‘Kill two people because of a business deal?’ Berthe sounded skeptical.
‘Lesser motives have resulted in larger death tolls,’ Gross pronounced.
But Werthen thought she seemed unconvinced.
‘You mentioned four,’ she said to him.
‘Sorry?’
‘Four persons or groups that stood to benefit. You only talked about three.’
‘Right. It is not likely, but Otto Wagner should be on the list. He had opportunity. He was the first on the scene. Gross estimates his stride and footprint could be consistent with the stains left on Steinwitz’s carpet.’
‘But whatever for?’ Adele Gross asked.
Werthen detailed his theory that perhaps Wagner, a close professional associate at the Rathaus and acknowledged friend of Lueger’s, had been offered some sort of commission to build and develop the land sold. After all, he appeared bitter that the majority of his designs had never been built. And after a little digging, Werthen had also discovered that the man was over his head in debt, having built two apartment and commercial buildings on speculation and now having difficulty selling them. The buildings were located on the Magdalenenstrasse on the River Wien, and one of them, in particular, the Majolika Haus, named so after the pink, blue, and green floral faience design on the facade, was termed by Wagner’s detractors as ugly beyond description. Thus far, according to Kraus, two separate purchases had fallen through, the prospective buyers put off at the last minute by the bad press the projects were receiving.
‘In short,’ Werthen said, ‘Wagner is badly in need of an infusion of funds.’
‘Aren’t we all,’ said Frau Gross. But both she and Berthe seemed unconvinced with this theory.
‘I said it was not likely, but we cannot rule out any suspects at this stage. Right, Gross?’
He looked to his old colleague for support.
‘I rather liked the fellow,’ was Gross’s sole response.
Fifteen
The Prater was powdered in a light snowfall. A sky gray and threatening hung overhead, but all around could be heard the delighted shouts and squeals of children. It was Saturday half-day at school and it seemed that most of the children of the city had thronged to Remington’s Wild West Show.
A tent city had popped up overnight on the grounds of the Prater like a cluster of gigantic mushrooms. Giant hoardings all around proclaimed the delights of the show: ‘Custer’s Last Stand,’ ‘The Buffalo Hunt,’ ‘The Greatest Shot in the World.’ It took several trains to deliver the four hundred white and Indian actors and stagehands, two hundred and fifty horses, twenty buffalo, fifteen elk, a dozen long-horned Texas steers, and all the paraphernalia needed to outfit the show — including an electrical generating plant to illuminate the night shows.
Gross puffed vapor bubbles into the chill air as they walked on to the grounds.
‘What would impel people to hold an outdoor attraction at this inclement time of year.’
It was not a question, but Werthen offered an answer anyway. ‘The feuilleton writers say Remington thought he was going to Australia. It’s summer there.’
Gross gave Werthen a look of utter disbelief.
‘It is possible,’ Werthen added. ‘After all, there have been numerous American tourists to arrive in Vienna only to be disappointed at its lack of canals.’
‘They’ll be searching for kangaroos next,’ Gross muttered.
Whether by accident or design, the arrival of Remington’s Wild West Show surely did not lack for enthusiastic customers. Schoolchildren, still in their uniforms and with school bags on their shoulders, roamed the grounds like hungry Indians on the prowl. Many of them carried paper sacks full of small puffy white balls. Werthen noticed that these bags came from a number of stands that looked much like a traditional Austrian Wurstel stand. Large signs advertised ‘Popcorn.’ It was something Werthen had read of, this toasted or popped corn, in relation to the early Spanish explorers in the New World. The indigenous people had attempted to sell the exotic food to these explorers, but the Spanish were having none of it. Werthen vowed to try some of this strange confection before he left the grounds. Of course this desire was not something he wanted to share with Gross.
‘Go ahead, Werthen. Buy a bag,’ the criminologist said. ‘You look as eager as a schoolchild yourself.’
Werthen sheepishly queued up at one of the stands, paid his twenty Kreutzer, and took a bite of the puffed corn. He liked the somewhat crunchy texture and the salty taste. Following the example of schoolchildren all around him, he took a handful of the stuff and plopped it in his mouth. Immediate pain erupted as he bit down wrong on an unpopped kernel.
‘Verdammt,’ he said, spitting the unchewed mess on to the ground and then threw the remainder of the bag into a nearby receptacle.
‘An acquired taste, one assumes,’ Gross said, a smile on his face.
‘I believe in future I shall content myself with roast chestnuts in winter.’
They had arrived ninety minutes early — the first show did not begin until three in the afternoon — but the crowds were already so thick that they had difficulty in maneuvering their way to the tent marked ‘Management.’ They were greeted there by an Indian so large and terrifying-looking that Gross halted in the entryway.
Werthen, whose sense of adventure was a little more pronounced, entered. He dug out his schoolroom English and dusted it off:
‘We would to speak with Herr. . Mr Remington.’
The Indian, dressed in beaded rawhide top and pants, a full-feathered headdress on, scowled down at Werthen, his massive arms folded across his chest.
‘Excuse, please,’ Werthen continued hopelessly.
‘Yes, I heard,’ the Indian said in German with a northern accent. ‘And please do not bother with your “Me want speak” English. I’m from Hamburg.’
‘Well, for the sake of Holy Maria,’ Gross said, approaching now that he knew it was safe. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’
The German-Indian continued to scowl at them. ‘I did.’
‘And what are you doing dressed up in that costume?’ Gross asked as if it was his concern. ‘I suppose that is red paint on your face.’
The man frowned at Gross then finally said, ‘You ever heard of theatricals?’
This was not going at all well, Werthen realized, changing the tone of the encounter.
‘How did you come to be with the show?’ he asked.
The German now let his arms hang at his sides. ‘I once worked on the docks in Hamburg. Hard work, heavy lifting. Not much future there. Then one day, about five years ago, Remington and his show arrived by boat from America. I helped unload it, and when they left, I was with them. Simple as that.’
‘But how did you get the job? After all, you spoke no English, I assume,’ Werthen said.
The man merely shook his head at the question, amused. ‘You think his name is really Taylor Remington?’
Neither Werthen nor Gross responded.
The German looked over each of his broad shoulders, then spoke to them as if confiding a state secret.
‘Thomas Remminghaus. Straight from Bavaria.’
‘No,’ Werthen said. After all, Remington was an American almost as famous as Mark Twain. He had fought alongside Custer, it was reported; had built an entertainment empire out of his shows depicting scenes from the Old West.
‘Too true,’ the German assured them. ‘Went to America when he was twenty.’
‘And fighting with Custer?’
The man put a thick finger to his right eye and pulled down on the lower lid: the gesture for ‘believe that and you’ll believe anything.’
‘Why are you telling us this?’ Gross said. ‘After all, we could be the press come to interview your employer.’
‘You aren’t the press?’ he said, a look of disappointment sweeping across his rugged features.
They shook their heads.
‘And he is not my employer. Not any longer. He just gave me the sack. Says I’ve been at the schnapps again.’