Thomas Ochiltree (17 page)

“Your symbol of your honor is buckled on,” she said, “So you can go out and face the world.” There was a surprising undertone of bitterness in her voice, and von Falkenburg realized that never, neither now, nor at his funeral in a few days, would she understand why he did not simply flee with her. A woman, he realized, could never understand what a man’s honor was, any more than a man could understand a woman’s love.

“My one unbeatable rival,” she said, fingering the gold tassels of the sword knot. He did not answer. What was there to say?

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

“I didn’t mean to be bitchy or difficult, Ernst. Go on, and good luck.” She bit her lower lip, and seemed by an act of will to keep the tears in her eyes from flowing down her cheeks, for as von Falkenburg knew, in her own way she was very proud.

“Helena, I’m sorry the world makes no sense,” he said, putting on his képi.

“Take care, Ernst.”

“I promise.”

As he stepped from the front door into the street, he noticed a shadowy figure in the darkness some forty yards away. Von Falkenburg could not make out who it was, but he knew perfectly well who it had to be.

He could imagine the detective noting in his notebook, “subject left house at one-fifteen A.M.”

The street was quite deserted, and von Falkenburg’s footsteps echoed on the pavement. He suddenly realized that his were the only footsteps he could hear. He was not being followed. Presumably, the plainclothesman had found out what he wanted, and gone home, or to the police station, or to wherever it was that detectives went after they finished tailing someone.

It was only a few blocks from Helena’s mansion to the Schubert-Ring and the Stadtpark, and von Falkenburg headed there. He had told her he needed to see someone. But in reality he just wanted to be alone so that he could think. Soon he found himself walking along one side of the little lake in the center of the park. He sat on a bench and watched one of the swans paddle sleepily on the black water, making golden ripples as it went, for the wavelets reflected the light of the gas lamp that stood nearby.

The sight was a peaceful one, and he longed for peace, but he knew he must give his mind no rest.

What was it Helena had told him? She had spent the day gossiping with old female friends from her society days when he late husband was still alive. To each of them, she had made a casual reference to Robert von Lipprecht, von Lauderstein’s highly-placed friend who liked to call himself Putzi.

Most of what she had heard in return had been ordinary gossip, but there were two themes that kept recurring: Putzi was a firm friend of the young Archduke Karl-Maria, and both of them had a vaguely sinister reputation.

It was hard to pin down, but the old Duchess von Stobbe had probably come closer than anyone else when she said to Helena, “you know, dear, I realize one should not criticize members of the Imperial Family, even rather distant ones like the Archduke Karl-Maria, but he’s such an intriguer.”

“A ladies’ man?” Helena had asked.

“Oh no,” the Duchess von Stobbe had replied. “That’s not what I mean. Who can hold romantic intrigue against anyone? What I think is wrong is for a member of the Imperial Family to get mixed up in politics. It’s such a dirty business, you know.”

As for the kind of politics the young Archduke Karl-Maria was mixed up in, the Duchess von Stobbe had no clear idea. “Heavens, dear,” she had said to Helena, “I know this is supposed to be an age of female emancipation, but I try to keep as clear of politics as ever I can! And you will too if you’re sensible enough to follow the advice of an old lady who still knows what kind of women men are attracted to!”

In spite of everything, von Falkenburg smiled. The thought of someone giving Helena advice on how to be attractive to men was not without its amusing side.

The Archduke Karl-Maria. If he was mixed up in this plot, the conspiracy could hardly go much higher. What had Helena told him of the young archduke’s relationship to the Emperor was? Cousin three times removed? Von Falkenburg had never been able to keep the distinction between, say, a second cousin and a first cousin once removed very clear in his head. But even if the relationship between Karl-Maria and his Imperial and Royal Majesty was not all that close, von Falkenburg knew that as far as the face they presented to the world was concerned, the members of the Imperial Family were as thick as thieves. Never, ever, ever, would he be able successfully to accuse an archduke of treason, no matter how many times removed he was.

Would Lasky have understood that?
von Falkenburg wondered.

He got up from the bench and walked through the park.

What the devil would the archduke want to sell secrets to the Russians for, he asked himself. God only knew, the Imperial Family was wealthy enough. What could the Russians give to the Archduke Karl-Maria?

Treason in the Imperial Family itself? The family that the Barons von Falkenburg had served since the days of the knights in armor? To their own loss, for the most part, but without ever complaining.

The Imperial Family…headed by the elderly man with white side whiskers whose portrait hung in every officers’ mess: the Supreme War Lord, the ultimate officer, the man whom von Falkenburg had sworn his most sacred oath to serve and defend with his life, if need be.

Certainly von Falkenburg had never sworn any oath to serve and defend the young Archduke Karl-Maria. And yet, that he, a von Falkenburg, could be working to the discredit of any member of the Imperial Family was profoundly disquieting.

Suddenly, von Falkenburg felt the fantastic, the outrageous, and yet simultaneously the irresistible, desire to visit the Kapuzinergruft, the crypt of the Church of the Capucines, where the Emperors were buried. He remember the time his father had taken him there when he was a little boy, and pointed out to him the great bronze sarcophagi which held the imperial remains.

“Here they are,” his father had said, “the generations that our own family has served from one generation to the next. In every generation a good master and a faithful servant, and the latter role no less honorable that the former.”

He had never quite managed to feel his father’s simple, personally loyalty to the

Imperial Family. His own loyalty was mixed up with a more general loyalty to Austria-Hungary, the great, rambling, ramshackle “land of many people” that was
his
land too.

But perhaps tonight, if he visited the crypt, he would understand better what his father had felt and where his own duty lay.

He had to knock long and loud on the door of the church until a Capucine monk finally opened it and told him, in response to his request to visit the crypt, that he should come back the next day. The visiting hours, the monk said, were from one-thirty in the afternoon until five.

But von Falkenburg was not to be put off.

“Father,” he said, “it is most important to me. If you could make an exception I would be most grateful, and would express my gratitude to the church in an appropriate manner.”

After a moment’s reflection, the monk motioned for him to follow, and led him down the stone steps that led to the crypt. Von Falkenburg suddenly thought of the family vault at Falkenburg, where he would be lying in a few days, and felt very uncomfortable.

“Would the captain like me to point out which sarcophagi contain the earthly remains of which Majesties?”

“Thank you, but that is not necessary.”

In fact, the only sarcophagus he could identify by the yellow glow of the monk’s lamp was that of Maria Theresa, and that only because of its odd dimensions, twice as wide as the others, for it was a double bed, so to speak. In it the great Empress and her consort husband lay side by side.

To his disappointment, von Falkenburg felt no exaltation, no surge of loyalty, no rekindling of his family’s faith. Just a vague horror at being in such a place at such an hour.

Sarcophagus after sarcophagus, in lines which vanished in the gloom beyond the flickering light of the monk’s lamp, each sarcophagus a massive bronze reliquary for moldering imperial bones. Each a riot of baroque ornamentation, with curlicues, friezes, and of course the four crowns, one at each corner. That was a detail that von Falkenburg remembered from his childhood. And that memory called forth another, of something that had made a strong impression on him as a boy.

Where was that tomb now? He glanced around in the half darkness and then saw what he was looking for. On this sarcophagus there were not merely the four crowns. On this, and this alone, each crown rested on a bronze skull. And each skull was cast with the most loathsome attention to accuracy: teeth intentionally left out, a few strands of hair shown stuck to the forehead. His father had pointed out to him the High Baroque symbolism to him: the Four Crowns of Empire resting on skulls that symbolized the vanity of earthly might.

The Four Crowns of Empire: the Crown of the Holy Roman Empire. And the Crown of Austria. The third was the Crown of Bohemia, and of course the fourth was the Crown of St. Stephan, symbolizing Hungary.

And suddenly, in a flash of intuition, von Falkenburg guessed what it might be that the Archduke Karl-Maria might want and what the Russians might help him get…on their terms of course. It was the sight of those four crowns together, and curiously, of the skulls on which they rested, that had suggested the answer to his questions.

“Surely no,” he thought, “surely not….”

And yet, somehow, von Falkenburg was certain that he had the truth, and a truth that made his own survival insignificant compared to the duty he had to perform. Now, now he felt it, that surge of loyalty he had come to the crypt in search of. Not loyalty to those bronze boxes and the bones they contained, but loyalty to what those four crowns symbolized. He had sworn an oath to the Emperor, and now was the time to live up to it, although whether the Emperor would ever forgive him if he succeed in his task was more than doubtful.

The regiment had exercises that morning, and there was no way von Falkenburg could avoid attendance. On getting back from them to his quarters he bathed and changed clothes, with the intention of calling on Helena. He had just finished putting on his shirt and trousers when there was a knock at the door. Somehow, von Falkenburg knew instinctively that it meant trouble.

It did. It was Police Commissar Rogge.

“Good morning, Captain, I hope I don’t disturb,” Rogge said. Something about the way his feet were planted indicated clearly that whether he was disturbing or not, Rogge was not going to leave until he had the answers to his questions.

“Disturb? Of course not,” von Falkenburg said coldly.

“I tried to call on you late last evening, but you were not here.”

“Very possible,
Herr Kommissar
,” von Falkenburg replied. “I had much to do.”

“I can well imagine, Captain.”

“What do you want,
Herr Kommissar
? I am afraid your visit is hardly convenient.”

“Would it be more convenient for us to continue our conversation elsewhere?” Rogge asked.

Rogge had the gift of conveying certain things almost telepathically. Von Falkenburg had little doubt of where “elsewhere” had to be.

“Please have a seat,
Herr Kommissar
.”

“You are too kind,” Rogge said as he sat down in von Falkenburg’s most comfortable chair.

Schmidt arrived with von Falkenburg’s freshly ironed tunic and helped him into it. At least now that he was no longer in shirtsleeves he felt a little bit less on the defensive, but he knew that it would take far more than a uniform to intimidate Rogge.

“
Herr
Lasky was a rather inquisitive man, was he not, Captain?”

“Personally, I wouldn’t know. But I believe he was a reporter by profession,
Herr Kommissar
.”

“Quite so. And of course, he was interested in the army among other things, I believe.”

“Many people are interested in the army,
Herr Kommissar
.”

“True, although I understand that
Herr
Lasky had a rather particular interest,” Rogge said. He paused for a moment and then went on.

“It must be quite a temptation for a reporter sometimes, when he happens on certain kinds of information, wouldn’t you say, Captain?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,
Herr Kommissar
.”

“Well,” Rogge said almost casually, “journalism is not a well-paid profession, as I understand.”

“So?”

“So, Captain, I would think that a reporter who came upon something which a certain person wished to remain hidden, might be tempted to negotiate his proofs for cash.”

Von Falkenburg was on his feet and had his right hand balled into a fist before he knew it. His habits of self-control managed to assert themselves only a second before he would have sent that fist smashing into Rogge’s face. Rogge knew it, and remained completely calm nevertheless, the unctuous smile on his face never wavering.

“Get out Rogge, get out! If I thought you were worthy of the honor – which you’re not – I’d challenge you to a duel and blow your brains out! As it is, it is only the fact that you’re one of His Majesty’s servants which prevents me from thrashing the hide off of you right now!”

“The captain seems excited. Perhaps my suggestion struck a little close to home,” Rogge said, impassive as ever. He took a cigarette out of a case and stuck it in his mouth. The match he lit never reached it, however, for before it could, von Falkenburg had pulled the cigarette from Rogge’s lips and thrown it on the floor.

“Excuse me,
Herr Kommissar,
my hand seems to have slipped. Now get out while you can. I know your kind. If you had one shred of real proof of wrongdoing on my part, you’d arrest me. I’m not going to play mouse to your smirking, self-satisfied cat, and if you try to make me, you will learn that there are some very real limits to my patience. The stairs outside are very steep and ill-lit. People have been known to fall down them.”

“In the police,” Rogge said calmly, rising to go, “we never act until we have all the proofs we need. Your dossier is not yet complete, Captain, but interesting new things are being added to it all the time. Good day.”