Requiem in Vienna (20 page)

“The eternal artist,” Berthe said, almost a sigh.

“Eternal bore, more like it. I mean how can you be eighteen, in the bloom of youth and fine health, and be forever going on about a
sehnsucht
, longing, for death? But the others were little better. There was Hermann Bahr as well, a young rather bovine-looking writer hoping to make his way. Which in fact he has done. And Engelbert Pernerstorfer. You know him, he is still at the center of our socialist movement. At the time, he edited their little paper,
Deutsche Wort.
Oh, yes. In addition to being socialists and vegetarians, they were all great German nationalists. What a laugh. A gaggle of Jewish intellectuals all cozying up to those anti-Semites. Victor left German nationalism behind when its Jew hatred had become all too obvious. My brothers, Heinrich and Otto, were also part of the group, and the journalist Richard von Kralik. Hugo Wolf sometimes made an appearance, as well, but he was more likely to be found at the Café Griensteidl, where all the young would-be artists of the time gathered. The Café Megalomania, I liked to call it. And then there was that poor boy Rott.”

“Him I do not know,” Berthe said.

“A great tragedy, to be sure. Hans Rott. He was at the conservatory with Mahler and Wolf. A great genius, by all accounts. But he went completely mad in 1880, died in a sanatorium four years later. Such a pity. They all laid it to Brahms.”

“Brahms was responsible for this musician going insane?”

“Clearly he already had the propensity. Victor worked with Freud for a time, you know. He was very interested in psychology. He said young Rott was a fragile sort, full of nervous energy that needed channeling.”

“Sounds rather like my own husband,” Berthe joked.

“And mine. But this young man was walking a tightrope emotionally. Then, when Brahms destroyed his chances for a state fellowship, Rott simply snapped. Riding on a train for a possible
position in Alsace, he pulled a revolver on a fellow passenger who was about to light a cigar. Claimed that Brahms had filled the train with dynamite and he was not to strike his match. They disarmed Rott finally, and put him in the Psychiatric Clinic here. And it was all about the damned politics of music, not about Rott’s music at all.”

Berthe began to feel as if she and Emma had been living on different planets for the past years, for she was privy to none of this information.

“I am afraid you need to explain that one.”

“The Wagner-Brahms battle, I mean. You supported one or the other of them as a young musician, and woe unto you if you fell under the control of the opposite camp. Rott, like Mahler and Wolf, was a great lover of Wagner and a disciple of Bruckner at the conservatory. Brahms thought Bruckner was a sham, that his music would be forgotten in a few years. . . . But if your husband is working for Mahler now he should ask him. Or better yet, ask Natalie Bauer-Lechner. I am sure she is still in attendance to her one and only.”

“She is,” Berthe replied. “I didn’t realize you knew her, too.”

“They all met at the conservatory, you see,” Emma said. “And then I met them through Victor and his society. I would hardly say I
knew
any of them. At any rate, she is a great source of information about those years. Knows where the bodies are hidden. Sometime have her tell you about Mahler’s falling-out with Wolf over an early libretto. The stuff of tragedy and comedy.”

“Wolf went insane, too,” Berthe muttered. “An awful lot of that going about, it seems.”

W
erthen had a strange sense of déjà vu, seated in a chair, along with Gross, in the office of Police Praesidium Inspector Meindl. They had had occasion to deal with this man on their previous case. Werthen noted that there was an oil painting missing from the wall in back of the inspector that had been there on their last visit. Now the mandatory muttonchopped framed visage of the emperor hung alone and lonely where once two portraits had resided. The other portrait had been of a man whom Werthen had killed in a duel, the very man who had threatened him, Berthe, and all those close to him. He took a deep breath at the thought.

They were surprised to discover that the hawk-nosed and gaunt Detective Inspector Bernhard Drechsler had also been invited to this meeting. They had received their summons via telegram first thing this morning.

“A pleasure to see you gentlemen again,” Meindl said, his eyes, behind his pince-nez, fixed solely on Gross. He was turned out well; his lightweight charcoal suit looked as if Knize himself had tailored it. Despite his words, Meindl did not appear, in any way, pleased. Clean-shaven and red-cheeked, Meindl appeared almost
cherubic sitting behind his gargantuan cherrywood desk. An angry cherub, by the look of his pinched lips.

He had reason to be, Werthen suspected, for the man whom Werthen had dueled had been Meindl’s protector, his mentor, his benefactor. Since that powerful man’s death, Meindl’s career had stalled; he had been passed over for chief inspector earlier in the year. But Werthen sensed there was more to it than that.

“It appears you fellows are once again coming to the aid of the Vienna police.” Meindl’s voice was so heavy with irony that it grated. “I refer, of course,” Meindl continued, “to the affair of Herr Mahler. Prince Montenuovo wants us to see to the Hofoper director’s continued safety and good health.”

“I felt it incumbent upon myself to apprise the prince of our investigations,” Gross said, as if to mollify the elfish man. It did not work.

“Quite,” Meindl said through pursed lips. “It would, however, have been good of you, considering our past history, to have come to me first.”

Werthen could feel Gross stirring in the chair next to him. He was not one to suffer fools gladly.

“And what would you have done, Inspector?” Gross asked. “Told me that the death of Fräulein Kaspar was accidental and to come back when there was more positive evidence of a direct attack upon Mahler?”

Detective Inspector Drechsler cleared his throat, an unconscious admission that that was exactly what he had done when confronted with Gross’s information.

“I doubt even the death of the unfortunate violinist, Friedrich Gunther, would have stirred your interest, Inspector,” Gross continued.

“We shall never know now, shall we?” Meindl rejoined. “But let us not accuse one another. We obviously have a difficult task ahead of us. Drechsler here has acquainted me with the facts of the case to date.”

“Including the attempt on Mahler’s life last week?” Werthen said.

Meindl’s eyes remained fixed on Gross, pointedly ignoring Werthen. “Yes, we have had word of that accident from our Bad Aussee colleagues.”

“The brakes had obviously been cut,” Werthen continued. “It was no accident.”

Meindl finally turned his eyes to Werthen. “My misstatement. Not an accident.”

He managed to invest those five words with a level of hatred Werthen had never before felt directed at him. It was chilling yet it also angered Werthen. He decided, however, to hold his tongue. Though deprived of his major sponsor, Meindl still had some friends in high places. Word had reached Werthen last year that he had only narrowly missed being prosecuted for murder as a result of his duel. Against the law, dueling was nonetheless a crime seldom prosecuted. But Meindl had, so Werthen learned, struggled so mightily to have him arrested that he was saved only by imperial intercession. The emperor had no wish for certain facts to be broadcast.

Thus, though Meindl was annoying, he could also be a dangerous enemy. Werthen wisely decided to keep silent, letting Gross take the lead.

“So we will let you get about your work, then,” Gross said, attempting to cut the proceedings short.

But Meindl had his own agenda for this meeting. “What does Frau Strauss have to do with these investigations?” he suddenly asked.

So that was it, Werthen thought. The good widow had gotten the wind up after they had left, pulling a few of her own powerful strings to find out exactly what they had really been after on their visit to her.

“We like to be thorough,” Gross said. “Strauss and Mahler had connections of a sort with each other.”

“Of a sort,” Meindl repeated, adjusting his pince-nez and nodding. “I believe Herr Mahler conducted Strauss’s operetta—”

“
Die Fledermaus
,” Drechsler read from a notebook he had now produced.

“Yes,” Meindl agreed. “And Strauss contracted his final illness while conducting at the Hofoper. Not much of a connection, I would say. Nothing there to bother a grieving widow with.”

Gross had finally reached his boiling point. “Inspector Meindl, may I remind you that I and Advokat Werthen are employed by Prince Montenuovo. We are answerable to him. Whom we choose to interview and not interview is thus not a police matter.”

“I beg to differ. It is now very much a police matter.”

Meindl’s voice raised a full half tone as he said this. He took a deep breath.

“Look,” he said, calming himself. “We are former colleagues. There is no need for rancor between us. I admit to a certain amount of professional pique. However, when one of the most important people in our cultural life makes a complaint—”

“Frau Strauss complained of our visit?” Gross asked.

“Well”—Meindl clasped his hands together on the desk in front of him—“not so much a complaint as an official inquiry. She was bothered by the visit, confused as to your actual intent.”

“As I said,” Gross noted, “we like to be thorough. Follow all possible leads. Someone is trying to kill Herr Mahler, and we would like to find that person before he, or she, is successful.”

“I had rather thought we narrowed down the list of suspects to a man,” Meindl said, glancing at Detective Inspector Drechsler. “There was the matter of hoisting Herr Gunther up into a noose.”

“Yes,” Gross allowed. “But then there is always the possibility of accomplices.”

“I for one can hardly see a woman seeking such revenge, especially on Herr Mahler. For what? A love affair gone badly? A word of criticism at a rehearsal?”

None of the other three responded to this. That Meindl was so
blind to human motivation was an indication of just how far out of his depth he was as an inspector. He was simply a self-serving bureaucrat eager for advancement, not a policeman at all, Werthen thought. It amazed him to realize that a man could be so shrewd in the byzantine matters of court politics, yet remain so ignorant of the basic workings of the human psyche.

“What I have called you in for is not to argue, but rather to ensure that we are on the same side of things here,” Meindl said, attempting a gracious manner. “I would like to know what direction your investigations are taking you, whom you will be interviewing. It should save both of us time. We do not wish, after all, to duplicate services.”

Gross sighed. There was nothing for it but to attempt at least a show of cooperation with Meindl.

“Well, it is a somewhat complex matter,” Gross began.

Twenty minutes later the criminologist finished with a concise overview of the case to date, including a brief list of possible suspects and what possible alibis they had for various dates in question. He also noted the direction their inquiries were now heading, looking into friends and enemies from Mahler’s past as a student in Vienna. However, Gross did not even hint at the bigger investigation at hand now—the possible serial murders of some of Vienna’s greatest musicians.

Meindl nodded his head sagely throughout this recitation, but Werthen doubted he was taking much of it in. Instead, he relied on Drechsler to take close notes.

“We should focus on those gathered in Altaussee,” Meindl said as they were adjourning. “After all, it would seem we have a more finite cast of suspects in that incident.”

“As long as you do not allow for someone cutting the brakes before the bicycle was even delivered.” Werthen could not help himself; he wanted to wipe the self-satisfied grin off of Meindl’s face. “Or for a visitor who might have arrived unnoticed in the middle of the night. The bicycles were kept outside and left unattended.”

“To be sure,” the inspector said, but without conviction. Addressing Gross he said, “It is fortunate you thought to have a man on the scene in the country.”

Gross simply shook his head at this comment.

As they were leaving, Meindl addressed one further comment their direction:

“Time is of the utmost importance, gentlemen. I have thus far managed to keep any speculation about attempts on Mahler’s life out of the newspapers. But I can not be expected to keep this hidden and secret for much longer. It is only a matter of time before some enterprising, or shall I say scandalmongering journalist discovers the facts and splashes them across the front page of one of Vienna’s dailies. Then our quarry shall go to ground, or worse, choose to strike quickly and be done with it.”

Werthen did not like doing so, but did have to admit that Meindl had a valid point. Time was also playing against them.

He and Gross were accompanied by Drechsler out of the Praesidium office on Schottenring. The day was warming. Gross suggested a bite to eat, but Drechsler pleaded other urgent business.

Before taking his leave, however, he said, “There’s been a development in the Gunther case. We’ve finally found a witness, a young woman of somewhat dubious profession, if you understand, who was occupying a street corner not far from Gunther’s flat the night he died. One of my bright young sergeants decided to survey the nighttime scene on nearby streets to see if some woman plied her trade nearby. It took time, but we finally found this working girl.”

Gross was less interested in the means it took to find the witness than in what she had to say. “Out with it, man.”

“She mentions a man leaving the building in the wee hours of the night. A largish man who left on foot. The gas lamp nearest Gunther’s building was not working, though, so she could give us little more. Age, facial characteristics, dress. Nothing there,
though she seemed to think he might be middle-aged rather than younger by the way he moved. But when she realized he wasn’t going to be giving her any business, she lost interest.”