Thomas Ochiltree (8 page)

“Depends on the degree of addiction. Hours; maybe half a day after the last dose before the suffering is really at its height.”

“But not longer.”

“No. But the suffering continues for quite some time before the withdrawal symptoms begin to diminish with the completion of detoxification.”

Von Falkenburg did not hail a cab when he got out into the street, but began walking instead. He found that walking was when he could do his best thinking.

He had a lot to think about, too. Röderer clearly had been receiving morphine somehow smuggled to him in jail – for otherwise, based on what Rubinstein had told him, Röderer, who must have been imprisoned several days, since his arrest and interrogation preceded von Falkenburg’s meeting with Major Becker, would have gone into withdrawal long before von Falkenburg’s visit to him. And that explained why Röderer had asked von Falkenburg if he had “brought it.” Judging from what Rubinstein had said, and from the fact that Röderer was already beginning withdrawal at the time of von Falkenburg’s visit, the supply must have been discontinued shortly after von Falkenburg had signed his confession.

Von Falkenburg ran through the conclusions he had drawn the day before about Röderer. Since the man clearly could not have personally made the forgeries, he had to be merely a part of something much bigger – and a rather subordinate part, at that. He had never met von Falkenburg – the fact that he had not recognized him on sight proved that – so someone else must have convinced Röderer to accuse him.

In exchange for a continuing supply of the drug even though he was in jail? Almost certainly. And perhaps, of a lenient sentence? Possibly, and in that case von Falkenburg’s mysterious enemies had to be more powerful and more highly placed than he had hitherto imagined.

As long as it looked like there might be a chance of von Falkenburg going to trial, he reasoned, his enemies had kept Röderer in reserve. Von Falkenburg had failed to kill himself as they had hoped, something that only his chance mistake in loading his revolver had prevented. But once they had somehow learned of his written confession, Röderer was no longer needed. Why risk having him go to pieces and blurt out the truth under cross examination? So his morphine was cut off, and he behaved as could be expected, committing suicide almost on cue, so to speak.

One thing, at any rate, was clear to von Falkenburg. His enemies knew about the confession. Could the colonel be one of them? Von Falkenburg dismissed the idea almost as soon as it occurred to him. To have simply played as an actor that scene of requesting von Falkenburg’s freely-given word relating to his innocence would have required a histrionic ability which went far beyond anything the colonel could be expected to possess.

And Major Becker? It was tempting indeed to visualize Becker as his foe, but von Falkenburg knew that he should not allow his hatred of the man to cloud his judgment. His enemies were very subtle. If Becker really were part of the plot against him, it would be strange indeed for the man to cast himself so obviously in an adversarial role, with his sarcasm and gloating. Von Falkenburg was inclined to believe that Becker was simply the determined investigator rubbing his hands at the prospect of being about to land a big catch.

Besides, it was very possible that the locus of the conspiracy lay outside of Military Intelligence. Perhaps Becker and his colleagues were simply being “fed” misinformation that originated elsewhere (probably the General Staff, since that is where the espionage supposedly occurred). Updates on the state of the investigation presumably flowed the other way, either in good faith, or because the liaison person in Military Intelligence was part of the plot against him.

Enemies on the Staff…or in Military Intelligence…or in both places. A whole conspiracy, organized around the goal of destroying him. But what could the motive possibly be? Von Falkenburg could imagine that in his life he might have unwittingly made a mortal enemy, but
several
? And willing to go to this sort of trouble? The elaborateness and the complexity of the plot suggested something that went far beyond mere personal enmity. But what…?

Von Falkenburg suddenly felt himself run into something soft.

“Oh! Sir!” an indignant female voice exclaimed.

He realized that he had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he had walked right into a girl.

“Gnädiges Fräulein,”
he said, whirling around and touching his fingers to the brim of his képi, “I beg your forgiveness.”

The girl was obviously, to judge from her clothes, just a shop assistant or something similar. But von Falkenburg felt he owed her the respectful
“gnädiges”
by way of an apology. Besides, he was respectful to all women, particularly ones as pretty as this one. He had knocked her hat to one side, and the cockeyed look it gave to her made her look appealingly fresh and impudent.

Not that she realized it, for she was already straightening the hat, while saying, “the captain should realize that other people have to use the sidewalks too.”

“
Gnädiges Fräulein,
I realize that what I did was quite inexcusable.” Then he added, “perhaps I can make it up to you.”

She looked at him with a combination of suspicion and interest.

“How?” she asked with a challenging tone. Von Falkenburg realized that her original genuine indignation at being bumped into was giving way rapidly to a purely simulated one. That was a promising sign.

“By having dinner with me.”

“What kind of a girl do you think I am?” she asked. The inevitable reply. Sometimes von Falkenburg wished that human relations were a little bit less automatic.

“A very charming one.”
Oh well, play the game,
he thought.

She pretended to think the offer over, then uttered the response von Falkenburg was waiting for.

“All right” – the tone suggested that she was doing von Falkenburg an immense favor by accepting – “but it’s
just
dinner. I’m a respectable girl.”

If she had answered differently, von Falkenburg would have looked up to see if the sky were falling.

“Of course,” he said. “If I did not think you were a respectable girl, I would not have invited you.”

The girl looked as if she actually believed that. Which was a pity. Von Falkenburg liked intelligence in his women.

Her name was Lisa, and she had to get back to the milliner’s where she worked. He promised to pick her up at eight.

Investigation or no investigation, he would have to eat anyway, and besides, so far his only productive ideas – confronting Röderer and discussing the latter’s case with Rubinstein – had come to him unexpected and unbidden. Maybe some champagne and associated enjoyments with a pretty girl would place his mind in a receptive state for new inspiration.

Since at the present he had no ideas on further pursuing his search for the truth, and since he did not want any rumors to start at the barracks, von Falkenburg spent the rest of the afternoon catching up with his military duties.

Before long, night had fallen. He caught a cab on the Ring and headed out to Sievering, where Lisa lived.

Lisa looked pretty enough when he picked her up, although her too-flashy “best dress” diminished, rather than augmented, her looks. Annie, who had a natural sense of style, always managed to look good even though she had no money and would not ever accept any from him. But all that was long ago.

“How do you like my dress?” Lisa asked.

“Exquisite. It becomes you perfectly.”

“Do you really think so? You know, it isn’t easy for a girl to look nice, what with material costing what it does today. Would you believe how much they charge for a meter of satin, and not top-quality satin, either…?”

She was clearly a chatterbox, and without much of interest to chatter about, von Falkenburg realized ruefully. Instead of helping take his mind off his troubles Lisa was just an added irritation.

Well, it was too late to do anything about that now, and it was his duty to show her a good time. When the waiter led them into the
chambre séparée,
or private dining room, of the restaurant von Falkenburg habitually used for such purposes, she was suitably impressed with the “elegance” of the gilt-framed mirrors and red-hung walls.

The food was good, décor notwithstanding, and although with every minute von Falkenburg found her empty-headed chatter more trying, he mechanically applied all the charm to be expected of a captain of the Austro-Hungarian Army.

He suddenly realized that the problem was not her, it was this whole hypocritical ritual which he had gone through so many times in the past, and which he now found tedious for some reason.

The champagne was flowing freely, traditional fuel of shop girl passion. Lisa was well aware of the role it was supposed to play, and drank it eagerly.

“You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?” she said with a reproachful giggle, holding her glass out for more.

“Nothing could be farther from my mind,” von Falkenburg replied, noting with interest how changed circumstances could turn a habitual lie into a simple statement of the truth.

She giggled again.

“You (hic!) know, I’m a respectable girl!”

And she began to try to sing the song, “I’m a respectable woman” from that new operetta of Léhar’s.

He was tempted to take her at her word and not touch her. But he knew how disappointed and offended she would be in that case; besides, he had the reputation of the regiment to think of.

At the same time, the thought of going to a hotel and dragging the evening out still farther appalled him. The waiter was gone, and the walls of the room were thick. Von Falkenburg locked the door and then carefully unfastened his sword….

With Lisa deposited in Sievering and told that he would not be able to see her again because he was to be sent to Paris as assistant army attaché, von Falkenburg rode back to the barracks slumped in the seat of a cab. He realized now why the evening had been so unsatisfactory. It was not just that Lisa was a silly little thing. He had enjoyed himself with plenty of other girls just like her. It was that her defects made him think of Helena, whom he wanted so badly. He saw now how annoyed she must have been for him to walk out her life, then announce that he was walking back in again for a time still to be determined.

“I report most obediently,” Schmidt said when he entered his apartment, “a letter for the captain came special delivery while he was out.”

Von Falkenburg looked at the envelope. It was not an official envelope, so perhaps the letter did not mean more trouble. There was no return address, and the unfamiliar handwriting was of a man – so the sender could not be Helena, as he had immediately hoped on hearing there was a letter for him.

“I wonder who the devil…” von Falkenburg thought as he tore open the envelope.

It was with considerable astonishment that he read, “Most honored Captain! I know something of your troubles, and have information that may be of help to you, but the very greatest discretion is required! If you wish to meet with me, I will be spending the evening in the Café Kunstmann, Brockendorfergasse 23. Identify yourself when you enter by pretending to adjust your sword knot. A friend.”

As soon as he got to the end, von Falkenburg began again at the beginning.

“Who on earth…?”

Von Falkenburg hoped that the letter did not mean that the accusations against him were more common knowledge than he had hitherto supposed. If they were, his investigation would not get any too far.

And yet this “friend” promised help, and God knew, he certainly needed some.

Could this be a trap by his enemies? An effort to further compromise him? Could this friend be another Röderer? Given the fact that the mysterious correspondent obviously had some knowledge of von Falkenburg’s situation, he must have connections with Military Intelligence or the Staff – the two places where von Falkenburg supposed his enemies must be lurking.

Perhaps someone did not like the deal that had been struck allowing him a week of life and freedom. Perhaps the instant he began talking to his “friend” he would be arrested – the “friend” asserting that he was a double agent von Falkenburg had believed to be working, like himself, for the Russians.

In that case, in a few hours he would be dead from his own hand, while if he did nothing, he would have five more days of life. But if being an officer meant anything, it meant being willing to take calculated risks.

He would go. And having decided that, he was in almost a panic to get to the café while his “friend” was still there. It was now eleven in the evening.

The Café Kunstmann, he discovered, was in a narrow street crammed in between sullen buildings, most of which were already dark. The people who lived there, von Falkenburg realized, had to be up well before dawn. The café was the only other building that was lit.

There were few streetlamps to cut the darkness, but leaning against one outside the café was an aging whore, her face plastered with makeup, her eyes dull from too much bad liquor.

“Handsome officer like some company?”

“No, thank you.”

“Ehh, army snob! Only screw duchesses, huh? – assuming you can get it up at all!” she sneered, quickly adding in a different tone, “listen, I’m clean as a whistle, inspected just this morning,” as the desire to get a client won out over the desire to be insolent.

Von Falkenburg had to go down some steps to the café door. He peered inside through the cloud of smoke that hung in the air at the filthy walls that must have once been cream colored, at the guttering, badly-adjusted kerosene lamps, at the ragged clients who appeared for the most part to be in the final stages of alcoholic stupor. There was sawdust on the floor, and von Falkenburg saw one of the patrons pull his cheeks together, then spit onto it, clearly trying for range. The man’s companion nodded his head sagely, clearly impressed by the distance reached.

Von Falkenburg hesitated a moment, but having gone down those steps gave him a feeling of having irrevocably committed himself. He threw back his cloak and walked into the room, his black képi, white gloves, metal scabbard and buttons gleaming, his collar bearing the sky-blue facings of the Empire’s finest infantry regiment and the stars that marked him as an officer and a gentleman: an apparition from another world.