Meier, the servant, opened the door.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I would like to speak to Herr Wittgenstein,’ Werthen said.
‘Which one would that be, sir? We have several in residence.’
Werthen wanted to throttle the supercilious servant, pretending he did not recognize him, and acting as if he did not know exactly to whom he wanted to speak.
He was about to give the man a piece of his mind when he heard the chatter of excited children approaching the forecourt from within the house. Fraulein Mining herself came into view behind Meier, accompanied by two younger boys bundled for the cold and carrying sleds.
One of them was Ludwig Wittgenstein, who stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Werthen at the door.
‘Advokat,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
Werthen could hardly believe his eyes. ‘Master Ludwig.’ He turned to Drechsler, who could only shrug in disbelief.
The young Wittgenstein came up quickly to Werthen, sled in hand. He inserted himself in front of Werthen.
‘That will do, Meier,’ he said, dismissing the servant. Then to Werthen, ‘You aren’t going to tell Father about yesterday, are you?’
Werthen let out a nervous laugh. He felt tears build at his eyes. ‘No, of course not. We thought. .’ Again he looked to Drechsler, but there was no help coming from that quarter.
‘May I have the envelope, Detective Inspector?’
By this time the older sister, and the brother Paul Wittgenstein, had also approached.
‘What is it, Advokat?’ Fraulein Mining asked.
He took the card out of the envelope and showed it to Ludwig, ignoring for the time being the young woman’s question.
‘Is this yours?’
Ludwig looked at it, and suddenly his face turned beet red.
‘I must have forgotten to take it out of my coat.’
‘What do you mean?’ Werthen said.
‘Before I traded it. But what happened to it? Why is it all stained? Is that. . is that blood?’
‘Before you traded it?’ Werthen said. ‘For what? With whom?’
Ludwig now had the trapped look of a guilty child.
‘I repeat, Advokat,’ Fraulein Mining said. ‘What is this all about? Why are you pestering my brother about his coat?’
Werthen could no longer restrain himself. The relief he had felt at seeing Ludwig Wittgenstein alive was quickly being replaced with another emotion, a numbing dread and fear.
‘This is about a dead child, Fraulein Mining. He fell under an engine of the Stadtbahn this morning.’
‘Heidl.’
It came out of Ludwig like a groan, as if he had been struck.
He and Drechsler wasted no time in getting to the Habsburgergasse and ascertaining from Frau Ignatz that young Heidrich Beer had in fact gone out earlier in the day and had not yet returned.
‘We had a fine midday meal planned and all,’ the Portier said. ‘What can that rascal be thinking?’
But she said it almost fondly.
It was now clear to Werthen what had happened. The two boys had formed a friendship. Heidl had, Werthen remembered, made mention of Ludwig’s coat with the fur collar, and finally Ludwig decided to make him a present of it. As Ludwig earlier told him, they had both snuck away this morning to make the exchange. But what was Heidl doing at the Karlsplatz station? Where would he be going? The fastest way home was to walk back into the First District.
Werthen let his mind occupy itself with such thoughts to take the pain away. But this time they had to be sure. He must see the body, look for any distinguishing characteristics before he informed Fraulein Metzinger.
At the morgue in the Ninth District, Doktor Starb, director of the facility, was in charge. The highest levels of authority had been called in on the sacred Sunday when it was thought a Wittgenstein had met an accidental death. The man was dressed in a black suit today, nothing flashy or colorful. He seemed highly relieved when Werthen explained the contretemps of the exchanged coat.
‘I am not sure how you plan to identify the body,’ Starb said after Werthen told him of his mission. ‘It is badly mangled. We have done our best here for a viewing, but. .’
Werthen understood. However, he knew what he was looking for. Fraulein Metzinger had told Werthen of the boy’s broken left arm that had never healed properly. Werthen had witnessed on several occasions how the boy favored the arm.
‘I need to look at the left forearm. It was broken and I believe is still disfigured.’
They reached the drawer containing the body of the youth and Starb signaled to an assistant.
‘If you would rather. .’ Starb said.
Werthen had been dreading this. ‘Yes, perhaps.’ He did not have the stomach for viewing the body. Instead he looked away while he heard Starb and the assistant conferring and heard the rustle of linen behind him.
‘You may want to see this for yourself, Advokat,’ Starb said.
Werthen turned. The body was covered in a sheet; only a thin arm stuck out. There, on the forearm, was an unmistakable crook or bend.
‘It has been badly broken,’ Starb confirmed. ‘The left arm.’
‘How old would you say the boy is?’ Werthen asked.
‘Surely no more than twelve, perhaps thirteen. The Wittgenstein boy is younger, but we assumed as the museum card was in the overcoat that it belonged to the deceased.’
Starb nodded to the assistant again and the drawer was closed.
It was early afternoon by the time Werthen arrived at Fraulein Metzinger’s flat in the Third District just off the Landstrasse near Stadtpark. He was accompanied by Rosa Mayreder, friend to both his wife and to his young assistant, whom she, Mayreder, had introduced to Werthen.
Berthe, after her unfortunate experience at Laab im Walde, did not want to expose Frieda to any more stressful situations and at the same time did not yet feel comfortable leaving the baby with others. Thus, Frau Mayreder had agreed to accompany Werthen to break the news of the death of Heidl Beer to Fraulein Metzinger.
Mayreder, writer, painter, musician, and feminist, carried herself with quiet dignity. She had earlier aided Werthen in one of his cases via her connection to the composer Hugo Wolf. Mayreder had in fact written the libretto to Wolf’s opera, Der Corregidor.
The Fiaker let them off mid-block. The snow had begun again after an interval of a few hours. It was falling in dense tufts, turning daylight into murky twilight. The snow settled on Werthen’s hat as they approached Fraulein Metzinger’s building, drifted on to the curls around Frau Mayreder’s forehead. A regal-looking woman though slightly plump, Mayreder had a way of gazing at a person with eyebrows slightly arched that exhibited, Werthen thought, a slight degree of derision. But not today. Her face was drawn and concerned. She did not look forward to this anymore than Werthen did.
The house door was open, and they announced themselves at the Portier’s lodge in the foyer before they mounted the stairs. Fraulein Metzinger’s flat was on the fourth floor, and Werthen found himself taking his time on the stairs, delaying the arrival and the inevitable emotional scene.
‘It’s not good to delay,’ Frau Mayreder said, as if understanding his intent. ‘Short and sharp is the best. The kindest.’
He knew she was right, still he could barely bring himself to carry such news to his young assistant. Fraulein Metzinger truly loved the young boy.
Rosa Mayreder lost no time in climbing the stairs and rapped assertively on the apartment door. Cowardly, Werthen hoped that Fraulein Metzinger was out. They had not called in advance to see if she was home on this Sunday. Perhaps she was meeting friends somewhere; perhaps out for a skate on the Stadtpark pond.
The door opened abruptly and Werthen felt sudden amazement.
‘Herr Beer. What are you doing here?’