A Matter of Breeding (28 page)

‘Yes, please,’ he said. Truth was, he had not even had a first one, so eager had he been to catch the earliest train north.

Berthe was in the sitting room with Frieda and shot him a warm smile when he entered.

‘Dada,’ Frieda squealed.

‘Hello, monkey.’

‘You are just in time,’ Berthe said. ‘I was on my way to the law office. Erika’s been the mainstay there for over a week, and I figure she could use a break or at least a helping hand with accounts.’

‘Nice to see you, too.’ He smiled back at her.

‘You look awfully pleased with yourself,’ she said, holding out her arms for a hug and kiss.

‘As a matter of fact, I am.’ He sat down on the divan next to them, holding Frieda in his lap, and quickly explained the numerous discoveries he and Gross had made in the last few days.

She took it all in, not saying a word for several moments. ‘My, my. Quite some developments.’

But she wore the face of a Cheshire cat herself.

‘All right,’ he finally said. ‘Out with it.’

‘Such a perceptive man. Yes, I too have made discoveries.’

When she described the similarity in the typography between the Krensky file and the list of names sent by Frau Czerny, Werthen felt his heart quicken.

‘We’ve got to notify Gross. He needs to interview Frau Czerny again now we know she was once in the employ of von Hobarty.’

‘Yes,’ Berthe said. ‘But shouldn’t we be sure, first? Why not visit the Krensky’s again and check the typewriter we saw there. Make sure it doesn’t have the same irregularities.’

Werthen beamed at her and then whispered quite audibly in Frieda’s ear.

‘That is why I love your mother so. She is brilliant.’

Frau Blatschky poked her head in the door to the sitting room.

‘
Gabelfrühstuck
is ready,’ she said.

Werthen did not have to be asked twice. He set Frieda down next to her mother and went to the dining room where he gratefully dined on two perfectly boiled eggs, a fresh semmel with a thick coating of butter and a dollop of Frau Blatschky’s own quince preserves, all served along with an aromatic pot of her best coffee. Heaven.

By the time he had finished and returned to the sitting room, Frieda was happily playing with Frau Blatschky.

‘Ready?’ Berthe said. She had coat and gloves in hand.

‘You’re leaving for the office now?’

‘No, silly. I am leaving with you. This is too good to miss. But hadn’t you better call first?’

In his haste to return home, Werthen had quite forgotten about such niceties as appointments. Happily, Herr Prochazka was listed in the directory. The man’s housekeeper answered the telephone and then turned over the request to the former parliamentarian’s private secretary, Herr Heller, who was able to secure an appointment for them.

Before leaving, Werthen took the time to finally change out of the bothersome long underwear, track down his softer angora pair, and then retrieve his heaviest winter coat out of the back of the wardrobe. This had a fur collar that Werthen had once found an affectation, but that now made him sigh with relief as he snuggled into it.

They had not bothered trying to telephone the Krensky apartment, for they knew from earlier experience that the Krenskys had no telephone service. In this, they were hardly an exception: only one out of ten private residences in the city was connected.

They went to Hernals first, figuring that the good hausfrau, Frau Krensky, would be at home of a Tuesday morning, cleaning house or getting a hot meal ready for when Herr Krensky, who worked as a joiner, would be home for lunch.

In the event, they were correct. Frau Krensky, a mousey little woman with a large mole on her left cheek, was surprised and seemingly suspicious that they should be back again.

‘It is just a technicality,’ Werthen said apologetically. ‘We should have taken care of it on our last visit. It’s your son’s typewriter, you see. We need to check it against another document.’

‘I see.’ She said this as if she did not at all. ‘Come in, then. I’m in the middle of cooking.’

They could smell onions in oil. ‘It won’t take but a moment,’ Werthen added.

‘Well, you know your way there.’

They made quick work of it, comparing a page of Krensky’s notes with a fresh sheet of paper rolled into the machine and typed upon. Berthe picked out the letters on the machine. The result was clear: Krensky’s typewriter was most definitely
not
used for the file Berthe had received in the mail.

On their way out, Berthe went to the stove. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said sweetly to Frau Krensky. ‘It smells so good.’

‘Just a gulasch.’

‘You must tell me the recipe,’ Berthe said.

The two women chatted for a time, and soon Frau Krensky seemed to lose her distrust.

As they were leaving, Berthe suddenly asked her, ‘The police were here, weren’t they?’

Frau Krensky stared at her in amazement. ‘However did you know?’

‘Your son’s room. There are hardly any personal effects there.’

‘Yes. He left it in a real mess, too.’

‘Was he in uniform?’ Berthe asked, smiling.

‘My husband says we are not to speak of that. The officer warned us …’

‘In plain clothes, then,’ Berthe said.

Frau Krensky nodded.

‘And why were you to keep quiet about this visit?’

‘The officer made quite a to-do about it being a secret operation.’

‘I don’t suppose he showed you his badge, did he?’

She thought. ‘He waved something official looking at me when I opened the door. This was just after Theo’s death. I assumed it must be the police.’

‘And did this officer take anything away with him?’

‘He had a satchel full, but wouldn’t tell us what it was.’

Werthen badly wanted to pose a question, but did not want to intervene. It was Berthe that Frau Krensky had opened to. But he needn’t have worried. Berthe asked it for him.

‘Can you describe this man?’

She stirred the gulasch, taking her time about this question. Finally she turned and faced them.

‘He was a funny looking little man, actually. All fleshy with a bald head and one of those beards, you know.’ She made a V with both hands at her chin.

‘A Van Dyke beard?’ Berthe offered.

‘That’s the one. And you could see it didn’t match the bit of hair left around the sides of his head.’

‘Dyed?’

Frau Krensky shrugged. ‘But he spoke like he was the emperor.’

Berthe thanked Frau Krensky and they left, the smell of the gulasch wafting down the stairs after them.

They descended the stairs in silence, and at the front door Werthen could no longer hold it back.

‘Well done! That was amazing.’

‘It was, wasn’t it? And top honors to Frau Krensky. She described Herr Maximillian Hohewart to a tee.’

Before heading for their meeting in Sievering, Werthen and Berthe found a post office with a telephone exchange – not an easy venture in Hernals – and placed a call to the Hotel Daniel in Hitzendorf.

It was lunch time, after all. Werthen knew he could count on Gross’s stomach and that he would be partaking of lunch at the hotel. Still, it took several minutes for the operator to connect him, and then several more before Gross could be tracked down.

Once connected, Werthen explained to him about Berthe’s discovery regarding the typological similarities between the Krensky file and a list received from Frau Czerny, but Gross seemed more annoyed at the interruption of his meal than excited about a new lead.

‘You will speak to her?’ Werthen said.

‘Of course I will,’ spluttered Gross. ‘Now let’s be done with this before my pork gets cold.’

Werthen was left with a scratching sound that he imagined must be the ultimate music of the spheres, and then the operator came on the line once again to inquire if he was finished.

Sievering – though it had become annexed to Vienna almost a decade earlier – still had the appearance of a country village. The parish church stood in the middle of the square, and snow-covered vineyarded hills swept up from it like mountainous foamy waves. Herr Prochazka’s villa was on the outskirts of the village, its back edged up against an open field, the Vienna Woods lying just beyond. You could smell the snow out here, and wood smoke was also in the air.

He assumed it was the same housekeeper who had taken their earlier call and who now greeted them at the front door and bustled off for Herr Heller, as she announced.

Herr Heller was a man of middle age who wore a suit of clothes fashionable twenty years earlier. By the looks of his girth, he also dined quite well at chez Prochazka.

‘Advokat Werthen.’ He extended his hand and at the same time looked curiously at Berthe.

‘My wife,’ Werthen said by way of introduction. ‘The historian.’

At this, Herr Heller raised his head. ‘Ahh.’

He had clearly not expected a female historian; it was Werthen’s story that he was representing a historian who wanted to write a true picture of the Reichsrat in the previous decade.

‘Quite so,’ Herr Heller said, obviously deciding that it was proper that this female historian should be accompanied by her husband.

‘Herr Prochazka is waiting for you in the library. You are fortunate. Today is a good day for him.’

Neither Werthen nor Berthe had a chance to inquire as to the meaning of this comment, for Herr Heller turned on his heel and moved off with alarming speed, an athleticism quite belied by his appearance.

They followed behind him as he led them a chase down one corridor after the other, working their way to the back of the villa. Stopping in front of tall double doors at the end of the hall, Herr Heller rapped his knuckles.

A small, reedy voice from within called out, ‘I am in order.’

Berthe and Werthen exchanged bemused looks as Heller ushered them into a room that was far more painter’s studio than library: though one of the walls bore bookcases, many of these were filled with small canvases of all sorts of wildflowers, all done in the most meticulous detail as if for a botany guide. The back wall of the room had been almost totally replaced with huge windows giving onto the snow-covered field and woods beyond.

In front of the window a diminutive man impeccably dressed in a velvet jacket and ascot sat in front of an easel, and pecked at a canvas lodged thereon with a rigger brush.

‘Sir, the historian has arrived. Frau Werthen.’

‘Meisner, actually,’ Berthe said, approaching the man at the easel. ‘You do lovely work. So filled with detail but also with a deep emotion.’

Herr Prochazka looked up at Berthe at these words. ‘You think so? How wonderful. And you are a historian? The world is changing, is it not?’

‘Very much so,’ Berthe said. ‘But not fast enough for some of us.’

This brought a chuckle from Herr Prochazka. He put down the brush. ‘Sit. Sit. Herr Heller, tell Frau Winter to bring tea. It is tea time, isn’t it?’

Herr Heller was about to reply when Berthe said, ‘It is always time for tea, sir.’

‘This is a wonderful woman, Heller. I tell you. If they had women like you in my day, I wouldn’t be a lonely old bachelor now. Frau Meisner? I expect you’ve got a husband off some place.’

‘Actually, he is right over there.’

She pointed to Werthen who had wisely remained by the door, letting his wife pave the way.

‘Lucky man. But don’t dawdle over there by the door like a student afraid to enter the master’s room. Enter. Enter.’

Herr Heller gave Werthen a glance as he left as if to say ‘humor him’. Actually, Werthen felt that it was Heller who needed the humoring.

They joined Herr Prochazka by the window, bringing up two sturdy chairs.

‘So you want to hear about the doings in parliament, eh? Those were the days, I can tell you. Battled the Germans with words and sometimes our fists.’

‘Actually, it was the latter I was most interested in,’ Berthe said.

‘Well, you are in luck then. I am sure Heller told you so, as well. That this is a good day for me. He’s right. Some days I cannot even remember my own name.’ He swept his hand in front of his eyes as if dizzy. ‘All fogged up. And all the fault of that blasted von Hobarty.’

‘He was sent to jail for beating you, wasn’t he?’

‘Not long enough, I guarantee that. He could’ve killed me. The man’s a maniac when riled.’ Another low chuckle. ‘And I knew how to rile him, that was for sure.’

‘What was your argument about?’ Berthe asked.

‘Argument? Hardly an argument. More a bit of name calling. Yes, those were the days.’

He seemed to drift off for an instant.

‘Herr Prochazka?’ Berthe said.

Just then the housekeeper brought in the tea things, and Berthe did the honors, filling three cups. ‘Sugar?’ she asked Herr Prochazka.

‘Never touch it. Takes my bitter edge away.’

‘About the name calling,’ she prompted.

‘Yes. Like overgrown school children we were. The Moor. That’s what we called him.’

‘Von Hobarty?’ Werthen asked.

At this, Herr Prochazka gazed at him as if only then realizing he was present.

‘Yes, yes. Hobarty.
Von.
Damned silly bit of affectation. Pardon the rough language. But he is no more an aristocrat than my gardener.’

‘Why the “Moor”?’ Berthe asked.

‘You don’t know the story?’ He looked honestly surprised at their ignorance. ‘Ah, but then I suppose you young ones wouldn’t. Ever met the man?’

Werthen nodded.

‘Notice anything about his coloring?’

‘He seems the outdoor sort. His skin is well tanned.’

This brought an outright laugh from the Czech. ‘Tanned indeed. His grandmother was a black. An Ethiopian princess, so they say. The grandfather met her while training as an engineer in the lesser parts of the world. A damned romantic tale it was, both of them going against their families. Hers did not want any pale sort of fish in their lineage any more than his wanted Nubian blood in theirs. Story is, she died in childbirth, and the bereaved widower moved away from Transylvania to Austria. Started a new life in Styria working as an engineer and made a packet of money on the railroads. Added the ‘von’ and tried to hide the past. His son, von Hobarty’s father, barely showed his African heritage. Got married to a local belle and had one son before she too died in childbirth. I suppose von Hobarty himself never married because of that curse of death in childbirth. Or maybe he was too frightened that the offspring might be a lot darker than expected. Quite a shock for the man who preaches the master race and the necessity for controlled breeding.’