The Keeper of Hands (37 page)

Gross did not bother with this question, but instead plunged on.

‘There is one way to make Herr X become visible,’ Gross said. ‘It appears that his task is to protect Captain Forstl, to keep him from being exposed. If he were to suspect that Forstl was in imminent danger, he might come out from under his rock, might expose himself. He has been following us, of this I am sure. Watching our every step as we get ever closer to dropping the net on Forstl. That, Werthen, was what the bomb at your office was about. An attempt to stop our investigation before it reached the door of Forstl’s office at the Bureau.’

‘Not much of a professional,’ Berthe said. ‘Killing the wrong man.’

Gross nodded. ‘Exactly, Frau Meisner. He should have known about the
Portier
’
s
brother, but time was running out. He could not undertake a meticulous operation. Urgency was his undoing. And I am counting on that for my plan, as well.’

They saw little of Gross the rest of that day. He kept to the study, displacing Fräulein Metzinger. The only communication Werthen or Berthe had was via Frau Blatschky, who complained mightily about the prodigious amounts of coffee being consumed by the criminologist.

Werthen knew this routine only too well from his days in Graz: Gross was removing himself from the distractions of society in order to concentrate all his formidable powers on this most challenging case. As with so much investigative work, Werthen was coming to understand, the real problem was not discovering who did it, but making sure they paid for their transgressions.

Before entering his ruminative hibernation, Gross issued a stern caveat: no one was to attempt to have the incriminating evidence hidden at Forstl’s apartment ‘discovered’ by the police.

Berthe fumed at this directive. ‘I risked my life to uncover that evidence and now he wants to give the man a chance to dispose of it.’

Werthen raised his eyebrows at this.

‘What?’ she said. ‘It
was
dangerous. You said so yourself.’

Next morning, Gross deigned to breakfast with the mere mortals of the household. But Berthe was still with Frieda, so Werthen and Gross had the dining table to themselves.

‘Have you got the solution, Gross?’ Werthen asked as he passed the warmed milk for the coffee.

‘Time will tell,’ he said, pouring a trickle of milk into his steaming cup of coffee. There were fresh
Kipferls
today, and he plucked one of these predecessors to the croissant from the linen-lined basket and dunked it exuberantly into the coffee, leaving a brown trail dripping on the tablecloth as he maneuvered it to his mouth.

‘I have but one request,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and removing a small sheet of paper. On it the criminologist had written a telephone number and a paragraph of text.

‘Ten minutes after I leave this morning, I want you to place a phone call to that number and relay the accompanying information to the person who answers the phone.’

Werthen quickly perused the note.

‘You cannot be serious, Gross.’

‘I am only too serious, my friend. Deadly serious.’

‘But this is far too rash.’

‘That is exactly what I am hoping.’

‘And where exactly will you be while I am making this call?’

‘Paying a long overdue visit.’

‘This isn’t a plan, it’s a death wish.’

‘Drama so early in the morning, Werthen. It is unbecoming.’

He rose suddenly before Werthen could proffer further arguments and passed out of the dining room just as Berthe was coming in, with Frieda in tow.

‘Doktor Gross,’ she said. ‘We are honored by your presence.’

Gross shot her a sly smile. ‘I am only sorry I cannot stay to converse over coffee. There is business to attend to.’

‘Gross,’ Werthen called to him, but it was no use. He heard the door of the flat open, and then close behind the criminologist.

The phone rang six times before it was finally picked up. Werthen looked at the script that Gross had provided, and immediately said ‘I have something to tell you.’

A voice at the other end replied, ‘Forstl, is that you?’

Werthen paused a moment, needing to extemporize. Obviously some colleague of Forstl’s had answered his telephone; just as obviously this meant that Captain Forstl was not at the Bureau this morning.

Werthen coughed once into the mouthpiece and then automatically replied to the man’s question, ‘Yes.’

‘Then you had better damn well get in here quick. The Colonel is about to explode. Somebody’s been messing around in the vaults. The mobilization plans against Russia have been stolen. Do you hear me, Forstl?’

Werthen paused again. ‘Yes. I will be there. Sick today. A summer cold.’

‘Well, you don’t sound like yourself. But this is no time for personal considerations.’

The receiver on the other end slammed down, then Werthen set his own down.

Berthe was standing by him in the hall. ‘Well?’

‘I think Gross is walking into a trap.’

He maneuvered past the
Portier
with ease, waiting for her to finish sweeping the sidewalk at the far end of the building and then slipped inside behind her. He knew where to find the apartment, from the story Werthen’s wife had told them, and reached it without any curious residents passing him on the stairs.

Gross took deep breaths as he stood in front of the door, not because he was out of breath from climbing the stairs, but because he wanted to calm himself. He patted his jacket pocket automatically, and was reassured by the hard bulge of the Steyr pistol. He knew he might have to use the gun if, as he hoped, his message to Forstl – relayed by Werthen – brought the man’s Russian controller out of the woodwork.

‘
I have something to tell you
,’
Gross had written. ‘
You are being watched. Your every move is tracked. We know about your memento mori collection, and your double agent status at the Bureau. We are coming for you.
’

Melodramatic, to be sure, Gross thought as he waited a moment longer outside the door. But it should prove effective, spurring not only Forstl but also his controller into action.

What had Werthen called it? Rash? Sometimes subtlety was insufficient to the moment, and Gross thought this was such a moment.

He reached inside his breast pocket and brought out the leather case containing his lock-picking tools. Arrayed on one side of the case was a set of skeleton keys; and on the other, more intricate L-shaped picks for a lock that proved more difficult and that would need its tumblers lifted one by one before the bolt could be slid back and the door opened. Gross was ready with the picks, for he assumed that a man like Forstl, acting as a double agent, would have at least a modern mortise lock in place – though it could not be difficult, as Werthen’s secretary had managed the feat with a hatpin.

But, with his many years of experience in gathering evidence, Gross knew he should simply try the door first. It was amazing how many times a person forgot to lock the door when leaving in the morning.

He looked both ways along the corridor; there was no one about. He put his hand on the cool brass knob and twisted. The door opened. He hesitated. Luck or the unexpected?

Either way, there was no going back now.

A heavy brass smell assaulted his nostrils once he was inside the apartment, but Gross was sure this was not from the hardware on the door. The room was still in semi-darkness with the long drapes on the windows securely closed. A dim light shone from a room deeper in the flat.

Suddenly, more cool metal met his skin, but this time it felt like the barrel of a pistol biting into the back of his head.

‘Move inside, Doktor Gross. Slowly. Do not reach for the pistol in your pocket or it will be your last action.’

‘Tidying up, are you?’ Gross said as the barrel dug deeper into his scalp, forcing him to move forward. The door closed behind them.

‘Well, what did the pompous fool expect?’ said Berthe, letting the note Gross had composed for Werthen drift from her hand to the parquet.

‘This is hardly the time for recriminations. Forstl is most likely at his apartment now and it would seem that Gross is on his way there.’

‘I’m sorry, Karl. I didn’t mean to sound so shrewish, but sometimes Gross can be exasperating. He had a full night of cogitating and this is the best he could come up with? Stirring a nest of snakes?’

‘He had to find a way to trap both Forstl and his controller. I assume this was it. With what you found in his apartment, Forstl would be the one to take the blame for everything. The controller would walk away free.’

‘If there is a controller. I think we should call Inspector Drechsler.’

‘I’ve got to go there. Warn Gross . . .’

‘That is exactly why we need to call Drechsler. You are
not
going there alone.’

‘I have read about you, Doktor Gross,’ Schmidt said. ‘You surprise me. This hardly seems your style.’

Gross was sitting on a straight-backed chair; his eyes had adjusted to the weak light in the flat. He looked closely at the small, compact man sitting across from him, gun in hand, examining him for any distinguishing characteristics. The only thing he could notice were the little fingers, sticking out stiffly from his hand. Gross’s own pistol lay on the table next to the man.

‘I am sorry to disappoint you, Herr . . .?’

The man simply nodded at him.

‘But I badly wanted to talk with you.’

A smirk on the man’s face. ‘So you knew I would be here?’

‘Eventually. Rather sooner than I had planned, I must admit.’

‘And what is it that’s so urgent for us to discuss?’

‘Your murders, to begin with. You have been a busy man, Herr . . . I must call you something.’

‘Schmidt will do.’

‘Ah, the man of no name. Well, Herr Schmidt, you have been active around the capitals of Central Europe. I have a litany of deaths attributable to you.’

Schmidt lost the smirk momentarily, to be replaced by a quizzical look.

‘Your signature removal of the left little finger,’ Gross added.

Schmidt nodded. ‘Glad you noticed.’

‘A bit of revenge for your own fingers, one assumes.’

This seemed to hit home. The muscle in his left jaw worked. ‘You may assume whatever you want. I can only say I am grateful for your visit. It saves me the trouble of calling on you one final time.’

‘And what business do you have with me, Herr Schmidt?’

‘The same you have with me. Murder. You really should not pry so deeply into other people’s affairs, you know. It shows a basic lack of courtesy.’

‘I investigate murders, Herr Schmidt. If you do not want your affairs, as you call them, gone into, then I recommend you refrain from engaging in homicide.’ He paused an instant. ‘Herr Moos was correct about you, you know.’

‘And who would this Moos fellow be?’

‘You see that is the tragedy of such wholesale killing as you engage in. You even forget the names of your victims. Fräulein Mitzi’s father. You paid him and his family a visit in the Weinviertel, I understand. Checking to see how much the family knew, I would assume. A man like you wants no loose ends that might start unraveling.’

‘You said he was correct about me.’

‘Well, in that your accent is neither Austrian nor German. No, there’s a trace of the salt of the Baltic states about your speech, Herr Schmidt. And I see, by the sudden dilation of your eyes, I have hit home with that.’

‘You’re a smug one, aren’t you? Very satisfied with yourself. I expect you know all about this matter.’

‘You mean about you and your creature, Forstl? One must tire of cleaning up the messes of others. Especially when the others are so much less talented.’

‘Please, Doktor Gross. None of your primitive psychological games. But yes, it is a tiresome business.’

He stood suddenly, an action abrupt enough to cause Gross to inhale deeply.

‘Nothing to worry about . . . Not yet, at any rate, Doktor Gross. But there is something you should see. Someone who would like to meet you.’

Werthen put the receiver back on its cradle.

‘He’s not there,’ he told Berthe. ‘The desk sergeant said Drechsler went out earlier this morning.’

They hovered over the telephone as if expecting it to make a decision for them.

‘I’ve got to go there,’ he finally said.

‘No,’ Berthe replied ‘
We’ve
got to go there.’

‘There is no sense in putting both of us in harm’s way,’ he reasoned. ‘Think of our daughter.’

‘I am. But I am thinking of you, too, Karl. My husband. Now where is that cane of yours? The one with the blade inside.’

He knew it was useless to argue with her. ‘I love you,’ he said.

‘Of course you do. So let’s arm ourselves.’

‘If only the Baroness von Suttner could hear you now.’

She pecked his cheek in response, grabbed the cane from the umbrella stand, and watched as he tucked Gross’s second Steyr pistol into the waistband of his trousers. She hoped the criminologist had taken its twin with him for protection.

Berthe told Frau Blatschky that they would be back for lunch, then hurried into the nursery where Frieda was just waking up. She gave the child a kiss and a hug and told her that Frau Blatschky, Baba, would play with her this morning. This brought a radiant smile to Frieda’s face, and she nuzzled her mother’s hair for a moment.

Werthen and Berthe were just going out of the door when Fräulein Metzinger arrived, ready to reclaim the study and get some office work done. But when she saw the determined look on their faces and the swordstick in Berthe’s hand, she knew something was afoot.

‘You’re going back there, aren’t you?’

‘Gross may have gotten himself into a bit of trouble,’ Werthen explained quickly.

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘Not you too!’ Werthen all but groaned.

‘What if the door is locked, Advokat?’ she said. ‘Have you thought of that contingency?’

‘Alright, alright.’ He held out his hands in supplication. ‘But let’s be off now, before more reinforcements arrive.’

The scene before him explained the heavy brass smell he had noticed upon first entering the apartment.