A Matter of Breeding (30 page)

The waiter brought Kraus’s mid-morning snack, a poppy seed bun drizzled with vanilla cream sauce. The rich scent of it was unappealing to Werthen at this time of day. He took a sip of his own unadorned
kleine Braune
.

Kraus had a first bite of the poppy seed bun, then licked the sauce off his fork.

‘Now what exactly was it you wanted to know about our friend?’

‘Origins,’ Werthen said succinctly in the vain hope this would inspire the same brevity in Karl Kraus.

‘That, I believe, is a tale to tell. Granted, I have heard variations on the theme, but the standard melody line is that there was an untoward marriage a couple of generations ago.’

‘An Ethiopian princess,’ Werthen offered.

‘Quite good, Advokat. You have been listening to coffeehouse gossip. Bravo for you. Do you know the entire tale then?’

‘I am searching for corroboration, I suppose.’

‘True, all true. Von Hobarty is known as the Moor for good reason.’

‘How do you know it is not mere malicious gossip, this strain of the Negroid in the von Hobarty bloodline?’ Werthen asked.

‘For one, I researched the files for residency registrations and births. I traced the man’s forefathers all the way back to Transylvania.’

‘Whatever for? A story for
Die Fackel
?’

Kraus took another dainty bite. ‘Insurance, I suppose. In case his race-baiting friends came after me one fine day. Fortunately, I have never had to use this information. I would have felt odd doing so. Some of the continent’s finest writers have similar blood in them – Alexander Dumas for one.’

‘And Pushkin. I believe his grandfather was also of Ethiopian descent.’

‘You do surprise me, Werthen. You know, of course, that von Hobarty is also a Bathory?’

Werthen nodded. ‘Or so I have heard.’

‘Truth. Not idle gossip. Once more confirmed by the empire’s seemingly endless need for documenting its citizens. The Bathorys of Hungary were not too welcome by the populace after the affair of the Countess Elizabeth Bathory. Most of them took what belongings they still had and decamped to the hinterland of Transylvania. Von Hobarty’s grandfather was a bit of an adventurer, by all accounts. Thus, the Ethiopian princess. Quite a handsome woman, it is said. It’s why Christian von Hobarty turned to Pan-Germanism, of course. Self-hatred of his own mixed race, one assumes. And why he hates the Habsburgs so much.’

‘I don’t follow,’ Werthen said. ‘Why the animosity for the Habsburgs?’

‘Why, they impoverished his family. Took all the Bathory’s Hungarian holdings as punishment for the supposed crimes of the countess.’

‘Supposed?’

Kraus emitted a quite inelegant snort at this. ‘You do not actually believe the woman killed some six hundred young girls, do you? Wherever could she find that number of victims in her remote region of Hungary? No, Werthen, it was all fabricated by the Habsburgs to take the Bathory land and to diminish their power in Hungary. That family had become famous saving Hungary from the Ottoman Turks. They were more respected than the Habsburgs, and that is something that your everyday Habsburg tyrant cannot tolerate.’

‘And you think this family history played on von Hobarty enough to make him do anything in his power to embarrass the Habsburgs?’

Kraus nodded vigorously, cutting into the poppy seed bun with his fork once more. ‘His
raison d’être
, my friend.’

Even to destroying one of the symbols of Habsburg power, their famous Lipizzaner horses, Werthen thought.

Meanwhile, Berthe was having her own
tête
-à-
tête
with Archduke Franz Ferdinand, bringing him up to date on what she, her husband, and Gross had recently learned. Franz Ferdinand seemed particularly interested in the manner in which Berthe was able to track the forged Krensky notes back to Christian von Hobarty. Gross had informed them of the man’s admission last night as they spoke by telephone, informing each other of new developments.

‘Quite clever,’ Franz Ferdinand said when Berthe finished her account. ‘Though I highly doubt von Hobarty’s story that he is acting out of a sense of patriotism. He is no friend of the Habsburgs, I can tell you that. Far more likely that he engineered the entire breeding scheme in order to embarrass them.’

He said this lightly, as if it were a fabulous assertion, but Berthe was beginning to think it might not be far off the mark.

She also noted his curious use of the pronoun ‘them’ instead of ‘us’. Being shoved aside eternally by his uncle Franz Josef and forced into a morganatic marriage by the court chamberlain, Montenuovo, had obviously taken a toll on the archduke and his sense of belonging.

‘And I am afraid I have nothing so fine to share in return,’ Franz Ferdinand said, picking up a report on his desk. ‘Not one indication of investments in Premium Breeds by von Hobarty. Not even the hint of a profit turned by his intervention in securing the breeding contract. The only odd thing I discovered in his finances is that he is the owner of two spas in Styria. Can you fathom it? The great defender of Germanity, a mere concessionaire.’

She had to laugh at the thought. From what Karl had told her about von Hobarty, he was a man most definitely hoist on his own petard. He would hardly want the world to know he was a common businessman.

Werthen, when he learned this bit of information from Berthe at lunch, was not so amused as she had been.

‘Let me see,’ he said, looking at the report she handed him and the names of the spas.

The urgent tone of his voice made Berthe spill the spoonful of cream of cauliflower soup that was halfway to her mouth.

‘This could change things.’

‘I only know that I will need to change my dress,’ she said, dabbing with her napkin at the stain in her lap.

‘
Hoppla
!’ said Frieda, who, seated in her high chair, was joining them for lunch.

‘Yes, your mutti made a big oops,’ Berthe said.

‘It’s the one connection we have between victims,’ Werthen said, ‘discovering that both Maria Feininger and Annaliese Reiter were employed at spas. And now we learn that von Hobarty owns both of those spas.’

‘I don’t see what that has to do with the breeding scandal,’ Berthe said.

‘Nothing,’ Werthen replied. ‘But might there be a motive for von Hobarty wanting to get rid of these two young women? He surely had reason to want the Klein girl out of the way. And both Maria and Annaliese had extra money at the time of their death. Remember that Maria told the nun about her shame. Von Hobarty is a womanizer. Maybe he used his spas to recruit young women for …’

He looked at Frieda, reluctant to use a word his daughter might enjoy repeating. But Berthe understood his intent, nodding.

‘Perhaps it was more than a simple exchange of money for services,’ Berthe said. ‘Maybe they were blackmailing him.’

Werthen considered this for a moment. ‘Maybe.’

‘We were looking at von Hobarty only in regards to the Lipizzaner matter,’ Berthe said, ‘but now it’s as if we are re-opening a murder investigation.’

‘Mooda,’ Frieda mimicked.

When contacted by telephone later in the afternoon, Gross was also intrigued by this new information.

‘This does put things in a new light,’ the criminologist boomed down the line. ‘I need to talk to the victim’s families.’

‘Kurt Reiter,’ Werthen said. ‘We should to talk with him again. I had the feeling he was holding something back.’

‘And Herr Paulus,’ Gross said, making Werthen wonder if he had heard his advice about the brother.

But he could add his own seeming non sequiturs: ‘What of the other deaths?’

Werthen had had time to think rationally: three of the deaths attributed to Klapper would have benefited von Hobarty; but two would not. Especially the death of the journalist Krensky, knowing now that von Hobarty most probably wanted the Lipizzaner scandal to be made public.

‘We shall deal with those when we come to them,’ Gross said impatiently.

‘And what of Klapper’s involvement? Do you think he actually was the killer?’

Gross paused on the other end of the line. Then: ‘I do not fancy Herr von Hobarty cutting up bodies like that. No, Klapper was the killer. But now we have a new question. Who directed him?’

Something was bothering Gross, nagging at him ever since his visit to von Hobarty yesterday. There had been numerous revelations as a result of that interview; it was difficult to tell which had left him with this unsettled feeling.

Gross contemplated this unease as he partook of his meal of crepe-like
Palatschinken
stuffed with curded cheese and raisins; he dwelled on it as he took a stroll in the chill evening air under a full moon that illuminated the snowy fields all around in blue light, his cigar trailing wisps of redolent smoke behind him. He continued to probe it like a sore tooth through his nighttime bath and on into bed as he attempted to concentrate on the
Meditations.
However, this usual bedtime reading was not having its intended effect: Marcus Aurelius’s injunction to maintain one’s focus and avoid distraction was, ironically, being circumvented by one such distraction.

He read on, bravely, stoically:
If thou art pained by any external thing, it is not this that disturbs thee, but thy own judgment about it. And it is in thy power to wipe out this judgment now.

‘
Verdammt
!’ Gross said aloud, closing the book disgustedly and setting it back on the bedside table. It was like reading Swahili tonight.

But wait, he thought. Not the thing but my own judgment.

And then he had it. The bit that had eluded him, that seemed odd.

Yes. Things were indeed fitting a pattern.

He gave an enormous sigh of relief, turned down the gas lamp, and was sleeping like a baby within two minutes.

Berthe and Werthen traveled by the first train to Styria. It was where things began; it was where they would finish.

Berthe’s father, Herr Meisner, and his friend, Frau Juliani, traveled with them; they agreed to take care of little Frieda when the parents were otherwise occupied. Berthe could not stand to be away from her child, a feeling made even stronger as a result of the girl’s recent illness. Yet she could equally not tolerate being left behind at this point of the investigation.

Sitting on her grandfather’s lap, Frieda was greatly amused at the sights out the window of their carriage. Her first time on a speeding train, she was taking it all in like a parched nomad stumbling upon an oasis. Frau Juliani was also quite enjoying the trip, Werthen thought. It had not taken too much convincing to persuade either of them to accompany the family.

Werthen had booked rooms at the Daniel once again, and it was there he had the fiaker take them from the central station in Graz.

Gross was just returning to the hotel when Werthen and company arrived.

‘Ah, Werthen,’ he said jovially. ‘En famille, I see.’ He tipped his hat at Herr Meisner and Frau Juliani and patted Frieda’s head as one might a lap dog.

‘You sound awfully pleased with yourself, Gross. What have you been up to?’

‘Time will tell, Werthen. Time will tell.’

‘And cryptic,’ Berthe added. ‘A combination that means no one good, I fear.’

Gross nodded at Berthe, his cheeks rosy from the cold.

‘Come to be in on the kill, Frau Meisner?’

‘Most assuredly,’ she told him.

‘Where first?’ Werthen asked.

‘The restaurant,’ Gross said. ‘A nice hot wurst and schnapps is in order to face the rest of the day.’

‘I don’t understand what this is about,’ Stanislaus Reiter said after allowing Gross and Werthen into the small studio at the back of their cabin outside of Köflach
.
Berthe had stayed with Petra Reiter to see what she could discover there.

‘I assumed it was all over and done with. That Klapper animal …’

‘Yes, Herr Reiter,’ Gross said solicitously. ‘Herr Klapper is certainly the killer. However, there are some loose ends that it would be nice to understand. You must forgive me, I am a criminologist and I want to learn from this unfortunate incident. It may help others in the future.’

It would hardly do for them to admit to Reiter that they were thinking of opening the investigation again, Werthen knew. He and Gross had agreed on this tactic instead.

Reiter stood in front of a canvas portraying shirtless workers on hands and knees scraping a wooden floor in an apartment in preparation for refinishing. The scene seemed awfully familiar to Werthen, but he could not immediately place it.

‘Ask away,’ the artist said, turning back to his composition and adding a daub of paint to the shoulder of one of the brawny workers.

‘It has come to our attention that one of the other victims was also employed at her local spa. I believe you told my colleague here, Advokat Werthen, that your daughter knew none of the other victims.’

‘That is correct,’ Reiter said, not bothering to turn around.

‘And she was planning to attend art school in Vienna in the spring?’

‘Yes.’

‘That can be costly,’ Gross said. ‘Your paintings must sell well.’

This brought a guffaw from Reiter, who now turned to face them.

‘As you can see, I am a most unfashionable artist. I even find myself shamelessly stealing the themes of others. No, gentlemen, I am not a successful salon artist. This piece of artistic impersonation in front of you is for a firm of parquet installers in Graz. Monsieur Caillebotte is no longer alive to protest such plagiarism. But it will keep us in food for the next few months.’

‘Then how was your daughter intending to pay for her tuition and expenses?’

‘She worked hard at the spa. Like I told the advokat before –’ nodding at Werthen – ‘she saved her money. She had a dream.’

The door to the studio swung open and there again was the son Kurt to interrupt the interview.

‘What’s going on here?’ he said. ‘And who is that woman with mother?’

‘Hello, Kurt,’ Werthen said. ‘Good to see you again.’

‘These gentlemen were asking some questions about Liese’s finances for art school.’

‘What business is it of yours?’ Kurt said angrily.