‘Of course it’s a farmhouse,’ Berthe said. ‘A beautiful old fortress of a farmhouse.’
She noticed Frau von Werthen take her husband’s hand and give it a squeeze. It did not appear to be an act of affection, rather of reproof.
‘Well, yes,’ Herr von Werthen said. ‘Farmhouses can have their own sort of charm, one supposes.’
They entered the courtyard created by the sides of the farmhouse and Berthe noticed that the For Sale signs had been taken down. Obviously the owners were confident that they would meet their revised offer.
There would be a good deal of renovation, Berthe saw immediately, even from an exterior view. She must have seen the building first in bright sunlight, which disguised some of its faults. But now she could see tiles off the roof, a drainpipe hanging loose from the side of the building, patches of white undercoating showing through the paint, cracks in several of the windows and in one of the walls. But these did not deter her; she was still in love with the place, in love with the idea of a country home for her children to grow up in.
They all went to the windows, looking in the various rooms.
‘What a lovely Kachelofen,’ Frau Gross said.
‘And this would make a fine nursery,’ Frau von Werthen added, peering in another window.
‘Quite,’ her husband said.
‘Say, what are you lot doing in here?’
The voice was gruff and commanding.
Berthe spun around from the window. Three men stood at the entrance to the court.
‘Are you the owners?’ Berthe asked. ‘We checked with Herr Grundman before coming.’
The name obviously meant nothing to these three. Two of them were dressed in heavy coats and leggings as if working in the fields.
‘This is private property,’ said the one in the middle, a large man who appeared almost to burst out of his clothes. Unlike the other two, this one had a suit on under his heavy overcoat and wore no hat; his hair was cropped short like a criminal’s. ‘I’m telling you to get out of here.’
‘My good man-’ Herr von Werthen began.
‘Now!’ the big man spat out.
‘We are here to view the property,’ Berthe said. ‘We’ve made an offer on it and are here legitimately. And that is no way to speak to people.’
‘You’re trespassing,’ the same man said, now with an edge of menace to his voice.
The three men began approaching.
‘If I were you, I would take that baby out of here before someone gets hurt.’
‘This is really too much,’ Herr von Werthen said, moving protectively in front of Berthe and the baby.
‘Look, old one. You take these ladies along home now. And don’t come back.’
‘The police will hear of this,’ Adele Gross intoned.
This remark got the attention of the one doing all the talking. The other two men looked at him quizzically.
‘Lady, you are the trespasser. Who do you think the police are going to arrest?’
This brought rough laughter from the other two men.
‘Now, out of here.’ He came closer to Herr von Werthen, who stood his ground. The man gave him a sudden shove, and Herr von Werthen landed on his backside in a spot of mud.
‘You brutes,’ Frau von Werthen yelped, hesitating as if deciding whether to slap the ruffian or help her husband up. She finally opted for the latter.
‘I don’t know who’s been talking to you, but this place is not for sale. Understand? Now leave.’ The man made a fake bowing motion and swept his hand toward the road.
‘See here,’ Herr von Werthen said, struggling to his feet.
But Berthe stopped him. ‘We should go now,’ she said to the others. Frieda had begun to cry, frightened by the gruff voices. This was hardly the joyful outing they had planned.
‘That lady’s got some sense,’ the stranger said.
Before they left, however, Berthe made a close observation of each. She would be able to identify them later if need be.
‘Why, that is assault,’ Gross fumed. They were gathered at Werthen’s flat later in the day, and Berthe had informed them of their misadventure at Laab im Walde.
Werthen returned from the foyer where he had been on the telephone to Grundman.
‘They’ve taken it off the market,’ he said.
‘But they can’t do that,’ Berthe said. ‘Can they?’
‘Afraid they can,’ Werthen said, taking her hand. ‘No reasons. Grundman just says the owners have reconsidered.’
‘Draughty old farmhouse, anyway,’ Herr von Werthen said.
‘These men,’ Gross asked, ‘did they identify themselves as the owners?’
Adele Gross answered the question: ‘No. Though Frau Werthen asked directly.’
Gross had Berthe and the others describe, once again, their assailants. Werthen listened closely as she described the leader of the three, but the description — other than of a large man — did not tally with that of the man who had attacked him. That man wore an old bowler and had a thick head of hair. Neither could he see any connection between his attack and his wife’s visit to a property for sale.
‘Shouldn’t we contact the owners?’ Berthe suggested. ‘Try and trace these men? It seems awfully odd that last night the farmhouse was for sale and suddenly today it is off the market.’
‘I suppose we could,’ Werthen allowed. ‘I don’t quite see the point, though, unless we want to prefer charges.’ He looked at his father. ‘What do you say, Papa? After all, you were the one pushed to the ground.’
‘It was hardly a fair fight,’ Herr von Werthen said. ‘The blackguard gave me no warning.’
‘That is not the point, Emile,’ his wife counseled. ‘Karl wants to know if you would like a legal solution.’
‘Police, you mean? I don’t think so. Not for me, at any rate.’
Werthen imagined his father would not be over fond of having his name in the newspapers in connection with such a sordid little affair.
‘But surely you will not let those ruffians get away with their bullying,’ Adele Gross interjected. ‘They scared poor little Frieda.’
‘I think she will survive,’ Berthe said, for she too was losing her sense of outrage now.
‘I’ll have a word with Grundman,’ Werthen said, by way of addressing Frau Gross’s concern. But Berthe sensed his disappointment at losing their dream house. Perhaps it was better just to put the whole thing in back of them.
Adele Gross looked squarely at her husband. ‘Does this have anything to do with the case you and Werthen are occupied with?’
This statement brought absolute silence for a moment to the sitting room. Gross glanced at Werthen as if to accuse him.
‘Nobody told me,’ Frau Gross said. ‘So do not go bullying Werthen or his lovely wife. You do realize, Hanns, that you are far too happy lately. That cannot simply be the result of esoteric studies of a dead Flemish painter. And most definitely not the result of your attendance at Viennese balls or dinner parties. Ergo, you must be involved with a case. Every time you visit Vienna you do so.’
‘My dear Adele,’ Gross said. ‘I had no idea. You are quite the detective yourself.’
‘No. Just an observant wife.’
‘It would have been a fine place for our children,’ Berthe said when they lay together in bed that night. ‘But it’s not to be.’
‘We’ll find another place,’ he told her, wrapping an arm around her warm body.
‘With all the to-do, you never mentioned what happened with Gross’s visit to the Rathaus today.’
‘It was as he thought. There were blood traces leading from the desk to the door.’
Gross had explained that the thickness of the smudges nearer the desk meant that someone had stepped in the blood and then tracked it out with them, the smudges getting fainter as the person continued to walk.
‘Which proves. .?’ Berthe asked.
‘Fairly conclusively that Steinwitz was murdered. And by the same type of weapon used to kill Praetor.’
‘Perhaps the police fouled the scene?’
‘No. Gross checked with Drechsler. The police were there immediately following the shooting. They were careful to stay to the edges of the room, just as he has been advocating for them to do in order to avoid contaminating the scene. Drechsler guarantees that none of his men could have stepped in the blood.’