‘No, but-’
‘I am sure you will notice that I made no such promise about curtailing the investigation of Henricus Praetor’s death.’
It felt good to smile. ‘You cunning old dog,’ Werthen said.
‘And now tell me, Werthen, just what enticement did you offer that Fiaker driver to take a badly wounded man in his carriage? How much did it cost?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Und bitte,’ Gross said with utter disbelief.
‘Truth is I helped Bachmann with some family difficulties last summer. He was very grateful for the support.’
‘Legal problems?’
‘A strange situation. You see it turns out that Bachmann is actually the son of a certain count, distant cousin to the Habsburgs themselves.’
‘Werthen, if you are having me on-’
‘I assure you, this is only too real. I do not know if you noticed, but Bachmann moves with a distinct limp.’
‘No, I must admit I was too concerned with other matters at the time. Quite unlike me to miss something like that, though.’
‘He compensates well, but he was born with a club foot. His parents — well, the count in particular — were most adamant about not having a cripple for a son and heir. So they sought out a fine healthy specimen from the lower classes, a cabby’s son, as a matter of fact.’
Werthen found himself rather enjoying the recounting of this curious history; it was a distraction from the harsher realities at hand.
‘You don’t mean to say they traded sons?’ Gross was indignant at the idea.
‘Actually, they purchased the new one and gave their deformed baby in return. All quite legal, I assure you.’
‘The aristocracy.’ Gross almost spat the word out.
‘Well, the count’s true son thus grew up with the cabby’s family and later began to drive a Fiaker himself, while the cabby’s son grew up in the count’s family and later went into the military, where, I am sorry to say, he was killed on maneuvers in the Balkans last year. And since the count too had already died, the countess wanted her real son back. She petitioned the courts, and when Bachmann received word of how matters stood, he contacted me. He had heard from other Fiaker drivers that I was an honest man — how they determine that, I do not know other than that I tip well. At any rate, Bachmann wanted no part of any nobility. “A cabman I am and will always be,” he told me. He hired me to write up an official renunciation of the title of count, which would pass to him. Instead a distant cousin in Voralberg is now the count and inherits millions.’
‘What a curious story.’
‘Bachmann is happy as he is. His adoptive father is long dead, but his mother still cares for him and his wife and small family. He told me he would never renounce that woman, not for all the gold in Budapest.’
They were interrupted by the approach of Doktor Praetor, who was walking briskly toward them along the hallway.
Werthen could not read his face.
‘Doktor?’ he said.
Praetor said nothing until he was within arm’s length of Werthen.
‘They are still operating. But I think he will survive. There was leakage in the brain from the contusion. The surgeon has now allowed the blood to drain and released the pressure on the brain.’
He did not sound optimistic, however.
‘What else?’ Werthen said.
‘We cannot know how much damage was done to the brain until later. There could be lasting effects, with speech, perhaps with movement. We will only know these things in the next days and weeks.’
‘The man must be on Lueger’s payroll,’ Werthen said.
Both Gross and his wife were at dinner, as well as the von Werthens.
‘Do you think it is completely safe here?’ Herr von Werthen said. ‘I mean if that animal struck twice, why not again?’
Werthen attempted a jocular tone: ‘Do you need assurances beyond the fact that there is a police watch and that Frau Blatschky assures me next time the shotgun will be loaded?’
The cook was just taking away the dinner plates as Werthen said this, and blushed down to the starched white band of her collar.
Berthe sat silently, Frieda on her lap now, for the child’s naptime had been turned topsy-turvy. Berthe had gotten back from the hospital not long before with good news. Her father was out of surgery, and seemed to be recovering well. Still, the doubt about long-term damage lingered.
Werthen and Gross had had little time to discuss all these alarming new developments, and so used the dinner hour for that purpose.
‘As I was saying at the hospital,’ Gross said, ‘we must be very close now to provoke such a desperate act.’
He nodded to Berthe as if to apologize for speaking so clinically about her father’s injuries, and she quickly shook her head, moving Frieda to her shoulder to burp her.
‘No, please go on,’ she insisted. ‘I want this monster behind bars in the Liesel.’
Werthen put a hand on her shoulder reassuringly, and Frieda suddenly gripped his forefinger with rather extraordinary firmness.
‘It’s about time at that,’ Herr von Werthen said. ‘I don’t see how you fellows can make a living of this investigating business if you can’t solve cases.’
No one, not even Frau von Werthen, responded to this. Nor, seemingly, even paid the man any attention.
‘As you noted to Detective Inspector Drechsler today,’ Gross continued, ‘each time we have paid an official visit to the Rathaus, there has been an attack. Of course I discount my little inspection tour of Councilman Bielohlawek’s office, as no one was aware of that. Is this a mere matter of coincidence? It would seem unlikely.’
‘Right,’ agreed Werthen. ‘There was nothing Lueger could do to us directly while we were at the Rathaus this morning, for I made it painfully obvious that others knew our whereabouts. So later he dispatches this creature of his to put a further scare into me.’
‘What do you think he would have done if you had been home?’ Berthe wondered aloud. But as with Herr von Werthen’s comment, this one drew no response.
‘It has to be Lueger,’ Werthen said.
‘Guilty of corruption, but of murder?’ Gross said.
‘Find the attacker and we will know,’ Frau Gross said, joining the discussion.
But Werthen knew this would not be easy. Such a man could easily hide away among the criminals and other lowlifes of Vienna; there was nothing distinctive about his features except for the broken nose. And how many toughs in Vienna’s Second District bore such battle scars? Perhaps they could attempt to trace him back to Lueger’s known employees?
‘If I had only been here,’ Herr von Werthen said, puffing out his chest.
Werthen dearly wanted to remind his father of his ‘protective’ presence at Laab im Walde, but thought better of it.
‘Emile,’ Frau von Werthen said. ‘Perhaps you would care for an after-dinner cognac?’
‘Of course, Maman,’ Werthen said, getting to his feet and fetching bottle and snifters from a sideboard. He passed glasses all around, grateful for the diversion.
After they had all had a sip, Herr von Werthen cleared his throat. Werthen sighed internally. He, like his mother, was hoping that the cognac would change his father’s focus.
‘I believe,’ he said importantly, ‘it is time that I and Frau von Werthen return to Hohelande. I had word today from young Stein that the stables were in frightful disarray. High winds tore off one of the roofs. I really should be there to oversee things.’
Werthen checked his initial impulse to dissuade his parents from leaving.
‘If you think it best, Papa,’ he said.
Nineteen
Wednesday was clear and so cold Werthen wondered that anyone could break through the snow and frost to dig a grave. But they had, and the mound of dirt was covered in a black drop cloth, the narrow coffin dangling from wooden supports over the hole.