‘Then what is this meet about?’ Schmidt demanded.
Forstl reached into the inside pocket of his linen jacket and took out an envelope. Opening it, he pulled out a sheet of blue flimsy and handed it to Schmidt.
As Schmidt read the report, Forstl looked behind him out of the window to the statue of the Empress Maria Theresa in the little square below. More children were milling about its base, gazing up at the first female ruler of Austria. One child in tie and short pants traced the letters of the etched inscription on the base with a forefinger.
‘So there was a blown operation,’ Schmidt said, handing back the report. ‘Who is this von Suttner anyway? And why should we care?’
‘We should care because it is von Krahlich’s project. He handed it to me several months ago after hearing rumors of the husband’s dalliances with his niece. Apparently the wife, Bertha von Suttner, is influential among international pacifists. “Traitors” von Krahlich calls them.’
‘So the love birds are caught in flagrante and this evidence is presented to the wife with an ultimatum — tone down the rhetoric or we make this public.’
‘Along those lines,’ Forstl said. ‘But, as you see from my agent’s report, the operation came to nothing. Just as he was about to spring the trap and confront Baron von Suttner and his niece in their room at the Hotel Metropole, my agent discovered that his chief witness, the concierge, was no longer there. Indeed, according to the agent, the whole affair had been covered up as a scheme to present the Baroness von Suttner with a birthday present of a portrait of her niece.’
Forstl pulled out a pair of photos from the same envelope, and handed one to Schmidt. It showed a tall, handsome woman — not pretty, but handsome — dressed in a rather unconventional loose-fitting dress. None of the wasp waist that most women of a certain station wore, nor the high-collared look preferred for daytime. Forstl thought the material was muslin, but tailored so that it clung to the body rather than ballooning out with bustles and hoops. She was standing in front of a bakery, eying the goods, a little girl standing at her side, dressed in a sailor suit, her podgy hand gripping her mother’s.
‘The woman in this photo, Berthe Meisner, was spotted at the Metropole twice. The second time my agent trailed her to her home. He avers that it was she who ruined the operation, who somehow convinced the lovers of the portrait ruse — that they were only in a Viennese hotel room to secretly have the niece’s portrait painted for the Suttner woman’s birthday.’
He now handed over the second photo, this one of a man, also tall in stature, caught mid-stride as he was walking along a city sidewalk, his long legs a blur of motion. Forstl thought he had seen this person before; there was something about the loose smile, the self-assured movement, the eyes that seemed to fix on and bore into whatever he scanned. A pleasant face, he thought. An intelligent one.
‘This is the woman’s husband-’
‘Advokat Karl Werthen,’ said Schmidt, taking Forstl by surprise.
‘How do you know that?’
Schmidt quickly explained that he had seen the Advokat and an older man confront Siegfried Mutzenbacher, and had then followed them to Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s headquarters at the Belvedere.
‘You are becoming a costly asset,’ Schmidt muttered, reflecting on how many deaths Forstl had already caused in order to protect his role as a Russian agent.
‘How so?’
‘I think these men are in the employ of the Archduke. Werthen isn’t just a lawyer. He runs a private-inquiries firm that has handled several high-profile cases. I did a bit of homework on him in back issues of Neue Freie Presse. And his colleague is the eminent criminologist Hanns Gross.’
‘Never heard of either of them,’ Forstl said.
‘That may be so, but my fear is they may soon hear of you.’
Forstl shook his head, not understanding.
‘Triangulation, my friend. Simple triangulation. They already have two leads that could be traced back to your office — the Bower and this absurd action at the Hotel Metropole. One more lead, one more shoe to drop, and they should be able to fix you, as if in the sights of a rifle.’
Forstl suddenly stood up, straightening the crease in his trousers.
‘Well then,’ he said. ‘I assume you know your next assignment. If our friends in St Petersburg want certain documents and care for a mutually beneficial long-term working relationship, then you should proceed quickly and take care of this threat.’
‘A large “if ”, Captain Forstl. We shall see.’
‘And I need no further mementoes. Is that clear?’
Forstl did not wait for an answer, but turned and made his way through the throngs of schoolchildren to the exit.
Schmidt did not follow. He sat on the bench thinking for some minutes, and then got up and went back to the Lepidoptera cabinets. He had paid his one-crown entry fee; he would enjoy the arthropod collection.
TWENTY-SIX
They made no progress on the matter for the next several days. Gross, however, was in a fine mood, delighted at the collection of larvae and insects he had gathered from the corpse of Herr Schnitzel.
Werthen and his family spent the weekend at the farmhouse in Laab im Walde. The weather was fine, and he was now able to see the green fuzz of the tennis lawn. Despite his complete neglect, the seeds had taken root and formed a large rectangle of delicate new pale green amid the profusion of tall grasses and wild flowers.
Frieda accompanied him and was now busily running her hand over the new grass.
‘Sof,’ she said.
‘Yes, it is nice and soft, isn’t it?’ Werthen leaned over and ran his hand over the new shoots; they tickled his palm.
‘Pwetty.’
He beamed at her. ‘Not as pretty as you, though.’
She grabbed his leg, her grip surprisingly strong, and buried her little head in the folds of his corduroy breeches.
‘Does it embarrass you to be told you’re pretty?’
She lifted her head, peering up at him.
‘Because you are going to spend a lot of time being embarrassed. You’re a beautiful little girl, just like your mother.’
‘Just like her mother how?’ Berthe said as she approached them. ‘Look at that! It has sprouted.’
‘It certainly has,’ Werthen agreed. ‘Maybe we should continue to ignore it. It seems to like low maintenance.’
‘Why do I get the feeling we are going to have a grass court?’
‘Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing, after all. Exercise would do us all good.’
They returned late Sunday night to find a telegram from Gross requesting that they meet first thing in the morning at Werthen’s office. The criminalist was his usual pedantic self, even in the abbreviated language of the telegram, demanding that they meet at eight sharp, and that Berthe accompany him.
‘Whatever is he up to?’ she said as they climbed into bed that night.
‘One of his unveilings. I assume he has discovered some evidence and wants to present it in dramatic form.’
In the morning they left Frieda with Frau Blatschky and walked to the Habsburgergasse. It was one of those clear, warm mornings that made Werthen happy he lived in the city. Everything seemed alive and vibrant; as they passed through the Volksgarten, they saw a dog slip its leash and run after a family of ducks. The dog’s owner, a well-dressed matron in her fifties, could only stand and clap her hands at her disobedient long-haired dachshund. The ducks escaped unharmed and a constabulary officer was able to regain control of the dog and keep it from further pranks.
‘Better to have a child than a dog,’ Werthen said, taking his wife’s hand. ‘No leashes.’
‘Wait until suitors start knocking at the door,’ she said, squeezing his hand as they walked.
By the time they arrived at the Habsburgergasse, the nearby businesses had already opened their shutters. The first gladioli were displayed in buckets on the street in front of Nestor’s; a rack of used books in uniform leather binding stood in front of Waltrum’s.