Requiem in Vienna: A Viennese Mystery (Viennese Mysteries) Page 20

  “You speak like a lawyer,” Zemlinsky said with obvious distaste. “Is that what you are?”

  “Guilty,” Werthen quipped.

  Which brought the semblance of a smile to Zemlinsky’s thin lips.

  “Wonderful,” Schoenberg whined. “Now the legal profession is involved. You would have to interfere.”

  This was directed at Alma Schindler, but she pointedly ignored the remark, instead getting onto her knees at the bedside, taking the composer’s hand in hers, and kissing it.

  “Please forgive me, Zem.”

  The room went deadly quiet at this performance. Even the volatile Schoenberg was at a loss for words.

  Finally Zemlinsky broke the spell of communal embarrassment.

  “Nonsense, girl. Up, up. Nothing to forgive. A cigar will set me right.”

  Werthen, whose own head still throbbed from his recent attack, doubted the veracity, but appreciated the bravado of this remark.

  Alma did as she was told, standing again and looking at the others haughtily.

  “And there is really no reason to waste your time, Advokat,” the composer continued. “As Schoenberg here says, accidents do happen at theaters. I am overfond of leaning backward on the podium, that is the long and short of it. The guardrails were not meant to support a man’s weight, merely to remind one of the confines of the space. That is what my stage manager tells me, at least.”

  “You mean you fell from your podium?”

  Zemlinsky closed his eyes at this, almost ashamed.

  “Yes,” he said in a weak voice.

  Alma Schindler looked at Werthen meaningfully, as if to remind him of Mahler’s own fall from his conductor’s podium.

  “Now,” Schoenberg said, “it really is time for visitors to go. Alex needs his rest. I must insist.”

  He spread his thick arms out like a shepherd moving sheep.

  As Zemlinsky himself made no countersuggestion, Werthen hardly felt he could intrude longer. But Alma had other ideas.

  “Who appointed you major domo, Herr Schoenberg? It is for Zem himself, or his sister, Fräulein Zemlinsky—”

  But she was a poor observer of the human condition outside her own needy limits. She had not noticed the connection between Mathilde and Schoenberg, and now, at Alma’s obvious rudeness, the sister came to her friend’s defense.

  “I really think it is time for you to leave, Fräulein Schindler, before some native truths are spoken which you would not care to hear.”

  Alma threw her shoulders back in defiance before Werthen could intervene.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as that your attempts at composition are feeble, derivative, and boorish,” Schoenberg said. “Not my opinion, of course.”

  Alma looked at Zemlinsky.

  “Is that what you think?” she all but cried out. “Is that what you told them? After all we have meant to each other. After all I suffered from my family on your account.”

  My God, Werthen thought. The cheek of the girl. Here lay an injured man, and she was only concerned with her own hurt feelings. Were they actually lovers? The beautiful Alma Schindler and this gnome?

  “It is time now that you leave,” Fräulein Guttmann said in a measured voice.

  Such restraint toward her obvious rival, however, was causing this young woman real pain, Werthen could see. She would much rather be scratching at Alma’s eyes.

  “Come,” Werthen said to Fraulein Schindler. “This is to no avail.”

  He took her arm, but she shook his hand off, moving on her own toward the door.

  “Typical,” she spat out as they were leaving. “You all stick together. You and your kind. And then you wonder why people dislike you.”

  Werthen now had to control his own rage, getting the young woman out of the house and onto the street. But once under the warm summer sun, he could no longer hold himself in.

  “Never, never speak like that in front of me again. Or do you forget that I am Jewish, too?”

  She was about to strike out at him with more vitriol, but suddenly stopped, assuming a contrite expression.

  “No, you are right. I don’t know what came over me. But that Schoenberg. He is such a sponge, such an old lady. Talk about feeble compositions, just listen to his Verklaerte Nacht.”

  Then she cast Werthen a winning smile as she put her arm through his.

  “Please forgive me, say you do, please, please.”

  Like a schoolgirl instead of the femme fatale she normally liked to play. It was his turn now to shrug her arm off.

  “Are you two lovers?”

  The question did not seem to surprise her, though there was a slight reddening at her cheeks.

  “Advokat, that is not a question one asks a young woman.”

  “Fräulein Schindler, you are a young woman in age only. I think there is very little innocent about you and my question is not a matter of prurient interest. Are you his lover?”

  “We have had moments of intimacy, yes. Why is it important?”

  “You answered that yourself earlier. Everyone close to you seems to be having accidents. ”

  Which did not explain Bruckner, Brahms, or Strauss, but did serve to give her something to think about as they rode back into the Inner City via fiaker. He dropped her off at her dressmaker’s on the Seilerstrasse and then continued on to his office at Habsburgergasse 4. The sturdy figures of Atlas decorating the first-story façade gave him a solid, secure feeling as he entered the street door.

  Today that door was locked, as it was supposed to be.

  Gross and he met for lunch, as planned. Frau Blatschky’s sudden discovery of healthy cuisine had driven Gross from their table; Werthen was happy to join him today at Zum roten Igel, the Sign of the Red Hedgehog, in Wildpretmarkt. The eatery had been a favorite with Brahms, and for good reason: it had perhaps the best inexpensive food in Vienna, solid fare of meat and potatoes, both of which were now in short supply at Werthen’s table. It was a fine day of mild, sunny weather, so Werthen looked for Gross in the garden, but he was sitting instead in the stube in the back of the restaurant, a large, dark room with barrel vaulting where the working-class eaters usually gathered at communal tables. Gross had claimed one of these large tables exclusively for himself and Werthen.

  “It is where Brahms preferred to eat,” Gross said by way of explanation when Werthen joined him.

  Gross continued his homage to Brahms by having Hungarian Tokay with lunch, the very wine the gruff old composer had enjoyed. Werthen meanwhile occupied himself with a viertel of tart Nussberger from Krems. Both ordered lavishly as if to celebrate eating once again. For Gross that meant a wooden platter piled high with sausages and sauerkraut, while for Werthen such gustatory opulence included boiled beef with freshly ground horseradish. These were preceded by liver dumpling soup and followed by two plates of apple strudel, its crust flaky and golden.

  They spoke little during the meal. Gross was usually talkative at any time, but now, after barely surviving the rigors of Frau Blatschky’s table, he was reserving whatever sounds he could muster to sensual moans of pleasure at the first bite of each new dish.

  “This calls for coffee,” Gross managed after finishing the last of his strudel.

  They sat over their mochas and Werthen shared his adventures this morning at Zemlinsky’s. Gross listened carefully and when Werthen had finished, nodded his big head.

  “So our killer is moving on to other game? Mahler has proved too difficult a quarry. Instead he chooses this Zemlinsky. As a composer, is he actually of a status of Brahms and Strauss?”

  Werthen shrugged. “Kraus seems to think so. He talked about the man once, before all this started. And Zemlinsky has been made music director of the Carl Theater.”

  “Not the most prestigious of engagements.”

  “No,” Werthen allowed, “but he’s not yet thirty. Impressive enough. Brahms thought he had talent. One of his operas won the Luitpold Prize in Munich, I believe.”

  Gross
made a condescending humph through his nose to show how much he though of German taste in music.

  “Well, I suppose this means that we shall have to follow the lead to the Carl Theater,” he said.

  Werthen was surprised. He thought Gross would be elated by this latest development. But he seemed almost put out that there was another potential victim—just as Werthen himself was feeling. This new line of investigation really was getting them nowhere, or to too many other destinations.

  “Another set of suspects. More interviews. Sometimes I feel we have stepped into a morass with this case.”

  “I can deal with the Carl Theater,” Werthen halfheartedly offered.

  “It’s not a matter of dealing with something,” Gross said, suddenly irritated. “Of course we can deal with the new lead. But we make no headway scurrying off this way and that in search of a new suspect, a new interview. Perhaps we are making things too complicated.”

  Exactly Werthen’s thought, but he could not let the criminologist off so easily.

  “You were the one so enthusiastic about the possibility of a serial killer murdering the great composers of Vienna,” Werthen reminded him. “Something bigger than a simple assault on Mahler.”

  “I beg to differ. You have not bothered to ask me how I spent my morning.”

  “All right. How did you spend your morning?”

  “At an eminent surgeon’s, a disciple of the great Billroth himself, complaining of liver problems in hope of a diagnosis of liver cancer.”

  Werthen thought for a moment that Gross’s judgment had become clouded by his lack of real food. Then the connection was made.

  “You mean Brahms?”

  “Yes. And I learned that there is no way to fabricate the symptoms of liver cancer. In addition to which, a brief autopsy was done before Brahms’s interment in the Zentralfriedhof in the musician’s grove. It was certain that he died of cancer, not some exotic poison.”

  “And Bruckner? Strauss?”

  Gross held up his hands. “We shall see.”

  “What is it you are suggesting, then?”

  Gross waited a moment, took a deep breath, and said, “Simplification.”

  Gross’s desire for simplification had intensified by the time they returned to Werthen’s office.

  Tor greeted them as they entered. “Your wife called, Advokat. She said it was urgent.”

  Sudden panic gripped Werthen, fearing the worst regarding her pregnancy.

  Gross noticed his change of color. “Easy, Werthen. It could mean anything.”

  In his office, Werthen hastily picked up the receiver and gave the operator his home number. It seemed to take forever for the woman to connect him. Then he could finally hear ringing on the other end of the line. Once, twice, three times.

  Frau Blatschky could be standing there in fear, trembling to pick up the contraption lest it electrocute her, while Berthe was lying somewhere unconscious or worse.

  The receiver was lifted on the fifth ring.

  “The Werthen-Meisner residence.”

  It was Berthe’s voice.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, darling. Sorry to worry you,” she said. “It’s not me.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Mahler. Someone’s poisoned him.”

  THIRTEEN

  He looked like a wax effigy.

  They carried Mahler off the special express from Salzburg on a stretcher with four bulky soldiers of the Alpin Korps on guard duty. Prince Montenuovo was sparing no expense, now that there had been yet another “assassination attempt,” as the prince insisted on calling the poisoning.

  Mahler’s face was greenish yellow; his chest rose and fell with great difficulty. As they hustled the stretcher past Werthen at the Empress Elisabeth Bahnhof, the composer’s eyelids fluttered open, and he recognized the lawyer.

  He lifted a beckoning hand, and Werthen went to him, bending down over the stretcher.

  Mahler whispered, but Werthen could not hear his words at first. Leaning down more closely so that Mahler’s breath warmed his ear, Werthen was finally able to hear the message: “Find him, Werthen, before it is too late.”

  “He was a lucky man,” Dr. Baumgartner, the attending physician at the General Hospital said. “Well, unlucky to have been poisoned in the first place, but fortunate in that he ate so little of the tainted sweet. I believe he will fully recover with no significant liver damage.”

  “You are certain it was the Turkish delight?” Werthen said.

  “The laboratory tests have come back already. Positive for arsenic. And a very healthy dose, at that.”

  “We will need to see the box,” Gross said.

  “You’ll have to speak with . . . I believe his name is Detective Inspector Drechsler, about that.”

  Gross emitted a vexed sigh. “May we speak with Herr Mahler?”

  A curt shaking of the head from the doctor. “He is resting now. I would imagine by tomorrow morning—”

  Gross did not wait for the medical man to finish, but wheeled around and stormed out of the waiting area.

  Werthen reddened at Gross’s bad behavior.

  “I apologize for my colleague’s curtness, Dr. Baumgartner.”

  “You really should get your friend to calm down. He is headed for a myocardial infarction at this rate.”

  And the doctor departed as abruptly as Gross had, perhaps headed for his own bit of coronary difficulty.

  Which left Werthen alone in the waiting room with Natalie Bauer-Lechner; Justine was keeping personal watch in her brother’s room.

  “Good news at last,” she said, collapsing into a chair.

  “May I get you something? Water?”

  “No. I am fine. It has been such a terrifying experience. He was retching all afternoon, burning up, and drinking so much water, as if he were dying of thirst. Awful, awful. We were preparing to return to Vienna today anyway. Gustl needs to prepare for the Tannhäuser next week. And now this.”

  The Hofoper was closed during part of June and all of July, but this summer there was to be a special celebration in honor of Richard Wagner’s widow, Cosima Wagner, founder of the Bayreuth Festival. This would include a performance of the opera Tannhäuser in her honor. The celebration, however, was not welcomed by all of Vienna’s musical and artistic establishment, Werthen knew, for Wagner was still an object of controversy for musical purists.

  He sat next to Frau Bauer-Lechner, patting her arm. “It’s all right now. You heard the doctor. No permanent damage.”

  “Yes,” she said without conviction. “She blames you. Justine, that is. For deserting her brother.”

  “Hardly deserted. The police took over the watch.”

  “He asked to see you, but you sent your assistant.”

  She was clearly distraught. But this was not the time for such a discussion. “If you don’t mind, there are some questions I would like to ask.”

  “The police have already been over all of this. Can’t you just speak with them?”

  “It helps to have it firsthand. Herr Mahler pressed me to find the culprit. You saw him talk to me at the railroad station.”

  “Yes, you are right. We are a little overwhelmed by events of late. Go ahead. Anything to help Gustl.”

  “Let us begin with the most obvious.” Werthen fished out his leather notebook from this inside jacket pocket. “Who was at the Villa Kerry recently?”

  “You mean in addition to myself, Justine, and Arnold?”

  So Rosé had stayed on, Werthen thought. Written out of Mahler’s will if he married Justine, but still a houseguest.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there was Herr Regierungsrath Leitner. He was at the villa yesterday. He had some important papers for Gustl to sign. They spoke together for some time. Herr Leitner returned to Vienna this morning, I believe.”

  “Did he bring anything with him to the meeting?”

  “A box of Turkish delight, you mean?”

  Werthe
n nodded.

  “That box was delivered almost a week ago, directly from Istanbul. Gustl has eaten I do not know how many pieces of candy from it. I am sure they are mistaken about that being the source of the poison.”

  “But was their talk . . . congenial?”

  She looked at him with gray, perceptive eyes. “Do you mean, could we hear shouting as at his last visit?”

  “Did you?”

  “No. In fact their dealings seemed rather cordial.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “That soprano, Gerta Rheingold, showed up quite unexpectedly on Wednesday.”

  The one Mahler had made sing a Mozart aria thirty times in an attempt to get it right. The one who had finally screamed the message of the aria directly at Mahler: “Die, horrid monster!”

  “I believe a rapprochement was achieved there, as well,” Natalie said. “And neither did she appear to have sweets sequestered on her person. There were bussis, cheek kisses, left and right at her departure. Of course there were also the policeman on duty and your man, Herr Tor, who was there yesterday. Quite efficient, he seems, but painfully shy.”

  Werthen concurred.

  “No, it simply must be that hideous little man the police took into custody lurking about the villa this afternoon.”

  It was the first Werthen had heard of this.

  “Who?”

  “I heard the name. What is it? I can’t . . . such a disgusting little person. Saying that Gustl had sent for him. Nonsense. Why would he want to speak with such a man? Gustl is totally against the use of the claque.”

  Gross was waiting for him at the entrance to the hospital.

  “I thought Frau Bauer-Lechner might be more responsive to your questions without my presence. Was that the case?”

  Werthen quickly told Gross what he had learned.

  “Schreier,” Gross surmised. “It has to be him. The head of the claque. He’s in custody? But that is absurd.”

  Werthen hoped they could delay meeting Drechsler until the morning so he could get back to Berthe, but this new information made it more pressing that they speak with him this evening. It was still light, a soft evening with a sweet water smell coming off the Danube. As they walked toward the Police Praesidium, they further discussed these new developments.