The Empty Mirror (28 page)

“Why not?” he said. “A fine idea.”

They were just outside the street entrance to the painter’s courtyard studio, and Klimt led him through the entryway and into the bucolic courtyard. Klimt had created a bit of the wild here in the very heart of urban Vienna, with tall grasses joining flowering bushes and all shaded by two glorious chestnut trees. His ocher-painted studio was on the far side of this wild garden; a large, black-and-white cat was hunting in the grass. Klimt buzzed his lips at the animal, but it ignored him.

“Cuddles is quite a serious hunter,” Klimt said as he opened the unlocked door to his studio. “Totally ignores me when a mouse is about.”

Werthen had never been to Klimt’s studio. From gossip, he imagined it to be populated by numerous sylphlike models swanning about in various stages of undress. Instead, a charwoman, squat, about fifty, and badly in need of a bath, was just finishing up washing the floor and chided the painter for bringing company in.

Klimt ignored her and shoved some charcoal sketches aside on a large central table, then deposited his shopping there. As Klimt lovingly unpacked the pastries, and the cleaning lady huffily departed, Werthen gazed at the work in progress on several easels: portraits of several women whom he knew personally, from the best levels of society. Klimt was a dab hand at giving these matrons an air of mystery and employing gilding, bright floral colors, and strange iconography to make these otherwise quite unremarkable ladies appear downright exotic. Werthen was startled to find the beginnings of what appeared to be another portrait. At least the subject was sitting in the classic pose of a portrait, but she had no clothes on.

Klimt followed Werthen’s eyes to the work. “Overpainting does the trick. They’ll never know she was in the buff to begin with.”

“You mean you paint these women in … in …”

“The nude, Werthen. The nude.” Klimt broke off a bit of
Nusstorte
and plopped it in his mouth, munching quite happily. “Don’t look so outraged,” Klimt said, now pouring out some of the rum into two cloudy glasses. “It’s not for any prurient reason. Having them nude to begin with gives me a better insight to their soul. It allows me to see their true character and portray them as they should be, not necessarily as they would like to be seen.

Werthen looked more closely at one of the portraits nearing completion. It was impossible to tell that the painting had begun as a nude.

“Cheers,” Klimt said, handing him one of the glasses. “You look as though you could use this.”

Werthen suddenly felt like one of Klimt’s models, stripped bare of artifice. He downed the rum and made his way through part of the
Nusstorte
and part of a poppy-seed roll. Klimt replenished Werthan’s glass several times as the afternoon wore on.

Finally Klimt asked him, “What is bothering you, Werthen? We are friends, after all. I hope you believe that. You came to my aid when I desperately needed someone to believe me. Now tell me.”

Werthen looked into the smoky brown depths of the rum.

“It’s the bill, isn’t it? I’ve been meaning to call on you and explain that. Several portrait fees are long past overdue, and until they arrive, I am rather strapped for funds. That’s the problem with working for people with a ‘von’ attached to their names. One can hardly send a bill collector to their door. But as soon as I am paid, I shall send along my remittance.”

“It’s not that, Klimt,” Werthen finally said, rather touched by the painter’s explanation. Werthen took another sip of the rum and felt the warmth course through him. He and Gross had been going it alone for too long; he suddenly felt the need for an objective ear, if only to confirm that their theories were not fantastical.
Thus, he decided to take the painter into his confidence, laying out the course of events since they had last seen one another the day of Empress Elisabeth’s funeral.

Werthen left nothing out, not even his spat with Berthe, and when he finished, Klimt sat very still, saying nothing. The cat had come in now through an open window and was weaving itself in and out of the painter’s legs. Klimt absently broke off a piece of pastry and gave it to the animal, who sniffed at it for a moment, then moved off to a far corner of the studio.

“My God, man,” Klimt suddenly exploded. “You could’ve been killed. What are you doing playing at policeman? Leave painting to the painters. Leave catching criminals to the cops.”

“But what if the police are prevented from doing their work? What then?”

“You actually suspect the archduke?”

“It is one avenue of inquiry.”

This was followed by another extended silence. There came a crunching sound from the corner to which the cat had retired.

“One thing is for sure,” Klimt finally said. “You two need help.”

“Leave painting to the painters, Klimt. You said so yourself.”

“But that is exactly what I intend to do. My father was a master engraver, and I grew up working with him. As a result, there is nothing I do not know about the imprint of signatures and the delicate individual characteristics of the hand at work sketching or writing. You do not know how many times I had to forge my own father’s signature on those engravings.”

When they arrived at the fiat, Gross was still hard at work on a close examination of the writings of Herr Binder.

“See who I ran into, Gross,” Werthen announced upon entering the study.

Gross looked up from his microscope with a scowl on his face. He barely muttered a salutation to the painter.

“Don’t be such a gruff bear, Gross. Klimt has come to help.”

“With what?” Gross said, gazing once again into the lens.

“With Binder’s handwriting analysis, of course.”

This time when Gross looked up from the instrument, anger rather than mere peevishness showed in his face.

“What have you been discussing, Werthen?”

“It’s all right, Professor,” Klimt interrupted. “Werthen here’s told me all about your adventures in Switzerland. No need to worry, I won’t be spreading news of it all over Vienna. And it’s time you fellows got some help in your endeavors. It’s the least I can do to repay your earlier kindness to me.”

Klimt quickly explained his unique training in engraving to the criminologist, who slowly lost his anger. Instead, he seemed almost amused.

“And so you believe that you can tell me about this writing?” Gross said.
“Granted, Ames on Forgery
lists the occupation of engraver as one of those which could provide insight to handwriting identification, but I have yet to see it of any worth.”

The criminologist stood upright now, putting his palms in the small of his back and stretching. “However, this could be a mild diversion. My mind needs one. A sort of competition. I must warn you, though, Klimt. I have made a close study of graphology and handwriting.”

“I’m sure you have, Professor. Now, if I could take a look at the documents.”

Gross handed him both the order book and the suicide note. He no longer bothered with the vellum envelope for the note, for he had examined it minutely for fingerprints and found a bewildering jumble, far too many for identification purposes. One day, the criminologist continually complained, the police would awaken to the value of fingerprinting and handle evidence with care.

Klimt took the two samples, the book in his left hand, and the note in his right. He squinted at them for a time, then set them down and pulled out a pair of reading glasses from the frock coat he now wore. Werthen assumed the more ostentatious and breezier caftan had been put in mothballs for the colder months. Fixing the wire arms of the glasses around his ears, Klimt picked up the two samples once again, working his lips as if reading aloud. He flipped through the pages of the order book, examining each against the note. He sniffed once, sucked his teeth, then handed the two samples back to Gross.

“Simple enough, I should say.”

“Oh, should you?” Gross said with heavy irony. “Do tell.”

“Well, first off, the suicide note’s a clear forgery.”

Gross’s sense of levity was exchanged for interest.

“How so?” Werthen asked.

“Several things,” Klimt said, addressing them both. “Not that it isn’t a good job of penmanship. Obviously, the forger knows his business and had a sense for Herr Binder’s eccentricities. You can see he has the letter ‘e’ down. Binder writes it in the Greek fashion, like an epsilon. And the curious spelling of ‘scalpel.’ Binder inverts the final ‘1’ and ‘e.’ You can see it all throughout the order book and also in the suicide note. Our man’s done his homework, all right.”

“So you discern a male hand at work in the suicide note?” Gross said excitedly.

“Oh, most definitely, Professor. No way to disguise that, is there?”

Gross shook his head in agreement, looking now with a newfound respect for Klimt.

“But if it is so accurate in the details,” Werthen said, “how can you know it is a forgery?”

“Because
of the likeness. The writing in the order book and that on the suicide note are far too similar,” Klimt answered. “The upward slant of the line, the clear penmanship, the careful
spacing between letters. I ask you,” he turned to Werthen, “if you were writing your farewell letter, about to put a revolver in your mouth and blow your brains out, would your hand be as steady as when leisurely filling out an order for three dozen scalpels?”

Werthen did not bother with an answer. “You mean the absence of signs of nervousness in the suicide note make it a forgery.”

Klimt shrugged. “That about sums it up. Your conclusion, too, Professor?”

“Bravo, Klimt,” Gross said, clapping his hands noiselessly. “Exactly my conclusions. I, too, noticed the absence of a sense of urgency in the suicide note. Observe that it was written with a steel-nib pen, a number two, I should think. When writing with such a pen and dipping it into the inkpot at intervals, a certain number of words can be written before the line becomes too light and illegible. I compared both texts for such a detail and discovered that, while the order book displays a regular variation between blacker letters and paler ones, denoting the spot where the writer had to dip the pen again, no such breaks occur in the suicide note. All the letters are of a uniform darkness; pale letters are in fact missing altogether. Which tells me that the note was not written out spontaneously, but rather copied meticulously to disguise the writing. The writer was constantly dipping his pen to create the perfect lettering, not waiting for the line to begin to pale before doing so. Ergo, this is a forgery, a well-constructed copy of Binder’s hand.”

Werthen looked now at both samples and could see for himself what Gross was talking about; it was so obvious once explained.

“Moreover,” Gross continued, “I have made one further discovery while examining Herr Binder’s order and schedule book. He could not possibly have killed Fräulein Landtauer, for he had an alibi for that evening after all.”

“But the doctor in Klagenfurt-,” Werthen began.

“Not
in Klagenfurt, but in Graz,” Gross said. “Binder’s mind must have begun to play tricks on him, the effects of syphilis. He in fact noted his visit to Graz, but in the wrong month. I only caught it as he wrote the date ‘16-8-98’ next to the doctor’s name, though it was in the July section of the schedule. He must have taken the train from Klagenfurt to Graz on the Tuesday, for he was conferring with a doctor there at the end of the evening surgery. It turns out I am personally acquainted with the chap, a capital surgeon, one Doktor Bernhard Engels. I went to the local exchange and confirmed by telephone the fact that Binder was, indeed, in our old hometown the very night of the Landtauer girl’s murder. He had to wait until the doctor’s evening surgery was finished before presenting his wares. Engels says that Herr Binder was at his office until at least nine in the evening. Consulting the k. und k. Railway Timetable you keep in your desk, I discovered that the last train for Vienna departs from Graz at eight thirty in the evening; the first in the morning leaves at six thirty and does not arrive until long after the police had already discovered the body of Fräulein Landtauer. Thus, Binder was indeed innocent of her murder. Which, in turn, means he was innocent of them all.”

Though they had speculated such, this proof came as a shock to Werthen. Suddenly they were no longer working with hypothesis. Binder’s innocence set all their other assumptions into place now. Werthen felt a chill go over his body and shivered.

“Looks like you fellows are onto something big,” Klimt said.

“Now we are left with the question of why Binder,” Gross said, moving to the window and looking out at the afternoon street. The light had already changed to the golden soft rays of fall.

“Scalpels?” Werthen offered. “They were involved in the murders, and he could thus have a logical linking to the crimes.”

Gross nodded. “That is, if the person responsible for all these
outrages was trying to direct us toward Binder. And I believe he was. Binder was chosen early on as the sacrificial lamb for these crimes. There is also the matter of the noses.”

Klimt jumped in now. “Now that Binder is not your man, the whole affair of syphilitic rage at those without the disease no longer washes.”

“Exactly,” Gross said. “Yet those mutilations were a signature. We examined the idea of anti-Semitism and decided that was a false lead. What other symbols concern the nose?”

“Conceit,” Werthen said. “Being
hochnäsig
, or having one’s nose in the air.”

“Nosy,” Klimt quickly added. “Sticking your nose in other people’s business.”

Gross closed his eyes in contemplation. He heard the offerings but made no immediate response. “Something to do with Frosch, for he was the real victim,” he said absently. “It is teasing me, this connection. Infuriating.”

“Something to do with smell,” Klimt said, thrashing about now for connections.

Suddenly Gross slapped his hand on the windowsill. “That’s it!”

“A smell?” Werthen said.

Gross looked at him in bewilderment. “Of course not. No, it has to do with American Indian lore. The Sioux of the Plains tribes, if I am not mistaken, cut off the noses of squaws unfaithful to their husbands. And Frosch-”