Sent to the Devil (18 page)

“Let me think,” Mozart said. “Verona, Bologna, Turin, Florence, Mantua—”

“Mantua! Such a beautiful city, surrounded by the three lakes. Did you happen to eat at that
osteria
near the gate of the old medieval wall? It was owned by a former singer, another great beauty. The Little Butterfly, we all called her.”

“I played a recital at the brand-new theater around the corner from the gate,” Mozart said. “I think we ate at that restaurant afterward. I remember a woman there. But she was old.”

“Well, I was there several years before you.” Casanova laughed. “How about Naples? Did you see it?”

“Yes, and Rome also. While I was in Rome, the pope made me a knight,” Mozart said.

Casanova raised a brow. “You are a holder of the insignia of the Order of the Golden Spur?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mozart replied.

“So am I! A few months after he was elected to the papacy, Carlo Rezzonico knighted me for donating the
Pandectorum liber unicus
to the Vatican Library. He was from Venice, you know.”

“The what?” Mozart laughed.

“Pandectorum,”
Casanova said. “It was a collection of essays by Roman jurists. The emperor Justinian ordered its compilation.”

I yawned.

“I haven't put on my sash and spurs for years,” Mozart said.

“I didn't know we had so much in common, Wolfgang,” Casanova said. He dug in his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Tell me,” he said slyly, looking over at me as he unfolded it. “Can you decipher the code in this message?”

Mozart studied the page. “33, 27, 54,” he said. “Each number stands for a word?”

Casanova nodded.

“Let me think,” Mozart said. “33. Give me a hint. How many letters in the first word?”

“Two,” Casanova said.

“If each letter in the alphabet is assigned to a number, then the highest number cannot be more than 26. 26 and 7—that would be
z
and
g
. That's not a word. Let's try 25 and 8.”

I sipped the rest of my beer as Mozart and Casanova worked through the puzzle. My bones felt weary, my mind exhausted. After about ten minutes of watching them, I placed some coins on the table, excused myself, and left the two knights to their fun.

*   *   *

It was raining lightly as I walked through the winding streets behind the university toward the Stuben gate. Dusk had fallen, and the torches in the street lamps sputtered in the moist air. Although it was still unseasonably warm, I pulled the collar of my cloak up around my neck as I made my way past the former church dedicated to Saint Barbara, which the emperor had recently given to the Greek community of Vienna. I was so tired that I could not think clearly about everything I had seen on this horrid day. I trudged down the street and turned into the short side street which would take me to the city wall. From there it would be a few steps to the Stuben gate.

The narrow street was unlit, its stones wet and slippery. I had only walked past the first of the darkened houses when the back of my neck tingled. Footsteps sounded behind me. I hurried past the next two houses, trying not to fall on the damp stones. The footsteps behind me quickened. Ahead of me the light on top of the city wall cast a welcoming pool of light on the street. I hastened toward it, my heart pounding. The footsteps kept pace with my own.

A moment later, I walked into the light and turned the corner. The Stuben gate loomed before me. A few more steps brought me to the gate. My shoulders sagged with relief as I joined a group of workers leaving the city. Before I crossed under the arch, I turned and looked back the way I had come. A man leaned against the wall of the corner house, resting in the pool of light. I could not make out his features in the distance, but a shiver ran down my back at what I could see of him—his sturdy build, his dark hair, and his forest-green cloak.

 

Fourteen

I was in my office the next day when Benda came in at noon.

“Any news?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Troger's men spent yesterday afternoon interviewing Hennen's neighbors, but no one saw a messenger come to the house, and no one saw the baron leave that night.”

I sighed.

“I just passed Richter in the Graben,” he continued. “He was headed toward the Stephansplatz with that crate of his. Now's a good time to visit his mother.”

Although the rain had stopped late last night, the sky was still full of clouds. But the warmth continued, and I had left my cloak at my lodging house this morning. “I think we should consider a different theory about these murders,” I said as we walked down the Kohlmarkt toward the Judenplatz.

Benda frowned. “What do you mean? The only evidence that we have is the baker's claim that Richter and the general argued in the Am Hof before the general was murdered. What else is there?”

“Those papers we found in Hennen's chamber. I think the killer sent them to the baron.”

“The Dante quotations? That's a leap!” Benda exclaimed. “As I said yesterday, they could be from anyone. They could mean anything.”

“But there is more,” I said. I explained about the symbolism of the markings on the victims' foreheads, and the link to Dante's
Purgatory.

Benda was silent as we passed by the back of the Am Hof church. “There were no cuttings on the general's forehead,” he reminded me. “His murder doesn't fit your theory.”

“I know.” I sighed. “I haven't thought the whole thing through yet. But I feel in my heart that there is a connection to Dante.”

“Perhaps so. But how do we investigate that? Should we search the entire city for people who own
The Divine Comedy
? There must be hundreds. Even Christiane has a copy in her library, for God's sake.”

My cheeks reddened. I made no reply as we walked down the Parisergasse and entered the Judenplatz. The small square had been the home to Vienna's synagogue in the Middle Ages, and was now lined with modest old apartment buildings. Benda led me to a cream-colored, narrow building on the right side of the square. A tailor shop occupied the ground floor. We entered the side door.

“It's at the top,” Benda said. We climbed five flights of steep stairs to the attic. At the top landing, I struggled to catch my breath as Benda knocked on the door to our left. There was no answer.

Benda knocked again. “Frau Richter?” he called.

A loud clunking noise came from behind the door.

“She is blind,” Benda told me.

“Who is there?” a frail voice called.

“Frau Richter, please open the door. We'd like to talk to you. It is about your son.”

A minute later, the door opened. Richter's mother was small-boned, with a sharp nose, thin lips, and a fleshy wattle at her throat. Her brown eyes stared blankly at us.

“Good day, Frau Richter,” Benda said. He pushed his way past her into the apartment. I followed.

The living quarters were tiny, just two small rooms. A small bed, a cupboard, and a small table with two chairs stood in the front room. I righted the chair that she had overturned in her haste to answer the door and placed it under the table. I looked through the doorway to the cramped second room. A small bed had been tucked under the sloping ceiling. Next to it stood a simple wooden table upon which sat a large clock.

“You gentlemen are friends of my Michael?” Frau Richter asked. She felt her way to the table and pulled out one of the chairs. “Please, sirs, sit down. May I offer you something to drink?”

Benda and I remained standing. “No, thank you, madame,” I said. “We do not wish to bother you. We need just a moment of your time. Please sit.”

She sat in the chair. Her hands quivered in her lap.

“We have a few questions about your son,” Benda said.

Her hand flew to her throat. “Is he all right? Has there been an accident?”

“No,” Benda said. “He is fine. We just saw him. We would like you to think very hard, back to two weeks ago, April 8. It was a Tuesday. Do you remember what your son did that night?”

Her head bobbed up and down as she pondered the question. “All of the nights are the same to me, sir. Which day was it?”

“Tuesday, April 8,” Benda said impatiently.

“It was the first day of this warm weather,” I offered, hoping to stir her memory.

“Oh, yes. Now I remember. It was so hot up here that day. Yes. Michael went to a meeting with some friends of his. He is involved in a group that opposes this terrible war. It lasted very late. Do you gentlemen know Michael from the group?”

Benda gestured for me to continue questioning her. He quietly moved into the next room and riffled through some papers on the table by the bed.

“Do you remember what time he came home that night?” I asked.

Her head bobbed up and down. “It was very late. He was upset when he got here. A man who had been with the troops at Semlin had spoken at the meeting. He told Michael and his friends how awful the conditions in the camp were. There has been a lot of flooding because of the spring rains, and it was beginning to get very hot. Many of the soldiers had watery bowels. Some had already died. Michael told me all about it. He was very angry.”

“What time did he get home?” I asked gently. Benda had returned to the front room, and was gingerly opening the top door of the cupboard.

“Let me think. I remember it was late, much later than he usually arrives home. Yes, that's right. I hadn't had my supper. Michael is so busy attending meetings and giving speeches. But he always comes home before eight o'clock, to give me my supper and help me to bed.”

Benda gently closed the cupboard door and opened the lower one. The hinges on the old wood creaked.

Frau Richter's head jerked toward the cupboard. “What's that noise? What are you doing?”

“It was nothing,” I said. “My friend just brushed against the cupboard door. Michael didn't come home by eight that night?”

“No, he didn't.” Her voice grew querulous. “I remember it clearly now. I waited and waited. I was worried that he might have been arrested or been injured in a fight. So many people don't want to hear the truths he preaches. But then he arrived. He was very upset, both about what he had heard at the meeting, and because he had kept me waiting.”

I shook my head at Benda as he started to close the cupboard door. He left it ajar and remained standing there quietly.

“Do you remember what time it was?” I asked.

“About eleven, I think. Yes, I remember. I was sitting here at the table. Michael was preparing my supper. The clock in my bedroom chimed ten times.”

“It was ten o'clock, then?”

“Oh, no, sir. The clock needs fixing, you see. It runs an hour slow.”

“What happened after you ate?”

“Michael wiped the dishes, and we sat here at the table for a while. He told me all about the meeting. At midnight, he helped me into bed.”

“Did he also go to bed?”

“No. He was restless. I heard him moving around in here for a bit. Then I drifted off to sleep.”

Benda frowned, disappointed that the mother did not indict her son, as he had hoped.

“But now that I think about it, I remember waking up.” She chewed her lip. “I thought I heard a noise—the latch to the door shutting. I called for Michael but he did not answer. He must have been fast asleep and didn't hear it.”

“Did you get up?” I asked.

“No, sir. I lay awake for a few minutes, and when I did not hear the noise again, I fell asleep.”

“Did you notice the time?” Benda asked sharply.

She turned her head to where he stood by the cupboard. “Yes, sir, I did. A moment after I called for Michael, the clock chimed twelve times.”

 

Fifteen

“Was all that necessary?” I snapped as we hurried down the stairs and back into the Judenplatz.

Benda looked at me quizzically. “What?”

“Tricking that poor woman—allowing her to believe that we were friends of her son. Searching the apartment without her knowing. Taking advantage of her unfortunate condition!”

Benda stiffened at my criticism. “Pergen told me you had been involved in a murder case before,” he said. “How can you be so naïve? We're dealing with a determined killer, one who is striking at the very heart of all that Austria stands for. You of all people should know that in situations like this, the ends justify the means. That woman is no poor innocent. She might be the mother of a vicious killer.” His tone softened. “Consider what we were able to learn. Richter wasn't asleep when she was wakened by the noise. He had just closed the door and left the apartment. It was one o'clock in the morning. He was going to meet the general in the Am Hof, to kill him.”

“We can't be certain of that,” I protested.

“Where else would he be going, so late at night? None of the lodges meet that late. The taverns are all closed at that hour. No, I am certain that Richter is our man. Now we just have to link him to Alois Bayer and Hennen.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out his watch.

“I have a meeting at the chancery,” he said. “Afterward I'll tell Pergen what we've learned. Perhaps Troger has found more information about Richter. I'll contact you when I have news.” He nodded at me and walked toward the street at the side of Richter's apartment house.

I gritted my teeth and went in the other direction, down the narrow, curving Currentengasse. I was tired of Benda's easy dismissal of all of my suggestions and concerns. Ahead of me, a small catering shop had set trestles out on the street. Uniformed lackeys and laborers sat on long benches eating dinner and drinking beer. The aroma of stewed meat rose from the tables, but I had no appetite. When I reached the end of the street, I heard a familiar voice around the corner.