The Hanging Artist

by Jon Steinhagen

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A STROLL

  JULIA DIERKOP STOOD on the landing and saw The Hanging Artist at the foot of the stairs. What was the appropriate greeting? Was there one? There was a chance he wouldn’t see her, and anyway, why should she want him to see her? She wasn’t afraid of him, not here, not now.

  “Good evening,” Hans Henker said to her.

  Julia smiled and descended the staircase. The smell of Frau Alt’s overboiled dinner lingered in the hallway.

  “Good evening,” Julia said. “You’re late leaving for the theatre, Herr Henker.”

  “As are you, Fraulein Dierkop,” Henker said.

  “I’m afraid the dinner disagreed with me,” she said. “But you’ve spared yourself the indignity of these communal meals. I envy you and your sister, taking your meals in your rooms.”

  “We learned early that Frau Alt’s cooking is a measure of last resort.” He smiled, looked away. “At any rate, I’m sorry to hear you were taken for a turn, but you seem fresh as a rose now.” He tugged at his gloves, smoothed them. “Your sisters didn’t wait for you? Or are they… indisposed as well?”

  “Oh no, they’re quite well. They can shovel in any old muck and be ready for the races, so to speak. And I’ll let you in on a little secret: they’re not my sisters.”

  “Ah. You are a poseur.”

  “Worse: I’m a cousin.”

  “And therefore technically a Dierkop.”

  “Technically, authentically.”

  “How charming. I understand now why they bill themselves as The Three Dierkop Sisters, but I would think they’d want to acknowledge you in some way.”

  “The Three Dierkop Sisters and Cousin? It might be accurate, but it doesn’t read as well on the bill.”

  He wasn’t moving. They heard the parlor clock strike the hour. They both looked in the direction of the sound.

  “I’d better hurry along,” Julia said, stepping past him.

  “I say,” he said, turning to her, “my companions seem to have forgotten they were to walk with me tonight.”

  “The Flying Hurricanes?”

  “Yes. No doubt they’ve been drinking all afternoon, or are perhaps overindulging at table once again.”

  “The Italians show as much relish for their food as we Austrians.”

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret, too. They pretend to be Italians, but they’re from Stuttgart. And they’ve become too tubby for their costumes. You may have noticed.”

  “I can’t say I’ve bothered to watch them.”

  “At any rate, I thought… well… seeing as we are headed in the same direction, I was wondering if you might care to walk along with me?”

  “My dear Herr Henker—can’t you go anywhere unaccompanied?”

  He lost his smile then. “I’ll just wait, then. Frau Alt typically takes a perambulation at this hour, I’ll ask her if she’d come along.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” Julia said. “I was merely remarking on the fact that you… well, I never see you alone, outside of this house.”

  “I like company. I’m an amiable sort.”

  “Well, it would be a pleasure. And an honor—to be seen with a celebrity.”

  He blushed at that. “I doubt anyone would even notice me, in the company of such a charming girl.”

  They set out for the Traumhalle. Julia liked that: girl. Of course the man was a flatterer; she hadn’t been mistaken for a girl in years, even when she was a girl she hadn’t been mistaken for a girl. He was such a pleasant fellow, with an affable demeanor that made her think of a sheepish dry goods clerk who had seen very few customers that day. It made her quite forget the nature of his act.

  “Your sister is well, I hope?” she asked, as they detoured down a boulevard, past the shops and restaurants.

  “She, I am happy to report, has enjoyed uncommonly improved health since we’ve come to Vienna,” he said.

  “How cheering. To what do you attribute that?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Her improved health, I mean.”

  “Oh. Any number of things. I’m no physician. And I don’t question life when it takes a turn for the better. I don’t need to know a reason.”

  “But if you knew the reason, you’d be able to reproduce it when she took a downturn again… hoping that she doesn’t, of course.”

  “That new number you’ve added,” he said, changing the subject. “It’s very… ‘jazzy,’ I think is the word for it.”

  Julia wasn’t fooled; he knew perfectly well jazzy was the word for it. He had the pulse of the times; his phonograph records were of the latest and jazziest dance bands in Germany and Austria.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t know you listened to us. After all, we’re on in the first half, and you… well, you have the star spot.”

  “If it gets much hotter,” he said, “I’m wary of what July will be like. We’ll all be baked like gingerbread.”

  They walked in silence then, for the length of three streets, where Julia pulled up short.

  “How odd,” she said. Henker turned and waited for her.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  Julia shook her head, smiled, and resumed walking.

  “That gentleman,” she said. “Outside the Schweigerhaus. At one of the tables. No; don’t look.”

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “Have you ever seen someone you know only in one particular context… somewhere completely out of context? Oh, dear, I said not to look.”

  “Which man? The one in the extraordinarily loud checkered suit?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the necktie that looks like a stable fire?”

  “That’s the man.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Only by sight,” Julia said. “Oh, I think we should hurry along, don’t you?”

  “If you like,” said Henker, mild and obliging as always. “Where have you seen him?”

  “Why, the theatre, of course,” she said, the color rising in her cheeks. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen him before. He’s hard to miss.”

  “So many people come to the theatre.”

  “Oh, but he’s come more than once. So many times. At least, I think it’s the same man.”

  Henker stole a last look at the man in the checkered suit, who sat at his table with his dinner untouched in front of him. He was writing in a journal or notebook of some sort.

  “Perhaps he’s a critic,” Henker said, but Julia hadn’t noticed the journal, so she missed the joke.

  “Well, he’s certainly fond of the theatre,” she said. She pressed her handkerchief to her damp upper lip.

  “It could be that he’s fond of you,” Henker said.

  Julia laughed. “I doubt it,” she said. “I’m one of four, remember.”

  “Ah, but you are the Dierkop that isn’t a sore for sight eyes,” he said.

  “You mean a sight for sore eyes.”

  “No, I meant what I said. I thought it would be funnier, but I suppose it didn’t make much sense when it came out of my mouth. In my defense, I’m not billed as a comedian.”

  Julia’s expression darkened. “No,” she said, “you aren’t. Definitely not.”

  They had reached the stage door of the Traumhalle, and were gratified to find the dark interior backstage considerably cooler than the June evening they had left behind.

  “Thank you,” Julia said, “for such a pleasant walk.”

  He bowed to her, and began to ascend the stairs to the better dressing rooms.

  Something compelled Julia to stop him. “Aren’t you going to, er… check your props?”

  He stopped and looked down at her.

  “Everything will be ready when I’m ready to go on,” he said.

  “I see. How comforting. You must be on excellent terms with the stagehands. Do you bribe them?”

  He laughed. “I don’t rely on help from anyone. That is to say, I don’t nee
d anyone’s help.”

  “You’re very fortunate.”

  “Would you like to… see my dressing room?”

  “I’ve never seen a star’s dressing room before. Dare I? Will it put ideas into my head?”

  He said nothing, but continued up the stairs. She followed.

  When he opened his door, there was nothing.

  No trunk, no costumes; only the dressing table, the mirror, and a simple chair before it. Nothing littered the table: it was absent of greasepaint, brushes, towels, and anything of a personal nature; no telegrams or notices, no framed photographs.

  Julia gaped at the emptiness.

  “It’s a very simple act,” Henker said.

  “I see,” Julia said. “That is, I don’t see. Anything. Not even—”

  “The rope?” he asked. “Oh, it will be there when I need it, don’t you worry. And so, too, might your young man in the checked suit.”

  “He’s not my young man,” she said, but he was already closing the door.

  “Have a good show,” Henker said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MONSIEUR CHOUCAS

  EVERYTHING FRANZ DEDUCED about Frau Alt was wrong, and thus began his life as a detective.

  The moment he met her, he saw in the imposing woman a long-forgotten soubrette considered a great beauty some forty years previously, a woman who clucked over her theatrical lodgers with a mix of out-of-date high morals and envy of those still treading the boards. He saw in her a gassy windbag crammed with career advice and impossible-to-verify scandals from the days of the carriage and bustle. He saw her holding ‘informal salons’ every Monday evening in the parlor in which she would modestly warble one number and commit seven encores, mostly in a bosomy contralto straining in a soprano key, chiefly from The Merry Widow, in which she would claim she would have been cast as the lead had it not been for her unflagging adherence to her virtue and strict avoidance of managerial offices furnished with anything longer than a chair. He saw in Frau Alt a gossipy, prying martyr to the memory of a late husband, a doleful mite of a man whose photograph, edged in black, loomed prominently over the mantelpiece.

  Frau Alt had, in fact, nothing whatsoever to do with the theater in her entire life, except for a brief stint in her late teens as an apprentice confectioner in a sweet shop two doors down from the Musikverein.

  As for widowhood, Franz discovered she was anything but widowed, as Herr Alt—who was every bit as big and solid as his wife—could still be seen in the boarding house, barging from room to room, carrying a tool bag.

  Despite his miscalculations about the landlady, Franz soon discovered he was not wrong about the room he was given.

  He had imagined little more than a cupboard with a sliver of dirty window overlooking the cesspool out back. He was only wrong in that the tiny window was clean. That the room was generally considered the cupboard was verified by Frau Alt shoving the pail, mop, and broom out onto the landing when she showed him in.

  Franz had introduced himself as Monsieur Francois Choucas, the closest French approximation of his real name that he could muster, and thought to himself that it sounded rather dashing and artistic. Gregor had suggested ‘Johann Schmidt,’ but Franz had told him he could do a little better than that.

  “It’s the coziest nook in the house,” Frau Alt said, and sneezed at the dust her opening the door had stirred. “Perfect for a solitary gentleman in search of repose and quietude.”

  “It’s perfect,” Franz said, lying. He spoke in his own voice, as his attempt at a slight French accent had prompted Gregor to accuse him of sounding like his teeth were slipping out.

  “Meals in the dining room at seven, twelve, and five,” Frau Alt said. “We take supper at an earlier hour, naturally, as all of the lodgers are, I am proud to say, engaged at one theater or another. That said, you’re on your own for Pausenbrot and coffee and cake; this is a home, not a restaurant. No cooking is allowed in the rooms, except, of course, in the deluxe suite, which is already taken.” Here she gestured out the door and to the next landing. Franz looked up the stairs and saw a set of elegant doors, now closed, framed by pots of flowers on small tables. “The deluxe suite also has its own private… well. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  Franz did, and asked where the ‘you know what I mean’ for everyone else was. Frau Alt made a vague gesture down the flight of steps they had ascended. “Next floor down at the end of the hallway, just turn left at the foot of the stairs. Coming from this direction, that is,” she said. “Coming from downstairs, of course, you…”

  “Turn right,” Franz said, pleased that he had made at least one correct deduction that day.

  Frau Alt smiled one of those meant-to-be-indulgent smiles one sees schoolteachers reserve for moronic parents of vexing children.

  Franz watched as Gregor scuttled under the sad-looking bed. “Thank you, Frau Alt,” he said, taking his envelope of money from his coat pocket.

  She stayed his hand. “On Sunday evenings,” she said. “Naturally, I never refuse money, but it’s nice to establish a routine, and you know what they say about routines.”

  Franz did not, and admitted as much. Frau Alt, however, did not enlighten him, as she had been fixated at the wad of cash he had produced.

  “If, monsieur, you are looking for more spacious accommodations,” she said, “there is a distinct possibility that I might have a vacancy soon that would suit your purposes.”

  “Oh?” Franz asked, a little less brilliantly than he would have wished.

  Frau Alt nodded again at the double doors on the landing above. “The deluxe suite, in fact,” she said. “But nothing is confirmed yet. I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

  “Someone is thinking of leaving?” Franz asked.

  Gregor, coated in dust, emerged from beneath the bed. “Jesus,” he said, “the questions you ask! Do you want her to think you a nitwit?”

  Frau Alt lowered her voice and closed the door, making the tiny room all the more claustrophobic. She smelled of lavender and pickling spices. Franz took a step away from her and banged his head on a shelf.

  “Herr Henker,” she said. “You’ve heard of him, no doubt.”

  Gregor said, “Remember, you’re pretending to be French.”

  “The name is not familiar to me,” Franz said.

  “The Hanging Artist,” Frau Alt said.

  “What does he hang?”

  “He hangs himself!”

  “Incredible! Night after night? His neck must be unusually resilient.”

  Gregor groaned and crawled back under the bed.

  Frau Alt laughed. “Yes, it must,” she said. “I won’t spoil it for you.”

  “It?”

  “His act.”

  “Ah.”

  “You simply must see it. It’s the rage of Vienna.”

  “Why is Vienna so upset?”

  “Overdoing it!” Gregor called out from beneath the bed.

  Frau Alt was clearly charmed by her supposedly foreign lodger. She opened the door and glanced onto the landing. “Monsieur misunderstands,” she said. “When I say he’s the rage, I mean he is la mode.”

  “Ah. Well, then I certainly must see his performance, if for no other reason than to be a la mode… and as a gesture of respect from one artist to another.”

  “Then I’d advise you to do so quickly, if you wish to see him at a reasonable price.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m not one to gossip, but I can tell you he received a visit today from Max Spindler, who is the king of impresarios in Vienna, as he owns Die Feier, the biggest variety theater in Austria, and, well…”

  “Yes?”

  Frau Alt said, “Well, Max Spindler must really want to engage Herr Henker, as Spindler leaving his offices for anyone is a nearly unheard of occasion. And if Herr Henker will be playing Die Feier, he and his sister will be moving to a… well, let’s just say my humble little home can’t compare with the finest hotels. So you sh
ould see him while he’s at the Traumhalle, which only charges half of what a cheap seat at Die Feier costs.”

  “You mentioned a sister,” Franz said. “Is she part of the act?”

  “Heavens, no,” Frau Alt said. “She’s an invalid, poor dear. Never leaves the suite.”

  “What ails her?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Herr Alt clomped up the stairs, glanced in at Franz, then grumbled something that sounded like a prolonged belch while brandishing a rubber mallet at the upper floor, to which she responded, “Well, be quick about it.”

  Alt went upstairs. Frau Alt handed Franz the key to his room.

  “I know you’ll be comfortable, monsieur,” she said.

  “Is there a performance tonight?” Franz asked.

  “A performance?”

  “The Hanging Artist. You’ve piqued my interest.”

  “Oh, yes, but you’d have to hurry, you’ve less than a half an hour before the curtain goes up, although Herr Henker performs at the end of the program.”

  “Is it far?”

  She gave him directions to the Traumhalle, and he thanked her. At the top of the stairs, she turned back with an exclamation.

  “Oh! How rude of me, monsieur!”

  “Madame?”

  “I didn’t have the courtesy to ask the nature of your act.”

  Gregor crawled out from under the bed, munching a rotten apple core.

  “Forgot about that,” Gregor said.

  “My act, madame?” Franz asked.

  “Your talent,” she said.

  Franz tried to keep his eyes from bugging out as his brain raced for an answer. “Ah,” he said, “my talent, yes, well, how can I describe it? I’m, that is, you could call me a, you see, the thing is, I’m…”

  “A verrilionist,” Gregor said.

  “A verrilionist,” Franz said.

  “How charming!” Frau Alt said. “Well, we’ll have to be very careful with your glasses, won’t we?”

  “No need, Madame, my eyesight is perfect,” Franz said.

  Frau Alt had a good laugh at that as she descended the stairs, repeating, “‘My eyesight is perfect!’ Brilliant!” all the way to the main floor.

  Franz shut the door behind him and took off his coat.