Sent to the Devil (26 page)

It was empty except for two items—a pair of messages, written on light paper, embossed with a mark of a serpent and a crown.

 

Twenty-six

“Which sin did the killer believe Dauer committed?” Casanova asked.

I had taken the messages from the dead priest's office back to my own desk. An hour later, Casanova had arrived, full of questions about the latest murder.

“Avarice,” I said. I showed him the messages. “We repeat the story of Pygmalion; how betrayal and thievery and parricide sprang from his insatiable wish for gold,” read the first. The second continued the quotation about the deadly sin of greed. “And the misery of the greedy Midas; what followed from his unquenchable demand for gold; a result that always is cause for laughter.”

“I understand the Midas reference,” Casanova said. “The king of Phrygia, who wished everything he touched to turn to gold. But when his food turned to gold and he began to starve, he saw the error of his greedy ways.”

“Yes,” I said.

“But Pygmalion? The sculptor who fell in love with his own statue? I don't understand how that relates to avarice.”

“Dante was writing about the other Pygmalion, the brother of Dido, who killed her husband so he could seize his wealth. Dido dreamt about the murder and fled, taking the riches with her, and eventually founding the city of Carthage.”

We sat quietly for a moment.

“Was Dauer's forehead cut?” Casanova asked as he examined one of the messages.

“No. His lower torso had been set on fire.” I took the messages from Casanova and placed them on my desk. “I think the killer was re-creating the fires of Hell. He's appointed himself God's representative on earth.” I explained my theory that the killer was first educating his victims as to their sin, summoning them to a reckoning and giving them a chance to repent, then sending them to either Purgatory or Hell.

“So in his deranged mind, he believes he is dispensing justice,” Casanova said. He placed the message on my desk. “How will you catch him?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea. And to make matters worse, Benda has disappeared. Troger's driver went to pick him up this morning and was told he was not at home. I should have heard from him by now.”

“Should we worry about him?” Casanova asked. “Remember what I suggested about the killings being somehow connected with Christiane Albrechts? He is her fiancé. Perhaps he is in danger.”

I chewed over this idea. “Christiane had recently chosen Dauer as her new confessor,” I said slowly. “So he fits into that pattern.”

“So four of the five victims had an association with Mademoiselle Albrechts,” Casanova murmured. “And you think von Gerl may have also been connected to her in some manner.”

“But what could be the killer's motive? Is he in love with Christiane, and killing every man who is close to her out of jealousy? In that case, why hasn't he gone after Benda already? Or does he believe, in that disordered mind of his, that he is protecting her from these men he has killed?”

Casanova shrugged.

“If he is killing to protect her, what danger to her could the victims possibly represent?” I continued.

“Perhaps she is the clue to a dark secret the killer is trying to keep hidden,” Casanova suggested.

I threw up my hands. “Perhaps. But it is impossible to solve the puzzle of this man's mind. And how do you explain the Dante messages, the carvings on the foreheads, the burned torsos? None of it makes any sense.”

I picked up one of Dauer's messages. “There is one hope of catching him, though, Giacomo.”

Casanova quirked a brow.

“Look at the watermark on this paper. The same mark has been on every one of the messages containing the Dante quotations. Let's take a page over to Krenner's bookshop to see if he can identify the watermark.” I sighed. “I meant to do it on Saturday, but then we found von Gerl and I was distracted. Perhaps if I had gone, Dauer might still be alive.”

“You cannot know that, Lorenzo,” Casanova said. “Don't torment yourself. You are not responsible for the actions of a lunatic.”

I tucked one of the messages in my cloak pocket and followed Casanova upstairs and out into the Michaelerplatz. We walked down the Kohlmarkt and then down the Tuchlauben to the Kienmarkt, the narrow street where my favorite bookshop was situated. Franz Krenner, the proprietor, looked up from the book he was reading as Casanova and I entered the empty shop.

“Signor Da Ponte,” he said. “How good to see you.” He stuck a mark in his book, closed it, and stood. “I'm sorry we did not have the chance to talk at the memorial for Father Bayer.”

“Good morning, Franz,” I said. “Yes, I had some business to attend to and could not linger.”

“Poor Father Bayer,” Krenner said. “I will miss him. He used to come in several times a week, to see what I had acquired. I knew that if a volume of religious philosophy came my way, I could sell it to him.” He looked curiously at Casanova, who had moved over to a shelf and was perusing the volumes.

“Franz, this is a friend of mine from Venice, Giacomo Casanova,” I said.

The bookseller's eyes widened.

“Giacomo, my favorite bookseller, Franz Krenner.”

Krenner hurried out from behind the counter and grabbed Casanova's hand. “Is it really you, sir?
The
Giacomo Casanova?”

Casanova bowed. “At your service,” he said.

Krenner went over to a shelf near the front door of the store and pulled out a few books. “I keep a few copies of your translation of the
Iliad
for my Italian customers, signore,” he said. “I have also been able to obtain the philosophy essays you published two years ago, and of course, your recounting of your escape from Venice.”

Casanova beamed.

“Have you written anything new I should be aware of?” Krenner asked.

“Yes, a novel is being published in Prague in a few months. It's the story of a young couple who live in a utopian underground world. And I've been working on some mathematical essays, also.”

Krenner pulled out a logbook and wrote a note. “I'll seek these out, signore. I have several customers who enjoy avant-garde works.” He closed the logbook and replaced it on a shelf. “If I might be so bold as to suggest, signore—” he said, turning back to Casanova.

“Yes?” Casanova asked. “Please, I'm interested to hear your thoughts. I seldom speak with anyone these days who is familiar with my work.”

“Well, signore, I am wondering—have you ever considered writing a memoir? You have led a fascinating life. You've traveled everywhere, and have met everyone. A retelling of your life—just a small volume, it wouldn't take long to write—would sell well, I believe. Your name has been on the lips of people in every fine house in every city of Europe.”

My friend flushed with pleasure. He puffed out his chest, and looked like the Casanova I had met years before in Venice. “I'll give that some thought,” he said.

Krenner turned to me. “Was there something in particular I can assist you with, Signor Da Ponte?”

I pulled the sheet from my pocket and unfolded it on the counter. “Yes, Franz. Could you tell me if you recognize the watermark on this paper? I am trying to trace the man who wrote these lines. I know you sell a lot of paper.”

Krenner put on a pair of spectacles and examined the page. “Oh, Dante's
Purgatory,
” he said. “Is this from a study group you belong to, signore?”

I shook my head.

“I sell a steady supply of
The Divine Comedy,
in Italian, French, and German.” He studied the watermark. “It appears to be a serpent, signore. A serpent wearing some sort of crown.” He shook his head. “I'm sorry, I do not recognize it. I don't sell paper with this watermark.”

“Would you have any idea how to find a shop that sells it?” I asked.

He thought for a moment. “It is probably a special order, signore. There are a few watermarks that are popular here in Vienna. The post horn is the most common. If you are looking for paper for everyday use, that is what you usually will get. A lot of people are not particular about the watermark, so they just take the post horn. Many of the ladies in the fine houses like the fleur-de-lis. I order large quantities of that paper from Paris. And the members of the Masonic lodges often request paper with a star watermark—it is some meaningful symbol to them, I suspect.

“Some members of the old noble families have arrangements with a papermaking company to use their coats of arms as watermarks,” he continued. “I help them procure the paper. It's probable that this paper was obtained in that manner.”

“How hard would it be to find the shop that ordered the paper?” Casanova asked.

“Oh, it would be difficult, signore,” Krenner replied. “There are so many shops that sell paper here in the city, and of course, there are also shops in the suburbs. And as you probably know, other establishments also sell it, not just bookshops. It's also possible that the paper doesn't even come from a shop here in Vienna. Many people order their paper directly from shops in other cities. They might buy large quantities while they are abroad, or request friends who are coming to Vienna from other cities to bring them the paper they like.”

I tried to keep the disappointment from my face as we thanked Krenner and walked toward the door.

“Good luck, Signor Da Ponte, Signor Casanova,” the bookseller called after us.

“We need it,” Casanova muttered.

*   *   *

We ate dinner in a catering shop outside the Judenplatz and then I returned to my office. I had just settled in to work when Thorwart, the assistant theater manager, knocked on my door and handed me two new librettos to edit.

“I've heard a disturbing rumor, Da Ponte,” he said. “Is it true that you are assisting the Ministry of Police in the investigation of these murders?”

I sighed. Nothing was secret in Vienna. “Yes,” I said. “I am working with Count Benda to solve the case for Count Pergen. A good friend of mine was one of the victims.”

“Ah, the old priest,” Thorwart said.

“Yes.”

“Is it true what people are saying on the streets—that General Albrechts was the first victim?”

“I shouldn't discuss the case,” I said.

He frowned. “These murders are bad for business, Da Ponte. You know that we just escaped being closed under the budget cuts the emperor ordered last fall. Attendance at performances has started to decline because of the war. If people are afraid to come out in the dark for a night at the theater, I fear the company cannot survive.”

“I know.”

“Please, at least tell me that the lunatic who is committing these crimes will be caught soon!”

I didn't want to tell him that we were no closer to solving the murders than when we had first begun the investigation. “Count Pergen has ordered all of the resources of the empire to be used in finding the killer,” I assured him.

After a few feeble attempts to get me to reveal some details of the killings, Thorwart left. I closed my office door after him. The assistant theater manager was the nervous sort, always fretting over costs and revenues. But his warnings struck a chord in me. How would I be able to remain in Vienna if the theater closed and I lost my job? What kind of work could I do? Times were changing, and few aristocrats patronized musicians anymore, let alone poets. Would I have to follow Giacomo's example, and find some boring post in a rural backwater?

I looked at the librettos Thorwart had left me and shook my head. I couldn't worry about the future right now. I would deal with whatever happened when it happened. I reached for the libretto I had been editing. For now, I just had to go on working. It was all I knew how to do.

*   *   *

I worked for an hour on the libretto and then quickly looked over the scene I had written for Caterina Cavalieri. It was not as long as she would have liked, I was sure, but I was pleased with it. I took it up to the lobby of the theater and gave a boy a coin to deliver it to Mozart. I had just turned to go back downstairs to my office when a young woman dressed in a simple black dress entered the theater. She looked around as if she had never been in the building before. “May I help you, miss?” I asked.

“Oh, thank you, sir. I'm looking for the theater poet, Lorenzo Da Ponte.”

“I am Lorenzo Da Ponte.”

“Oh! Good afternoon, signore. Would you be so kind as to come outside with me?”

I glanced at the steps leading to my office.

“My errand will take but a few moments, signore. Please, it is important.”

“What is this all about? What is your name?”

“I am Charlotte, signore, lady's maid to Mademoiselle Albrechts.”

“Is it Count Benda? What has happened?” I asked.

“Please, signore. I cannot say. I was told only to bring you.”

I followed her out the door and across the Michaelerplatz toward the Spanish Riding School stables. “Where are we going?” I asked. “You said it would take only a few moments.”

She turned down the short street that led to the rear of the stables. A familiar carriage was parked halfway down the street. Charlotte knocked on the door of the carriage and opened it. “Please, signore,” she said, motioning me to enter.

I climbed into the carriage and the door closed behind me. The interior was dark after the bright sunlight of the afternoon, and all the shades at the windows were drawn.

“Please, Signor Da Ponte, have a seat.” Christiane Albrechts's soft voice came from the gloom. As my eyes became adjusted to the dimness, I saw her sitting on the right-side bench, bundled in a cloak. A heavy fur more suitable for Vienna's winters than this cool spring day sat on her lap. I took the bench across from her.

“Mademoiselle Albrechts?” I asked. “What is the meaning of this summons? Has something happened?”