‘Cynical,’ the journalist allowed, ‘but accurate. The two are not incompatible.’
‘Then I am to assume,’ Werthen said, ‘that Steinwitz was opposed to such policies.’
Kraus swept his hand magnanimously in front of him. ‘Assume away, Advokat. My minions inside the Rathaus tell me that of late there was no love lost between Steinwitz and Lueger. In fact, things were quite frosty between them. Steinwitz felt that Lueger had abandoned all his old principles in a mad rush for power. Old friendships turning sour. One never knows where that might lead.’
‘And who were the man’s supporters at City Hall?’ Gross inquired.
‘You mean who might have been close enough to seek revenge on the journalist who drove Steinwitz to suicide? I assume you are ultimately investigating the death of the unfortunate Henricus Praetor?’
Thus spoken, the theory seemed absurd even to Werthen, who had proposed it in the first place.
‘Yes to both your queries,’ responded Gross with conviction.
‘Off hand, I can think of more colleagues who might have been happy to see Steinwitz dead. However, he had one quasi-supporter in the inner circle. Councilman Hermann Bielohlawek.’
The name was familiar to Werthen. A Christian Social city councilman, Bielohlawek was an ur-philistine, infamous for his reaction to a Jewish Social Democrat member who wanted to introduce a book into evidence in debate. Werthen well remembered Bielohlawek’s response: Another book! I’ll puke!
Kraus nodded at the look of wonder on Werthen’s face. ‘Yes, that Bielohlawek. I strongly doubt, however, that he would avenge Steinwitz’s death. Theirs was a profoundly political alliance. Friendship did not enter into it. Bielohlawek likes to keep a foot in both camps. Other than that, rumor has it that Steinwitz had a wide circle of special friends.’
‘Special?’ Werthen said.
‘Rumor only. I do not like to speculate further.’
But by the wry smile on Kraus’s face, Werthen could see that he was pleased to have piqued their interest in this way.
‘Any possible avenging angels among them?’ Gross asked.
‘Not the dueling sort. And now, gentlemen, if you will forgive me. I have an edition to prepare for the printers.’
Ten
Well, what do you make of that?’ Gross sputtered as they regained the sidewalk.
‘Kraus enjoys his little games,’ Werthen said. ‘“Special” could mean anything from a sweet young thing to a bookmaker. For now, though, that seems a moot point.’
‘Agreed,’ Gross said, picking up his pace. ‘We need to get on with this or I won’t have enough time to dress properly for dinner.’
Werthen made no comment, but was momentarily irritated by Gross’s egocentricity.
‘Yes, I know,’ Gross said. ‘I am a self-centered old beast, but there it is. I cannot change. Nor would you want me to, eh, Werthen?’
‘Well. .’
‘Thought not. Where to first? The Rathaus or Herr Doktor Praetor?’
‘There is also Frau Steinwitz, the widow, to consider. She should be aware of her husband’s friends.’
‘Even the special ones?’ Gross asked.
‘Point taken.’
‘So, as we are close by, why not storm the battlements of City Hall?’
They both walked briskly now, not out of urgency, but out of a desire to keep warm. A biting wind had come up, bringing the smell of snow from the Puszta, the great flat plains of Hungary to the east. For no good reason, the words of the statesman, Prince Metternich, sounded in Werthen’s mind: Asia begins at the Landstrasse.
And indeed, Vienna was infused with an undercurrent of Byzantine protocol and corruption. Werthen wondered just how high such corruption reached in the corridors of City Hall.
In the foyer of that august building they were greeted by a bulky fellow at the main information desk. He looked as if he might have been a staff sergeant earlier in his life. Gross and Werthen had decided on the direct approach, and informed the man that they were private inquiry agents looking into the death of Councilman Steinwitz. They desired an audience with Councilman Hermann Bielohlawek if possible.
The man at the desk looked at them gruffly for a moment, and Werthen thought he may not have heard him properly. Before Werthen could speak again, however, the ex-sergeant picked up the handset of a recently installed inter-office telephone, told the in-house operator who he wished to be connected with, and then, after the few moments it took to direct the call, repeated into the mouthpiece their request for an interview. Werthen could hear the hollow, tinny sound of the voice on the other end, but could not make out what was said.
‘The councilman is happily available for a short meeting,’ the man said, setting the handset back into its cradle.
So much for having to storm the battlements.
They were directed to the top floor of offices, and began climbing the broad stairway, their heels and Werthen’s walking stick echoing in the vast space. Werthen had had many occasions to visit the City Hall as a lawyer in wills and trusts, but he was still awed by the sheer size of it, boasting over fifteen hundred rooms, two thousand windows, and a Festsaal, a festival or ceremonial hall, that was over seventy meters long and twenty wide, spanning two stories in height. Large enough for the royal Lipizzaner stallions to romp about in, performing a levade here, a capriole there.
Like other official buildings along the Ringstrasse, the Rathauswas a stone-hewed symbol. Built during the heyday of the liberals in the 1870s, the building was meant to stand for the rise of democratic, or at least quasi-representative government after centuries of absolutist rule by the Habsburgs. The competition for its design had been won by the German architect Friedrich von Schmidt, who created an imposing neo-Gothic edifice, reminiscent of the old Flemish and northern German town halls. Such a style was meant to symbolize the medieval roots of the city when Vienna was a free commune. Werthen doubted any of those old town halls were quite so extravagant as this modern embellishment on the style.
They reached Bielohlawek’s office after ten minutes of fairly arduous stairs. Workmen were busy at the door as they approached the corner office. It seemed that it necessitated three of the workers to install a small bronze plaque over the lintel with Bielohlawek’s name. Werthen glanced at the one recently removed and now lodged in a tin refuse pail. It bore the name of Councilman Steinwitz.
Bielohlawek, it appeared, was coming up in the world, not only taking over the coveted office of the deceased councilman, but also, most likely, Steinwitz’s position as personal aide to Lueger.
Werthen and Gross made their way around these workmen, and Werthen used the brass globe of his walking stick to knock on the closed door. An instant later they received a basso command to enter. The workmen now doffed their hats at the gentleman as they entered through the door.
Bielohlawek, dressed in a dark three-piece suit and stand-up collar, was seated at the desk formerly occupied by Steinwitz. Or had they got rid of that piece of furniture? Werthen wondered. After all, the councilman had killed himself while seated at it. One did not have to be overly squeamish to wriggle at that thought, though Bielohlawek did not look the sort to be easily upset. He had a street fighter’s face with deep-set eyes, brown hair cut short and bristling like a hedgehog, long, tapering sideburns, and a moustache curled up at the ends. His jaw line was camouflaged partly by premature jowls, but still Werthen could see that it was jutting and strong.
Much of the parquet floor beneath their feet was covered by what appeared to Werthen to be a Ushak medallion carpet of a delicate ochre hue.