‘Wonderful. I’ll look at the papers, then.’
‘Sorry to be so curt,’ she said as he was about to walk into his inner office. ‘I feel rather abashed at being caught out.’
‘At what?’
She swept her hand at the typewriter and the stack of letters next to it.
‘This is not office work.’
‘Ah,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘You really do not need to explain, Fräulein Metzinger.’
‘It is for the cause.’
‘I assumed so. You do more than your share here. The Herbst codicil, for example.’
‘Still, it is perhaps not right.’
She was waiting, he knew, for his approval. ‘It is a noble cause,’ he said.
‘The keeper of hands. .’
‘I beg your pardon?’
She shook her head in disgust, looking at the paper in the carriage of her typewriter.
‘That is what they call the Belgian officer in charge of keeping the cut-off hands of natives deemed too indolent at gathering rubber.’
‘Why ever would they do that?’
‘Cut off their hands? As punishment, of course. King Leopold must have his slaves industrious at all costs.’
‘I meant keep the hands. Collect them like that.’
She sighed. ‘Those in charge of discipline make their living by keeping track of punishments. So many crowns for each hand.’
He felt a shiver pass over him.
‘Of course they take the hands of those who have done no wrong, as well. They must make a living, you see. It’s all been documented in Mary Kingsley’s book on Africa and by the reporting of Edward Morel. Even in the novel of that Pole, Conrad.’
‘British now, actually,’ Werthen said. ‘The Heart of Darkness.’ Werthen had read it in the English original, in instalments in Blackwood’s Magazine, and found it a powerful indictment of the horrors being perpetrated in Africa.
‘But people do not listen. Letters need to be sent to those with power and conscience all over the world, in order to end this savagery in the Congo Free State.’
Werthen swallowed hard. ‘It is a noble cause, Fräulein Metzinger. Keep up the good work. Spread the word.’
But she had already gone back to a furious clacking of keys, quite ignoring him. It had been like this ever since she lost the street urchin whom she had hoped to adopt, a tragedy that set her to fighting for noble causes wherever they might be, from pacifist campaigns to ones against European barbarism in the Congo.
In his office, he sat down at his desk, looking forward to the morning edition of the Neue Freie Presse. As per arrangement, Frau Ignatz’s younger brother Oskar should have already delivered the paper, but there was nothing on his desk. Oskar was slow — some would say disadvantaged mentally — but dependable. It surprised Werthen that the man had failed in his duties today. He was about to go and inquire about it with Fräulein Metzinger when he heard a commotion from that direction. There was a low mumbling and a higher voice. Surely that of Frau Ignatz? An argument seemed to be ensuing.
Poking his head out of his office, he saw his secretary, Frau Ignatz and Oskar in a tug of war over the Neue Freie Presse. Frau Ignatz saw Werthen and sighed.
‘There you are, Advokat. Will you please tell this stubborn man to hand over the paper and go back to bed? He has a temperature of a hundred and two.’
Looking at Oskar, Werthen saw that he was as pale as Semmel dough.
‘It’s my duty,’ Oskar countered, his usual booming voice a weak imitation.
‘I heartily agree with the ladies, Herr Oskar,’ Werthen said, approaching the stand-off. ‘I much admire your sense of duty, but you clearly belong in bed.’
He took the newspaper out of the man’s sweaty hand, clapped him on the back, and announced, ‘Back to bed with you. Have you seen a doctor?’
Frau Ignatz snorted at this suggestion. ‘Oskar won’t let the white coats near him. Had a bad fright with one when he was a child.’
‘Well, Oskar, you’re in luck. My friend Doktor Kramer wears a dark coat and knows more about stamps than anyone I know.’ This was Oskar’s passion, and it drew an instant response.
‘He’d know about the Basel Dove? First time they made a three-colour stamp.’
‘Absolutely,’ Werthen said. ‘Now let your sister put you back to bed. And Fräulein Metzinger, could you call Kramer’s office and see if he can pay a visit?’
She nodded, and reached for the telephone even as Werthen was returning to his own office with his prized, but somewhat battered, newspaper.
Werthen spent the better part of an hour perusing the paper. He skimmed over the lead article on Hungary — yet another question about that unwilling partner in the Austro-Hungarian empire. Then read a feuilleton from Pretoria on the war in South Africa, and finally settled into the sports news dealing with the Traber Derby. It seemed much the saner choice, but there was no safe ground today. Details of the Derby simply reminded him of his father, Emile, and his plans to create his own estate in the Vienna Woods with an equestrian area.
Werthen wanted to feel more kindly towards his father, but found it a difficult task.
Looking at the standard clock on the wall in front of him, he saw that he had managed to squander the better part of an hour. He grabbed his Homburg and left. In the reception, Fräulein Metzinger was still at her pile of letters. She did not notice his departure.
The establishment in question, the Bower, was located in a narrow lane in the First District near the Danube Canal. A narrow three-story baroque building, its exterior could have been that of a fashionable men’s club — for, compared to its bleak and dour neighbors, the façade of the Bower was newly repainted in a shade of buttery gold several tones lighter than the Habsburg yellow of Schönbrunn that continued to infect the imperial world. Multi-colored putti frolicked about the heavily shuttered street-level and second-floor windows that housed Frau Mutzenbacher’s establishment. It was clear the brothel was closed, but Salten had told him to simply ring at the front door. He would be expected. He let himself in through the street door and, as Werthen went to the door of the Bower in the vestibule, he heard a tssking of tongue: descending the stairs was an elderly woman about her shopping, reminding him that the third floor was still given over to apartments. She was not too busy to scold him for illicit behavior.
He read the small brass plaque on the door to ensure he was at the right place, pulled the bell, heard it jangle behind the oak doors, and was soon greeted by a man of about forty in suspenders and shirt collar. He looked as if he could use a shave.
‘You’ll be the investigator, then,’ he said.
Werthen had no chance to reply. The man turned and began heading down a long, darkened hallway. Werthen stood uncertainly at the door.
The man turned and waved to him. ‘Come on. She’s expecting you.’
Entering the hall, Werthen was struck by the heavy blend of aromas: cigar smoke, talcum powder and, from deeper inside, the smell of fried food. He followed the man down the long hallway with some difficulty. The world outside was iridescent in the spring light; here, inside the Bower, it was eternal night.
Finally they came to a door at the end of the hall. The man tapped gently and from inside a voice mumbled something. Werthen could not make out what was said. The man turned the knob, opened the door, and gestured Werthen inside with the wave of a hand.
‘In you go.’
Werthen found himself still in the gloaming; he could barely discern a figure sitting in an armchair at the far end of the room.
‘You may be seated on the divan,’ this figure — a woman by the tone of the voice — said.
Werthen did as he was bid. The divan was across the room from the woman.
‘Frau Mutzenbacher, I presume?’
‘Is this Salten’s idea of a clever detective?’
Werthen felt himself stiffen at the jeer. ‘May we have some light?’