Sent to the Devil (28 page)

I laughed. “I'm sure you'll have no problem doing that,” I said.

“You are really working for the police, signore?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She hesitated. “There is something I— No, it is probably nothing.”

“You should tell me anything you know, Sophie. I can decide if it is important.”

“Well, it is the other lodger, Professor Strasser.”

“What about him?”

“Lately, when I've cleaned his room, I've been finding something strange.”

“What?”

“Blood, signore. His towels are sometimes stained with blood. And once I found his bedclothes were stained with blood. I had to scrub and scrub to get it out.”

My pulse quickened. “When did you find the blood?” I asked.

“I think the first time was several weeks ago. I haven't cleaned in there yet today, signore. The professor teaches a class on Tuesday mornings. His room is not locked. I could show you.”

I hesitated. I did not believe for a moment that Erich Strasser was the killer. Could I in good conscience search his room? I would not like my own privacy invaded because of the imagination of a cleaning girl. But I had agreed to investigate the murders, so I was obligated to pursue every possible clue. Sighing, I followed Sophie into the hallway.

She knocked at the door opposite mine and, when there was no answer, opened it. Strasser's room was the same size as mine and furnished in a similar manner. I went to the washstand and examined the towel, but saw no bloodstains. Sophie unfurled the bedclothes. There were no stains.

“He puts his laundry in here, signore,” she said, going over to the cupboard and pulling out a linen bag. “Here!” She handed me a handkerchief. A large splotch of dried blood covered the center of the cloth. “And here is another.”

My heart sank. “Thank you, Sophie,” I said. “I'll close the door when I go.” She hesitated, perhaps hoping I would change my mind and invite her to stay and join my search, but then went to the door.

“Oh, Sophie,” I called. “Don't mention this to anyone else, please. Not to your mother, nor to Stefan.” She nodded and left.

I pulled a clean handkerchief from the cupboard and wrapped it around the soiled ones. I looked through the rest of the cupboard. Strasser's clothes were what one would expect from a professor at the university—two woolen suits of lower quality than the ones I purchased to wear to the theater, a pair of plain brown trousers, and two linen shirts. A candlestick sat on the small table by the bed. I glanced out the window. Marta stood in the garden below. I crossed to the desk. On top were a bottle of ink, a few pens, and a miniature portrait of a woman with dark hair and brows the same ebon color as Strasser's. I pulled open the single desk drawer. I took a sheet from the stack of light-colored paper inside and held it up to the light streaming in the window. The familiar serpent gazed at me from underneath his crown. I folded the paper and put it with the bound handkerchiefs, then went to a small bookcase by the door. Most of the titles were in Turkish, possibly histories related to Strasser's research. The rest of the volumes were by various French
philosophes,
including Voltaire and Rousseau. And at the very bottom of the shelf was a single volume of Dante—
Purgatory.

 

Twenty-nine

Marta sat on the garden bench, a small volume in her hands. She looked up from her reading as I approached.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Oh, Lorenzo. I don't know. I'm still in shock, I think.” She gestured for me to sit next to her. I longed to take her in my arms, but I was unsure of her reaction, so I took her hand. To my relief, she did not pull it away.

“Has there been any news about Valentin's killer?” she asked.

“No, nothing yet. And the killer has struck again. Early yesterday morning, he murdered another priest from the cathedral.”

She shuddered. “Who is doing these horrible things?” she asked. “Why would anyone wish to kill Valentin? It makes no sense. I just don't understand.”

“Neither do I,” I said. “But I am certain that in the killer's mind, what he is doing makes perfect sense.”

She said nothing. I glanced at the book she was holding.

“Ah, you are reading Shakespeare,” I said. “I've read that one.”

She put the book by her side. “I hoped a comedy might cheer me,” she said. “But even the tinkers and the fairies cannot take my mind off Valentin.”

We sat quietly for a few long moments.

“Have you given any thought to what you will do next?” I asked.

She sighed. “I spent all of my money to travel here to be with Valentin,” she said. “I know now that was foolish of me. I just don't know what I will do.”

“Stay here,” I said. “Stay with me.”

“Are you proposing to marry me, Lorenzo?” she asked softly.

Was I? I didn't know if I would ever be able to free myself from the bonds of the church and marry. I simply knew that I wanted her by my side, forever. “I've been ordained as a priest,” I said. “Marriage in the church might be impossible for us. But I want to take care of you, for as long as you'll have me. We could find a small apartment, perhaps out here, or even in the city if you would like. I send a lot of money to my father to help him educate my stepbrothers, but I could cut that back. Lately I've been turning down commissions, so I'd have time to write poetry, but I can take on more work.”

She put a finger on my lip. “Please, Lorenzo. I don't know. Perhaps I should go home to Venice.”

“I want to be with you, Marta,” I said.

“I don't know, Lorenzo. I need to think. Have you considered returning to Venice?”

I shook my head. “I cannot return. I was banished eight years ago for my political writings. If I go back before my fifteen-year sentence elapses, I will be thrown in prison.”

She made no reply.

“But I could be happy here in Vienna with you,” I said. “And I would do everything in my power to make you happy.”

“I must think,” she said. “I need time, Lorenzo. Time to grieve for Valentin, and for my dreams of living out my life here in Vienna as his wife.”

“I understand,” I said stiffly. I made a show of pulling out my watch and checking the time. “I did not realize it was so late,” I said. “I must go. I have a rehearsal at the theater.” I stood and started toward the door of the house.

“Lorenzo, please,” Marta cried after me. “Do not let us part like this.”

I turned back to her. “When you are ready, you know where to find me, Marta,” I said. I hurried in the door and upstairs to retrieve my satchel.

*   *   *

“‘There's no pity for the likes of you!'” Luisa Laschi, dressed in the costume of a peasant girl, screamed as she pulled Francesco Benucci onto the stage by his hair. She waved a foot-long razor in her other hand.

The baritone, playing the role of Don Giovanni's manservant, who had just been caught trying to seduce a young woman while disguised as his master, held up quivering hands. “‘Then you mean to cut off—'”

“‘Yes!'” Laschi cried. “‘I'll cut off your hair, then your head, and then I'll carve out your heart and your eyes!'”

“Good, signora,” I called from my seat on the main floor of the theater. This was the first time the three of us had worked through the new material. Because it was a burlesque, we were concentrating on gestures, acting, and stage marks, rather than the music. We would rehearse with Mozart, and then again with the orchestra, in a few days.

The heavily pregnant soprano looked frantically around the stage. “‘Where is everyone?'” she called. “‘Who will help me punish this villain?'” She pulled her victim toward an empty chair, which sat a few feet away from a window that had been built into a prop wall on the stage. “‘Sit down!'” she ordered.

Benucci fell into the seat. “‘But I'm not tired.'” He looked at the razor in Laschi's hands. “‘Do you mean to shave me?'” he asked.

“‘I'm going to shave you,'” she said. “‘But without soap.'” She pulled a handkerchief from her dress. “‘Give me your hands!'” As she tied Benucci's hands together, the two singers launched into the new duet Mozart and I had prepared.

“‘Let these little hands of yours have pity on me,'” Benucci sang.

“‘I have no pity for you,'” Laschi replied. “‘I am a raging tigress.'” She took out a cord, bound Benucci onto the chair with it, then crossed to the prop window and fastened the other end of the cord to the window.

The two continued through the duet, Benucci pleading for release, Laschi exulting in her power over him, and wishing it could extend to all men. As they sang, repeating several refrains, my mind wandered back to the morning. I pushed thoughts of Marta from my mind. I would just have to wait for her to make a decision. I sighed inwardly as I recalled my search of Strasser's room. Try as I might, I could not imagine my fellow lodger as the murderer, despite the presence of the bloody handkerchiefs, the paper, and a copy of Dante's
Purgatory.
There must be some innocent explanation for his possession of all of these items. Still, I knew I had to confront him about them, and I dreaded doing so.

“Signor?” Luisa Laschi called to me from the stage. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, forgive me, signora,” I said. “My mind was somewhere else.”

“That doesn't say much for your writing, Da Ponte,” Benucci said, smiling. “If even the poet falls asleep during the scene—”

We all laughed.

“Do I exit at this point?” Laschi asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Then you, Signor Benucci, will go through the recitative. At the end, stand up, with the chair still attached, and jerk the cord. The window will fall out. Then hop off, dragging the window with you.”

Laschi came and sat next to me. We watched as Benucci practiced jerking and hopping, a stagehand replacing the window into the fake wall each time, until the baritone had the moves mastered.

“Bravo, Signor Benucci!” Laschi and I cried.

I turned to her. “After he leaves the stage, you will return with Signor Bussani and Madame Cavalieri. We'll work on that scene with Mozart next time.”

*   *   *

I spent the rest of the day in my office then dragged myself home at six. As I walked into the courtyard of my lodgings, I looked over at the small garden. I was relieved to see the bench empty. Marta and I could talk and talk, but would never find a resolution until she rid herself of her feelings for von Gerl. And unluckily for me, those feelings seemed to have strengthened since she had learned of his murder.

I went into the house and slowly climbed the stairs to my room. Once inside, I put my satchel on the floor, hung my cloak and coat in my cupboard, then crossed to the desk and lit a candle. A message sat on the desk—a light-colored, single sheet which had been folded in thirds and left unsealed. There was no address on it. I picked it up with trembling hands and unfolded it, and then stared at the distinctive watermark in the middle of the page—a large serpent rising from clawlike leaves set in the middle of a ring, an elaborate crown hovering over its head. Written across the page, in handwriting that was now all too familiar to me, were a few lines of poetry. I did not need to read them to know that they were from Dante.

 

PART IV

The Wrath of Heaven

 

Thirty

I dropped the paper onto the desk and rushed down to the kitchen, where I found my landlady putting away the remnants of supper.

“Signor Da Ponte, what is it?” she asked. “Has something happened?”

“Madame, I found a message on my desk when I came in a few minutes ago. Did you put it there?”

She frowned. “No, signore. I've been working down here all afternoon. As far as I know, nothing was delivered for you.”

“Perhaps Sophie took it in,” I said.

“That's possible, signore. She was out at the dress shop earlier, but came home an hour or so ago. She must have taken the message up to your room.”

“Is she at home? I must speak with her,” I said.

My landlady's eyes were full of concern and questions. “I'm sorry, signore, but she is not here. Stefan came by about twenty minutes ago. They've gone off for a ride in his cart.”

I let out an exasperated sigh.

“Signor, what is it? Is there something I can help you with?”

I shook my head. “Please forgive my impatience, Madame Lamm. I've been discomposed ever since the death of my friend.”

“I understand, signore. Have you eaten? I can put together supper for you in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, madame, but no. I haven't much appetite tonight. Please do not worry. I am fine.”

“Then I'll say good night, signore.”

I climbed the stairs back to my room. I picked up the message from the killer and read the passage. “Remember that those for whom the sea opened died before Jordan saw their heirs.” The quotation was from the part of
Purgatory
where Dante and Virgil encounter the slothful. It referred to the Book of Numbers, where God ordains that of all the men who came out of Egypt, only Joshua and Caleb should see the Promised Land. The others were doomed to die in the wilderness, because they muttered against Moses, and did not follow God assiduously.

The innocent words of one of my most treasured poets sent a chill down my spine. The killer knew me, and had judged me guilty of the deadly sin of sloth, of neglecting what is most important in life, of carrying out my responsibilities in an indolent manner. I lay on my bed and racked my brain, trying to identify someone in my professional life who also knew the other five victims. I could think of no one. Soon anger overcame my reasoning, and I thought of everyone I had encountered in my time here in Vienna, remembering every criticism and slight, every arched brow, every instance of quickness to anger, searching for signs that someone I knew was a madman hiding behind a cultured façade.