‘I shall have the amount remitted to your account in a week at the latest.’
‘I have been patient, Adel. But patience can wear thin.’
‘I understand. But I need to withdraw a sizeable amount like that in dribs and drabs so as not to call attention to myself.’
‘So careful in business, so careless in relationships.’
Neither said anything for a moment.
‘Well. .’ Arthur nodded, and surveyed the champagne. ‘Shall we toast to it?’
Forstl felt his anger rising.
‘Only playing the fool, Adel. I must meet my wife for dinner. Tickets for the theatre, tonight. Vienna is a wonderful place for a professional man.’
From orderly and nurse in the army to a full doctor in less than a decade. Forstl had to give it to Arthur. He had ambition, just as Forstl did. But sometimes a man could overstep himself.
‘I shall take my leave now, before your intended guest arrives. Let me guess. A subaltern? No, not in Vienna. Too many prying eyes at the General Staff. Not someone in uniform then. .’
‘Goodnight, Arthur.’ Forstl began leading him to the door.
As he was leaving, he looked back with that wan smile that had first attracted Forstl.
‘Sorry about this, Adel, but a man must get on in life.’
He almost felt sorry for Arthur. Then the fellow added, ‘I’ll be waiting. Next Monday at the latest.’
Which wiped out any trace of empathy Forstl felt towards him.
He closed and double-bolted the door.
There would just be time before his nephew arrived. Well, not actually his nephew, in fact a distant cousin, but he had taken the young man under his wing, acting like an uncle towards him. Tonight was to have been a gala event, an initiation of sorts, but Forstl was no longer in the mood now. He quickly changed out of his beautiful new dress and silken underwear and into his green tunic and blue pantaloons. Once again an officer of the General Staff. He would take the boy out for a night on the town. Perhaps cards in a private room at the Sacher, then a visit to one of the finer Inner City brothels. Not the Bower, of course, as that was strictly Foreign Office territory. Tonight he would initiate the young man into sexuality of one sort or another. That thought cheered him up. A manly evening out.
He would need to contact Schmidt about this turn of events. He was one up on the bastard now; at least some good had come out of this. The meticulous agent had not done his job for once — which should serve to make Schmidt even more eager to rid them of the nuisance of Arthur Schnitzel, newly-wed doctor.
Moreover, this oversight on Schmidt’s part might just buy Forstl more time to obtain the mobilization plans.
Meanwhile, it would be best if he delayed the début of his pretty frock. Time enough for that later.
SEVENTEEN
Fräulein Metzinger kept the grey-faced concierge occupied looking in vain for a parasol she insisted she had left in the breakfast room, while Berthe hurried up the stairs to the second floor.
As she climbed the stairs, she tried to rehearse what she would say, but words would not come. Her heart was racing and her handbag knocked against her hip. The bulky little box camera sat inside her purse — a Pandora’s box as far as she was concerned, but simplicity itself to use, Fräulein Metzinger had assured her.
Erika — they were on first-name terms now and addressing each other per du — was a great fan of photography. A great fan of the twentieth century, in fact. Indeed, she often touted the wonderful advances that society would make in the next generation: in science, labour practices, women’s rights. According to Erika, this inexpensive cardboard box camera with the comical name Brownie was another example of such progress. It took not photographs but what were, using the American vernacular, dubbed ‘snapshots’. Although no snob, Berthe could not help being irritated by the creeping Americanisms now current in her country and culture.
Which thoughts served only to take her mind off the difficult matter at hand.
She stood in front of the door of Room 205. It was the pigeon-hole for that room into which, several days before, the concierge had placed the handkerchief that Berthe had used as a ruse. The Baron would, she guessed, be a man of habit about such things — using the same hotel repeatedly and the same room, as well.
At least she hoped that was the case.
Berthe took a deep breath and then knocked on the door with her gloved hand. At first there was no response. She knocked again, a trifle louder this time. What if she were wrong? Would she have to knock on the door of every room in the Hotel Metropole?
She heard a stirring inside the room, the scratch of a chair being pushed back on parquet. In another instant the door opened, revealing the tall, thin visage of Baron Arthur von Suttner, who was dressed impeccably in morning coat, wing collar and tie. A tall man, he stooped in the doorway, his thinning reddish-blond hair neatly coiffed. His long waxed moustaches seemed to bristle as he looked at her with grey-green eyes that held both suspicion and disdain.
‘I thought you might be the chambermaid,’ he said.
‘Who is it, Uncle?’ a female voice inquired from within.
‘Good day, Baron,’ Berthe said. ‘I have come with urgent news for you. May I come in?’
‘This is rather irregular,’ he said, clearly not knowing what to make of Berthe. ‘Who are you, young lady? And why have you come to our room?’
Berthe heard the squeak of wheels coming from around the corner of the corridor. The chambermaid was clearly about her work. Berthe did not want to complicate matters with her presence.
‘All will be revealed,’ she said. ‘I bring vital urgent news for you.’
‘Is it Frau von Suttner? Has something happened to my wife?’
‘Allow me to come in, and I will share what I know with you.’
She did not wait for a response, but simply bustled in past the astonished baron.
‘It is as we suspected,’ Gross said, slapping down a sheaf of papers on Werthen’s desk. ‘The Marsh test was positive. Von Ebersdorf died of arsenic poisoning, not bad shellfish.’
‘In all of this one thing is clear, at least. We are talking about murder.’
‘Three murders,’ Gross added, taking a seat opposite Werthen.
‘But of widely different modus operandi.’
‘Ah, Werthen, you take a page out of my book on criminal investigation. Every deed is an outcome of the character of the doer. I hope I quote myself correctly.’
‘I am sure you do, Gross.’
‘But you recall, also from that book, my theory of the staged crime scene? In some cases the perpetrator wishes to confuse the investigators by purposely changing the evidence, adding clues that lead nowhere.’
‘So von Ebersdorf’s killer and that of Mitzi and Fanny could be one and the same, but simply chose poison for the Count to throw off investigators.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Thus, we either have two killers or one,’ Werthen said. ‘The three murders are connected or, by the wildest improbability, a matter of coincidence.’
‘We continue to knock our heads against the wall of coincidence. We must also remember, however, that even if the crimes are linked, they may not be connected.’
‘You might just as well be spouting haiku now, Gross.’
‘A convergence despite different motives.’
‘Franz Ferdinand implied that the Intelligence Bureau of the General Staff could have had a hand in von Ebersdorf’s death.’
‘In fact the Archduke has been as good as his word, now it has been established that it was murder. He has dispatched the long-suffering Duncan to take up guard across the street from this office. I saw him upon entering.’