‘What is it, Drechsler? This does not sound like you.’
The thin man’s face contorted momentarily, then he let out an immense sigh for one so narrow in the chest.
‘It’s the wife, Gross. She’s sick. Been so for weeks. Sorry. You’re right. I am not myself lately.’
‘What is it? She’s been to the doctor, of course.’
Drechsler ran a hand over his bony chin. ‘They say she needs an operation. But she’s dead set against it. Had an uncle who was operated on and died.’
‘But if the doctors say she needs it. .?’
‘Oh, she needs it all right. Women’s trouble. But you can’t budge her. Once Traude sets her mind on something, that’s an end of it.’
Gross had a bright idea. ‘You know Praetor’s father is a well-respected surgeon.’
‘There you go with Praetor again.’ But he calmed himself quickly, and shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t know.’
‘He is one of our clients in this affair.’
Drechsler did not reply to this.
‘Perhaps he could talk to your wife. Reassure her. Maybe even perform the operation himself.’
Drechsler said nothing for a time, merely stared at Gross.
Finally, ‘There’s something you should know.’
‘What is that, Inspector?’
‘The gun found at Steinwitz’s office. It was one of those fancy new Roth-Sauer automatic pistols. Fires a 7.65 mm.’ Drechsler paused.
‘Is there something I should glean from that?’
‘We didn’t find a gun at Praetor’s, but we did find a casing.’
‘A 7.65 mm?’
Drechsler nodded. ‘Clearly can’t be the same weapon, as Steinwitz died more than two weeks before Praetor. But it made me wonder at the time. Can’t be too many of the Roth-Sauers around. They only went into production this year.’
Walking from Werthen’s office in the Habsburgergasse, Gross regaled his friend about his morning’s activities, including the forlorn Drechsler, the rather startling linkage provided by similar weapons in the death of Steinwitz and Praetor, and the possibility of securing the inspector’s further cooperation in their investigations.
‘But it is his job to investigate the death,’ Werthen said. ‘He should not need what is tantamount to a bribe.’
Gross shook his head pityingly at his colleague. ‘How many years have you lived in Vienna, Werthen? Not enough, obviously, to let you know how things work here. Connections, connections, good friend. They make our tiny empire go round.’
‘And how can you be so sure that Doktor Praetor will agree to see Frau Drechsler?’
‘Praetor may be an unreliable witness where his son is concerned, but I am absolutely certain of his commitment to see his son’s killer brought to justice. I am sure I can put it to him in such a way that he sees the benefits of such altruism.’
‘You can’t be proposing that he operate without a fee?’
To which Gross merely hmm’ed a response.
When they finally reached their lunchtime destination, the Cafe Frauenhuber, the place was in a state of confusion, as much as such an orderly establishment can be. The Herr Ober standing by the door when Gross and Werthen entered did not give them a polite salutation; yesterday’s Neue Freie Presse was still hanging in the wooden reading rack; and Herr Otto took a full three minutes to get to their table for their order.
For a noble coffeehouse such as the Frauenhuber, this was pandemonium approaching chaos.
‘Unheard of,’ Werthen muttered to Gross.
‘Yes, it is,’ Herr Otto, whose hearing was most acute, agreed as he sidled up to their table. Then, in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘They want to get rid of number fourteen.’ He pulled his pad of paper out of his jacket pocket, the tip of a stub of pencil poised to write. A look of bereavement etched his face.
‘A blasphemy!’ Gross sputtered, setting the bill of fare down resolutely on the marble-topped table.
Werthen did not understand at first, and then it dawned on him. Herr Otto was referring to the classic bentwood cafe chair produced by the Brothers Thonet. The firm, not to mention their famous number fourteen production line, was a Viennese fixture. The very chair he was seated on now had likely been around for several decades and would assuredly last several more. Thonet’s design was simple yet both elegant and ingenious: a mere six pieces of wood bent by steam and assembled with ten screws and two nuts by anyone with access to a few tools. This ease of assembly had made the number fourteen one of the world’s first mass-produced chairs, sold in pieces and put together in a matter of minutes. The chair had taken design prizes and was universally recognized as the cafe chair. Werthen often wished his father had been prescient enough to invest some money in the firm at its outset.
Herr Otto allowed his voice to rise a bit now, sensing a sympathetic audience. ‘You can blame it all on Herr Loos, that’s what I say. Him and that hospital ward he calls a cafe. Though I do not mean to speak ill of anyone.’
‘I could not agree with you more,’ Gross said, a finger impatiently edging the menu. ‘The Cafe Museum is an abomination.’
‘Herr Loos is an architectural pioneer,’ Werthen said. Or at least that was what Berthe told him. Rosa Mayreder, close confidante of Berthe, was married to the architect Karl Mayreder, who had in fact employed said Loos in his architectural firm. Remembering this, Werthen also recalled that Karl Mayreder’s brother, Rudolf, was a city councilor. Was there an inroad for him there?
Werthen did not, however, spend much time in the Cafe Museum, an establishment where ornament had been kept to a minimum.
‘A pioneer he may be,’ Herr Otto allowed, ‘but whoever said we needed any re-inventing of the coffeehouse? A man goes to his coffeehouse for comfort, for a nice quiet and comfortable place to sip his kleine Mocha, not for an education in art.’
The comment made Werthen smile, for he’d made a similar argument to Klimt not that long ago about the decoration of his law office.
‘The management cannot seriously be considering getting rid of this furniture,’ Werthen said.
Herr Otto put pad and pencil down now and jerked his head toward the waiter at the door.
‘Herr Bauer has now become lead Ober. Which means he speaks with Frau Enghart from time to time. The good Frau loves this establishment of course, but since the death of Herr Enghart it has not been easy for her. There are no children to counsel her in the operation of such a noble institution. But now Herr Bauer has gotten her ear. I’m told he takes night classes at the Museum of Art and Industry, even attends lectures on his days off. Oh, he’s got ideas, he has.’
Though Werthen was all for self-improvement, he found it too much that a waiter at his favorite cafe should be the arbiter of taste for interior design.
‘He’s even mentioned getting rid of the potted palms.’
Gross huffed at this comment, again losing interest in the food at such a challenge.
‘We must put a stop to this travesty.’
‘We’ll sign a petition,’ Werthen said. ‘Pass it around to all the customers and get their opinion on these proposed changes. Surely Frau Enghart would listen to reason then?’
‘I wouldn’t want to stir up any trouble,’ Herr Otto said rather too meekly, again preparing to take their order.
Werthen felt that he had been played like a Stradivarius, but that was fine. Herr Otto, after all, had a job to protect, a family at home to support. It was the task of the clientele to preserve such a haven as the Frauenhuber.
‘I’ll make a note of it,’ Werthen said.
This seemed to mollify even Gross’s outrage, for he was already deep in a perusal of the dishes on offer today.
In the end, Gross opted for a Kalbs Beuschel, tender slices of calf lung and tongue in a light puree over Semmelknodel, bread dumplings of the softest consistency. Werthen chose the Bauernschmaus, a hearty heaping of sausages and pork with sauerkraut and a massive dumpling — the perfect food for such a bone-chilling day. They shared a bottle of Gumpoldskirchen Muller-Thurgau, a relatively new Riesling hybrid that was fast becoming a favorite of Werthen’s.