The Keeper of Hands (13 page)

Father Hieronymus cast Werthen a look of such animosity that the lawyer was happy the man was just a priest and not a shaman.

‘What are you insinuating?’

An innocent man would tell me to get the hell out, Werthen thought.

‘I know why your niece ran away from here,’ he said. ‘There are witnesses.’

‘Get out of my rectory this instant.’

Too late for that now, Werthen thought.

‘And the police might also be interested in knowing the background of the young woman so brutally murdered. As well as the whereabouts of those close to her on the night she was killed.’

The priest looked as if the air had suddenly been sucked out of him. He visibly slumped in his chair, his eyes darting this way and that as if looking for an escape.

Werthen kept applying the pressure. ‘The archdiocese might also be interested in such information.’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘The truth.’

‘I didn’t kill Waltraude. I couldn’t have harmed her. She was my niece and I cared deeply for her.’

‘Not enough to keep her safe, it seems. Sounds more like lust than love.’

‘I’ve given you the truth, now please leave. I have no idea who killed my niece, but if you find him I should like to know. Such a creature would be in need of the succour of confession. What more can you want from me?’

What in fact did he want from the man? A confession? By the looks of him, Uncle Hieronymus was not a killer. He had preyed on the helpless, had taken advantage of family trust; but he appeared too weak to kill. He did not have the blood for it. However, there was that moment of terror that made him leap from his seat; the evil glare he sent Werthen’s way.

Even if guilty, though, it was doubtful the priest was going to confess.

Did Werthen want contrition? Perhaps. But he knew instinctively that this was not the sort of man to admit sins. Revenge for Mitzi? Again, perhaps.

Werthen had spent only a few days dwelling on the life of Fräulein Mitzi, but already he felt empathy and compassion for her, farmed out from her home as one mouth too many to feed and sent off to her uncle in Vienna, a man of god who should have made a safe haven for her. Instead, he took advantage of the young woman in the vilest way – threatening, according to Schnitzler, to send her to an orphanage if she did not satisfy him sexually. And then there was Schnitzler, whom she looked up to and adored. Her first love, in all likelihood. But he too betrayed her, sent her away in her hour of need to make a living on the streets. The only one in this sorry mess to really love the girl, it seemed, had been the madam who sold the girl’s flesh to the highest bidder.

Yes, revenge, vengeance, justice, call it what you may. Mitzi, Werthen thought, deserved it.

In his mind he saw again the two contrasting sides of the wardrobe in her room: the virginal schoolgirl clothes of Waltraude and the vampish nightwear of Mitzi.

Why had she died? For the sins of Waltraude or of Mitzi?

‘Now I beg you to leave,’ Hieronymus said. ‘There is a group of parishioners due here any moment to discuss the
Pfingsten
decor-ations for the church.’

Whit Sunday, Pentecost, would take place in just a few days’ time. Though not a religious man, Werthen was angered to think of this sham priest officiating at such a service.

Leave the anger and outrage for later, he finally told himself. For now, focus on procedure.

‘Did she have any friends when she lived here?’

‘Of course not. She was my housekeeper. There was no time for such things.’

‘Would it surprise you to learn that she had a lover during that time?’

‘Why do you wish to torment me? I have answered your questions . . .’

‘I would like to see her room.’

‘There is nothing to see. I have a new housekeeper and she now has the room. The few pieces of clothing Waltraude left behind when she ran away I threw into the bin.’

‘And you did not introduce her to any of your colleagues?’

‘She was my housekeeper!’

‘And your niece. And your lover.’

This time when Hieronymus leaped out of his chair, he had a mission. He strode to the door and held it open.

‘I am finished with this interview, Advokat. And if you dare threaten me again with allegations of impropriety, I shall have the full power of the church come down upon you. The diocesan bishop is a personal acquaintance of mine. Now good day to you.’

Werthen figured he was lucky with the information he had got and did not wish to push his luck.

‘I am sure we will see one another again,’ he said as he was leaving. ‘You might also try to establish your whereabouts on the night of April 30.’

Hieronymus slammed the door behind him. Werthen did not wait to be shown out, but made his way to the front door and outside, where Bachmann was waiting, nibbling on a wurst
Semmel.
The sun had come out.

‘Where to now, Advokat?’

‘The office, Herr Bachmann, if you please. And take it slowly. I need some fresh air.’

‘J
ust what is it you want, Gross?’

‘I thought you would never ask.’ Gross eyed Minister Brockhurst, and told him plainly his request.

Brockhurst pursed his lips and raised his brows in silent denial, feigning surprise in the same way he had as a boy when they were growing up together in Graz.

Even back then, Brockhurst had been a bully, the leader of a band of lower-middle-class children who followed him with abject obedience. The son of a local magistrate, he had attempted to recruit Gross into his ranks, but Gross would have none of it. Already at the age of eight Gross was an avowed leader, not a follower. And he distrusted Brockhurst, who seemed to speak out of both sides of his mouth; sweetness and light one moment, a brow-beating tyrant the next.

Brockhurst would dispatch his crew of true believers to follow cooks on their shopping rounds, in order to find the secrets of the kitchens of the wealthy or discover which maids were taking kickbacks from shops, unbeknownst to their employers. In this manner, Brockhurst became a veritable font of both valuable and downright silly information on the doings of the top twenty families of Graz. These families laughingly referred to themselves as the ‘kilo’: as compared to England’s élite society, referred to as the ‘ton’.

Brockhurst could tell you what the von Dresslers were having for dinner that night or what toiletries the Kneizler family favored, or which domestic might have something to hide in any of these great houses.

What he did with such information on Graz’s society families, Gross had no idea. But the servants were another matter. Brockhurst lost his virginity to one such young maid, who feared for her position lest the young master tell her employers of her secret arrangement with the poulterer, who paid her five crowns every quarter for bringing the family custom his way at slightly inflated prices.

All in all, this had been a perfect training ground for the future spy – for that is what Brockhurst was, despite his protestations to the contrary.

‘After all, I am only a simple bureaucrat,’ he finally said in response to Gross’s request. ‘I hardly have access to such information.’

‘Let us cut through the blather, Brockhurst. Life is too short for it. We both know what the other is about.’

‘What does it matter to you whether the unfortunate von Ebersdorf was a diplomat or up to his eyes in espionage? He is dead. Full stop.’

‘It matters because it figures in our investigation.’

‘Into the murder of this prostitute of yours?’

‘Of von Ebersdorf’s, actually. He was her regular customer. Does that not raise any alarm bells for you?’

‘My God, Gross. Are you suggesting that a man of von Ebersdorf’s quality, whether spy or diplomat, would indulge in pillow talk with a tart? That he would divulge state secrets in between bouts of bedroom callisthenics?’

‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

‘Because of the coincidence in timing of their deaths?’

Gross said nothing, knowing that Brockhurst was surely experiencing the same suspicions.

There followed a long silence, punctuated only by the ticking of the baroque
cloisonné
clock on Brockhurst’s fastidiously organized walnut work table.

‘Russia desk,’ Brockhurst suddenly said. ‘But you didn’t hear it from me.’

‘Chief?’

Brockhurst nodded. ‘A family man,’ he added.

Gross understood the veiled threat: do not publicize the dead man’s connection to the Bower.

‘We were aware of Joachim’s peccadilloes, of course.’ He fixed Gross with eyes as grey and unforgiving as granite.

Gross felt a sudden chill, wondering if he were asking Brockhurst about the wrong death. Had he and his minions eliminated the source of the peccadilloes?

He returned the stare, and finally decided to lead the interview in a different direction.

‘Seeing that you are sharing secrets, perhaps you can aid me in another investigation – involving Herr Schnitzler.’

‘Our national treasure.’ Brockhurst said it with dripping sarcasm. ‘What’s your connection?’

Gross briefly explained the attack on the playwright.

Brockhurst appeared unmoved. ‘And what do you expect me to tell you? That Austria’s power structure has lashed out at the man who betrayed his own officer class? Hardly. More likely some cuckolded husband took long overdue revenge on that Lothario.’

‘Officer class?’

‘You didn’t know? The man was a reserve officer. As I understand it, the General Staff used his services from time to time.’

‘If I understand you correctly . . .’

‘Yes. Schnitzler has the perfect cover. As an artist he has access to many influential people across national boundaries. He can travel without raising suspicion. In short, the perfect courier. A pity he had to ruin such a mutually profitable relationship by penning that worthless play.’

The kitchen at the exclusive Hotel Excelsior was in the basement, a cavernous space filled with the bustle and hum of lunchtime activity.

Finicky in his daily habits and hygiene, fussy about his bath and his application of bay rum, Gross was appalled by what presented itself before his disbelieving eyes.

A scurrying in the bags of rice left open in one murky corner could very well have been a rat in search of lunch. He twice witnessed a sous-chef drop bloody cuts of veal on the filthy sawdust-covered stone floor, then calmly pick them up and lightly brush them off with his soiled apron before delivering them to the chef to dip into egg batter for breading. Another kitchen helper (what rank does one have if attired all in gray stripes?) appeared to have a cold and was happily sneezing all over the cucumber he was dicing.

Marcel – not his real name, he was actually Felix Kolowitz from Hernals – stood majestic in his tall white chef’s toque, a commander in charge of spatula-wielding troops, dispatching his forces with a sang-froid that bespoke indifference to human suffering: the hallmark of all great leaders.

‘Herr Gross, this is not the most opportune moment for your queries.’

‘Doktor
,
actually, and Herr Direktor Mautner would beg to differ with your assertion. It is a simple query, actually.’

‘I will have to examine my records. There were a number of extra kitchen hands and stewards laid on for the von Ebersdorf banquet.’

A dramatic pause. Then, ‘Such a terrible occurrence! Nothing of the sort has ever happened in a kitchen of mine.’

‘I’m sure Count Joachim von Ebersdorf would be equally appalled,’ said Gross, ‘were he here to complain.’

The comment went unremarked upon by Marcel.

‘None of the other guests were affected?’

Marcel shook his head so forcefully that his toque cracked its starched confines and seemed to melt on his head like a pat of butter.

‘The rest of the guests were quite pleased with the feast.’

It was this very fact that made Gross wonder.

She was early. She was always early. She also still had dreams of oversleeping for her
Matura
exam.

It was the train that was late. The Franz Josef Station was hardly the place she would have chosen to spend an idle fifteen minutes; a cavernous and chilly mausoleum. Outside the weather had left behind the morning’s rain and gloom, and had changed to glorious summer-like warmth. In here, however, it was as if yesterday’s clouds had never dispersed.

The Franz Josef Bahnhof was, Berthe decided, a perfect example of the usual graceless, tasteless architectural pomposity that characterized monuments to the Habsburgs – this one thrown together hastily about two decades earlier.

Berthe found herself in a foul mood. The train from Krems was delayed, and she was twitchy.

You should be enjoying this, she counseled herself. It is what you have been requesting for months: direct involvement in a case. Not just lending a charitable and informed ear to after-dinner discussions of the progress of a case, but actual personal involvement. Like this bit of surveillance at the Franz Josef Bahnhof.

So stop being so impatient. Take a cue from Frieda, she told herself.

Indeed, her child was cooperating marvelously, making little bubbling sounds as she napped. And why shouldn’t she be content? Bertha thought. Like a little pasha, she was nicely bundled atop a feather mattress inside the wickerwork of a Richardson Carriage. A gift from Karl’s parents, of course, and almost as expensive as a landau. It really was quite a marvelous bit of engineering, though, she had to concede. Unlike other children’s carriages, in which the child always faced backwards, the Richardson Carriage’s bassinet could be reversed so that the child faced forward. All one needed to do was loosen an axle under the middle of the enlarged bassinet and turn the bassinet around. And thanks to the enlarged bassinet, one could even use it for toddlers like Frieda.

American, of course. It was as if they had invented inventing.

Berthe pushed the carriage along Platform 12, momentarily casting her gaze towards the exit, where Erika Metzinger had taken up her watch. They exchanged glances but made no hand motions. It was only now that Berthe finally inspected the man under the clock. He had the unmistakable military stature, though he was dressed in a linen suit and straw boater.