The Empty Mirror (34 page)

There was nothing more to be learned from Thonau, and they left. Happily, Frau Thonau had retired to the dining room, and they let themselves out.

Breitstein und Söhne was just two blocks away. They lost no time in getting there, but were surprised at the lack of activity. Last time they were here, a delivery van was being loaded and salesmen were bustling about. Now, even the secretary was missing from the desk outside Breitstein’s office.

Gross knocked on the door to the man’s office and entered without waiting for a reply. Inside, the teary-eyed secretary was arranging flowers, several bouquets of them, all with a black ribbon.

Gross and Werthen exchanged glances; each knew what this meant.

“Excuse us, Fräulein,” Gross said. “We have come to speak to Herr Direktor Breitstein.”

At which the young secretary’s tears flowed afresh, and she searched for a hankie stuck up the sleeve of her white blouse.

“You haven’t heard, sir?” she finally managed.

“Heard what?”

“Herr Direktor Breitstein is dead. Killed he was, just yesterday.” She blubbered for a time, then regained composure. “A hunting accident, it was. At his lodge in Styria for his annual vacation. The poor man. What’ll ever become of us now?”

Gross went farther into the room. For a moment Werthen thought he was actually going to solace the young woman. Instead, he went past her to the row of pictures behind the desk, looking at them closely.

“Has anyone been in this room today?” he asked.

The secretary looked up from her hankie. “No. Just me, sir. Arranging the flowers.”

“And who delivered the flowers?”

“A’ “

A man, sir.

“Did he leave them outside, or did he bring them in here?”

“In here, sir.” More tears flowed at this, as if she thought she was in trouble.

“Please, Fräulein. This is important. Think now. What did the man look like?”

She sniffled, bit her lip, and daubed the hankie at her watery eyes. “Like a delivery person, sir.”

The muscle in Gross’s cheek began to work, but he kept his impatience hidden. “Was he tall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any distinguishing marks?”

“Marks, sir?”

“Scars,” Werthen all but shouted, less successful than Gross at disguising his impatience.

“Oh, yes, sir. That he did. I noticed it, and that is true.” She
drew a forefinger across her throat. “Like someone had tried to kill him or something.”

Gross turned his attention back to the photos. “Look, Werthen. Do you see here? We have a missing photo.”

Werthen crossed the room now and saw, indeed, a rectangle of lighter wall in the line of photos where one had clearly once hung and was now missing.

“I was looking at those photographs the day we interviewed Breitstein,” Werthen said. “I thought I recognized someone in one of the photos.”

“Who?”

Werthen sighed. “I have no idea, Gross. It was just one of those fleeting impressions one gets. I was too far away to make out the pictures clearly, and whoever it was had a hunting hat on. It wasn’t the face anyway that I recognized, but something about the way the man stood. His bearing.”

“Think, man.”

“It’s no use, Gross. It’s not there.”

“Are you gentlemen from the police?”

It was the teary-eyed secretary; they had completely forgotten about her, so concerned were they with the missing picture.

“No, Fräulein,” Gross said, turning to her. “Merely customers of your former employer. We will leave you to your arranging now.”

As they left the office, Gross gripped Werthen’s arm. “Could it have been Franz Ferdinand? He is a fearful hunter, so it is said.”

Werthen shook his head, frustrated. “I simply do not know, Gross. If only I had paid more attention that day. You think it is so important?”

“I think Herr Direktor Breitstein was killed because of it.”

They returned to Werthen’s Josefstädterstrasse apartment at midafternoon and were barely in the door before both of them
were enfolded in the delighted arms of Gustav Klimt. Krafft-Ebing was waiting there as well and clapped them on their backs as a homecoming gesture.

“We thought you were dead for sure,” the painter said as he finally let Werthen and Gross struggle out of his grip.

By “we,” Klimt obviously meant his trio of hired thugs, for they had made themselves quite at home and had Frau Blatschky bustling in and out of the kitchen, delivering up generous helpings of her boiled beef and fresh horseradish. Werthen suddenly realized he and Gross had had nothing to eat since breakfast at the Lower Belvedere. The smell of the food made him salivate like a dog.

Frau Blatschky was as happy to see them as Klimt, but the three toughs simply tipped a fork or knife at them by way of greeting. There was plenty of food to go round, and Werthen and Gross joined in with hearty appetites. Krafft-Ebing, however, had had enough adventures for the time and left as the others were tucking into their meal. He did not even bother to inquire about what had happened to them the night before.

Gross refused to discuss the new developments until they had finished and Klimt had sent his men on their way for the night. However, before they could begin to discuss anything, the doorbell sounded. Klimt stopped Frau Blatschky on her way to open it and instead opened it himself, taking the precaution of keeping the chain on.

It was the telegraph from Geneva they had been expecting. Gross quickly opened it while Werthen fished out some change as a tip for the delivery boy.

“Aha,” the criminologist said. “Just as I thought.”

He handed the telegram to Werthen. Planner proved to be a miserly correspondent, for the message was only two words in length: “On neck.”

W
erthen and Gross were at breakfast. It was nine thirty, a time when most self-respecting Viennese were already on to their second breakfast,
Gabelfrühstück
, of a wurst semmel and a glass of tart white wine. But last night had been a late one for the pair. It was midnight before they had convinced Klimt that he should go home. With their pair of pistols for protection and a stout front door, they were well protected, they told him.

“It surely proves the archduke right,” Werthen said now, between nibbles of the butter kipfel on his plate. He had little appetite this morning, still too excited by last night’s news.

“Hmm.” Gross made his comment from behind the pages of this morning’s
Neue Freie Presse
.

“Does that mean you concur, Gross, or simply that you are bored with the conversation?”

“Hmm.”

“Blast it, Gross. You are being far too blasé about all this. The scar on the man’s neck means it was not Franz Ferdinand’s man who killed the empress.”

Gross put down his paper, lifting his eyebrows at Werthen.

“We have been through all this, my friend. Until midnight last night, as a matter of fact.”

“But sleeping on it, does that not make it seem of more import to you?”

“As I said last night, it is a strong indication, but there are other possibilities to explore.”

“What? Surely you do not believe that the archduke had a second scarred cohort in his employ just to throw us off?”

“A possibility, Werthen. I believe I categorized such a theory last night as possible though not probable.”

Werthen took a sip of his coffee, and when he looked back at Gross, he was confronted with the palisade of the newspaper in front of the criminologist’s face.

“Really, Gross, you can be infuriating at times. We have Breitstein newly dead, and now this news from Planner in Geneva that implicates Sergeant Tod-”

“According to Franz Ferdinand,” Gross said in a muffled voice from behind his paper.

“And you just sit there reading the damnable news.”

Gross set the paper down once more. “What would you have me do, Werthen?”

“Action, Gross. Now is the time for action.”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

“Alert the authorities in Styria for one. They should be treating Breitstein’s death as a homicide and not an accident. The police need to reinvestigate the scene before it becomes totally polluted, interview the other witnesses before their memory becomes fogged by time and preconceived notions of accidental death.”

Gross beamed at him. “Bravo, Werthen. You are learning my techniques at long last.”

Werthen gazed at him a moment longer. “You’ve already done it, haven’t you?”

“You did insist on sleeping in, Werthen. I thus had a fair amount of time on my hands this morning.”

“And the mysterious Sergeant Tod?”

“Alas, I have few connections with the military. But I did contact Krafft-Ebing, who knows a former member of the General Staff.”

“Professionally?”

Gross shrugged the ironic question off. “It is important that the man is no longer actively involved in the military. I am sure you understand why.”

“So that he, in fact, is not part of the cabal.”

“Ah, it is now a cabal? Yes. Conspiracy, cabal. Give it what name you like, it would appear that members of the state itself are involved in these crimes. Krafft-Ebing assured me absolute secrecy. His man will ask discreet questions regarding the existence or nonexistence of one Sergeant Tod and the Rollo Commandos. Nothing that will raise eyebrows or red flags.”

“So what do
we
do?”

“Wait, Werthen. And finish our breakfast.”

At that moment there came a loud and insistent rapping at the apartment door. Whoever their visitor was, he or she was too impatient even to use the bell. Frau Blatschky had been given strict instructions not to answer the door. Instead, both Werthen and Gross moved to the foyer, where their pistols were kept in the umbrella stand. They drew the guns out; Werthen peered through the fish-eye peephole in the door and saw a large, portly man with a long, gray beard and wearing a brown bowler. He was dressed in an expensive-looking brown suit to match the hat.

“Do you know him?” Gross whispered.

Werthen shook his head. “But he looks all right.”

“Looks?” Gross hissed, as if appalled at such a suggestion.

“I know,” Werthen whispered back. “Books and covers and all that. But he doesn’t appear to be an enemy.”

A violent rapping at the door made Gross cock his pistol. “Slowly then,” he said. “With the chain still on.”

Gross took up position to one side of the door while Werthen cautiously opened it a crack.

“What have you done with my daughter?” the man outside shouted as soon as he caught sight of Werthen.

“I am sorry. Who are you, sir?”

“Damn it all, man, I am Joseph Meisner, father of Berthe.”

Werthen fell over himself to put his pistol away and get the chain off and invite the gentleman in. Gross likewise uncocked his weapon and stuck it in the outer pocket of his morning jacket.

Meisner huffed in, burly and worried-looking. He and Werthen had not yet met, though Berthe had of course apprised him of the engagement. Meisner looked him up and down, then shifted his attention to Gross, still standing by the door.

“Herr Meisner.” Werthen put his hand out. “It is a great pleasure, sir.”

Meisner did not take the proffered hand. “I only wish I could say the same. Now, what is all this about my daughter?”

“Well…” Werthen felt for once a lack of words. He was not prepared for such an altercation. “We intend to be married, sir. That is-”

“I know that, you dunderhead! Where is my daughter?”

“You have freshly arrived from Linz, sir?” Gross said now.

“And who would you be?”

Gross introduced himself, and Meisner squinted at the sound of the name. “As in the criminologist? So you already know.” He turned to Werthen. “You brought him in then, without consulting me first?”

“Sir,” Werthen said, “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

“Berthe, you dunce. My daughter. Your betrothed. She’s been abducted. Or don’t you bother to keep track of your fiancées?”

“Abducted.” Werthen felt the air go out of him. They had been so painstaking about precautions for their own safety, and meanwhile his one love had been left unprotected, shunted aside, in fact.

“How do you know this, sir?” Gross asked, taking charge.

“A note. Whoever perpetrated this outrage sent me a note telling me that my daughter would be returned only if I spoke with the
Advokat
here.”

“You have the note with you, sir?”

Meisner groped into several pockets before finally finding it. Gross made no effort to stop him, Werthen noticed. Little good would fingerprints do them with none on file to check against.

Gross unfolded the note, which looked to be on expensive paper. He read it once, sniffed, then read it again. “The blackguards,” he sputtered, handing the note to Werthen, who now perused it:

Dear Sir
,

Your daughter will come to no harm if you act promptly. You must convince Advokat Werthen to cease his investigations. That is your duty now. Once it is clear that such investigations have been brought to a close, Berthe Meisner will be returned to her home and life
.

Sincerely, a Friend
.

Werthen’s blood ran cold reading this. My God, what could he have been thinking to put her in harm’s way like this? It was the story of his first love, Mary, all over again: She had lain dying while Werthen busily pursued his studies. Now, given a second chance at love, he had committed the same sin. He had been so wrapped up in the investigation that he had not given proper thought to Berthe’s safety. If he was able to get her back safely, Werthen vowed never again to ignore the person who should be uppermost in his life.

“Have you checked your daughter’s lodgings?” Gross asked.

“Of course I have. I took the early train from Linz after receiving this note-”

“In what manner?” Gross said.

“What do you mean?”

“He means how did you receive the note,” Werthen said, finally shaking off the initial shock and willing himself into action once again.

“A street youth simply knocked at my door and said a man paid him a half crown to deliver it.”