The Keeper of Hands (8 page)

‘Did she mention other clients? Anyone she was frightened of?’

‘We didn’t speak a great deal, Advokat, as I am sure you understand.’

Werthen did not appreciate the man’s tone, but then it was not the most comfortable thing to be interviewed about one’s sex life. He himself might be equally defensive if questioned like this.

‘Sorry to be of so little assistance, Advokat. She was a good girl. I too would love to see the murderer brought to justice. At the moment, however, I have my own concerns.’

‘You thought initially that Klimt had sent me. Why should he have? And why are you employing bodyguards?’ Werthen asked. ‘Surely the police should be able to provide protection if necessary?’

Schnitzler sighed. ‘I see now why Klimt speaks so highly of you, for you have hit exactly on it. The police are not involved.’

‘Why is that so?’

‘You have heard of my recent play?’

‘
Lieutenant Gustl
?’

Schnitzler nodded, more slowly this time.

‘What does that have to do with the attack on you?’

‘Everything, I believe. It has angered a great many people, some of them very powerful. That play cost me my Senior Physician status in the army reserve. I believe it also brought on this beating. The man who attacked me did so just outside the door of my flat in the middle of the day. He made no attempt to steal anything, made no demands. He merely struck me to the floor with a powerful blow to the head and then kicked me until I was almost unconscious. Thank God he was scared off by the arrival of Fräulein Gussman, who raised an alarm, screaming her head off. In addition to a slight concussion, I suffered two broken ribs and severe contusions. The man who did this to me is a professional. They were sending a message.’

‘They?’

Schnitzler shrugged. ‘I am not a paranoid sort of individual, but I do know how the military works. It defends its honor.’

‘You think it was a lone wolf or someone recruited for the job?’

‘That is what I would dearly love to discover, Advokat. But, why not take on the job yourself? Find the man before he returns to finish the job.’

Schnitzler put out his hand, touching Werthen’s arm.

‘Please, I implore you.’

‘I would gladly, Herr Schnitzler, but as I told you I already have a commission.’

‘Understood. But I am sure a man with your abilities could find a bit of time to spare for my case as well. I and Fräulein Gussman can both provide you with a description of the man. The
Portier
also saw him flee. A rather nondescript man of medium height. Compact and efficient in his movements.’

‘You really should go to the police.’

‘I can’t, Advokat. If my instincts are correct, they will be of little help.’

Schnitzler fixed him with eyes at once piercing and soulful. ‘Please.’

Werthen paused a moment. ‘Alright, then. But I cannot promise full-time commitment. I suggest you continue to retain the services of Herr Prokop and Meier. Now tell me about this assailant.’

T
hey sat amidst the ruins of Frau Blatschky’s dinner. They had done justice to her
Beinfleish,
roasted beef shank with potatoes done to a golden brown. This was accompanied by a chilled white wine from Gumpoldskirchen and followed by
Germknödel
for dessert, a light yeast dumpling filled with plum jam and covered in vanilla sauce with a sprinkling of poppy seed. They were still lingering at table with their coffee. Frieda was sleeping peacefully in the nursery; Berthe had just returned from checking on her.

Their unexpected guest, Doktor Hanns Gross, suddenly blurted out, ‘If I were not already married to Adele, I would ask Frau Blatschky to marry me.’

This was said just as the lady in question – Werthen’s cook and housekeeper, Frau Blatschky – entered the room to begin clearing the dishes. Her face turned a brilliant red, contrasting with the starched white apron she wore.

‘Doktor Gross,’ she said. ‘You are a wicked man.’ But it was clear she loved the attention. In fact, since Berthe had taken to experimenting with more international fare, Frau Blatschky had sallied even deeper than before into traditional Viennese cuisine.

‘Wicked I may be,’ the criminologist said, ‘but I feel perfectly angelic when eating your meals, Frau Blatschky.’

At which the housekeeper raised her eyebrows and continued with her clearing.

When she was out of the room, Werthen turned to his former colleague.

‘Well, Gross, I must say you do make a habit of turning up at the most propitious moments.’

Gross, the famous criminologist, had been Werthen’s mentor at one time and had been responsible for bringing him back into the realm of criminal law and establishing himself in private inquiries, in addition to the more prosaic field of wills and trusts. They had collaborated on three previous cases; it was as if Gross had antennae that alerted him to the fact that Werthen had a new case.

The head of the first department of criminology in Austro-Hungary, for the past two years Gross had been posted to the Franz Josef University in Czernowitz, the capital of Bukovina. Gross was, of course, elated to develop his department of criminology, but neither he nor his wife was fond of Czernowitz. Gross had more than once termed the city a dusty, dirty claptrap of dodgy buildings, many of them gussied up to look like the Austrian homeland, but largely a Potemkin village. He had also dubbed that metropolis of a hundred thousand souls an overgrown
shtetl
.

Gross was no anti-Semite, but he did not shy away from using any language he cared to, despite the fact that both Werthen and Berthe were of Jewish background. They were too accustomed to such comments to even attempt a response. And at any rate, Gross meant no harm by such comments; for him, they were merely statements of fact.

Now, with the spring term finished and his wife off to visit friends in their former home town of Graz, Gross had come to Vienna en route to the University of Prague, where he was to interview for a new lectureship. He was full of excitement at the prospect of living once again in a ‘civilized’ environment.

‘It does appear you have your hands full, dear friend,’ Gross said as he filled his coffee cup again.

‘How was I to turn Schnitzler down? He seemed quite desperate.’

‘Well,’ Gross said. ‘I do have some few days before I am due in Prague. If I could be of assistance . . .’

Usually Gross’s intrusion in his cases irritated Werthen. The renowned criminalist had a way of taking charge of things. But in this instance his assistance would be greatly appreciated and Werthen was quick to tell him so.

‘Perhaps it is doubly fortuitous your being here, Herr Gross,’ Berthe added. Sitting next to her husband, she put her hand over Werthen’s. ‘I didn’t tell you earlier as you were so involved with relating the day’s events, but I had a telephone message earlier today—’

It was as if Werthen could read her mind. ‘Not another case!’

She nodded. ‘I believe so.’

‘You’re making quite a name for yourself, Werthen,’ Gross said. ‘Soon you’ll have to be taking on help. Perhaps I should put my application in now.’

Which comment Werthen chose to ignore.

‘You
believe
so?’ he said to his wife.

‘Well,’ Berthe said. ‘I highly doubt that Bertha von Suttner wants to see you about her will.’

‘Von Suttner!’ Werthen said with amazement.

‘That peace woman!’ Gross muttered it like a dubious epithet.

‘Yes, Herr Gross,’ Berthe said in her best schoolteacher voice. ‘That woman who very sensibly advocates diplomacy over fighting.’

‘The woman’s an adventurer,’ Gross thundered. ‘Look how she wrapped poor Alfred Nobel round her finger, getting him to endow that idiotic prize.’

Berthe merely shook her head at this, squeezing Werthen’s hand. The first Nobel Prizes – in physics, chemistry, physiology or medicine, literature and peace – were to be awarded this upcoming December 10, the fifth anniversary of Nobel’s death.

‘A sad day for his family, that is all I can say. Left in poverty.’

Again, Gross’s impolitic remarks were met by silence from Werthen and Berthe. Nobel, the Swedish-born inventor of dynamite, had hired the young and impoverished Countess Kinsky, as Frau von Suttner was then, as a private secretary. Although she worked for him for only a matter of days, the two had remained in contact over the years. It was she, more than any other person, who convinced Nobel to do something grand with his wealth. Dubbed ‘the Merchant of Death’ by the tabloids, Nobel lived with great guilt, knowing that his invention had been turned to such destructive purposes.

‘They should damn well have sued,’ Gross rambled on, unaware or uncaring that his words caused offense.

‘They did,’ Werthen said, for he had studied the situation when Nobel died in 1896. He had left almost the entirety of his vast estate to establish the prizes in his name. The relatives were of course shocked and dismayed. ‘They’ve been in and out of the courts for the last five years battling the will and making no one rich but estate lawyers such as myself.’

‘I think it was a wonderful thing for him to do,’ Berthe added.

‘I’d like to see how wonderful you think it would be had he been
your
relation.’

‘You are in a foul mood tonight, Gross,’ Werthen finally said. ‘Even more reactionary than usual.’

Gross touched his moustache, a nervous tick that meant he had something on his mind.

‘It’s my son, again. Always that son of mine. We’ve had to put him in the Burghölzli Clinic near Zürich. Drugs, drugs, damned drugs!’ He slammed his fist on the table.

‘Gross, we’re so sorry to hear it.’ Werthen meant it sincerely.

‘It was all the fault of that voyage to South America as a naval doctor. We were so excited for him, but he has never been right since returning. It’s the cocaine – the coca plant thrives in South America. He is so brilliant, you see. A psychiatrist and assistant doctor, but this cocaine has a grip on him. Blames me, of course.’

‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ Werthen said, but did not believe his own words. He had been intimate with the Gross household during his years in Graz. He knew the bitter feud between father and son. He had thought, however, it was past. Otto Gross, brilliant and erratic, had finally studied medicine; his first monograph on psychology had been published earlier that year.

‘Says I ruined his life. Calls me an anachronism. An unwanted patriarch.’

As he said these words, he visibly winced.

‘Sorry,’ Gross said after a pause.

‘Don’t be,’ Werthen said. ‘We are your friends. You don’t have to be merely polite around us.’

‘He doesn’t?’ Berthe asked with a smile.

Her comment broke the oppressive air in the room, bringing laughter from Gross.

In the event, they decided that Berthe would meet with Frau von Suttner, her long-time idol. She had read the woman’s famous work of fiction,
Lay Down Your Arms,
more times than Werthen liked to count. At the same time, Gross would take the sketch of the mystery client at the Bower to Detective Inspector Drechsler at the Police Praesidium and would also begin seeking information on the Schnitzler beating.

When Werthen handed him the drawing Altenberg had made, for a moment Gross thought he recognized the likeness, though he could not put a name to it. Not so those at the Bower earlier in the day: when Werthen showed them the drawing they were unanimous – they had never seen the person before. No hesitation. Not a second glance from any of them. A bit too sure, Werthen thought.

‘And now, Werthen, why not show us this mysterious note you’ve sequestered?’

‘Hardly sequestered, Gross. I merely returned it to the location in the Bible in which I originally found it.’

‘Well don’t be coy, man. Let’s take a look at it. Wouldn’t you agree, Frau Berthe?’

‘I’m always eager to agree with you, Doktor Gross.’

‘What a wife. Could you please give my Adele a lesson in empathy?’

Meanwhile, Werthen left the table and went down the hallway to his study to fetch the Bible. On the way, he peeked his head into Frieda’s room: she was sleeping peacefully, a stuffed bear from Steiff that Frau Blatschky had given her last week tucked in her arms. His housekeeper had been excited about the purchase, for it was the newest design from the company, and now Frieda would not be parted from it day or night.

Back in the dining room, Gross and Berthe were deep in conversation about Herr Meisner, her father, who would soon be moving into his small flat in Vienna.

Werthen opened the Bible and retrieved the note, taking it from its envelope and unfolding it for the others to see. Gross, however, seemed more interested in the Bible at first. Berthe picked up the note, turning it front and back and looking at the light through it.

‘No watermark,’ she said.

Werthen smiled at this. She had been reading Gross’s landmark criminalistics handbook,
Criminal Investigation,
again.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I noticed that, too.’

‘It does look like a letter,’ she said.

‘May I?’ Gross said, tiring of his inspection of the Bible.

He also looked closely at the paper before examining the writing.

‘I see what you mean,’ Gross said after an interval. ‘I can’t place the language, though it has aspects of Latin, German and the Romance languages, and, I suspect, a goodly dose of English.’

‘Could it be one of those new universal languages they’re talking about?’ Berthe said.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ Gross added.

‘I thought perhaps Afrikaans,’ Werthen said. ‘But then there is too much of a Latin influence. You may well be right, Berthe.’

‘Esperanto, perhaps?’ Gross said. ‘But really, what young girl working in a bordello is going to write a letter in Esperanto?’

‘That, Gross, is what I hope to ascertain once we translate this message.’

Gross nodded, putting the note down on the table and once again picking up the Bible.

‘Why so interested in the Bible, Gross?’

‘It would seem that we are investigating the death of an uncommon young woman. Someone who writes in a created language and someone with, I believe, a sense of literary allusion.’