During the meal Gross explained his further progress: he had secured the platen and ribbon from Praetor’s typewriting machine and would send it express mail this afternoon to his eager students in Czernowitz. The photographs were to be delivered to Werthen’s office this afternoon, courtesy of Inspector Meindl, who after all did owe his career to Gross’s tutelage. Not a bad sort, Gross informed Werthen, but like so many small men, inclined to bark at the slightest excuse.
‘I wish I had such progress to report,’ Werthen said. And then detailed the visit of Frau Steinwitz and of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s delivery of his brother Hans’s diary.
‘What is in the diary?’ Gross asked.
‘Afraid I haven’t had the opportunity to look. Seemed like rather a dead end. I mean, that case has been solved.’
‘Yes,’ Gross said, but not very convincingly. He peered more closely at Werthen for the first time. ‘I do not mean to pry, old friend, but isn’t that a bruise you are sporting on your cheek?’
‘How observant of you, Gross. Yes, it is. And I have a matching one on my back. You see, I was attacked on the street yesterday after leaving you.’
‘But why have you waited so long to tell me? You should have telephoned the hotel, sent a pneumatic.’
‘And have Adele discover that you are involved in another case when you promised her not to? Or spoil your evening out? To what end?’
‘You play awfully fast and loose with violent crime, Werthen. And did you consider the possibility that someone might be dispatched to deal with me, as well?’
No conciliatory words from Gross, not that Werthen expected them. He did, however, feel badly about Gross’s second comment. It was something he had not thought of, and he should.
‘What did the scoundrel look like? Describe him.’
Werthen gave as close a description as he could, but realized that he could be giving the particulars of any number of toughs and roughnecks to be hired for a handful of Kreutzer. Truth be told, he had been too intent on merely preserving his life to take real notice of the man’s features, other than that he was hulking and menacing and had at one time or several times in the past broken his nose.
‘Bielohlawek?’ Gross said, echoing Berthe’s assumption. ‘Would he have set someone upon you?’
They were momentarily interrupted by Herr Otto, who wished to know if they would complete their meal with a Mehlspeisen. There was a Kaisertorte today, fresh from Fiegl’s bakery.
Werthen patted his abdomen. ‘I think not, thank you, Herr Otto.’
Gross reluctantly shook his head, as well.
‘I meant to tell you, Advokat,’ Herr Otto said as he totted up their bill. ‘There was a. . certain fellow inquiring after you the other day.’
Both Werthen and Gross pricked up their ears at this information.
‘A large, bullish-looking fellow?’ Werthen inquired.
Herr Otto shook his head. ‘Quite the opposite. Short and thin and dressed in a manner to suggest he perhaps makes his living on the street.’
‘What did he want with me?’
‘To know if you were a frequent customer. I told him that was none of his business and to be off or I would fetch a constable. But obviously he did not take me seriously. He is there now, waiting at the corner of the street. I noticed him a few moments ago.’
Gross stood, tossing his damask napkin to the table and leaving Werthen to pick up the tab as usual.
‘Well, let us see what this chap wants then,’ he said.
Werthen signed the chit that Herr Otto produced, for he now ran an account with the cafe. Gross was halfway out the door by the time Werthen caught him up.
The man saw them coming, but did not budge from his spot on the corner. He wore a shabby derby hat and an overcoat a size too large with patches on the hem and at the wrists. There was something about the way the man stood, feet spread and hands on hips defiantly, that reminded Werthen of somebody. As they drew closer Werthen could see the man’s face. Though the pallor of his cheeks was the sickly gray of the underside of a fish as if he seldom saw the sunlight, there was withal a somewhat robust nature to the man’s face: round and full with a nose that could serve as a beacon. He was grizzled; obviously the fellow could do with a good shave. With a bath as well, Werthen discovered as he got within scent-range of him.
‘You were looking for me, sir?’ Werthen said, standing a meter from him and towering at least a head higher.
‘If you would be Justice Werthen, I am.’
‘Advokat,’ Werthen corrected. ‘What exactly is it you want, Herr. .?’
‘They tell me you have my son,’ the man said in quite the thickest Viennese accent Werthen had ever heard. There were those who swore they could place a Viennese to their home district by their accent; all Werthen could tell by this man’s was that he most definitely belonged to the vast underclass of the metropolis, homeless perhaps, assuredly out of work.
‘Your son?’ Werthen repeated.
‘My name’s Beer. Erdmann Beer. Friends tell me you have my son.’
‘Beer?’ Then it clicked. ‘You mean Huck?’
The man stared at him as if Werthen were insane.
‘Heidl?’ Werthen corrected. He remembered now that Fraulein Metzinger had mentioned a ne’er-do-well father who practiced the trade of Strotter, a rag and bone man scooping out bits of fish detritus from the sewers to be sold for soap fat. Which explained the man’s pallor.
Herr Beer nodded his head. ‘That’s my boy, all right. You do have him, you do not deny that?’
‘Now just one moment,’ Gross broke in. ‘I do not like the sound of that question.’
‘Not to worry, Herr Doktor, not to worry. I know what you aristocrats get up to, and it’s no worse treatment than he might get on the street. It’s just that I thought. .’
‘We are not aristocrats nor profligates,’ Werthen all but shouted at the man. ‘And we do not prey on young boys. Heidl is, in fact, employed in my law office.’
A look of cunning swept over the man’s face at this piece of information.
‘He’s earning an income, is he? That’s more like it. In that case, I can rightfully ask for a small compensation. An apprentice fee sort of.’
Werthen felt his anger rise and knew his face was growing red.
‘You silly man,’ he said. ‘You pay the apprentice fee, or didn’t you know that? I should have you taken to court for non-support of your son.’
‘Now hold on,’ Beer said, shaking his palms at Werthen to calm him. ‘It was just a suggestion.’
‘Or better yet, take your urchin back with you to the Zwingburg where he belongs. I will not be extorted by the likes of you. Yes, that is the very thing. Come with us this very moment and take the boy with you. It’s about time you took on the responsibilities of a father.’
‘Your Magistrate, please listen to reason,’ the man all but wailed. ‘I had no idea of the fine situation my wonderful boy had landed himself in. I’m not trying to pestulate things for him. No, none of that. I’m his dear loving father. Just give him my best and tell him to wash his hands. Little beast never did like washing up. We can just forget we ever had this meeting, right?’
‘And you will not attempt to contact the boy again,’ Werthen said.
‘Never a thought of it,’ Beer said.
‘Then be off with you.’
Beer tipped his dented derby at Werthen then at Gross.
‘And Beer,’ Werthen said, digging into his vest pocket and extracting a crown. He flicked the coin in a gentle arc to the man, who caught it with alacrity.
‘Get some good food in you,’ Werthen told him.