Thomas Ochiltree (12 page)

He had at first tried to dissuade her. After all, the last person who had tried to help him had wound up with a knife between his ribs. But dissuading Helena from something she was set on was not always easy. He had finally yielded to her argument that a fashionable salon was a less dangerous place than a dark alley, and that there was nothing about a call by her on one of her female acquaintances that would attract the least bit of attention.

Above all, he had yielded to her obviously burning desire to help him, and to the simple logic of the situation. Korda had not even wanted to talk about von Falkenburg’s case with Lasky. That meant that the chance of him receiving von Falkenburg was zero. But who could tell what useful tidbit of information the fortune-hunting Major Korda might accidentally let drop in conversation with a stunningly beautiful woman who was also perhaps the wealthiest widow in Vienna?

The mantelpiece clock struck ten in silvery notes.

“Where the devil can she be?” von Falkenburg asked himself. And what could her “errand” be? The word “success!” in her note indicated she had indeed found Korda.

He heard the front door open, and steps coming towards the sitting room. Von Falkenburg threw himself into a chair, crossed his legs, and sipped the brandy he had poured for himself earlier. Not for the life of him would he let Helena see how impatient he was.

The door opened, and in walked Helena. Her eyes glowed with triumph, pride, and a hint of malice.

Von Falkenburg rose and kissed her hand.

“So you found Major Korda?” he asked casually.

“Without difficulty. Vienna’s a smaller place than one thinks. It’s late in the social season of course, and there were only three
jours
of note. He was at the Countess von Goertz’s. I knew to start there because she has three unmarried daughters and plenty of money.”

“What’s he like?”

“Korda? Handsome. Conceited, but not in an offensive way. He’s a bit superficial, rather obviously a fortune hunter, but all in all, not a bad sort.”

In fact, her description of Major Korda corresponded very neatly to the idea von Falkenburg had previously formed of the man. Any fortune hunter was bound to cultivate charm, and likely to be superficial – of necessity, if nothing else. But if Korda had not had the moral fiber to risk trouble to help an unknown fellow officer to whom he suspected injustice was being done, he had tried to keep his friend Lasky out of harm’s way.

“So Major Korda is now your new slave?” he asked. Helena had promised not merely to find Korda but to “enslave” him.

“Of course. If we women couldn’t enslave men, life wouldn’t be worth living for us. Or for men, either. It was a bit funny, though….”

“What?” Von Falkenburg was dying for Helena to get to the point, but a Austro-Hungarian officer had to keep up his reputation for cool imperturbability, even with his adored mistress.

“Oh, Major Korda has, I suspect, has invested a fair amount of his time in drinking the Countess von Goertz’s tea, and the middle daughter seems to keep her eye on him.”

“And he kept his eye on you?”

“I’m not
too
plain, you know, Ernst. No, Major Korda didn’t want to offend Ernestine von Goertz, but he wanted to be amiable to me. All in the same salon.”

“Did he succeed?”

“In being amiable to me? Oh yes. And if he made Ernestine jealous, really jealous, we’ll probably see the wedding announcement soon. There is nothing like jealousy for fanning love and passion.”

“Anyway, Ernst, I did get
some
information out of him. Just a bit.”

“About von Lauderstein?”

“Right. I said that I had met him somewhere, asked Korda if he knew him well, that sort of thing.”

“And?”

“Major Korda is something of a gossip. He told me that von Lauderstein is wildly, but passionately, but head-over-heels-in-love with a little vaudeville singer at the Kaminski-Palais-Theater.”

“Where on earth is that?” von Falkenburg asked. It was a theater he had never heard of, even though he knew most of them.

“Never been fishing in those waters, Ernst?”

“No, in fact I haven’t.”

“Well, it’s way out in the Ninth District. Terrible little ratty run-down place.”

“You’ve been there?” he asked with astonishment.

“Of course, to see von Lauderstein’s girl.”

“You didn’t think it would be better to leave that to me?” he asked, concerned that Helena had not limited her activity on his behalf to the safe world of the Countess von Goertz’s salon.

“I thought I’d prepare the way…to save time. You see, Ernst, you’re very charming and very handsome, and have impeccable
Adjustierung,
and those things are all very important to a woman. But for an actress or a singer, there is something that’s even more important.”

“Namely?”

“The Big Time!” I told the girl that if she would talk to you, I would get her a week’s engagement at the Ronacher.”

The
Établissement
Ronacher was the unquestioned “big time” of Viennese variety and vaudeville.

“You can manage that?”

“I can manage a lot of things, Ernst.”

Von Falkenburg realized that Helena had probably kept up her contacts with the theater world from the time when she was an operetta star.

“When can I see this find of yours?”

“Right now.” Helena rang a little silver bell. When Alphonse, her butler, appeared, she said, “kindly show the young lady in, Alphonse.”

The butler appeared in a moment with a young woman. A pretty young woman, indeed a very pretty one, and von Falkenburg could imagine the spell she might cast on von Lauderstein. Her beauty lacked the depth and elegance of Helena’s but there was something appealingly fresh and impudent about her.

“Fräulein,”
Helena said to her, “let me present to you Captain Ernst von Falkenburg. Captain,
Fräulein
Adèle d’Églantine.”

Von Falkenburg bowed and kissed the girl’s outstretched hand.

“Delighted to meet you,
Fräulein
d’Églantine.”

“Likewise, I’m sure.” For all her high-sounding French name, she spoke with the accent of the Viennese working class. It was an accent that corresponded to the kind of prettiness she had, and highlighted the latter in an agreeable way.

“Gnädiges Fräulein,”
von Falkenburg said, “as the Princess has told you, I would like to have a few words with you…ask a few little questions….”

“That is a full week at the Ronacher, right?” the girl said, turning to Helena and ignoring von Falkenburg completely.

“A full week. Who knows, maybe two. And not at the bottom of the bill, either,” Helena replied with a smile, adding, “the young lady sings like a nightingale, Captain.”

“Yes,” Adèle said, “I thought of calling myself ‘The Nightingale of the Vienna Woods,’ but my agent said a French name is better.”

There was something refreshingly honest about her vulgarity, von Falkenburg decided. He wondered if von Lauderstein loved her in spite of it or because of it.

“Well,
Fräulein,
” von Falkenburg said, “what I need to know are the names of people whom a friend of yours, Colonel von Lauderstein, might be particularly intimate with, or seem to have a lot of private discussions with.”

“Huh! You can’t imagine that I would pay much attention to what he does! He isn’t even generous! Not with me, anyway. I heard from a friend once that he spent a lot of time at Madame Rosa’s….”

That, von Falkenburg knew, was perhaps the most expensive brothel in Vienna, or even in Central Europe, although he had never been there himself.

“And?”

“And the hypocrite told me when I asked him about it that he had to go there on business. Business in a bordello!”

“You don’t believe him”

The girl thought for a moment. She obviously liked to run down von Lauderstein, but probably suspected that getting her promised reward from Helena would depend on telling the truth.

“Maybe. One time when I was at his apartment, the telephone rang. I heard him say, ‘yes, Prince. At Rosa’s.’ It was as if he was making a business appointment. Then he said, “I can’t talk now. Someone’s here.’ ‘Someone!’ That ‘someone’ was me! I asked him what kind of secrets he was keeping from me, but he wouldn’t say. I thought I might have a rival – that the ‘Prince’ might be a code name for some woman – so I kept asking. And do you know what the lout said?”

The girl looked indignantly at Helena and von Falkenburg as if what her lover had said to her was so outrageous that the whole world must know about it, and be discussing it avidly.

Helena raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“He said I had better not ask things like that, or he’d have to slap my face.”

“The brute!” Helena said sympathetically. “Now remember,” she added, “there is no need for you to tell Colonel von Lauderstein about this little conversation we’ve had.”

“What? Tell him and risk losing a week’s engagement at the Ronacher? For him? He isn’t even generous! You know, once tried to convince me to wear cotton stockings!”

Helena shook her head gently, as if she could hardly believe such male wickedness.

When the girl had been shown out, von Falkenburg said “it’s nice to know there’s still some true love in the world.”

“I rather like her, though,” Helena replied.

“I suppose you know where I have to go now?”

“To Madame Rosa’s,” Helena said with a gulp.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Ernst,” she said softly, “I know you have to go…clearing your name is so important for both of us. But we women can’t help being jealous. Try not to enjoy yourself there….”

Schmidt entered with von Falkenburg’s other uniform: newly pressed, with the buttons freshly polished. He had von Falkenburg’s sword hung over one arm, and the metal scabbard was dazzling – though not more so than the pair of black shoes which the orderly held in his other hand. Von Falkenburg knew that archdukes were said to visit Rosa’s, and he had told Schmidt to make sure that his uniform looked especially good. It was the kind of order Schmidt loved to obey, even at eleven o’clock in the evening.

Von Falkenburg removed the tunic he was wearing and leaned back in a chair. Suddenly, this whole business of going to Rosa’s seemed ridiculous. What kind of lead did he have to go on, anyway? Nothing but the fact that a little variety singer’s lover had once agreed to meet some unknown prince in the brothel. But here was Schmidt wrapping a towel around his neck. Von Falkenburg, who because of his position could only see the ceiling, felt the soft touch of the soapy badger-fur brush across his face, followed by the beautifully honed razor blade. It was strange, he realized, how little luxuries like being expertly shaved could take his mind off his troubles.

Freshly shaved and bathed, and with his
Adjustierung
as impeccable as when the regiment paraded down the Ring in honor of Franz Joseph’s birthday, von Falkenburg rang the doorbell of Madame Rosa’s bordello. The curtains were drawn at the windows, but the warm light that filtered through hinted at the pleasures offered within.

A footman dressed like an eighteenth-century aristocrat opened the door. He bowed, but made no move to let von Falkenburg in.

“Please give your mistress this, with the compliments of the Conde de Ortega,” he said, handing the footman an envelope. It was a good thing that his friend Count Wroclinski, who was a regular at Madame Rosa’s, had once given him a letter of recommendation to use if he ever felt like going. “Conde de Ortega” was the pseudonym with Wroclinski used at the brothel, and in the many other spheres of his extensive nightlife.

The footman handed the card to a fellow servant, who disappeared with it. He then allowed von Falkenburg to step into the entrance vestibule.

Shortly thereafter, the other footman returned.

“Would you please be so kind as to follow me, sir?”

The footman led von Falkenburg through the magnificent baroque entrance hall, for the brothel had once been the
palais
of some 17th century nobleman. Von Falkenburg looked curiously around him, and noted that the furnishings managed to combine the usual exaggeration of a brothel’s décor with a bizarre but strangely acceptable taste.

In that respect, Madame Rosa, before whom von Falkenburg bowed, resembled her house: her dress was too rich, she was wearing too many jewels, but the effect was interestingly theatrical rather than merely vulgar. She could have been playing the role of an empress in an opera. And indeed, she was rumored to have once been a singer – and many other things besides – before ending up as the owner of Vienna’s finest and most exclusive whorehouse. Time and self-indulgence had given her a body of ample dimensions, but von Falkenburg could guess at the beauty she must have once had, and the depredations it must have made in many substantial fortunes.

“Good evening, Captain,” Madame Rosa said. “It is always a delight to meet a friend of the Conde de Ortega
.
I hope you will enjoy the small comforts which we can put at your disposition.”

Her voice, he noted, was genuinely friendly. As for the “small comforts,” they included a salon lined with glittering, gold-framed mirrors and rococo furniture on which sat at least a dozen very beautiful girls. The girls were all wearing heavy formal gowns which came down to the floor, but in exciting contrast to the massive folds of silk and satin, their breasts were bare except for the necklaces that glittered on the smooth, firm flesh.

“If you need any advice in making your choice, please feel free to consult with me,” Madame Rosa went on. “We like to think that we can satisfy a wide range of preferences.”

And indeed, in the corner, seated on a fragile chair, was a black girl, the first von Falkenburg had ever seen. He noted with interest that the nipples that peeked through the false diamonds of her necklace were truly black, or almost so, in contrast to the chocolate tones of the rest of her skin. And near the fireplace a girl as blonde as a Valkyrie sat next to a pale girl with very dark eyes and jet black hair. The two girls were holding hands tenderly.

Madame Rosa noticed the direction of his gaze and said, “they go well together, do they not, Captain? They are
very
fond of one another, and many of our guests like to enjoy the company of both simultaneously. But you will have to excuse me, for I see another guest arriving.”