The Keeper of Hands (29 page)

Berthe opened it to see her father in the company of Frau von Suttner.

‘Oh,’ Berthe said. ‘Hello. How good to see you . . . both.’

Werthen, Berthe and Frau von Suttner gathered in the study, leaving the in-laws to fend for themselves.

Herr Meisner was staying at Berthe and Werthen’s flat in Vienna while his own apartment was being readied. He had not given up his home in Linz, but intended to spend more time in Vienna, especially since making the acquaintance of a ‘special friend’.

Frau von Suttner had come to the flat, looking for Berthe. After explaining the reason for her visit to Herr Meisner and receiving plaudits from him – as he was just as enthusiastic a fan of her work as Berthe – the two of them made the journey out to Laab im Walde together.

‘I must apologize for bursting in on you like this,’ Frau von Suttner said, now they were comfortably seated in the study. ‘I just had to thank you.’

She fixed Berthe with her grey eyes, smiling.

‘Well, it was just a silly misunderstanding,’ Berthe said. ‘Anybody could have cleared it up.’

Frau von Suttner shook her head. ‘Please. I am fully grown. There is no need to continue the subterfuge. Arthur . . . Baron von Suttner is playing his part quite nicely. He has brought me on a luxury trip to Vienna for the weekend as a birthday celebration. But then of course you must know that.’

That part of it Berthe had not arranged. ‘I assure you, Baroness . . .’

‘I have already got a peek at the surprise present. My only concern is that Herr Klimt does not break the bank – we have those roof repairs to think of.’

Berthe’s face reddened, realizing that her ploy had not fooled Frau von Suttner.

‘It was done as a personal favour,’ Berthe said.

‘Yes,’ the Baroness nodded, looking at Werthen. ‘A former client, as I remember.’

‘My first case,’ Werthen said.

‘The portrait is quite beautiful. Who was the original model?’

‘Klimt has his little secrets,’ Berthe replied.

Another smile crossed von Suttner’s face. ‘Don’t be downcast. You have performed a wonderful service. Miracles, however, are not in your line of work. I know Arthur and the girl were carrying on. It tears at my heart, but I accept it. You have made a valiant effort to protect me from the truth, but as you see, I shall survive. I have kept a brave face for the two of them. They think I actually believe the story of them sneaking off to Vienna to have the great painter Klimt create a portrait of Marie for my birthday tomorrow. How clever you are!’

Again, Berthe felt her face grow red. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Do not be. You have done us a great service. You have kept my husband’s indiscretions from damaging the peace movement, from possibly compromising my own whole-hearted involvement in it. That to me is a case successfully concluded. I just had to tell you this personally, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you, dear girl. I also wanted to give this to you.’

She handed Berthe a transcribed and translated version of the letters from Fräulein Mitzi that Werthen had taken from her parent’s house in the Weinviertel.

They could not convince Frau von Suttner or Herr Meisner to stay. The fiaker was still waiting in the courtyard, but the driver had finally taken refuge in the kitchen, and Werthen’s father was busily informing him of the saintly derivation of the name of his carriage.

‘Fiacre was a seventh-century Irish monk, you see, my good man.’

The fiaker driver did not appear to have any saintly qualities, his tell-tale red, venous nose a tribute to Bacchus, not to Irish saints.

‘A healer, in fact, who built a hospice for travelers in France. Later, the Hotel de Saint Fiacre in Paris rented out carriages, so the French gave the saint’s name to rented carriages. And
voilà
, my good sir, you have the fiaker.’

The cabbie was not listening to this peroration. Instead, he asked Frau von Werthen for another cup of tea.

‘And I wouldn’t say no to a spot of slivowitz in it. Driving a carriage is a cold wet job today.’

After they had left and his parents had gone to their room for a nap (Frieda was just up from hers), Werthen asked Berthe about the one aspect of the case he did not understand. She had obviously charmed Klimt into doing his part, and had gotten Archduke Franz Ferdinand to have the hideous hotel deskman deported to his native Italy with a warning not to return – so the sole witness to the Baron’s assignation with his niece was neatly taken care of. One thing, however, remained unclear to him.

‘How did you convince the Baron to go along with this ruse? An appeal to his better self?’

‘Something like that. But the niece was having none of it.’

Berthe was back to working the dough for the ravioli.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘So I told him the truth. That he was being watched by agents for the state who wanted to embarrass his wife, to destroy the work that she . . . they . . . had accomplished over many years.’

‘And that did the job?’

‘With him. Not with the girl.’

The kitchen resounded with the thump of pummeled dough.

‘Noodoo!’ Frieda said, delightedly watching her mother work the dough.

‘That’s right,
Schatzi
,’ Berthe said. ‘Noodle.’

‘And you said . . .’

Berthe turned from the dough to Werthen. ‘That I would have the watcher on the street corner outside come up and arrest them for gross indecency if she did not agree. That seemed to get through to her.’

‘Well done!’ Werthen said, bringing a smile to her lips.

Werthen only then remembered the letters Frau von Suttner had brought with her and went back to the study to look at them.

The first one talked about Schnitzler and contained nothing of interest; and most of the second one was filled with flowery lies about the grand life the girl was living in Vienna. He checked the date; it had been sent during her time as a prostitute at the Bower.

But one phrase did stand out. ‘You will all be so proud of me,’ she wrote. ‘I am working in secret but for the good of the country. You might say this is patriotic work!’

‘Y
ou are never satisfied, Gross,’ Berthe said as they finished their coffee after a sumptuous Frau Blatschky feast of stuffed cabbage preceded by liver-dumpling soup and followed by
Kaiserschmarrn,
a kind of caramelized crêpe.

‘Prague has the world’s oldest university,’ Werthen added.

‘Yes, that is true,’ Gross said, eying the dish of
Kaiserschmarrn
hungrily. ‘But in a modern science like criminalistics, old is not especially good.’

‘But you would be back in Europe again,’ Berthe said. ‘It certainly is an improvement on Czernowitz.’

‘My dear lady, St Pölten would be an improvement on Czernowitz. And as for Europe, I believe you mean Central Europe. There is a difference.’

‘Come now, Gross. You’re just being obstinate. Prague is a lovely city. Berthe and I were there earlier in the spring. It’s quite cosmopolitan and the cultural life is vibrant.’

Gross sighed. ‘If offered the post, I suppose I would go. But you know, I have grown rather fond of my students in Czernowitz. We are making great strides forward in research.’

‘I’m not listening to this anymore,’ Berthe said. ‘Stay in Czernowitz, then.’

‘But there is my lady wife, Adele, to consider. She’s not overly fond of life in a yurt.’

‘It’s hardly the steppes, Gross,’ Werthen said. ‘Have another glass of this lovely Moravian wine you have brought and cheer up.’

Gross had been gone only a week and a half, but Werthen had to admit he was glad to see him. Especially after the less than satisfactory visit from his parents over the weekend.

Gross filled his glass as requested and put it to his lips, breathing in the bouquet as he did so. But his contrived look of expectancy turned to disappointment before he had taken even one sip. He put the glass down with a sigh.

‘It’s not the school, you know,’ he said finally. ‘It’s this matter of the Bower. We really cannot let it stand as it is.’

‘I thought as much,’ Werthen said. ‘And I quite agree.’

Berthe said nothing, turning the stem of her wine glass reflectively, like a chess player determining the next move.

Werthen and Gross sat in eager anticipation, two gymnasium students waiting to hear the results of their
Matura
graduation exam. Each was silent; each waiting for the other to begin.

The tension was almost palpable. Berthe stopped turning her wine glass.

‘For heaven’s sake,’ she said, exasperated. ‘Gross, you go first.’

‘Sensible woman. Yes, to be sure. I do come bearing information. I found time while in Prague to visit colleagues in the local Police Praesidium. Do you remember me talking of Jan Sokol?’ But this question was rhetorical and he did not wait for a response.

‘We met a dozen years ago at a criminalistics conference in Paris. Just a detective inspector then, was Sokol. He’s risen through the ranks. He could go toe to toe with friend Meindl now.’

Werthen began to squirm with impatience, Berthe noted.

‘Perhaps we could get to the information,’ she suggested.

‘Apologies,’ Gross said, now turning to his wine with his usual gusto. ‘Well,’ he wiped at his moustache with the knuckle of his forefinger. ‘Sokol and I had a fine chat. He quizzed me about my recent cases – he has been following our successes, Werthen.’

‘Penned so eloquently in your journal,
Archive for Criminology,
’ Berthe added with no little sarcasm.

‘Yes, quite. But I should get to the point,’ said Gross, puffing his chest. ‘Which is that when I informed Sokol of our recent case involving the deaths of the two young women, he looked profoundly shocked. “The same thing has been happening here!” he exclaimed. Those were his very words.’

‘The murder of young prostitutes?’ Werthen said, unwrapping his long legs, which he had managed to entwine to stop his right leg from twitching.

Gross smiled. ‘That’s what I thought, too. However, Sokol was referring not to the gender or profession of the victim, but to the severing of the little finger of the left hand.’

He sat back in his chair, a look of satisfaction on his face at the reaction he had provoked in both Werthen and Berthe.

He waited another half minute before plunging on. ‘The victim was a low-level officer in the Foreign Ministry. Suspicion fell on one Herr Maarkovsky, a Polish importer of vodka with whom the officer had lately been seen. Maarkovsky, of course, was nowhere to be found for questioning; nor, upon further investigation, was his supposed employer aware of his existence.’

‘An assumed identity,’ Werthen said in almost a whisper.

Gross nodded.

‘I became curious,’ Gross said. ‘Similar
modus operandi
in crimes in Vienna and Prague. Could there be others as well?’

He leaned back in his chair, looking as if he was once more about to smile, but Berthe’s voice brought him up short.

‘No Cheshire-cat poses, Gross. What did you learn?’ she demanded. Werthen noticed that tonight she had drunk rather more than her usual amount of wine.

‘Werthen, you must cease feeding your lady wife red meat,’ he said with a smile. ‘It brings out aggression in her. To answer your question briefly, I have discovered three other similar cases. One in Berlin, one in Warsaw, and one in Zurich. Our friend Monsieur Auberty, investigating magistrate of the Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire in Geneva, was most helpful in this regard.’

Werthen knew exactly who Gross referred to: they had made use of Auberty’s services in their first case together, looking into the Luccheni assassination of Empress Elisabeth.

‘It seems Auberty is becoming something of a clearing-house for criminal proceedings throughout Europe. Quite informally as of now, but I can foresee the day when countries around the world will band together in some sort of official international policing arrangement to combat crime. Auberty has made the acquaintance of police officers throughout Europe at one conference or another. He is what the British might term a clubbable sort. He has a mind that works like a filing cabinet and he is a relentless correspondent. It was he who put me on to the other three murders involving severed little fingers.

‘Five cases, then,’ Werthen said.

‘That we know of,’ Gross added.

‘Are there suspects in the others?’ Berthe asked.

‘Yes, suspects aplenty.’ From the inside breast pocket of his jacket, Gross dug out the small leather notebook he always carried with him, opened it to the page that was marked by a faded crimson ribbon, and began reading. ‘In Berlin, there was a certain Herr Erlanger, a Hungarian rail engineer who was the prime suspect; in Warsaw, it was a Herr de Koenig, the agent of a Dutch mining concern; in Zurich it was Axel Wouters, a Belgian rubber merchant. As with the mysterious Herr Maarkovsky, the person in each incident simply disappeared; and so did his professional connections, along with him. In short, no such person existed.’

‘What about the victims?’ Werthen said.

‘Yes. That is the other important piece in the puzzle. In each case, the victim was involved in one way or another with government security or information agencies: either low-level clerks or external suppliers, and in one case even a high-ranking officer of a counter-espionage unit.’

Werthen was out of his chair now. ‘Then what I have to show you may be more important than I originally thought.’

Werthen fetched the second letter from Fräulein Mitzi and its translation by Frau von Suttner from the study and placed the two pieces of paper side by side in front of Gross.

The criminalist’s attention went immediately to the underlined parts of the translation.

‘Patriotic work, she says. Hyperbole?’ Gross remarked as he read.

‘This is one of a series of letters sent to her parents, of course,’ Werthen allowed. ‘In another she made much of the literary tutelage she was supposedly receiving from Schnitzler. So, yes, it could be mere braggadocio, but—’

‘But . . .?’

‘This fits our earlier theories rather too neatly to disregard. It would be just like the girl to describe her spying on the Foreign Ministry as patriotic work.’