‘So that is how the thing began,’ Gross said, clucking his tongue in disgust that he had not figured it out before.
‘Yes,’ Schnitzler said, sighing again.
‘The Bower, you mean?’ Werthen said.
‘Of course he does,’ said Gross, with something like irritation in his voice. ‘It was the information that his former lover was now working as a prostitute and that her primary client. .’
‘Was von Ebersdorf,’ Werthen added. ‘And that could be used as a weapon in the power struggle between the Foreign Office and the Bureau.’
‘I thought someone at the Bureau might make use of such information, yes,’ Schnitzler said.
And now he looked almost in a panic. ‘But wait. You can’t think that had anything to do with her death can you?’
‘And I submit that you can’t imagine it did not,’ Gross thundered at him. Then taking a deep breath, the criminologist continued in a rather more subdued tone of voice. ‘After all, you put the girl in harm’s way by involving her in deadly games between competing services. Perhaps it was the Foreign Office that decided she was a threat. Or perhaps her own handler at the Bureau. Whatever it was that induced her to participate — money, blackmail — was no longer effective as an incentive. She left a note that von Ebersdorf had fallen in love with her, wanted to marry her even. But she knew too much, she could not be left to tell tales. Careers hung in the balance.’
‘And now who is playing the playwright?’ Schnitzler scoffed. ‘That is utter fantasy.’
Gross ignored this. ‘What is the name of your controller?’
‘Kohler. But that is not his real name. We both had operational names.’
‘How did you contact him? Telephone, mail?’
Schnitzler smirked at the suggestion. ‘Nothing quite so prosaic. No, meets were arranged by this.’ Schnitzler reached into a drawer of his desk and withdrew a battered kid leather glove of a delicate size. He laid it on the desk for them both to see.
‘Near the monument to Franz Grillparzer in the Volksgarten there is a stretch of wrought-iron fencing. If I required a meeting, I would place the glove on the third spearpoint finial from the left end.’
‘Your choice of location, I assume,’ Werthen said. ‘A fellow playwright, Grillparzer.’
Schnitzler smiled wanly. ‘I do not place myself at the same level, but yes. There was an element of homage in the choice of place. To passers-by it would appear simply to be a lost glove that someone had picked up off the ground and displayed in case the owner was searching for it. For Kohler, it meant that we would meet the following day at the usual time. He or one of his colleagues would check the park daily.’
‘Somewhat baroque, don’t you think?’ Gross muttered. ‘Why all the secrecy? After all, it is not as if you were trading in state secrets.’
‘Well, I have my position to protect. It would hardly do for everyone to know that the firebrand playwright Schnitzler was cosying up to the secret services.’
Werthen had the feeling Schnitzler had enjoyed all the secrecy, the playing at spy games; it had appealed to his dramatic nature.
‘One assumes your Herr Kohler returned the glove at each meeting,’ Gross said.
‘Correct.’
‘And you have not been in contact with him since?’
Schnitzler shook his head.
‘It must have failed to work then,’ Werthen said, looking hard at Schnitzler.
‘I don’t follow you,’ Schnitzler said.
‘Your attempt at ingratiating yourself with your former masters. No more contact.’
‘Well, I have not actually tried. After the attack, I thought-’
‘Quite,’ Gross interrupted. ‘But you were wrong. Now I want the glove put in place one more time.’
‘I have no need to meet with Kohler.’
‘I realize that, Herr Schnitzler. But you will give us the opportunity of seeing who this mysterious contact is.’
‘I couldn’t do that. What would I say?’
‘Nothing. You will not be there, but we will, in hiding. We will photograph him. That is all.’
‘But the glove. They’ll know it was me.’
‘That, Herr Schnitzler, is your lookout. You are a creative man. I’m sure you can come up with some story to explain your absence. But if you refuse, my colleague Werthen here might just feel tempted to take up his pen again. He is a literary gentleman, or did you not know? Yes, several fine short stories.’
It was news to Werthen that Gross had even an inkling of his writing efforts. But Werthen suddenly realized where this was going.
‘Quite right, Doktor Gross,’ Werthen said. ‘I am sure my friend Kraus would snap up a feuilleton on the espionage adventures of a certain unnamed playwright.’
Being no friend of Schnitzler and the other Jung Wien writers, Karl Kraus would happily publish an exposé in his journal, Die Fackel.
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Schnitzler said. ‘I would sue for defamation.’
‘But you won’t be named directly, Herr Schnitzler.’ Gross picked the glove up off the desk and put it in his pocket. ‘Now explain exactly where this fence is, and where and when you meet Herr Kohler.’
Out on the street again, Werthen had to squint in the fierce noon-time sun. Duncan was at the entrance to the apartment building where they had left him. Franz Ferdinand had put the man at their disposal, and Werthen for one was glad of it. He and Gross were both armed, but Duncan provided a real sense of security.
The Scot followed a couple of paces behind them as they made their way once again to the Ringstrasse.
‘That was a nice bluff you came up with, Gross.’
The criminologist took off his bowler as they walked, wiping the leather sweat-band with the handkerchief from his breast pocket. It was a warm day and Gross was dressed heavily for the season. Like many of his generation, he did not believe in lightweight summer suits, regarding them as frivolous.
‘What bluff would that be, Werthen?’
‘That I would place an article with Kraus exposing Schnitzler’s activities.’
Gross replaced the bowler on his nearly bald pate and fastidiously folded the handkerchief as they walked, carefully placing it back in his breast pocket with a couple of centimetres of white showing.
‘That was no bluff. If you wouldn’t see to it, I would. The man needs to take some responsibility for his actions.’
Schmidt followed them at a discreet distance, wary of the tall, gaunt protector. He was carrying both a gun and a long blade, but it was insanity to contemplate an outrage in the middle of the day on a busy city street. The failed attempt at the law office had been bad enough, sparking headlines about anarchists and a reprimand from St Petersburg. But Schmidt would dearly love to finish this. One way or the other.
He followed the three men as they went into the Volksgarten, watching the heavily built one, the criminologist Gross, place a white kid glove on the finial on the wrought-iron fencing.
He knew immediately what they were up to — summoning a controller. This was one of the oldest coded signs in the operation manuals. But what were they playing at? Whose controller? The logical deduction would be that it had directly to do with the playwright Schnitzler whom they had just visited. Schmidt considered it: a playwright would have easy access to international contacts. He could attend conferences abroad and openings of his plays without anyone batting an eyelid. Not a bad cover at all for a secret agent. But what could be the draw for one such as Arthur Schnitzler? Schmidt wondered.
Since making that mistake about names, Schmidt had studied Schnitzler, just as he had looked up Doktor Gross and Advokat Werthen in old editions of the Viennese newspapers. Schnitzler had recently caused something of a furore in Vienna with his play about a cowardly lieutenant, afraid even to challenge a baker to a duel. Not the best candidate for an agent, one would think, unless that play was in itself a form of cover.