They waited for him on the street. Werthen was familiar with Siegfried’s daily schedule now, which included mid-morning shopping. They had no desire to beard the man inside the Bower, where his sister could be his protector.
It was 10:23 when Siegfried came out, blinking in the strong sunlight, an incongruous-looking shopping basket in each of his large hands. They let him leave the precincts of the Bower, following a full block behind him. Siegfried made his way slowly through the lanes away from the Danube Canal (which far too many visitors to the city mistook for the Danube itself), looking into the window of a vegetable shop here, a bakery there. When he had gone just beyond the cathedral of Stephansdom, they decided it was time to overtake him. He was again staring into the window of a bakery and, as they approached, Werthen could see that Siegfried was appreciating a display of freshly baked poppy-seed tarts arranged appealingly in linen-lined baskets. Werthen and Gross stood on each side of him, ostensibly admiring the display. He suddenly focused on their reflection and jerked to attention, suspicion in his eyes.
‘Advokat Werthen. Odd meeting you like this.’
‘Fine day for a walk,’ Werthen said by way of reply. ‘You haven’t met my colleague, Doktor Gross.’
‘Good day to you,’ Gross said, nodding his head, his forefinger and thumb to the front brim of his bowler hat.
Siegfried said nothing, just squinted at Gross. There was towel lint, Werthen noticed, caught in the stubble just below his left ear. He had washed, but not shaved.
‘I have to do my shopping,’ Siegfried said, about to move off.
‘I think it might be wise to talk with us first.’
‘I’ve got nothing to talk to you about. You don’t work for us anymore.’
‘I either talk to you first or go directly to the police,’ Werthen said.
Siegfried shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fine. Go talk to them, then. They were friends, both of them, Fräulein Mitzi and Fanny. I’ve told you all I know.’
‘Actually,’ Gross said, his voice assuming the rich sonority it took on when giving evidence in court, ‘it was in reference to a different matter. The death of Count von Ebersdorf.’
‘Der Alte? My sister already explained why we said we didn’t recognize the sketch. We protect the anonymity of our more esteemed clientele. I only saw him now and again at the Bower. They say he died of food poisoning.’
‘He was not so old,’ Gross said. ‘And he didn’t die because of bad shellfish.’
Siegfried began to lose his aggressive demeanor, chewing on the inside of his mouth and assessing the situation.
‘A cup of coffee might be in order,’ Werthen said. ‘Don’t you think so, Siegfried?’
He made no reply, but followed them as Werthen made his way to Himmelpfortgasse and his usual coffee-house, the Café Frauenhuber. Herr Otto, who was on duty, bade them a hearty good day.
‘It’s been too long since we’ve seen you, Advokat.’
To which Werthen smiled and said, ‘Perhaps a corner table, Herr Otto? A bit of privacy.’
‘But of course.’ The headwaiter led them through a maze of marble-topped tables, around Thonet chairs and red-velvet benches to a banquette in the deepest corner of the establishment. A student had spread out his papers on the table, but Otto efficiently and politely informed the young man that the table was reserved, and would it not please the young gentleman to take the fine table nearer the window where the light was better?
The young gentleman was not overjoyed at the suggestion until Otto offered him a refill of his mocha.
Werthen had once proved the headwaiter innocent of petty theft at another establishment and had won the man’s allegiance for ever. A handy thing in Vienna, the loyalty of the Herr Ober at a coffee-house.
Siegfried had watched the affair with interest. ‘So that’s the way you folks make your way in the world, is it?’ he said after Otto had brought their drinks and left again.
‘Not much different from how you folks make your way,’ Gross rebutted. ‘Connections, connections. They bind the world.’
They sat, Siegfried between them. His momentary silence had allowed him to regain some of his old bluster.
‘So, what’s this all about, then?’
‘You had no contact with von Ebersdorf?’ Werthen asked.
‘He was a client. We were hardly pals.’
‘He was Fräulein Mitzi’s regular.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Did she ever talk about him?’
‘What was there to talk about? It was a business matter, not love.’
‘You’re certain of that?’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘The truth, for starters,’ Gross interjected. ‘You see, we have come across a bit of interesting information. It seems you were among the temporary help at the Hotel Excelsior the day of the banquet at which von Ebersdorf died.’
‘So? I help out there a lot. I have dreams, you know. Ambitions. I don’t always want to be herding women around the Bower. I want to become a chef some day. I learn on the job.’
‘I would not put that particular day on your résumé, if I were you,’ Gross said. ‘Poison is hardly among the accepted culinary ingredients.’
‘It was the shellfish. They all said so. Besides, I was just the sous-chef that day. One of several. What? Is the great Chef Marcel trying to shift the blame? He chose the shellfish.’
‘Peculiar that nobody else was taken ill, don’t you think?’ Werthen asked.
‘I didn’t get paid to think. I just got the ingredients ready.’
‘It was the fact that only Count von Ebersdorf was affected by the tainted shellfish that made me curious,’ Gross said.
Siegfried looked back and forth between them, his eyes narrowing to slits, his incisors working the inside of his mouth again.
‘What are you two getting at?’
‘Count von Ebersdorf didn’t die of food poisoning,’ Gross said.
‘Yes he did. They said so in the papers.’
‘No. I rather think the man was poisoned by some enemy who was present at the hotel restaurant. Who had access to his food?’
‘The man’s in the ground. Pretty hard to prove that now.’
‘Well, actually, Herr Mutzenbacher,’ Gross began, ‘that is not accurate. Last I saw of the poor man, he was on an autopsy table at the General Hospital.’
‘That’s impossible. I read about his funeral. It was weeks ago now.’
‘Yes, to be sure.’
Werthen could see that Gross was toying with Siegfried now. Not exactly a cat with a mouse, but toying nonetheless. Hoping the man would panic, get flustered, offer up a tacit confession.
Siegfried must have felt this too, for suddenly it was as if a curtain were drawn over his face. He shut down, let his eyes go blank, said nothing.
‘In point of fact,’ Gross continued, ‘the body was exhumed. Aren’t you interested in knowing what we discovered?’
Siegfried made no reply.
‘Poison,’ Gross said. ‘Arsenic poison. That was the cause of death. Whoever killed von Ebersdorf was clever enough to know that arsenic can mimic the effects of food poisoning, but was not clever enough to know that arsenic remains in the body for a very long time post mortem.’
There was continued silence from Siegfried.
‘Talk with us or we go to the police with this information,’ Werthen reminded him.
Still nothing. Then, after another instant, Siegfried suddenly stood.
‘I have to be going now, gentlemen. Shopping to do. Hungry girls to feed at lunch.’
‘If you are innocent, it is far better for you to talk to us now. Clear up any misunderstandings.’
He said nothing, picking up his empty baskets and waiting for Werthen to move off the red-velvet bench and allow him to leave.
‘It’s only a matter of time, you know,’ Werthen said to him as he passed. ‘So many working in the kitchen that day. Someone is sure to remember something. Seeing somebody tamper with the food, or mark a plate as being specially for von Ebersdorf. Some pharmacist is going to remember the person who purchased arsenic for poisoning vermin.’