Sent to the Devil (8 page)

I said good-bye and watched Urbanek enter the cathedral. When I rounded the corner of the building, I saw Strasser at the far end of the side plaza. I ran to catch up with him.

“Are you all right, Erich?” I asked.

“Oh, Lorenzo! Good evening. Yes, I am fine. Are you headed home?”

I nodded. We turned into the Wollzeile. “That's the second time this week I've seen Baron Hennen arguing with someone about the war,” I said.

Strasser let out a deep breath. “Yes. My work makes me an easy target for these prowar zealots. And it doesn't help that I look like a Turk.”

“Are you opposed to the war?” I asked.

“Yes, Lorenzo, I am. It is not a just war. The Ottomans are not the aggressors here. They are merely defending their borders from the empress of Russia's plans to dominate the Black Sea.” We walked past the medieval university building and the pleasant square that fronted the university church.

“I thought the emperor was imprudent to sign the treaty promising to support Catherine,” Strasser continued. “His decision was shortsighted. He's alienating all of our allies in western Europe with this war. Many of them were already dismayed by his expansionist policies in Bavaria and the Netherlands.”

We walked through the Stuben gate. Ahead of us, on the banks of the narrow river, a team of oxen was pulling a barge. The long, flat boat was loaded with two large howitzer guns.

“How many times have you traveled to the Ottoman Empire?” I asked. “It is clear that you love the place.”

“I was born there,” Strasser said. “My father was an engineer here in Vienna. He was sent to Constantinople by the old empress to map some of the territory around the Ottoman capital. My mother was a Turk, the daughter of a merchant. They had a brief, hard marriage. My mother was ostracized from her family for marrying a Christian. She died a year after I was born. My father sent me here to Vienna, to live with his aunt and uncle while he continued his work for the empress. I never saw him again. He died in Constantinople two years later.”

We turned into our street.

“I suppose that's why I've committed my life to studying the Ottomans,” Strasser said. “It's my way of staying close to the memory of my parents. When the empress established the Oriental Academy to foster the study of the empire, I was one of its first pupils. I've been there ever since.”

I was silent. I had lost my own mother when I was five years old, and had few memories of her.

“I've dedicated my life to encouraging an understanding between our two peoples,” Strasser continued. “But it is difficult. So many Viennese are eager to believe the tales—like our landlady and her daughter.”

I laughed. “Yes, their ideas were a bit silly.”

Strasser smiled. “Miss Sophie may seem silly to us, Lorenzo, but that boy Stefan had better take care. She could be the ruin of him someday.”

“Yes. He is besotted with her,” I agreed.

We entered the house. All was quiet. The stairs creaked as we climbed the stairs to our rooms and said good night. I entered my room, put down my satchel, and hung my coat in the cupboard. A message sat on my desk. I snatched it up and saw the familiar scrawl and mess of wax. I quickly broke the seal and read the contents, which by now I knew by heart.

33    27    54    71    52    33    61    33    28    55

Verrò

21 aprile

 

Six

I knew it was foolish of me to read the mysterious messages as portents of approaching troubles, but nevertheless, I spent a sleepless night racking my brain, trying to decipher their meaning. The row of numbers was obviously some sort of code, but I had no idea how to interpret it, and had no clue as to the identity of the person who persisted in announcing his arrival on April 21, just two days from now. The messages had been delivered both to my office and to my home. Someone obviously knew where to find me. Perhaps the sender had an innocent intent, but still, the fact that the messages were written in Italian nagged at me. Could they have been sent by someone in Venice? Was my past catching up with me?

I left my lodgings in the morning with that strange feeling one has when one hasn't slept well—a combination of physical exhaustion and a racing mind. I knew that by the end of this day, I would be dragging, longing for my bed. The cinnamon roll and cup of coffee I had at my favorite coffeehouse in the Graben did nothing to revive me. I spent an hour in the office and then took my satchel and walked over to the Freyung, the large triangular market area near the old Scottish Church.

Eight years ago, before I arrived in Vienna, the Benedictine monks who occupied the medieval monastery—it was popularly referred to as a church but was actually one of the few monasteries left in the city—had pressured the city government to remove the busy fruit and vegetable market that had thrived in the plaza. The vendors had merely moved their stalls away from the steps of the church into the wider southeastern end of the plaza, and on this pleasant Saturday morning, they were conducting a brisk trade in cabbages, onions, and peas.

The Palais Albrechts stood on the left side of the plaza, and appeared to have been designed by the same architect who had planted tedious, bulky stone boxes all over the city. I walked through a short passageway into the courtyard. Four lackeys were carting panniers heaped with clothing, linens, and kitchen goods out of the palais and standing them in large wagons. A bald-headed, jug-eared man in the uniform of a steward directed the activity.

Benda came to the door. “Don't forget the boxes in the library,” he called to the steward. He looked over and, seeing me, came out to greet me. “Good, Da Ponte, you found us. Thank you for coming.” He gestured toward the carts. “We're preparing to move out to Christiane's summer palace.”

I nodded. I had heard that General Albrechts owned a large, luxurious estate called the Belvedere, directly outside the city walls in the southeastern suburb of Favoriten.

“I tried to convince Christiane that she wasn't up to all this trouble,” Benda continued. “But she insisted the work of packing would help assuage her grief— No! You there! Those are not mine. Those go to the cart over here, the one for the church.” He leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “The general's clothes,” he murmured. “She didn't wish to part with them, but I convinced her that the church would benefit greatly by selling them.”

He called over to the steward, and turned back to me. “After we marry, we'll sell this house and the Belvedere estate and move to Prague. I must take Christiane away from all of these painful memories.”

The steward joined us. “Altmann, tell Signor Da Ponte what you told me, about the night the general died,” Benda instructed.

The man nodded a greeting at me. “Well, sir, I saw the general leave that night. It was very late, a little before one in the morning. It was quite strange to see him.”

“He did not often leave the house at night?” I asked.

“No, sir. The general kept to a strict schedule—a habit from his military days, I suppose. He went to bed at ten o'clock every night. He claimed a good night's sleep kept him fit for battle.” The steward smiled sadly at the remembrance of his master. “He was an old man, but I think he secretly hoped the emperor would call on him once more.”

“What time do you close up the house?” I asked.

“Before midnight, sir. As I said, the general always retired at ten. The young mistress often stayed up later, talking with the count in the salon. And she likes to read late into the night, those sentimental novels about love all the young ladies enjoy these days. Sometimes when I am making my rounds before I lock up, I'll see the light still on in her chamber. Her maid Charlotte scolds her, telling her she'll ruin her eyes. But other than that, it is a quiet household.”

“Why were you up at one that night?” Benda prompted.

“The weather that day had been very windy, as though a storm were coming. I always sleep with one ear cocked, since the palais is my responsibility. I heard a door slam. My first thought was that I had forgotten to secure one of the doors, and the wind had blown it shut. But a few moments later I heard footsteps, someone running. I dressed and went down to check.”

“Was that when you saw your master?” I asked.

“No, sir. No, I heard the noise a few minutes before I saw him. When I got down here to the courtyard, I saw no one. I went out into the street to see if anyone was about, but everything was dark and quiet. I tested the doors here. They all were locked.” He pointed toward a small door set in the right-hand side of the courtyard. “I had just entered the servants' door to return to my room when I heard the front door open. I cracked the servants' door open a bit so I could see. I heard the door close, then I saw the general cross the court and go out through the passageway.”

“Did you call to him?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, sir. Oh, no. The general would not have appreciated me inquiring into his business. It wasn't my place to ask where he was going in the middle of the night.”

“Did you notice anything strange about him? How was he dressed?”

“He was wearing a suit, sir, but no cloak. That night was the beginning of this warm spell. He looked as if he were going out on business for the day.” He thought for a moment. “Now that I think about it, there was something odd. He was carrying an object in his hand.”

“A satchel? A bag?” Benda pressed.

“No. Please, sir, let me think. No, not a bag. Ah, I remember. It was a piece of paper.”

Benda glanced at me.

“How did he seem to you?” I asked the steward. “Could he have been sleepwalking?”

The man stared at me with surprise, and then laughed. “Ah, sir, I see you've never served in the army. Generals never walk in their sleep. My master slept deeply all night, and was a man of action during the day. No, I'd swear he was wide awake. He was walking briskly, with purpose—as if he were going to an appointment.”

*   *   *

“No paper was found by the general's body,” Benda said as we entered the palais.

“And none by Alois,” I said. “Troger would have mentioned it.”

“I've sent him a message, asking him to find that war protester. You know, Da Ponte, the more I think about it, the more I believe that these two killings are definitely connected. The murderer is making some sort of pronouncement against the war.”

I wasn't so sure. I paused to gather my thoughts as we entered a large foyer. A grand staircase, its balusters and newel posts made of red stone veined with white streaks, dominated the room. Benda gestured for me to leave my satchel on the floor, and then led me up the wide marble stairs.

“Well, I agree with you that it is the same man committing these murders,” I said. “The victims were killed with the same type of weapon, and each body was mutilated in some way. Both victims were killed near some sort of monument, and the bodies were found in the same position. But—”

“Yes,” Benda said excitedly. “It's as if the killer were arranging each victim in a sort of display. That's why I believe the murders are related to the war. Both murders were committed in busy areas of the city—he wants all of Vienna to see his handiwork.”

We reached the first landing and stopped between two large doorways.

“But what about the differences in the treatment of the bodies?” I asked. “The burning of the general's legs and lower torso, and the strange marks on Alois's forehead? What could those mean?”

Benda waved off my objections. “We just don't understand it all yet. But after we question that protester, we'll know more. Remember, the baker heard him argue with the general, and saw him running from the scene of the murder.”

My thoughts returned to the horrible morning outside the cathedral. The protester had arrived soon after Alois's body had been discovered. Had he simply been attracted by the size of the crowd, seeing a large audience for his speeches, or was he the killer, standing on his crate exulting in the scene beneath the Capistran chancel? I couldn't imagine that such evil could exist in another human being.

I wasn't ready to agree with Benda's theory, however. While I could understand that if a killer wished to murder for political reasons he might choose a great war hero like the general as a victim, I could not fathom the reason he had also killed my dear friend, who had never involved himself in politics, and who had wished for nothing but to pass his remaining days with his beloved books. Benda was grasping at conclusions too quickly. I sighed. It was clear to me that I would play the uncomfortable role of challenger to his speculations. But if I must, I would. Jumping to conclusions had gotten me nowhere in my investigation two years ago, and my myopia had resulted in the death of someone I had held dear.

I opened my mouth to voice my disagreement. “I think—”

Benda motioned me toward a smaller door on the right-hand side of the landing and shook his head. “Ah, there you are, my love!” Benda cried as he entered the room. I followed him into a large salon. The room was square, its walls covered with rich blue damask, its high ceiling painted with a complicated scene of buxom young women cavorting in a pine forest. Tall windows draped in the same damask as the walls lined the right-side wall. A long sideboard sat along the left wall. The seating had been pulled to the center of the room to make the space more intimate. Two sofas colored the deep blue of the walls faced one another, while a large armchair sat under the window. An elegant, tall clock cabinet faced with blond wood and ivory marquetry stood alone on the farthest wall.

The woman I had seen with Benda in the cathedral rose from the armchair. Her tall, slender frame still wore the black satin of mourning.

“Christiane, this is Lorenzo Da Ponte. Da Ponte, my fiancée, Christiane Albrechts,” Benda said.