Sent to the Devil (23 page)

“How is the little one?” I asked.

She sighed. “She is still ill. But it appears that spring has finally arrived. We hope she'll recover soon.”

I reached for her arm. “Come, I'll walk you home,” I said.

“Oh, no, thank you, Lorenzo. It's out of your way,” she protested. “And I'd like to stay out for a while longer.” She studied my face. “You look tired. Are you getting enough rest?”

“I just have a lot of work,” I lied. “Please don't be concerned about me. Just take care of your family.”

She reached up and kissed me on the cheek, then started down the street. After a moment, she turned back to me. “Lorenzo, please,” she said.

I raised a brow.

“When you see Wolfgang, please don't tell him you saw me over here.”

I nodded, and we parted.

*   *   *

Marta was sitting in the garden, a small book in her hands, when I arrived at my lodgings. I took a deep breath and approached her.

“Marta,” I said.

She looked up at me with eyes red from weeping. I dropped my satchel on the ground and sat on the bench next to her.

“You've heard the news,” I said, offering her my handkerchief.

She shook her head. “What news, Lorenzo?”

“About von Gerl.”

“Please, Lorenzo. Valentin is the last person I care to discuss right now.” She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “I've been sitting out here for hours, thinking about what a fool he's made of me.”

I frowned. “But—”

Her fists clenched in her lap. “I said I did not wish to discuss him,” she said.

I reached over and unclasped her hands, taking one in mine. “Marta, you must prepare yourself for terrible news. Von Gerl is dead.”

She snatched her hand away. “What! Are you playing with me also, Lorenzo? What do you mean, he is dead?”

“You must believe me. He was murdered. His body was found early this morning.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Murdered? Valentin is dead?”

I nodded.

Her eyes squeezed shut as she shook her head back and forth. “No, no,” she moaned. “Not Valentin. No, it cannot be.” She grasped at my arm. “Please, Lorenzo, tell me it is not true.”

“I cannot.”

“What happened to him?” she whispered. Her eyes widened as I told her about the previous murders.

“My God!” she cried. “But why Valentin?”

“We don't understand the killer's motives yet,” I said gently.

She began to weep. I reached to take her in my arms, but she pushed me away.

“Valentin!” she cried. She clutched her arms to her chest and rocked back and forth, tears streaming from her eyes. “My poor husband! My love!”

“Marta—”

She looked up at me. “Please, Lorenzo, please. Leave me.”

“You shouldn't be alone,” I said.

“Go away,” she shrieked. “Leave me alone! Oh my God! Valentin, no, no!”

Misery flooded my heart as I stood. I looked down at her sobbing figure for a few moments and then I went into the house.

 

Twenty-two

I rose early the next morning and went to my office. Since it was a Sunday, the theater was empty. I poured my sorrows over Marta into a poem for a while, and then tore the paper into pieces and threw it away. I turned to my work, and was deep into editing a new libretto when Casanova came in at noon.

“Is it true what everyone is saying? There's been another murder?” he asked.

I sighed. Pergen, Troger, and Benda were foolish to believe they could hide these killings from the people of Vienna. A slip of the tongue from one of the constables, a speculation made by one of the victims' neighbors, an identification passed on by a gravedigger at the cemetery in St. Marx, and rumors would spread faster than the pox that plagued the city in very hot summers.

“Yes,” I said. “The victim was Valentin von Gerl. You met him at the Redoutensaal ball.”

“Did you find any Dante?” Casanova asked.

I threw down my pen. “No. But he was an avid collector. His palace is filled with objects from his travels. It was impossible for Benda and me to perform a thorough search.”

“Benda is still fixed on the idea that the murders are related to the war?”

“Yes. I've tried to tell him my theory, but he dismisses my ideas. He is certain that protester, Michael Richter, is the killer. He and Troger were going to have him arrested yesterday.”

“He's going to have to look elsewhere,” Casanova said, his eyes gleaming.

“What do you mean?”

“Take your cloak and come with me,” he said.

“What? I have a pile of librettos to edit.”

He came over and pulled my arm. “You must come with me. I have someone I want you to meet.”

*   *   *

I grumbled about my work as Casanova led me up the Herrengasse to a grand palace near the end of the street.

“Whose palace is this?” I asked.

“Wait a moment. You will see,” my friend said. I followed him into the courtyard and was surprised when he opened the door and ushered me into the foyer. A lackey came to us, bowed to Casanova, and took our cloaks. My friend bounded up the stairs. I followed more slowly, baffled by the ease with which he had gained entry to the palace.

When we reached the second floor, Casanova led me down a long hallway to a wide set of double doors. He knocked twice on the door and opened it, beckoning me to follow. We were in a large, opulent bedchamber. A large bed draped in gold velvet, the bedclothes in a tangle, stood against one wall of the room. Across from it, a velvet chaise and two armchairs were grouped around a fireplace with a mantel elaborately festooned with garlands of marble laurel leaves. Paintings of well-dressed ladies frolicking in pastoral settings hung on every wall.

In the center of the room, a middle-aged woman in a white silk dressing gown sat at her toilette, applying spots of rouge to her sagging cheeks. When she saw us in her mirror, she turned and stood.

Casanova bowed over her hand and kissed it. He gestured to me. “Elisabeth, may I present the theater poet, Lorenzo Da Ponte. Lorenzo, this is my esteemed friend, the Countess Stoll.”

“It is a pleasure, Excellency,” I said, bowing. I squirmed as she assessed me from my head to my feet, as if I were a stallion she was considering as a mate for a mare on her country estate.

“Please call me Elisabeth,” she said, motioning us to the armchairs. “All of my friends do.” As she reclined on the chaise, her dressing gown dropped open, revealing a plump breast and brown nipple. I fixed my eyes on the painting hanging on the wall behind her.

“I owe you an apology, signore,” she said. “I am sorry my boy alarmed you when he delivered Giacomo's messages.”

Ah, this must be the absent diplomat's wife, Casanova's hostess.

“I understand you are investigating these terrible murders,” she said.

I glared at Casanova, who merely shrugged.

“No, you must not blame Giacomo. The entire city knows about them. Giacomo and I were discussing them last night. He told me he knew someone involved in the investigation. You are working with Richard Benda, correct?”

I nodded.

She shook her head. The dressing gown opened further. “I don't know what Anton Pergen was thinking, choosing Benda to find this killer. I suppose it is because of his connection with Christiane Albrechts. The count is so upright, so dull, so unimaginative. I don't believe he possesses the qualities necessary to solve these murders.”

I said nothing.

“It has come to my attention that Michael Richter has been arrested on suspicion of murdering General Albrechts, and perhaps the other victims, also.”

I decided I might as well tell her. “Yes. He was heard arguing with the general and seen rushing from the Am Hof the night the general was killed.”

To my surprise, she laughed and shook her head. “I cannot explain why Michael allowed the general to goad him into argument. I do not understand his passion against the war.”

I raised my brow. “You are acquainted with Michael Richter, madame?”

“Of course. I can explain why he was rushing from the Am Hof that night. He was coming here to see me.”

“He was coming here, madame? I don't understand.”

“You silly man.” She laughed again. “Must I spell it out for you? He is my lover.” She glanced over at Casanova. “One of my lovers. He comes to me late at night. He is devoted to that old mother of his, so he cannot leave until she goes to bed.”

I leaned forward eagerly. “Do you remember what time he arrived that night?”

“Of course I do. It was a little after one. He was late. He usually arrives between eleven and twelve, but he had sent me a message earlier in the day, telling me that he had a meeting that night and that he would be late.”

“How did he seem when he arrived?”

“How did he seem? He seemed as he usually seemed—anxious to see me and eager to take me to bed.” She smiled. “His passions expand to other activities besides opposition to the war, I'm happy to say.”

I shook my head involuntarily. I could not imagine that unkempt, shabby young man being entertained by this woman in this elegant room. I racked my brain for further questions to ask.

“Was he out of breath when he arrived?”

“Yes, he was. He told me he had run all the way here.” She arched an overplucked brow. “He realizes that if he keeps me waiting too long, I will have no more of him. Even with the war on, there are still many handsome young men in Vienna. A woman like me can take her pick.”

A wave of sympathy for her husband flowed over me.

She gazed at me, a small smile on her painted lips. “Do you have any other questions? Is there anything else you want to know? You must have the police release Michael immediately.”

“Was there anything else, anything out of the ordinary about him that night?” I asked.

“He wasn't soaked with blood, if that is what you want to hear. He was out of breath from running, and happy to see me. I gave him a brandy and let him rest for a few minutes. He told me he had encountered the general in the Am Hof. The old man had recognized him and shouted at him, calling him a traitor for opposing the war.”

I chewed on my lip. She looked at me expectantly.

“Did Richter ever read anything by Dante, do you know?”

“Dante? The poet? I have no idea. I'm not interested in him for his mind. We don't discuss books when he is here. We don't discuss much at all.”

*   *   *

“Richter is exonerated,” I said to Casanova as we headed to a catering shop near the Minorite Church for dinner. “How could he possibly have killed the general and arrived at Countess Stoll's palace a few minutes later without any blood on him? These murders have been brutal. The killer must be soaked in blood afterward.”

We arrived at the shop, were shown to a table, and placed our orders.

When the waiter had left, I put my head in my hands. “I've never felt so useless,” I told my friend. “Two more men have died since I agreed to help Benda investigate this case. We've made no progress. We can't even agree on a possible motive for these murders.”

“Well, Elisabeth's story weakens Benda's theory,” Casanova said. “It is difficult to believe that there is another person in Vienna who speaks against the war as vociferously as Richter.”

“I think there are many people who oppose the war,” I agreed. “But Richter is the most visible. He was an easy choice for Benda.”

“Let us put theories aside and consider what we know,” Casanova said. “There have been four victims. Three of the four had strange markings—” He held up his hand to stop me from interrupting. “These markings may or may not be the
peccatum
from Dante's
Purgatory
. The fourth victim's lower torso was burned.”

The waiter arrived with our dinners. Casanova hung his head over his plate and took a deep breath. “It smells delicious,” he said. We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes.

“You've been told that three of the four victims—the general, Hennen, and von Gerl—received a mysterious note the evening of the murders.”

“Yes. Alois may have received a note, also. But we couldn't find it in his office, and it appears the murderer is taking the note away with him after he slays his victim,” I said.

“Finally, you've found lines from Dante's
Purgatory
in the possession of two of the victims, Hennen and Alois. We don't know if the general or von Gerl received similar messages.”

“I couldn't find anything in von Gerl's palace,” I said. “Although it's possible they might be there. He may have tucked them away somewhere in those vast collections of his. And Benda has been hostile to my theory, so I have no idea whether the general ever received any excerpts.”

“Let us suppose that your theory is correct—that someone, for reasons known only to himself, is working through the list of the seven deadly sins. He chooses a victim, sends the unfortunate subject of his attention the passages from Dante.”

“Yes,” I said.

“But why does he do this?” Casanova asked. “The quotations Alois and Hennen received are full of arcane references. Did the killer expect his victim to understand them? Not everyone has read
Purgatory.
You had to explain one of the gluttony passages to me, and I consider myself a very well-read individual.”

“I don't know,” I admitted. “Most likely the passages mean something to the murderer. He's carrying out some sort of mission, some task his deranged mind has invented. He understands the passages, so perhaps it doesn't matter if the victim understands them.”

“If we assume that the killer is the one sending the victims notes on the evenings of the murders, another questions arises. Why are the victims answering his summons? What could the notes possibly say that would lure these men to meetings in deserted city squares in the small hours of the morning?”