Requiem in Vienna: A Viennese Mystery (Viennese Mysteries) Page 9

  Werthen himself, however, was warily seduced by the actual charm of the place and of the friendly gastgebers, or proprietors, the family Woolf. They were too good to be true: friendly, full of bonhomie, brimming over with solicitousness and concern for the comfort of their guests. However, sometimes things are just what they seem, he told himself, and one should damn well enjoy oneself. The Woolfs were indeed almost too good to be true: three towheaded young dirndl-clad daughters served in the dining room, their rosy cheeks a constant reminder to Werthen to get more fresh air and exercise, even as he feasted on fresh venison steak or a goulash made of mountain goat lung. The older sons, equally blond and alarmingly blue-eyed, resplendent in lederhosen and sparkling white shirts, served as attendants in the hotel, working the desk, carrying luggage, helping as guides for adventurous wanderers. And Frau Woolf supervised the kitchen while Herr Woolf was the organizing spirit and genial host of the establishment.

  Both parents were dark-haired, which made Werthen wonder at their progeny; such wonderment and his subsequent jottings regarding the family were the first inklings of a return of his creative energies, creating mood pictures of Austria and the Austrians in short stories. Perhaps, though, he thought, such creativity would be better channeled into recording the minutiae of the cases he had become involved in rather than in the goings-on of such characters as the foppish Count von Hildesheim.

  At night the Woolf family charmed their guests with musical evenings following dinner. They sang alpine melodies to the accompaniment of Herr Woolf’s guitar and Frau Woolf’s accordion. Werthen was usually no great fan of this wheezing and often skirling instrument, but in the hands of Frau Woolf it was turned into a plaintive and melodic joy.

  Now, however, it was Saturday, and the dreary alpine weather had finally broken. Steam rose from the damp earth under a high, warm sun. Werthen determined to set out for Mahler’s. He had been there only once, the very afternoon he had arrived, and managed to get soaked to the skin on his return journey to the hotel, barely escaping the dangers of an electrical storm that sent huge jagged daggers of wild energy slanting into the very lake bottom it had seemed.

  What a difference two days had made, for now the weather was clear and fine. Songbirds accompanied him on his way along the sodden dirt path leading out of the village. An occasional oxen-drawn cart passed, its owner casting a suspicious glance his way, eyes half-hidden under a green alpine hat with a brush of oxen tail hair sprouting from its side. However, suspicion would turn to warm greeting when Werthen offered the traditional, “Grüss Gott,” God’s greeting. It was a salutation he studiously avoided in Vienna, opting instead always for the more formal and neutral “Guten tag” or “Guten abend.” Rejecting his own Judaism, he wanted his greetings to be as secular as possible.

  He was just approaching the Villa Kerry when he heard the faint melody of the village band wafting from the village, the tuba carrying the melodic line along with clarinets and horns. He was unsure of the tune. As he came in sight of Mahler’s rented house, he noted a small group of three men and two women gathered on the road in front, conversing and looking up at the Villa Kerry as if expecting a changing of the guard. They were obviously city dwellers—the women wore long white dresses and impossibly floppy hats that no sensible villager would ever don; the men were bowler-clad and their city suits looked foreign amidst the greenery and flowers of the front park to the Villa Kerry. As he passed them, Werthen overheard a distinctive Schönbrunner German accent that marked them as upper-class Viennese. One man, who wore dramatically curling mustaches, told the others: “He’ll be at his piano now, composing. But later he likes to take a stroll. Perhaps then . . .”

  Werthen did not linger to find out what the man expected. Clearly they were no threat to Mahler, just music-mad and devoted fans of the Hofoper director and conductor. Had they planned their holiday to coincide with Mahler’s? But then Werthen reminded himself that the fashionable kurort of Bad Aussee was nearby; they were most likely staying there and taking the waters.

  At the house, Werthen was greeted by Mahler himself, who quickly drew the lawyer in before closing the front door behind them.

  “Did you see them?”

  He sounded in a panic.

  “Who?” Werthen asked.

  “Those.” He swept his right hand in the direction of his front park. “Those parasites gathered outside. My God, they even send me letters asking for an autographed portrait. Soon they will take to spying on me through opera glasses.”

  “They mean no harm—” Werthen began.

  “No harm! They are insufferable. Can they not simply let me be and get on with my work? And that infernal racket from the village. Every day now they will begin their blasted hooting and trumpeting before lunch and go on into the afternoon. One prays for rain to dampen their spirits.”

  Mahler, agitated, went to one of the windows set on either side of the front door and peeked through lace curtains at his unwelcome visitors.

  He turned back to address Werthen. “Be a good chap and send them on their way.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Mahler. I am here to protect you from deadly intent, not from your fans.”

  “But they are killing me.” His voice was desperate. “Killing my creativity, which is the same thing. I have but six weeks each year in which to compose. But how can I be expected to concentrate on my Fourth Symphony with those interlopers gaping up at my windows? With that hideous noise seeping through the woodwork?”

  Werthen went to the other window and found that the little group had moved on. He was blessedly saved from such an onerous task.

  Two days later, Gross, in Vienna, smiled amiably at the young woman seated across the desk from him. Quite a fetching young thing, he thought. Normally the charms of the fairer sex had little appeal for him. Adele and he had been married for decades now; he was settled into a quiescent domestic complacency where matters of the flesh were concerned. Theirs had never been a deeply physical union; Gross in fact found such couplings rather laborious as well as interfering with his main concern in life—devising a system of detection and analysis that would revolutionize the science of criminology. He imagined Adele probably felt the same; after all, women—except for the occasional nymphomaniac—were not intended to enjoy the acts of the bedroom. Following the birth of their only child, Otto, they had largely foregone those supposed pleasures. Staying with Werthen and his wife, he was startled to discover that they shared a bedroom. A rather messy state of affairs, as far as Gross was concerned.

  No. Gross had adapted a Socratic attitude where sex was concerned, reaching the age of reason wherein he was no longer controlled or even affected by such impulses.

  Or so he had thought.

  However, the presence of this young Schindler woman across the desk this Monday morning caught him off guard, quite unnerved him, and had set off some long dormant feelings. He felt himself wanting to please her; he found himself needing to avert his eyes from her, as if she were casting some spell on him; her scent pleasurably engulfed him, much as a well-baked guglhupf cake might.

  She had called earlier in the day, telling Berthe that she had new information for Advokat Werthen. However, learning that the lawyer was otherwise disposed, Fräulein Schindler had agreed to meet with Werthen’s colleague at the law offices. As before, Berthe was seated near the door taking notes as Gross began to conduct the interview.

  “So, young lady, how may I be of assistance?”

  “I had hoped to speak with Advokat Werthen,” she said, smiling coyly at Gross.

  “Yes. As Frau Werthen told you, he is not at this time available.” Gross ignored the fiery look Berthe cast him at his mistake in her name.

  “No, no,” Alma went on. “Do not misunderstand me. I meant to say that I hardly expected to be speaking with the distinguished Dr. Hanns Gross in his stead.”

  Gross manufactured a rictus of a smile at this comment. “At your service, Fräulein.” He seemed not to hear the sigh that came f
rom Berthe. “I know that Advokat Werthen was interested in people who might, for some reason or another, have reason to wish Herr Mahler ill.”

  Just as in her first interview, Fräulein Schindler now leaned across the desk, as if confiding in the bulky criminologist. Gross instinctively retreated at this advance; the springs of his desk chair groaned as he leaned backward.

  “There is someone you should know about,” she continued in a breathless fashion.

  Slowly Gross was unwrapping himself from the young woman’s blanket of charms, so obvious were her techniques of entrapment.

  “Please elaborate,” he said now with neutral authority.

  It was as if she had caught the subtle shift in power and relaxed in her own chair once again.

  “I have—and I do not mean to sound full of myself—numerous admirers. Among them I count one Heinricus von Tratten. He is of an old German family. In his case the ‘von’ is hereditary and not purchased. He insists I call him Heini, but that is rather too much. He is, in fact, a great deal older than I. We have been much thrown together of late, sitting next to each other at dinner parties, accidentally meeting at art openings. He is a bit of a philistine, but he is also a generous sponsor of the Secession. Carl, my stepfather that is, values Herr von Tratten in that regard.”

  She smiled winningly at Gross, but by now he had steeled himself against Fräulein Schindler’s seductive powers and was concentrating solely on the information at hand.

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.

  “Herr von Tratten is, as I said, of German origin. As are you, I imagine, Dr. Gross.”

  When he did not respond, she continued her tale. “For Herr von Tratten, such origins are not simply a matter of pride, but are something to protect, if you follow me.”

  “That is to say that Herr von Tratten has certain leanings, certain preferences?” Gross delicately offered, not wishing to flush the bird before she had laid her golden egg.

  “Exactly.”

  Berthe interrupted. “Sorry, but just so that I can get the word correct for the files. We are speaking of anti-Semitism here, yes?”

  “Yes,” Gross said, casting a disparaging look Berthe’s way. “I believe that is what Fräulein Schindler is implying.”

  “Mind you,” Alma quickly added, “that in and of itself is not something to raise suspicion. Many hold the view that Vienna is too much under the sway of Jewish ownership, from manufacture to newspapers.”

  “And the legal profession as well,” Berthe said, sotto voce, but she was again ignored.

  “However, in Herr von Tratten’s case?” Gross prompted her.

  “Well, you see, he discovered a silly photograph I carry with me. Some friends, knowing of my deep respect for Herr Mahler, went to pains to obtain for me a signed portrait of him. Several weeks ago, while seated next to him at a dinner party at the Zucker-kandls, I had occasion to open my handbag and he caught sight of the picture of Mahler. Naturally we began speaking about the maestro’s reorganization of the Hofoper and of his genius. Well, I began extolling his genius, that is. I am sure Herr von Tratten was able to read my emotions accurately, to comprehend my devotion to Mahler’s art, perhaps even to the man himself, though I have never met him. Herr von Tratten suddenly began the most frightening tirade about the anathema of the Jewish race and how any Jew who ever thought of despoiling a fair Aryan maid should be destroyed. That was the exact expression he used: vernichtet werden. It was quite chilling, really.”

  “And why did you not mention this at your first interview with Advokat Werthen?” Gross asked.

  “People say things in the heat of the moment. I was unsure of his actual intent. But you see, since that evening, Herr von Tratten has continued to seek me out. I believe he is actively courting me, though I have given him no cause for optimism in that regard. He is an absolute toad of a man, regardless of his ‘von’ or family money. And he continues to pester me about my regard for Mahler, always asking me how my ‘Jewish song master’ is faring. Quite frankly, I do not care for his insinuations. Additionally, if I may be honest, he has the most horrid breath.”

  “I am not sure that is actionable, Fräulein,” Gross said.

  But she was all earnestness. “Nor did I mean to imply it was.”

  “It is good you have come to us with this added information, Fräulein Schindler. We have a list of persons we intend to interview; Herr von Tratten’s name shall be added thereto.”

  “So you do believe Mahler to be in danger?” Her eyes sparkled at the thought.

  “We are taking this quite seriously,” Gross said.

  “Marvelous.” She suddenly stood, extending her hand to Gross. “I am so excited you have been included in this matter, Dr. Gross. I know you will put things right.”

  And she was gone, in a swirl of skirts and a whirlwind of scent, not bothering to discuss such mundane matters as fees to be paid.

  “Quite a force to be reckoned with,” Gross said, after the outer door shut.

  Berthe nodded her head.

  “I should not like to be the man she sets her sights on,” Gross further pronounced. “He will stand little chance of escape.”

  Later that same day Berthe sat alone in her husband’s office examining replies she had received to an advertisement inserted in the Austrian Legal Journal, seeking a new member of chambers specializing in wills and trusts. There were four promising candidates, though all but one were unavailable for the next several weeks. The one available immediately was a lawyer from Linz, one Wilhelm Tor, forty, with a degree from Berlin. A native of Vienna, it seemed he greatly desired to return to his birthplace and was most eager to join a firm with the reputation of Advokat Werthen’s.

  That Tor’s bona fides were in order, his résumé impressive, and his availability immediate all conspired to make Berthe pick up her pen and write to him a letter to be sent by afternoon post. Advokat Werthen would be pleased to offer Herr Tor an interview, she related. Never mind that Karl would not be present; she knew the sort of man they needed for the firm.

  Let us hope that Herr Tor is as good in the flesh as he is on paper, she thought, signing the letter for her husband with a flourish.

  She looked at the embossed letterhead, liking the solid, no-frills strength conveyed by the modern lettering; no Old German or Gothic styling for Karl. Admittedly, there was a baroque nature to her husband, a sensitive soul too often hidden by overly ornate verbiage; how to avoid such a thing if born in Austria? But her gentle teasing about his stuffy language, her barbs at his ambivalence vis-à-vis the monarchy, and above all her encouragement of his return to criminal law and to pursue his newfound love of investigations had all served to bring him out of his formal shell and make their union stronger, deeper.

  Now, however, there might soon be need of a reckoning. It was all very well for Karl to branch out while he was still able to devote energy to the clients he already had. Yet now, with his absence in the Salzkammergut, things were coming to a head. The law firm could not simply run itself, nor could it rely on an assistant, no matter how talented and ambitious. After all, such ambition would lead any normal man to set off on his own eventually, to establish his own firm.

  She dreaded the reality that was setting in on them, and at the same time longed for it. It was all very well for Karl to change his business sign: ADVOKAT KARL WERTHEN: WILLS AND TRUSTS, CRIMINAL LAW, PRIVATE INQUIRIES. However, it was the wills and trusts that were making their living. Private inquiries had yet to earn a florin for the firm; Klimt had not even paid for Karl’s services from the previous year and Fräulein Schindler was obviously not quite so eager as she had been upon first meeting to dip into her inheritance from her father to pay for such investigations. Granted, Mahler had retained Karl, but one fee would hardly compensate for the others lost while her husband devoted all his energies on the case, neglecting other clients.

  When Karl returned, they would have to have a serious discussion about all this. Circumstances had changed afte
r the visit to her doctor last Friday. Now she was filled not only with a new sense of purpose, but also with a more urgent sense of responsibility. She dreaded such a discussion, for Karl had come alive with his newfound career in inquiries; still, neither of them were in a financial position where they could afford to play sleuth.

  Karl’s parents could surely provide a larger allowance for their sole living heir, but they disapproved of his match. They made no secret of that, pointedly not attending Berthe and Werthen’s brief civil ceremony. Relations with her in-laws had continued to be decidedly cool since the marriage. And her own father was of the school that says money spoils. He was a successful, self-made man, and he had wanted his daughter to make her own way in the world, too, not to be considered a fine catch for some greedy suitor. Thus, he had not settled any money on her.

  So, the reality was obvious, the new reality as revealed to her by Doktor Franck. She wished Karl were here now. Perhaps she should telegram him?

  No. Instead she took five deep breaths—her usual remedy for any panic—and settled back in the chair. Things would work out. Oh, how she hoped they would.

  Werthen was beginning to regret taking on this case. Here he was installed in the foyer of Villa Kerry like a butler waiting upon his master’s wishes rather than a lawyer or inquiry agent going about his professional work. Of course it was not stated in so many words, but it was increasingly clear Mahler had determined that Werthen’s task should be to protect him from any and all obstacles to his composition. Thus, from early morning to late afternoon, Werthen was seated in his “office” in the foyer on a hard-backed chair, in attendance when either Justine or Natalie answered the door, ready to send autograph hounds on their way or to fend off advances of besotted young women and addled middle-aged men who wanted to share a melodic passage with the maestro. It also became clear that Mahler wished him to keep his sister, Justine, and his old friend, Natalie, at bay. This task had proved the most difficult, for it was obvious they both felt Werthen was usurping their own roles in Mahler’s life. They cast him evil glances throughout the long and tiresome days. Whenever food was served, Werthen’s portion was sure to be cold.