‘You little vixen!’ he cried, attempting to untangle himself from the table legs and cloth.
But she was out the door of the breakfast room before he could stand; and then flew out of the hotel, running for the fiaker that Bertha had waiting at the corner.
As she leaped aboard, she discovered a strange emotion flooding her body and then heard an odd sound issuing from her own throat. She was laughing like a gurgling drainpipe.
EIGHTEEN
Werthen had to get some work done today on the von Königstein will. Cases were piling up with both him and Fräulein Metzinger otherwise occupied. This was a fairly straightforward matter — the addition of a codicil stating that if any son married outside the aristocracy, he would be excluded from participation in the proceeds of the said will. This codicil was, of course, directed at the eldest son, Waldemar, who was widely known to be infatuated with an operetta singer from the Carlstheater. Werthen had actually seen the young woman playing Zingra, the gypsy girl in Carl Michael Ziehrer’s new operetta from last spring, The Three Wishes. Charming as a singer she was, but then one assumed the von Königsteins did not want a girl who plays gypsies as the mother of their heirs.
Even as Werthen was thus engaged, part of his mind was still playing over Berthe’s latest request. On the whole, she had concocted an admirable plan for the von Suttner affair and had executed it almost perfectly. The ‘almost’ was reserved for the fact that violence had befallen Fräulein Metzinger. The man responsible needed a good thrashing, but that was not what Berthe was requesting. He would need to confer with Gross on her novel request to deal with the hotel concierge. It might put them further into debt vis-à-vis the Archduke. Gross needed a say in that. But all in all it seemed an appropriate solution.
He looked down at the half-finished codicil. He really must get this done. Focus, he counseled himself.
He was just finishing the codicil when Fräulein Metzinger — who was also devoting that day to the firm’s legal business — tapped on his office door.
Poking her head in, she announced, ‘A visitor, Herr Advokat.’
‘I thought we had no appointments this morning.’
She raised her eyebrows as if shrugging. ‘He doesn’t have an appointment, but says it is rather urgent. You saw him once before, I believe.’
‘Very well,’ Werthen said, putting the cap on his pen and blotting what he had written thus far.
A tall young man in a black cassock with a cincture or sash around the waist stood in the doorway. His fair hair was disheveled, as if caught in a strong breeze.
Werthen stood, immediately recognizing him. ‘Father Mickelsburg! How good to see you.’
It was a priest he had met on his previous case, tracking down the missing son of Karl Wittgenstein, the wealthy industrialist.
He moved around the desk to greet the priest, shaking his hand with real feeling.
‘Herr Advokat. You are looking well.’
They stood hand in hand for a long moment.
Finally Werthen directed the priest to a chair.
‘What brings you here, Father? Can’t be a will at your age.’
‘A good lawyer would recommend such a legal instrument for any age. One never knows when God will call.’
Werthen felt himself redden. The man was right, of course, but Werthen’s playful bonhomie seemed to have been lost on the priest. He credited Father Mickelsburg with a sense of irony, but wondered at his literalness.
‘In fact there are legal ramifications to my visit,’ the priest said. ‘I understand that you are investigating the death of a young woman named Waltraude Moos.’
Werthen looked at him blankly for a moment, then suddenly remembered the girl’s real name.
‘Ah yes, Fräulein Mitzi.’
Father Mickelsburg squinted at him.
‘Her name at, um, her place-’
‘Her professional name,’ Father Mickelsburg said perfunctorily. ‘There is no need for such prudishness with me, Herr Advokat. I seem to recall unburdening my soul to you last time we met. I am no stranger to the ways of the flesh, despite my cassock.’
‘Why is this of interest to you, Father?’ Werthen again felt the discomfort of addressing this younger man by such a title.
‘A certain friend is connected with these investigations. We were at seminary together.’
‘The girl’s uncle,’ Werthen said flatly, immediately making the connection. ‘Father Hieronymus.’
The priest nodded.
‘The man’s a cad.’
Father Mickelsburg did not respond for a moment. Then said, ‘A strong word, Advokat.’
‘He took advantage of his own niece. He may have even killed her to cover up his misdeeds. Such a description is hardly strong enough, in my book.’
Mickelsburg slowly shook his head.
‘You are the last one, I would think, who would want to cover up such practices,’ Werthen added, feeling real emotion, and realizing he was making the very mistake he counseled his wife Berthe against: becoming too emotionally involved with an investigation. But he could still see the mother in tears at that tidy little farm in the Weinviertel, still hear the words of denial of the father, unwilling to accept the reality of his loss.
‘Will you hear me out? Or are you now judge and jury in addition to private inquiry agent?’
There was the bite of irony he knew Father Mickelsburg to be capable of, and it brought him up short.
‘Sorry, Father. I have been much involved with this case of late. But there is something you should know. I no longer have any official standing. The client dispensed with my services.’
‘I see. But you sound as if you have not personally given up on the investigation. That you have more than a merely professional interest in the matter.’
‘Yes.’ Werthen said. ‘The girl was badly used from many quarters. I admit to a certain empathy.’
‘Have you discovered the person responsible?’
‘No. And as I say, I am no longer officially on the case. After the death of the second girl, the police have finally taken over.’
‘A second girl?’
‘Sorry. You wouldn’t know. I mean a second young woman from the same bordello, the Bower.’
‘A second murder. Then it couldn’t be Hieronymus, could it?’
‘Why not? Perhaps she was blackmailing him about the affair with his niece.’
‘Then you need to hear what I have to say. Will you do that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Not just listen to my words. I mean hear me with an open mind.’
Werthen wondered what kind of hold the corrupt Hieronymus could have over Father Mickelsburg. Nothing else could explain him coming to the aid of such a complete villain.
‘Father Hieronymus is one of the most virtuous men I have ever known.’ It was as if Father Mickelsburg were waiting for Werthen to protest. Greeted by silence, the priest continued. ‘As I said, we were at seminary together, and we became close friends. Intimates, but not in the way you are thinking. He was always the one to help others who could not do their duties, to aid those struggling, be it with theological concepts or with their own self-doubts. He very much wanted to be sent to Africa once he was ordained, but the Church wanted him here. He is the sort of shining light that the hierarchy wants in a public position. But Hieronymus campaigned for several years and finally was sent to the Belgian Congo. He lasted only a matter of months. He was badly wounded in an attempt on his life. Hieronymus said things from the pulpit about the rubber-plantation owners’ inhuman practices that they did not want to hear. He tried to expose the cruelty and hardship imposed on those workers, those poor children of God. He was brought back, badly wounded, and after recuperating was given a safe church where the bishops thought he could cause no trouble.’