Gross felt the time slipping away; how long could Werthen entertain the councilman? And where were the telltale poppies?
A sudden inspiration led him to examine the lower right quadrant of the carpet. Yes. That was it. Whoever had printed the crime scene photographs had accidentally reversed the image, easy enough to do from a negative. What he had seen in the left side of the photographs was actually then on the right side of the actual carpet.
This problem solved, Gross did not bother to divest himself of his overcoat or his derby hat. He got down to his knees and closely examined the carpet in the regions he had found suspicious in the photographs. It took less than a minute to find the first example. His heart was racing as he found a second and then a third and fourth similar smudge, each growing a trace darker nearer the desk. In all, Gross tallied six such smudges, each a small elliptical shape, the curves pointing toward the door. No need for the stronger magnifying glass; he knew what this was. He took out a roll of measuring tape from another pocket and stretched it between smudges. The first pair closest to the desk was one hundred and two centimeters apart; from the second to the third smudge was a distance of ninety-eight centimeters. The distances continued to decline, until the last pair spanned eighty-six centimeters.
Satisfied, Gross was just rolling his tape when he heard footsteps outside the door. They suddenly stopped at the door. He hadn’t locked it. A stupid oversight. The handle began to turn. With no time for subtlety, Gross moved with the alacrity of a man half his age.
The door opened inward and the bullish-looking fellow from the other day, Kulowski, the one Werthen had said was Lueger’s bodyguard, poked his large head into the room.
‘Hermann? Time for Wurstsemmel and beer.’
Getting no response, the man stepped briefly into the office, breathed heavily, muttered ‘Scheisse,’ and left, closing the door behind him.
Gross, crouched under the desk and viewing the man through a crack in its front apron, let out a sigh of relief. He forced himself to wait another two minutes, and then crawled out of the cramped space and brushed off his knees. He’d made such a rush of getting under the desk that he had badly dented his new derby. That would take a bit of explaining to Adele.
Werthen could no longer keep Bielohlawek without making him suspicious. He walked with him partway back toward the Rathaus.
‘We must do this again, Advokat. Perhaps we might even have some work for a smart young yid like you, eh? Scratch each other’s back. You know Lueger’s philosophy. He’s the one to decide who’s a Jew and who’s not.’
Werthen was so astounded by the crassness of Bielohlawek’s comments that he was speechless. He found himself smiling like a harlequin at the ignorant beast when a part of his brain wanted only to attack the fool with his walking stick and feel the satisfying crunch of skull under the brass knob. It was one thing to hear rumors of such outlandish behavior, quite another to experience such blatant prejudice first-hand.
Bielohlawek tipped his top hat and made off across the broad boulevard. Still speechless, Werthen could only watch the man leave, hoping that Gross had gotten out of the office by now.
‘The man’s more of a fool than I took him for initially.’
Werthen spun around at the voice. Gross was grinning at him from one of the benches lining the Ring, huddled in his coat with derby drawn down over his eyes. There was, Werthen registered, a V-shaped dent in the hat.
‘You may be a “yid,” but I dare the man to say again that you are young.’
The comment made Werthen smile, losing some of the anger he felt.
‘That was fast.’
Gross beamed up at him. ‘Yes. And productive.’
They had taken a private carriage.
Over the objections of her mother-in-law, Berthe had brought Frieda with her. The baby had slept most of the way to Laab im Walde, lulled by the rocking motion of the vehicle and the rhythmic clopping of the four pairs of hooves. Meanwhile Herr von Werthen stuck his nose in a copy of the latest auction catalogue from the state-run Wiener Versatz- und Fragamt, or Viennese Pawn and Query Bureau. Though its new headquarters in the Dorotheergasse were not yet finished, many Viennese were already calling the state-run pawnshop by a new name, the Dorotheum. Also in the carriage, Adele Gross and Frau von Werthen made small talk about country homes and the importance of roots.
Berthe liked Frau Gross; she was not the woman she had expected as the partner of the overbearing Doktor Gross. Adele Gross was no shrinking violet, but neither was she confrontational. Watching her and Gross at dinner last night — for she had insisted that they come after learning of their presence in Vienna — Berthe could see that theirs was a union, a relationship unique to themselves. It was not a caricature of the hen-pecked husband nor of the browbeaten, dominated wife. Werthen had told Berthe of the unhappy circumstances vis-a-vis their son. However, whatever their differences in that regard, the couple appeared to have a deep and abiding respect for each other, even if a degree of prevarication were still needed to maintain marital happiness.
Berthe had been sworn to secrecy by Werthen: there was to be no mention of their new case in front of Adele. But he had also suggested that she, Berthe, devise some entertainment for the woman, so that she did not grow suspicious of Gross’s absences.
The primary topic of conversation last night had been the reply to Werthen’s offer for the farmhouse in Laab im Walde. Grundman, the land agent, had, after almost a week of waiting, just received a counter offer from the owners: they wanted seventeen thousand florins.
‘Which means sixteen as a compromise,’ Werthen had allowed at table. ‘Exactly what Grundman recommended in the first place.’
‘Will we pay it?’ Berthe asked.
‘Die Katze im Sack kaufen,’ Herr von Werthen said sternly.
He was somewhat nettled that he had not been asked to inspect the place and seemed to take real pleasure in warning against buying a cat in a sack. Suddenly Berthe realized that she was also relying on her husband’s glowing descriptions of the place. She only knew it from the outside.
Thus was born the idea for today’s outing.
The carriage deposited them at the inn, where they would later take their lunch. Berthe was happy to see that venison was on the menu, and before she set out, she had the Ober set aside four orders of that delicious meal. Their carriage driver would remain at the inn while the party of five inspected the place. Grundman had been contacted, but was unable to supply a key on such short notice. He nevertheless assured Berthe they could see the various rooms from the windows.
The weather was a little less inclement today, though the wind was blowing across the empty fields, ploughed under for the winter, as they made their way down the single-track road to the house that could be theirs soon. Berthe had Frieda wrapped tightly in a blanket and held her close to her bosom inside the bulky Wetterflecke, the loden cape she wore. Only the baby’s small, smiling face stuck out of the top buttons of the cloak. She wore a white cap with embroidered buttercups that Berthe herself had knit out of fine lambswool. Seeing the ochre-colored four-square in front of her on the narrow road, Berthe’s heart began to swell with sweet expectation. A place to raise a brood of children.
‘It looks lovely,’ said Adele Gross.
‘Why, it’s just a farmhouse,’ Herr von Werthen said as they drew nearer.