Thomas Ochiltree (11 page)

Report finished, he headed rather aimlessly back to his own apartment. As he was about to open the door he paused. There was the faintest trace of perfume in the air, perfume that he remembered from….

He threw open the door, and saw that Helena was indeed there, magnificent in her beauty and in the elegance of her dress.

“Princess…” he said, not sure why she had come, not sure how he should address a woman with whom he had slept and who had told him she never wanted to see him again. “Princess, you could seriously compromise yourself by coming here.”

She looked up at him with an adorable smile, half wistful, half impudent.

“I couldn’t care less,” she said simply.

He strode over to her and took her in his arms. His infernal sword was in the way, but her lips were yielding, and he could feel her body tremble even through the layers of clothing and the stiff corset.

“Helena!” His fingers were struggling with the tiny little buttons of her dress. He had undressed many women, and never gotten the knack of it. But underneath the silk, he knew, lay paradise, and finally dress, chemise and corset were gone, lying in confusion on the settee and the floor.

One hand of his was on the top button of his tunic, having already unfastened the collar hooks.

“No!” she said, “take me in your uniform!”

And so he did, the brass buttons pressing against her perfect flesh, the impeccably ironed tunic rumpling badly.

“I hope,” she said afterwards, “that you are not going to go out and shoot yourself for having defiled the Emperor’s uniform.” She smiled as she said that, but he could guess that her question was not asked purely in jest.

“No,” von Falkenburg replied with a grin, adjusting his clothing as best he could. “Not that I don’t know other officers who would. But I try to take a larger view.”

“Why are you still alive, Ernst? I know you meant it when you said you were going off into death.”

“That’s why you called me an imbecile?”

“Yes! And I meant it! And I mean it now, too if you’re still planning on doing something silly like getting shot in a duel or killing yourself. You men and your ‘honor!’”

“Is that why you said you wouldn’t see me again?”

“Yes. Because I love you. I fell in love with you before we even got to dessert.”

“The dessert was an excellent
Kaiserschmarrn,
as I recall,” von Falkenburg said.

“You see, you men always get uncomfortable and try to change the subject when the word ‘love’ is mentioned by a woman – though of course you don’t mind using it yourself to take in innocent young working girls from Mariahilf and Sievering.”

She smiled as she said that, but there was something in the tone of her voice that made von Falkenburg wonder if she had not, as a very young woman, loved someone who had simply regarded her as a useful outlet for his passion.

“Anyway,” she said, suddenly more serious, “when you left me to go off to kill yourself or get yourself killed – I knew it had to be one or the other – I was nearly hysterical. I sobbed for hours. Finally, I got hold of myself. I told myself that you were gone for good, and that I should forget you.”

“And then you got my note,” von Falkenburg said.

“Yes. Your note. Which only told me that death had been put off for a while, and that you wanted back into my life and my affections for the interim: in again, out again, this time for good. After all, ‘honor’ is more important than a woman’s love, I suppose! Tear me up inside, never give a second thought about it…!”

“Helena, was I really that wicked?”

“Yes, but I still adore you. I’ve never stopped adoring you. That’s why I wrote that horrid, haughty reply: because I couldn’t stand to have you back, knowing that I would lose you again.”

“And then?”

“I discovered that I couldn’t live without you. That’s a terrible thing for a woman to confess to a man, because it gives him such power over her. A power he almost always abuses.” She stared at his with her big blue eyes. “You won’t abuse that power, will you, Ernst?”

He did not want to draw her into the terrible swamp in which he was floundering, but he knew that he had to explain to her why he would only be able to spend very little time with her in the next four days, and why at the end of that time he would probably have to exchange her bed for a place in the family vault at Falkenburg. He sketched the situation as quickly as he could, and when he had finished, she was very quiet.

“If it can only be for four days, then those will be the best four days that any woman ever spent!” she said. “I won’t get in your way, Ernst, I promise I won’t! But any time you feel discouraged, any time you want me…I’ll be waiting!”

Von Falkenburg looked at her blazing eyes, felt the intensity of her love for him flowing towards him like a powerful electric current.

“This time,” he asked her with a smile, “shall we try it without the uniform?” He was already unbuttoning his tunic….

“Before you answer this question,” von Falkenburg said over the telephone, “let me warn you that you would probably be better off hanging up right now.”

“But it’s something important to you?” the voice on the other end asked.

“Mm, rather.”

“I’ve always liked risks. Go ahead.”

The man von Falkenburg was talking to was the one journalist he knew, Detlev Count von Horgenhoff.

“Did you know a man named Lasky?”

“The little Jew who was bumped off last night? I’m glad you have such a high opinion of me, old boy.” The loss of his fortune, caused entirely by himself, had not made von Horgenhoff any less of a snob.

“Well, did you?”

“Yes, in a way. After all, journalism’s a small enough world here in Vienna. I didn’t know him any too well, though. They tend to stick together, our Hebrew friends do. Besides, I don’t think Lasky had many real friends. He was sort of a strange little character.”

“He was a good man.”

“You have odd tastes, von Falkenburg, as I’ve always known.”

“Anyway, would you know who his regular sources were? Particularly for stories on the army?”

“Not likely. Don’t forget I do the social page and a bit of literary criticism. I try to never get mixed up in anything serious. I tell you what, though. He did have one friend on this rag I work for. I could ask him. A fellow named Eimerband.”

“Thanks, von Horgenhoff, but I’d hate to put you out. Why don’t I contact him myself?”

There had never been a countess whom von Horgenhoff was unable to charm, but von Falkenburg could guess how von Horgenhoff’s credit must stand with his Jewish colleagues.

When he got Eimerband on the telephone, von Falkenburg said to him, “
Herr
Eimerband, I am a friend of the late
Herr
Lasky.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. And I want to help find those who killed him.”

“So you’re from the police?”

“No, not in the slightest. Like I said, I am a friend of
Herr
Lasky. Can I meet with you? There might be some risk in it for you if you let me talk to you, however. I must warn you of that.”

“But you think you could help find Mordecai’s killers?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“Let’s have lunch at the Café Landtmann.” If anyone was following von Falkenburg he would not be surprised at his going to the Landtmann, as that was where he usually had lunch. And although his enemies had presumably been tailing Lasky just to make sure he did not contact von Falkenburg, they would have no reason to be following Eimerband, who had no connection with the case and whose name von Falkenburg had from a third party.

Where Lasky had been short, Eimerband was tall and thin, and very respectably dressed. When he sat down at von Falkenburg’s table in the Café Landtmann, von Falkenburg said to him, “
Herr
Eimerband, I know you are probably curious about who I am and how I came to know your friend.”

Eimerband gave an affirmative nod.

“Well, for your own safety, I want to tell you as little as possible. What I can tell you is this:
Herr
Lasky contacted me because he felt I could help him in an inquiry he was undertaking about a scandal in the army.”

Eimerband’s mouth formed an ironic little smile. Von Falkenburg could guess that he did not share Lasky’s enthusiasm for the army. Perhaps because as Jew he had had a hard time of it during his military service. Cases were known.

“I want to find out who killed him, because he wanted to help me.”

“And you want to preserve the honor of the army, I suppose,” Eimerband said, with a hint of ironic stress on the word “honor.”

“I wish to protect Austria-Hungary.”

“Frankly, the fate of Austria-Hungary is as indifferent to me as the honor of the army,” Eimerband said.

“You do not regard yourself as an Austrian?” von Falkenburg asked. He knew that as a group, the Jews were probably Franz Joseph’s most loyal subjects.

“I look rather towards Palestine,” Eimerband said shortly.

Even some Jews, von Falkenburg knew, were abandoning the concept of Austria-Hungary, the “land of many peoples.” It was disconcerting, but when he thought of von Horgenhoff’s remarks, he could at least partly understand their decision.

“But you were
Herr
Lasky’s friend?”

“Yes,” Eimerband replied. “Lasky didn’t understand a thing about the future of the Jewish people, but he was a fine man. I was his best friend.”

“Then for the sake of that friendship, tell me who his military sources were – particularly any he might have had any personal connections with.”

Eimerband thought for a moment.

“Lasky was always writing or talking about the army,” he said finally. “It was a hobby with him – or perhaps a passion. Sources? I should say his best connection was a Major Korda on the Staff.”

“Did he see Major Korda socially?”

“To a certain extent. He was very flattered that a Staff officer would be friendly with him. He used to like to tell anecdotes that Korda had picked up in his world.”

“And what was Korda’s world?” von Falkenburg asked.

“His world? Similar to yours, I would have thought. Are you a
jour
goer?”

“Not when I can help it,” von Falkenburg said with a voice that clearly indicated what he thought of the
jours
that he had not been able to avoid attending.

For the first time a touch of sympathy appeared in Eimerband’s expression.

“I have an aunt who has a
jour
,” Eimerband said. “Beastly bore, but I have to go, of course. I try to work for the cause – for Palestine – when I’m there with her Jewish upper bourgeoisie assimilationist friends. Which does not always sit well with them.”

Every lady in Vienna with any social ambitions, as von Falkenburg knew, had her
jour
– her “day” when once a month, during the late afternoon she would hold open house for anyone to whom she had sent a
jour
card of invitation at the beginning of the social season.

“Is Major Korda a
jour
goer?” von Falkenburg asked.

“That’s what Lasky used to say. Korda was honest enough with him about his motives. Said he hoped to marry rich because he had a propensity for fast women, and a fatal attraction to slow horses, and could not afford either on a major’s salary.”

For an officer who wanted to marry rich, the
jour
circuit was a natural hunting ground, assuming he could stand the atmosphere of tea and chitchat. No lady with a
jour
would pass up the opportunity to showcase her unmarried daughters. A hard-up major might not be the ideal candidate for a son-in-law, but perhaps Korda was hoping for a girl who would fall head-over-heels in love with him, and would know how to get her way with her parents. Or maybe one who was not
too
plain, but was in danger of being “left of the shelf” as the saying had it.

And a major on the Staff, as long as he was of decent family, physically presentable, and possessed of a reasonable amount of small talk, would have no trouble collecting plenty of
jour
cards. For a lady with a
jour,
finding enough men to maintain a reasonable balance of the sexes was always a problem, since many men felt as von Falkenburg did that sipping tea (even tea laced with rum or brandy from the little crystal decanters passed around with it), eating pastry and listening to feminine gossip was not the ideal way to spend their time.

Besides, for a
jour
hostess, officers were in particular demand as guests. Their uniforms and martial calling added a touch of masculine dash to the proceedings. By imperial decree they were all
hoffähig,
or fit to be presented at court, and were thus automatically
salonfähig,
or fit to be received in genteel company (although a hostess would steer clear of the occasional Röderer who somehow managed to get a commission.) Finally, they almost all knew how to talk with women. Whether hostesses always understood that this resulted from their constant amorous pursuit of females from all social classes was another question.

“Did you ever meet Major Korda?” von Falkenburg asked.

“No. My aunt’s
jour
is the only one I go to, and Major Korda is not an habitué there. In fact, Captain, I’m afraid that I really don’t know anything more about the man. Sorry. For Lasky’s sake, since for some reason I think you really want to find his killers.”

“You may have been of more help to me than you think,
Herr
Eimerband. Shall we order lunch?”

* * *

Von Falkenburg paced back and forth in the “Small Salon” of Helena’s mansion. He had come at once on being brought a note from her saying, “success! Please wait at my place. I have an errand to do – for you!”

That had been at seven in the evening. The eighteenth-century French ormolu clock on the marble mantelpiece now showed almost ten.

Earlier, when he had told her of what he had learned from Eimerband, she had immediately suggested that she make some
jour
calls; as Princess von Rauffenstein, she was on the
jour
list of every lady of social consequence in the city, just as every
jour
-goer who was anybody came to her own
jour
on the ultra-desirable second Saturday of every month. Her idea was to keep an eye out for Major Korda.