‘Your point, Gross?’
‘As obvious as the bit of breading on your tie.’
Werthen automatically looked down and brushed the crumb away.
‘I am sure both the General Staff and the Foreign Office would like nothing better than to find some juicy scandal involving Baroness von Suttner or her family. A bargaining chip, you might call it.’
‘Soften her tone towards the military or face public humiliation?’
‘Exactly.’ Gross swivelled his coffee cup on its tiny saucer. ‘Ergo the watcher of her husband.’
‘But in that case, they surely have their ammunition?’
‘It would seem so from what your wife reports of the assignation. But that is not our concern. Not our case.’
‘Berthe has taken it on in the name of the agency. It is my case just as surely as it is hers.’
‘I should rather have said, not our focus. Most definitely not, after what you tell me of this second murder. Someone is very intent on covering up something.’
‘Not a simple matter of a multiple murderer at large, you mean?’
A heavy nod from Gross. ‘Our man is not killing willy-nilly. He has picked his victims carefully, both from the Bower, both confidantes of the madam of that establishment-’
‘Frau Mutzenbacher.’
He waved away the name as if it were a gnat. ‘Both victims of a killer who leaves a signature.’
‘That part of it seems to me to put these murders in the realm of psychopathology,’ Werthen said.
‘Perhaps our killer wants us to believe so. Or perhaps he needs proof of the deed, needs to keep a tally of sorts.’
Again the thought of Fräulein Metzinger’s ‘the keeper of hands’ ran through his mind.
‘We are left to wonder,’ Gross continued, ‘exactly what is being covered up. A professional killer — one therefore assumes a professional motive.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Werthen said. ‘Professional killers can be hired. Who is to say that the priest, Mitzi’s Uncle Hieronymus, did not have a sudden fear of exposure? Perhaps his niece even threatened to expose him and he needed to silence her.’
‘And Fräulein Fanny’s murder?’
‘Perhaps Mitzi shared her secret with Fanny and she was blackmailing Hieronymus.’
Gross raised his eyebrows.
‘Or Schnitzler,’ Werthen went on. ‘He silenced his former lover to keep her from telling his betrothed about their affair. Fanny could have pursued the same scheme of blackmail in that scenario.’ But even as he said it, he disbelieved it. Schnitzler’s Lothario reputation preceded him: he would hardly kill to protect against something everyone assumed to be true.
‘And I assume you could say the same for Altenberg,’ Gross said, joining in the game. ‘Perhaps he was lying about the platonic relationship he had with Mitzi. The man has a fondness for young girls. Maybe their tête-à-têtes were more about deeds than talk. Something seriously neurotic. And perhaps Fräulein Mitzi was not the saint-like girl everyone says she was. She threatens to go public with his base desires.’
Remembering the evident grief displayed by Altenberg, Werthen somehow doubted this as well; but it was in the realm of possibility.
‘The same could be true for Salten,’ Werthen added. ‘After all, he was frequently at the Bower for his interviews with Frau Mutzenbacher. Perhaps he also formed an association with Mitzi that he was not proud of? Like Schnitzler, he is engaged to be married.’
‘Why stop there?’ Gross asked. ‘Herr Bahr seems so protective of the image of Jung Wien. Might that be sufficient motive for him to get rid of bothersome young things who threaten his writers’ reputations?’
Werthen’s head was beginning to spin with the possibilities.
Then after a pause, ‘I do not understand Frau Mutzenbacher’s reaction to this latest outrage. One would think she would redouble her efforts to find the murderer, having lost two such close. . friends.’
‘That is something we shall ascertain,’ said Gross. ‘All in good time. It does, however, present a certain difficulty.’
Werthen shrugged at him. ‘What?’
‘Well, we have no client. Ergo, we have no reason to investigate the deaths of the two young women.’
‘I have no client, Gross. You, on the other hand, are the eminent criminologist out to aid and abet the constabulary in their investigations.’
It was said in levity, but Werthen meant it. ‘We will not give up on this, Gross. Not until justice is done.’
Leaving the Ministry of War that evening, Captain Forstl exited the Hofburg through the Michaeler Tor and strolled along the fashionable Kohlmarkt. He had changed into a civilian suit that he kept at his office: gray serge with the barest hint of stripe. He did not want to attract attention with his green General Staff tunic.
Forstl stopped in front of Rozet’s, the jewellers, seemingly to look at their window display. It was said that the Emperor himself purchased his presents here for Katherina Schratt. Die Schratt, as the Viennese affectionately called her, was the Burgtheater actress who played the role of surrogate wife to Franz Josef both before and after the assassination of his wife, the Empress Elisabeth. Peering in the window, Captain Forstl examined a pearl-encrusted pendant in the shape of a miniature doorway flanked by classical columns in gold and surmounted by a design like a fanlight made of mother of pearl. He momentarily fantasized about buying it for his mother. She had never had a piece of jewelry apart from her silver wedding band. And wouldn’t that make the others in Lemberg talk, gossiping about how well Adelbert had done for himself?
Of course, the last thing Captain Forstl needed or wanted was people gossiping about how successful and wealthy he must be. Nor had he any real intention of buying such a bauble for his mother. The gesture would be wasted on her.
In fact, he was not interested in jewelry at all, but was more conscious of the reflections he could see in the window of others on the street who had stopped to gaze into the windows of the fashionable shops. He did not want anybody following him this evening.
Captain Forstl had trained himself well in the covert techniques of tradecraft. He lingered in front of Rozet’s a moment longer, and then made his way along the Kohlmarkt to its intersection with Graben. Here it was all bustle and activity, with fiakers carrying passengers, the carriage tops down in the mild evening air, the horses’ hooves clopping against the cobbles. Shops were closing and people were heading home or to their favorite café or gasthaus. Handsome women in full-skirted silk dresses carried parasols, though the sun was already slowly setting. Some few younger women wore less formal clothing, dresses that seemed to cling to their bodies. A few of the men on the sidewalks wore boaters, though it was still a month until summer. Forstl wore a more conservative bowler. There was the smell of horse dung, coffee and perfume all mixed together on the Graben: a heady mixture that for Captain Forstl never failed to evoke the metropolis.
Graben soon intersected with Kaertnerstrasse, where he turned right, lingering for a moment in front of Lobmeyr’s to inspect the crystal and check once again for any followers. Then he made his way through a warren of small First District lanes, ducking into two different churches and quickly back out again by the same entrance, before he finally emerged on to the broad Ringstrasse at Park Ring. He crossed the thoroughfare and went into the Stadtpark, past the large pond and on to the quiet area around the Schubert Memorial where the meeting was scheduled.
Much simpler than their initial meeting. Then Forstl had been led a merry chase up and down the Vienna Woods at Mödling, following the hand-drawn map of an anonymous correspondent who had sent Forstl a letter threatening to expose him for certain irregularities. And those he had to keep secret at all costs.
That day had been foggy, and Schmidt had appeared suddenly out of the mist as if a phantom materializing in front of Forstl’s very eyes. One moment Forstl was alone in the woods, the next he was joined by a specter.