The Keeper of Hands (21 page)

‘Where will it stop?’ Altenberg suddenly said, his voice breaking. ‘Are we to be the next victims? Look at poor Schnitzler. Perhaps whoever beat him is also responsible for these heinous crimes. Perhaps whoever it is will attack me next.’

‘I find that rather doubtful, Herr Altenberg,’ Werthen said.

‘Exactly what we have been telling him,’ added Salten. Then to Altenberg, ‘Peter, it is quite alright. It’s the poor women who are the victims here, not the customers.’

Werthen thought of von Ebersdorf and wondered how accurate such an explanation was.

‘But you surely will not leave it at that?’ asked Schnitzler.

‘As I said, Herr Schnitzler, it is now a police matter. On the other hand, I do have news for you regarding your assailant. My colleague, Doktor Gross, has ascertained from a person of some position at the Foreign Office that there is nothing to fear from that quarter or from the military. Whoever attacked you must be a private individual with a private grudge. We are still making inquiries on your behalf – but for now, rest assured that the injuries you suffered were not ordered by any arm of the government. Indeed, I might recommend that you lodge a formal complaint with the police. A man of your prominence, I am sure they will take the matter seriously.’

Silence greeted this report. Werthen cleared his throat.

‘And now I must excuse myself. Monday is a busy day for me.’

‘It won’t do, you know,’ Schnitzler finally said. ‘I appreciate what you have done, Herr Advokat, but there is more to this than meets the eye. If you will not proceed with the investigation, then there is nothing left for us but to carry on ourselves.’

‘By carry on, do you mean investigate these murders?’

‘Yes.’

‘The three of you?’

‘We have been considering the possibility,’ Salten said.

‘Well, then I wish you good luck, gentlemen.’

Which comment deflated the trio. Their bluff had been called.

‘But do not muddy things for the police. They take a rather dim view of amateurs, I can assure you.’ Werthen stood. ‘I really must apologize for making this so brief.’ Then to Schnitzler, ‘I will keep you informed as to any progress.’

‘Had you thought of Mitzi’s uncle, the priest?’ Schnitzler suddenly let out. ‘He had something to hide.’

‘It’s an area the police will investigate, I am sure.’

‘And what of this Count von Ebersdorf that Frau Mutzenbacher mentions?’ Salten said eagerly. ‘His death seems an extraordinary coincidence.’

‘Who will be next?’ Altenberg moaned.

‘I think you should all take three deep breaths, gentlemen.’

He left before they had a chance to present more theories.

Out on the street, Werthen headed back towards his office, once again on foot, enjoying the freshness of the day.

He did not notice the small, compact man who stepped out of a doorway to follow him.

Back at the Werthen flat on Josefstädterstrasse, Berthe was serving
Jause,
a mid-morning snack. Gustav Klimt, Berthe’s guest, had already breakfasted heartily on his usual fare at the Café Tivoli: pots of strong coffee laced with hot chocolate and creamy white peaks of
Schlag Obers
, along with fresh rolls piled with mounds of butter and jam. His ten-kilometer circuit walking to the café and then back to his studio began at six o’clock sharp and usually left him with a ravenous appetite by ten. He greedily tucked into the selection of sliced wurst, liver pâté
,
cheese and rolls, supplemented by a pitcher of Styrian pilsner just fetched by Frau Blatschky from the Golden Cuckoo gasthaus at the corner. With the warm weather, the artist had returned to his usual fair-weather costume of caftan and sandals. The material of the caftan was, Berthe thought, exquisite – obviously designed by his mistress, Emilie Flöge. She had managed to bring Klimt’s palette to the silk brocade.

Klimt remained silent as he tucked into the repast, punctuating it with large draughts of beer. He wiped his mouth on the swirling gold design on the sleeve of the caftan. Satisfied for the moment, he set down the knife he gripped in his meaty left hand and the stein in his right, and burped under his breath.

‘Marvelous.’ He managed to invest the word with both enthusiasm and awed respect for excellence, as if viewing a masterpiece.

‘Glad you enjoyed it, Herr Klimt.’ Berthe sat primly on the edge of her seat in the dining room, but did not feel at all prim. She wanted to get on with it, but knew Klimt had his own pace for such things. She marveled at the artist’s seeming lack of curiosity as to the purpose for this requested visit.

‘Not sure the past tense is quite correct, Frau Meisner.’ He eyed a roll encrusted with caraway seed and salt crystals, then sighed. ‘But for now, it should do.’ He patted his stomach hidden beneath the veil of the flowing caftan.

Once again Berthe was struck by the thought that Klimt looked more like a navvy than an artist, his wide fingers meant to wield a pick axe rather than a paintbrush.

‘It was most kind of you to invite me for
Jause
. I was desperate for it today. Amazing that we are just blocks away, yet we see each other so seldom.’

‘Karl does seem to run into you more than I do.’

Klimt chuckled at this, for it was he who had brokered several of her husband’s investigations – including his own, when he was arrested for murder.

‘Glad to be of service, ma’am.’ He gave into his baser desires and snatched the salted roll from the basket, tearing it in two and putting a piece to his nose to appreciate the yeasty aroma. Then he set it down on his plate for later.

‘I have a feeling the roasting spit has spun round.’

‘Perceptive of you, Herr Klimt. Indeed, I believe I have a commission for you, for a change. A portrait.’

He winced at the word. Half the female population of Vienna were eager to have their portrait done by Klimt. Portraits were his bread and butter; too much so, it seemed.

‘My dear Frau Meisner, I much appreciate your efforts, but if I painted nothing but portraits from now until my eightieth birthday I would not come to the end of the requests already on my desk.’

‘A very important person,’ Berthe added as bait.

Klimt shrugged like a bear waking from winter hibernation. ‘They are all important personages.’

‘This commission involves intrigue . . .’

He squinted his eyes at her, saying nothing for a moment. ‘As in your husband’s investigations?’

‘Mine in this case,’ she said, ‘but it comes to the same thing.’

Klimt picked up half of the torn salted bun and began spreading a thick coating of pâté on it.

‘Well, perhaps I should hear you out, then.’

He loved his fine clothes. After his miserable youth in Lemberg, sharing cramped space with his five rowdy siblings, as the third son never having a new suit of clothes and always wearing tattered hand-me-downs, Forstl now luxuriated in his ability to buy whatever he fancied in the way of couture.

He looked at himself in the full-length glass on the inside of the door of his wardrobe and liked what he saw. Very nice indeed.

He had left the Bureau early today specifically to prepare himself and his apartment for tonight’s assignation. A beautiful young thing, to be sure. Forstl felt his pulse quicken in expectation. He glanced at the clock by his bed. Still half an hour to go.

In the sitting room, all was in readiness. Several large bouquets of roses stood in place in solid crystal vases; there had been an ice delivery today and he had carefully chipped some, which was now beading the outside of a silver champagne cooler with moisture. A bottle of Veuve Clicquot was nestled in the ice – not Austrian Sekt, but the real thing. On the sideboard were delicacies ranging from caviar to truffles. Candles were ready to be lit.

He surveyed his small empire. Yes, he sighed, perfect.

The knock at his apartment door startled him. He had left word for the
Portier
to show his guest up. But so early?

No matter. Forstl did not want to keep his guest waiting. Must be as anxious as I am, he thought, as he went to the entrance hall and opened his apartment door.

He was momentarily shocked by the sight of his uninvited visitor. He quickly gathered himself, looked about the corridor to make sure no one else was around, and forced a smile.

‘Arthur. How good to see you.’

‘Were you expecting someone else, Adel? Or is this frock for my benefit?’

Forstl ignored the comment. ‘Please come in.’

His mind was racing. What had Schmidt been talking about? He had told Forstl well over a week ago that this little matter had been taken care of. But the man seemed to be in fine fettle.

‘A new wig?’ Arthur asked from behind him as he closed the door. ‘Oh my, and such a lovely repast laid on. You are expecting someone, aren’t you Adel? Naughty boy!’

Forstl felt rage rush upward from his belly. It poured out in a hiss. ‘What is it you want?’

‘Blood pressure, Adel, remember your blood pressure. It will not do to excite yourself. Save that for later.’ This was followed by a snide laugh.

Forstl fumed. How could he have ever found this creature interesting? How could he have taken him into his heart?

‘The rouge is a bit heavy, don’t you think, Adel?’

‘I asked you a question.’

‘Well, it must be patently obvious, don’t you think? Our little agreed-upon sum has not made an appearance in my bank account. A man setting up practice in Vienna needs a helping hand. We agreed on that.’

‘No.’ It came out as a low growl. ‘You requested, and I said I would give it some thought.’

And now what? Obviously Schmidt had lied to him. He had not taken care of this little problem at all. There was a pistol in a drawer in the side table. Perhaps he could say he surprised an intruder.

But just as quickly the calming voice of reason forbade such a wild move. It would all come out then, for Arthur had nursed him in Bohemia. It would surely be in the records. Someone would uncover it if the killing took place here in his own apartment. The connection between the two, perhaps even barracks gossip would be exhumed. And then the tidying up to be done in the flat. All his lovely frocks and delicate slippers, the wigs in four different shades. Those would have to be hastily disposed of. Prying eyes would examine his private empire.

‘Such a small amount for such an important man,’ his guest said.

Suddenly he knew what must be done.

‘Yes, you are right, Arthur. I should be happy to help you.’

‘And my wife,’ Arthur said.

‘Goes without saying. And your wife. After all we shared together.’

‘That’s the spirit, Adel.’

No bargaining with the man as he had attempted the first time, telling him that exposing their affair would destroy his own chances of success as a new doctor, as a new husband. But Arthur had only laughed that threat away, telling Forstl that he had so much more to lose as a member of the General Staff. Hence Schmidt’s warning beating – though Schmidt had obviously failed him in this regard. Which called for a new tactic.

‘I shall have the amount remitted to your account in a week at the latest.’

‘I have been patient, Adel. But patience can wear thin.’

‘I understand. But I need to withdraw a sizeable amount like that in dribs and drabs so as not to call attention to myself.’

‘So careful in business, so careless in relationships.’

Neither said anything for a moment.

‘Well . . .’ Arthur nodded, and surveyed the champagne. ‘Shall we toast to it?’

Forstl felt his anger rising.

‘Only playing the fool, Adel. I must meet my wife for dinner. Tickets for the theatre, tonight. Vienna is a wonderful place for a professional man.’

From orderly and nurse in the army to a full doctor in less than a decade. Forstl had to give it to Arthur. He had ambition, just as Forstl did. But sometimes a man could overstep himself.

‘I shall take my leave now, before your intended guest arrives. Let me guess. A subaltern? No, not in Vienna. Too many prying eyes at the General Staff. Not someone in uniform then . . .’

‘Goodnight, Arthur.’ Forstl began leading him to the door.

As he was leaving, he looked back with that wan smile that had first attracted Forstl.

‘Sorry about this, Adel, but a man must get on in life.’

He almost felt sorry for Arthur. Then the fellow added, ‘I’ll be waiting. Next Monday at the latest.’

Which wiped out any trace of empathy Forstl felt towards him.

He closed and double-bolted the door.

There would just be time before his nephew arrived. Well, not actually his nephew, in fact a distant cousin, but he had taken the young man under his wing, acting like an uncle towards him. Tonight was to have been a gala event, an initiation of sorts, but Forstl was no longer in the mood now. He quickly changed out of his beautiful new dress and silken underwear and into his green tunic and blue pantaloons. Once again an officer of the General Staff. He would take the boy out for a night on the town. Perhaps cards in a private room at the Sacher, then a visit to one of the finer Inner City brothels. Not the Bower, of course, as that was strictly Foreign Office territory. Tonight he would initiate the young man into sexuality of one sort or another. That thought cheered him up. A manly evening out.

He would need to contact Schmidt about this turn of events. He was one up on the bastard now; at least some good had come out of this. The meticulous agent had not done his job for once – which should serve to make Schmidt even more eager to rid them of the nuisance of Arthur Schnitzel, newly-wed doctor.

Moreover, this oversight on Schmidt’s part might just buy Forstl more time to obtain the mobilization plans.

Meanwhile, it would be best if he delayed the début of his pretty frock. Time enough for that later.

F
räulein Metzinger kept the grey-faced concierge occupied looking in vain for a parasol she insisted she had left in the breakfast room, while Berthe hurried up the stairs to the second floor.

As she climbed the stairs, she tried to rehearse what she would say, but words would not come. Her heart was racing and her handbag knocked against her hip. The bulky little box camera sat inside her purse – a Pandora’s box as far as she was concerned, but simplicity itself to use, Fräulein Metzinger had assured her.