
the room. That was as stupid as it was childish, since I now had a sore foot to go along with my sore hand and sore brain.

  ***

  The next morning, I was no closer to making a decision than I had been the night before, so I tossed a coin: heads I would do what Ertmann told me was foolishly dangerous, and tails I would wait until another way to accomplish the same end suggested itself.

  The coin seemed to hang in the air forever, slowly spinning. When it landed back in my palm, I quickly covered it with my other hand and stood unmoving for at least a minute. Whatever happened, my path had been chosen, and to what end it would lead, I wouldn’t know until I’d gotten there.

  Heads.

  Oddly, I would have expected an attack of nerves as I punched numbers into the phone. I was setting in motion something that, for good or ill, could not be stopped. I dialled, however, with nary a tremble, the phone rang twice and was picked up smartly at the other end.

  I’d already made two phone calls. The first to Schultz to tell him what I had found out and what I was contemplating doing about it. To his credit, he too tried to talk me out of it, seeing the potential danger at once. But I was also throwing him a legal lifeline. His defense of Tory would be infinitely stronger if he had hard evidence that attempts had been made to psychologically destabilize her, and we needed the papers in von Heislinger’s safe for that. But if I could bring home the goods that Schatzader had solid reason to commit both murders, the lawyer’s job would be far, far easier.

  We bandied the pros and cons of my plan around for many minutes before Schultz gave in. “Very well, Herr Lukesh, this is a brave thing you are thinking of taking on. I will at once make a request of the court to have that apartment searched and the safe opened. I will also make sure that record of what you have told me will be left in safe hands in case something happens to either of us.”

  “Either of us? Don’t you think that’s a little dramatic?”

  “Desperate people have been known to do desperate things. It is better to be too cautious than not cautious enough. Be careful, Herr Lukesh! You are walking into the den of the lion.”

  I’d also called Dr. Seidelmann for an update and found out he was about to leave for the jail. During the night, Tory had apparently gone berserk and broken a guard’s nose. They had her sedated in the infirmary, and he’d call as soon as he’d seen her.

  “Is her hand all right?” I asked, full of concern as I looked down at my own damaged one.

  “I do not know. I will check that, as well,” Seidelmann had said before hanging up.

  Now I was making this third and most important call, and it was much later in the day than I’d planned. What I didn’t need now was for the boss to have gone home early.

  At the other end of the phone line, a female voice said, “Schatzader-Österreich Gesellschaft. Guten Morgen.”

  “I would like to speak to Heinrich Schatzader, bitte.”

  The receptionist switched to English. “I will see if he is available. Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Oscar Lukesh.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lukesh. Please hold.”

  It didn’t take long. Schatzader’s crisp voice came on the line.“Herr Lukesh! How good to hear from you. What can I do for you today? I am sorry to hear about your poor wife being taken back to jail. How hard this all must be for you!”

  From the way he spoke, it was clear that he had no idea what I was about to say to him. He was probably hoping I had some news of the manuscript. Maybe that I’d be willing to sell it to raise money for Tory’s defense.

  “I don’t know how to put this delicately, but...”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s come to my attention that certain documents exist which implicate you in the, ah, treatment my wife received at the hands of Rudolph von Heislinger.”

  “What are you talking about? That is absurd!” he blustered. “I had nothing to do with anything that happened between Fräulein Morgan and Baron von Heislinger. Surely, you are joking!”

  “No, Schatzader, that won’t wash. Shall I describe these documents? They consist of ten typed pages containing a detailed psychological profile of my wife and recommendations as to how she might be made more ‘malleable’. Two more documents are stolen confidential medical records from a psychiatrist my wife consulted back in Canada. Does any of this sound familiar to you?”

  He tried to bluster on. “These are the ravings of a madman, Herr Lukesh! You are as crazy as your wife! No such documents exist!”

  “On the contrary, they exist. I have seen them. I’m not certain where they came from, but I can guess. I assure you they will be produced in court.”

  I had him. For more than a minute, he was silent. Then, in a choked voice, he asked, “What do you want?”

  “No. Not on the phone. I would like to meet you in person, and I will tell you at that time.”

  “Come to my offices, then.”

  “No. It must be a public place.”

  “Very well! My offices are near the Michaelerplatz. Do you know where that is?”

  “I’ll find it. Be there in thirty minutes,” I said, remembering how Ertmann had told me not to let him make any more decisions than I could avoid. Lob some psychology back at the psychologist. “Don’t get any ideas about trying to stop me. And know this: if I get even one sniff of anything untoward, I will go straight to the police. By the way, four other people know what I’m doing, and have their instructions in case something happens to me. Thirty minutes, Schatzader. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  After hanging up the phone and taking a deep breath, I crossed myself for luck—something I hadn’t done since I was an altarboy. In the former capital of the Holy Roman Empire, it seemed appropriate.

  The die was cast.

  ***

  Standing on the side of the Michaelerplatz nearest the entrance to the Hofburg, the main palace of the Austrian emperors, with my back to some huge sculpted grouping of boats and men (fronted by an Amazon of truly inspiring proportions), I saw Schatzader approaching from nearly a block off. He would have been hard to miss, tall as he was, but the scowl on his face made him look exceptionally noteworthy.

  Without breaking stride, he crossed over (ignoring cars whose screeching brakes echoed off the buildings around the square), walked right up to within a foot of me and glowered down. “What is it you want from me?” he demanded scornfully. “Money?”

  “I want you to do the honourable thing,” I said simply. “You’ve gotten caught with your hand in the cookie jar. I don’t know why you agreed to do what you did for von Heislinger. I don’t really care, to be honest, but the result of your actions contributed to the fact that my wife is standing trial for murder. I want you to testify on her behalf and tell the court exactly what you did.”

  He looked thunderstruck. “You cannot ask me to do this thing!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because... because...” he stammered, mental wheels spinning. “Is there not some other accommodation we could come to instead?”

  I stuck my finger up into his face. “Let’s get one thing straight! You have no choice in this matter. You will testify. But I leave it up to you what sort of spin you put on it. Make yourself out to be a martyr; make yourself out to be a saint. It makes no difference to me—but you will testify!”

  He turned on his heel and walked away a few steps, fists clenched at his sides, then stopped, body rigid. I waited breathlessly. A tense minute ticked by. Even the traffic and pedestrians passing through the square seemed to hesitate. Above, some pigeons, startled from their roost on the edge of the palace roof flew across to a small, very plain church opposite. Schatzader finally turned and glared at me before walking back, defeated but not bowed. If anything, he looked more angry than ever. I thought of Schultz’s comment about walking into the lion’s den. Lion indeed! With his beaked nose and the fringe of hair around his bald head, Schatzader looked more like an eagle swooping to tear my eyes out.

  “I have
no choice, Herr Lukesh, I can see that—but let me give you this warning: you have made a very dangerous enemy today, a very dangerous enemy indeed. Henceforth, you will always have to be on your guard. Always! Do your worst. Auf Wiedersehen!”

  I wouldn’t have believed the usually cheery German farewell could ever have sounded so menacing.

  Hanging around watching the passing traffic in the Michaelerplatz for several minutes (paying strict attention to who might be in doorways and windows), I tossed over in my mind several things I could do to pass the time while waiting to see if my bold frontal attack was going to bear fruit.

  The sun was out, though the wind was chilly, and I thought about crossing over to a place called the Café Griensteidl for something warming. Maybe I would go back to the hotel, and Roderick and Elen would call from wherever they’d disappeared off to. I missed not having them around. Then, on a whim, I too turned and passed instead under the huge archway leading into the Hofburg. After the Schönnbrunn, I had to see this!

  Doing the tourist thing for a while might occupy my mind while I waited to see what would result from my challenge to Schatzader.

  ***

  After paying for my entry ticket, I raced to catch up with an English language tour of the imperial apartments which had just departed. As the group paused in the first room, gathering around the guide, I looked around. Impressive, but it lacked something of the panache of the Schönbrunn.

  I tried to put Schatzader out of my head. What would be, would be. I’d done what I could, and hopefully it would bear fruit to Tory’s benefit. Time to turn my thoughts to the missing manuscript. It had to be at the Schönbrunn. Why else would Thekla have spent the night there with a rodent like Hauser? She couldn’t have trusted leaving it in his apartment, either, not with his wife, the cleaning demon. Somehow she’d got him drunk enough to pass out. She could have used that wad of keys and had the run of the building while he was out. No, they’d surely have alarms. What the hell had the damn girl done? Were we really going to have to search a fourteen-hundred-room palace from cellar to attic? It would be done even if I had to do it myself.