‘Might I once again say how awfully sorry I am about Heidl.’
She looked up from her typewriting machine, her eyes red-rimmed. A peculiar sour odor rose from her; he had never known Fraulein Metzinger to be lax in matters of hygiene before.
‘Thank you, Advokat. And about yesterday. I am sorry for going at you like that. It was the shock.’
‘Please do not think of it,’ he said. ‘It is a great loss. Have you made arrangements, or shall I-’
‘No, no. Herr Beer is seeing to all that.’
He tried to hide his disapproval, but failed.
‘He really does mean the best, Advokat Werthen. You shouldn’t be too hard on the man. His life has not been easy.’
‘As you say, Fraulein Metzinger.’
‘Nor am I being a typical needy female. I am not blind to Herr Beer’s faults. I am sure he intends to get something for himself out of this. But I need him at the moment. Someone else who loved the boy.’
He noted that she could not yet bring herself to use Heidl’s name.
‘Of course,’ he said and gently patted her shoulder. ‘If there is anything I can do. .’
‘Thank you, Advokat. Now you had better hurry up or Doktor Gross will leave you behind.’
As it turned out, Fraulein Beskiba was a near neighbor of Werthen’s in the Seventh District, the Neubau. Her studio and living quarters were on Siebensterngasse, on the top floor of a rather nondescript apartment block. There was no lift in the house and thus the three of them plodded up the four flights of stairs. There was a dampness to the place that made the wooden handrail sticky to the touch.
Finally they reached her flat, and Gross did the honors of rapping on the door. It was duly opened by a rather wispy woman in a Murano wool shawl.
‘Good day, Fraulein Beskiba-’ Frau Gross began.
‘I see you’ve brought friends,’ the woman said in a commanding voice that in no way fitted her diminutive frame. ‘That’s fine by me. Come in, come in. Don’t let the damp in.’
The light was bad in the foyer and it was not until they entered the studio itself with its wall of north-facing atelier windows that Werthen could see how attractive she was. She had sparkling green eyes and fine, high cheekbones. Her nose was longish, but on her it was quite perfect.
‘I appreciate your asking to see me,’ Frau Gross said.
‘Please, sit.’ Fraulein Beskiba indicated an elegant sitting arrangement by one of the windows. Now that Werthen had a chance to survey the surroundings, he noted that everywhere were signs of good taste and of wealth. The parquet floors were covered in the best of carpets, rosewood and mahogany furniture graced the room. He doubted if such fittings could be afforded on the money provided by a portrait painter’s commissions. On an easel deeper in the studio he noticed a work in progress: undoubtedly Mayor Lueger, dressed in a gray suit with a Styrian hunting hat atop his salt and pepper hair. His beard was combed to perfection and he looked quite at home in the heavy Alt Deutsch chair, the original of which sat near the easel.
Noticing the focus of his attention, Fraulein Beskiba said, ‘He makes a wonderful model. Always so aware of his public presence. A handsome man, indeed. But you know, up close you can see the wrinkles and the weather-beaten nature of his face. It has taken a toll on him.’
He assumed she was referring to the hectic life of a politician.
Once seated, the painter lost no time.
‘I have summoned you for one reason and one reason only. I heard of your interviews with members of the Women’s League, of course. But, Frau Gross, you really should use another name when pretending to be a journalist. And, I might add, what kind of journalist can afford the Hotel Imperial?’
Gross now squinted at his wife in approbation.
‘Do not be hard on her, Doktor Gross.’ Then turning to Werthen, ‘Nor should you blame her, Advokat. You see, I know all about your investigations from Karl. From Mayor Lueger. I mean to help you.’
The three of them were speechless for a moment at this pronouncement.
‘Yes, you heard me right,’ she said.
‘I assure you, Fraulein Beskiba-’ Gross began.
‘Please do not insult my intelligence, Doktor Gross. It’s all about this sale of the Vienna Woods, isn’t it?’
Again her blunt statement made them mute for an instant.
‘Yes,’ said Werthen, the first one to recover. ‘Yes it is.’
‘I suppose you don’t like it much. You think the Woods should be left for the people.’
‘Something like that.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s all the same to me. Nature.’ She actually shivered as she said the word.
Looking outside the massive windows, Werthen could see that the snow had begun again.
‘But I am on your side in this. I want the sale stopped, too. And I might have the ammunition to help you.’
‘Why would you do that, Fraulein Beskiba?’ asked Doktor Gross. ‘It would seem an act of disloyalty.’
‘Do not misunderstand my motives,’ she responded. ‘I am not seeking some twisted revenge on the mayor. In point of fact, I am quite in love with him.’ She looked at each in turn after she announced this. ‘And it is because I love him that I want this sale to be stopped. Do you know why he wants to sell off the Woods?’
‘No,’ Werthen answered. ‘That is the part of all this that makes no sense.’
‘He needs money. Karl is a most ambitious man. He needs money to mount a political campaign that will make him prime minister. Once in that position, he intends to get the small people in back of him and establish a republic, to get rid of the Habsburgs once and for all.’
‘Preposterous,’ Gross said.
But Werthen thought otherwise. The elected government of the empire was disastrously rent by divisions in Parliament. No laws had been passed by that body since 1897 when the emperor took over what little democratic power he had relinquished, ruling by decree according to paragraph fourteen of the constitution. Discontent was everywhere. Were Lueger to mount an empire-wide campaign, his fabulous popularity could bring him victory, Werthen was sure of it. Lueger knew how to talk to the little people, to sway them with rhetoric and emotion. And once he became prime minister Lueger could always turn to the people if the emperor attempted to curb his power. He and he alone could bring disparate groups out on to the streets, perhaps even foment a revolution. And once Lueger had the money in hand from the sale of the Woods, he could use it freely, Werthen knew, for the financial machinations of the Christian Socialists in City Hall were legendary. The money would be hidden in a myriad of ways and Lueger would manage to make the Jews at the center of the sale the villains; like a magician, he would keep the public’s eye off the money and on the supposed perfidy of those who had bought the Woods.
‘He hates them so,’ Fraulein Beskiba continued. ‘Blames the Habsburgs for all the faults in society. It was the emperor himself, after all, who refused to accept the voice of the people, declining several times to allow Karl to become mayor. He will do anything to destroy the Habsburgs.’
‘And to mount a campaign across the length and breadth of the empire he needs large cash reserves,’ Werthen said.
She nodded.
‘And you do not want him to do this,’ he added.
‘No.’ She said it firmly, unequivocally. ‘It would kill him. You may not know it, but Karl suffers from diabetes. The stress of being mayor is bad enough, were he to become prime minister. .’ She did not voice her concluding thought.
‘Besides,’ said Gross, ‘if he became prime minister, there would hardly be time for you, would there?’
‘Hanns,’ his wife said, shaking her head at him.
‘Yes. That, too, I suppose. One never has pure motives, does one? But now you know. Now you have ammunition. I only ask that you never let him know where you learned these secrets.’