But he slipped past Werthen without further comment.
They watched him leave the café. There was nothing they could do to stop him.
‘That went well,’ Gross said, stirring his half-empty cup of coffee.
It took them over ninety minutes to be allowed in for an audience. By that time, Gross’s stomach was beginning to make rather disturbing sounds.
‘The man treats us like we’re his employees,’ complained the ravenous criminologist.
‘We are, Gross.’
‘Never,’ he said with a degree of passion uncommon for him before his first glass of Vetliner. ‘We. . Well, at least you, are a private inquiry agent. A free-lance in the most literal and knightly sense of the word. We choose what cases to investigate.’
‘Do we earn money by so doing?’
‘Hardly the point.’
But Werthen would not let him off. ‘It is the point. We are paid for our services, sometimes quite handsomely. I would call that a form of employment.’
‘And ergo, Franz Ferdinand is the boss and can keep his underlings waiting.’
At which point the Archduke himself came bustling into the antechamber, right hand outstretched, a concerned expression on his face.
‘My dear sirs,’ he said as he got to them, and shook first one hand and then the other. ‘They have just told me you were waiting. I do beg your pardon.’
At which comment, Gross shot Werthen a self-satisfied look.
Franz Ferdinand cast a glance at an ormolu clock resting on the marble mantle of the room’s one fireplace.
‘You two have been waiting right through lunch. You must be famished.’
Werthen was about to voice a polite denial when Gross jumped in.
‘I am hungry enough to eat the nether parts of a skunk, if you must know, your Highness.’
Franz Ferdinand let out a quite unmanly giggle at this comment. Werthen felt his own face reddening: Gross had to be light-headed from lack of nutrition to use such language in front of the Archduke.
‘Well, we shall have to do something about that, shan’t we? Cook came up with a very passable venison ragout for lunch. I wouldn’t doubt there is a bite or two left.’
‘That would be heavenly, your Highness,’ Gross told him.
The Archduke tugged on the brocade pull by the fireplace, and a liveried servant appeared instantly, as if popping out of a rabbit hole. Franz Ferdinand gave orders brusquely, and the man hastened off.
‘You can dine in my office, gentlemen. I assume you have news for me?’
He did not wait for an answer, but set off with a rapid clacking of boots on the parquet, out of the anteroom and down a long sun-filled corridor whose one wall was covered with oil paintings marking the high points of Habsburg history. On the other side of the corridor, a bank of tall windows gave out on to the magnificent gardens below, with Vienna in the distance, the spires of the churches the highest man-made structures visible. It was a scene that filled Werthen with a quiet pride in his city of residence, that made him want to explore its quiet squares and little-known lanes. They were in the Upper Belvedere today, the higher of the two palaces in these splendid grounds, the summer palace, as it was called. Franz Ferdinand maintained his shadow government in the Lower Belvedere, but in the warmer months would repair to the airier upper palace for relaxation.
They both had to hurry to keep up with the Archduke as he made his way along the corridor and around to the side of the palace, to a suite of rooms that seemed large enough to hold a court ball. Of this opulent space — its walls bearing tapestries and enormous oil paintings in the Makart style — the Archduke appeared to be using one small corner, which contained a modest desk and a comfortable-looking leather chair.
No sooner did they arrive in the room than a scurry of servants appeared carrying chairs, small side tables, and table settings for Werthen and Gross. These they set up near the Archduke’s desk with all the expertise of stagehands at the Burgtheater.
Then came another bevy of servants carrying silver-domed chafing dishes, which, when their lids were opened, gave off a rich aroma that set Werthen’s salivary glands on alert.
‘Please eat,’ Franz Ferdinand said. ‘And then we will talk. I have a telegram to send to the Kaiser, but shall return presently.’
Neither Werthen nor Gross waited for further invitations, but tucked into the fare with gusto. The cook had paired the venison with an excellent vintage Côtes du Rhône Villages. Werthen would have taken the Archduke for an Austria-first sort, serving at his table perhaps a Blauburgunder from the Esterházy estates or from the countryside around Eisenstadt to the east of Vienna; he was happy, however, for Franz Ferdinand’s lack of nationalistic chauvinism in this regard.
They were just finishing their repast when Franz Ferdinand returned, a serious expression on his face. Werthen wondered what he and the German Kaiser had been communicating about.
‘Bad news, your Highness?’ Gross said, never one to let protocol get in the way of his native curiosity.
Franz Ferdinand looked as if he was about to upbraid the crim-inologist for his effrontery. But then, squinting first at Gross and then at Werthen, he seemed to think better of it.
‘Alarming news, perhaps. But not from the Kaiser. I just received a dispatch from a man we have in St Petersburg. He talks of rumors of a double agent in Vienna. Someone at the Bureau in the employ of the Russians.’
There was silence for a moment, and then the Archduke shrugged. ‘Rumors. They come cheap.’ He smiled, looking suddenly more relaxed as if the mere act of sharing this piece of information had unburdened him.
‘So, gentlemen,’ he said, sinking into his leather chair, ‘what wonderful news do you have for me?’
‘There have been developments, your Highness,’ Gross said, taking the lead. ‘You have of course received the autopsy report?’
Franz Ferdinand nodded.
‘We may, in fact, have a suspect,’ Gross said.
The Archduke sat up in his chair. ‘Who?’
Werthen knew it was silly to try to withhold the name of the suspect from the Archduke. After all, although he had not actually seen him, Werthen was certain that Duncan had been dogging them every step of the way that morning and would know exactly who they had been talking to. Nor was there reason to withhold the name from their ‘employer’. He therefore explained about Siegfried Mutzenbacher, and how Gross had discovered that he was among the extra staff brought in for the von Ebersdorf banquet. He also told the Archduke about the interview they had had with Siegfried that morning.
‘But why him?’ Franz Ferdinand asked. ‘What motive would he have?’
Werthen had given this some thought. ‘I assume it had something to do with the death of Fräulein Mitzi, the young prostitute Count von Ebersdorf was frequenting.’
‘Not jealousy, surely?’ the Archduke said.
‘He was close to her, that I know,’ Werthen began. ‘How close-’
Gross interjected, ‘Jealousy would hardly seem to be the motive, seeing that the Count was killed after the death of the young woman.’
‘Could he have imagined the Count was somehow responsible for the girl’s death?’ Franz Ferdinand said.
‘That is one possibility,’ Werthen allowed. ‘Herr Mutzenbacher is not being forthcoming. We may have to turn this over to the police now.’
Another nod from Franz Ferdinand. ‘Your decision.’
‘We would of course continue our private investigation on your behalf,’ Gross said. ‘If that is your wish.’
‘Please,’ the Archduke said. ‘It would seem that my fears about Joachim may have been unfounded. His death seems to have had nothing to do with rivalries in the intelligence services, but rather with a tawdry domestic matter.’
‘As I said,’ Werthen replied, ‘that is one possibility. And it would seem, a very strong one. But we ought to pursue other possibilities, as well.’