The Empty Mirror (15 page)

As usual, Gross left such incidentals as the dispersion of funds to Werthen.

The lawyer handed the porter a florin, at which the man stared skeptically for a moment, as if expecting this only child to be joined shortly by siblings.

“Thank you for your help,” Werthen said with finality.

Meanwhile, Gross had approached the old lady’s window. He stood almost eye to eye with the elderly woman, who was now
leaning with elbows on a bolster that usually fitted between the double windows.

“I am making inquiries, my good woman, about a gentleman who may have passed this way last evening. He was a man in his sixties wearing woolen
Trachten.”

“You a copper?” the old woman asked with obvious delight.

“I”-Gross had the courtesy to sweep his hand in Werthen’s direction-“we are assisting the police in their investigation.”

“Saw a couple of constables messing about the street today, talking to Herr Ignatz.” She nodded with contempt at the porter, who had now taken up a new post across the street. “Knocking on doors.” She shook her head so vehemently, the bonnet slipped down her forehead. Righting it, she said, “Never liked coppers. I didn’t answer when they came to my door.” She cast a shrewd glance. “You two don’t look like police. Don’t act like it, either. They never pay for nothing.”

“Let us simply say that we can be appreciative of any help given,” Gross said.

“What’s he done, your old fella in the
Trachten?’

“He seems to have gone missing,” Gross told her.

“Important enough you got coppers bothering the citizenry, you two dandies looking around for bread crumbs that might lead to him.”

“Yes.” Gross offered no further explanation.

“About seven, you say.”

They both nodded at her.

“I might have seen him. Can’t really remember clearly, though.”

Gross glanced at Werthen. “If you would be so good?”

Werthen sighed with exasperation, but dug out another florin and handed it to the lady.

She placed it on the bolster between her elbows. “Closer to seven thirty, I would say. That’s the time Herr Dietrich always gets home from work. Puts in long hours, does our Herr Dietrich.
Between you and me, I think he’s probably keeping a mistress somewhere. Works so much, but has so little to show for it. And Frau Dietrich always wearing last year’s fashions. Put on a bit of weight, too, the Frau.”

“Yes,” Gross said, steering her back to the matter at hand. “And you associate the arrival of Herr Dietrich with the man in
Trachten?”

She smiled at them, showing teeth as brown as a walnut. Then she looked down at the lone florin.

“Werthen,” Gross prompted.

The lawyer was about to complain when Gross shot him a look of urgency. He added a second florin.

“Came by just after Herr Dietrich went into number fifteen, there, across the way. Walking slowly enough. Wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t sickly.”

“And did anyone approach him along this street?” Gross inquired.

“Can’t say that I noticed. And that’s not a pitch for another coin. I’m not greedy. All’s I can say is he came by here. Took little enough notice of him, other than that he was dressed for winter.”

“Did you see him speak to anyone?”

She shook her head.

“Were there any vehicles parked along the street? Carriages or the like?”

“There’s always a carriage or two. This isn’t Ottakring, after all. We’ve got a respectable neighborhood here. Sort of place that the municipality keeps up. They was out that evening even, fixing the sewers.”

“Did you watch him as he got to the corner of Wiedner Hauptstrasse?” Gross continued.

“I wasn’t
watching
him,” she protested. “Just happened to see him a bit. Couldn’t tell you where he went, to be honest. The water boiled over for my tea, and I had to rush back to the kitchen.”

They made their adieus and proceeded down the street, searching for other open windows that might provide further witnesses.

“We hardly got three florins’ worth of information,” Gross complained, as if it had been his money spent.

That evening he and Gross were the guests of honor of Gustav Klimt at the Bierklinik, an inner-city eatery known for its fresh fish and bountiful servings. Klimt, or more likely Fräulein Flöge, had thought to reserve an upstairs room for their use. Present at the meal, besides these four, were Klimt’s mother and unmarried sisters, and the painter Carl Moll, an associate of Klimt’s at the Secession.

The Bierklinik was one of those restaurants that disabused foreigners of the idea that Viennese cooking was all kraut and sausage. Huge fish tanks flanked the walls of the entryway and from these was selected a trio of well-proportioned trout, poached to perfection with Madeira and a hint of lemon. These were served with parsley potatoes and greenhouse lettuce, crisp and tender, jeweled with Wachauer white-wine vinegar and fresh-pressed rapeseed oil.

Toasts were made to welcome the painter out of jail and then to the team of Gross and Werthen for helping in the matter.

But Gross was not about to take kudos for undeserved achievement.

“Circumstances saved you, Herr Klimt, not our investigation. The fact that you were locked up when the most recent murder occurred was the deciding factor in securing your release.”

“But you would have proved me innocent, Doktor Gross,” Klimt said with a slight slur to his voice. He was at work on his fourth beer. “Of that I am certain.”

“We were pursuing various leads, to be sure,” Gross said.

“And you, Werthen.” Klimt raised his glass. “A loyal friend indeed.”

“Who almost got you killed by Landtauer.”

Klimt ignored the remark. “I imagine you two are a bit depressed, no?”

Gross cast the man a shrewd look.

“I would be,” Klimt continued, “were a commission taken away from me halfway through the painting. In fact, I would be half-tempted to finish the job anyway.”

“Gustl.” Fräulein Flöge tugged at his sleeve. For the occasion, Klimt had donned a white suit and red cummerbund instead of his usual caftan. His left arm was dramatically supported in a sling. “I am sure these gentlemen have other obligations. We are not all free to pursue our daydreams like you.”

She held on to the thick right arm, taking a deep breath. It was clear to Werthen she was in love with the man. She met the lawyer’s eyes at that moment, blinking for a long moment as if to say thanks to him for not letting Klimt know she was aware of his paramour and child.

“You’re right, Emilie. As usual. I will confine myself to beer consumption this evening and no more unsolicited advice.

“To freedom,” Klimt said, extricating his good arm and hoisting his beer mug in a toast.

Klimt’s words had only echoed their own. Leaving the Bierklinik late that evening, both Gross and Werthen knew that they were going to continue their investigation.

They walked the quiet inner-city streets.

“This time of night,” Werthen said, “I could understand how someone might approach and kill another. It would take great stealth and a degree of luck, but by ten o’clock most of the good burghers of Vienna are tucked under eiderdown fast asleep.”

“But the others,” Gross said as their boots echoed on the cobblestones. “How to explain them?”

“Vanished into thin air, only to end up in the Prater in the morning.”

“Into thin air,” Gross mused. “Yes. Or as if the earth swallowed them, to borrow another saying.”

T
wo days later, Inspektor Meindl himself took them to the scene. The victim had used a small-caliber pistol, but, inserted into his mouth, it had done the job. The back of his head had been blown off. Blood and brain matter scored the walls in back of the cot where the body lay.

The tiny garden hut had little space for furniture other than the iron cot. A large copper washtub occupied part of that limited space; a coatrack, which seemed to serve as wardrobe, stood next to it. In one corner of the hut, the floorboards had been pried up. Lying on the floor next to the opening, the treasures there unearthed by the police were on display: two scalpels, a leather harness, a siphoning hose, and a jar of chloroform.

Gross touched Binder’s neck. “Still warm.”

Inspektor Meindl nodded. “Neighbors heard the shot just before sunrise. Officially, you’re not supposed to sleep in these huts, though obviously there are those who do. Neighbor in question is ex-army Didn’t like the sound of gunfire. But he didn’t investigate until later in the morning, when he saw the door ajar. He found the body. And this.”

Meindl produced a note from his coat pocket and handed
it to Gross. The criminologist visibly blanched as this was being done.

“Fingerprints, Meindl. Fingerprints.”

Meindl shook his head. “Not necessary anymore, Gross. Read for yourself.”

He did so, and Werthen peered over his shoulder:

The game is up, I’m afraid. I had afine run, but they’re onto me now. All because of the scalp le. Pity, really. I had grand plans still to carry out. And the roses have benefited ever so much from their unexpected meals. Such a lot of fun it’s been, matching wits with the police, and now the famous criminologist, Gross. And none of you were able to figure out the wonderful clues I left behind, I’ll warrant. The nose, the nose. It is all about the nose. We have seen fine examples of the noseless. Oh, the gay times they have had. I have had. There would have been more, many more, if not for my own stupidity. Cupidity. Oh, rhyme me no rhymes, tell me no tales. A leather nose is no substitute for a rose. Dig and dig and you may find clues
.

From outside they could hear police officers digging in the garden at that very moment. Obviously they had already had some success in their efforts, judging from the cache discovered inside the hut.

“My God, Gross,” Werthen said. “It’s just as Krafft-Ebing said.”

“It would appear so.”

“What do you mean?” Inspektor Meindl queried.

Gross ignored the question, stroking his beard in thought. “I believe you can call your men off, Meindl. Nothing more to discover out there. Blood residue washes away soon enough in soil.”

“Binder truly was mad, wasn’t he?” Werthen said. “He used the victims’ blood as fertilizer.”

“Afraid so,” Gross replied. Then to Meindl again: “And I should have that tub examined closely, using reagents to search for traces of blood. This would most likely be the place where he drained the blood.”

“And the noses?” Meindl asked again.

“I’ll need to consult someone about that.”

Later that day Werthen and Gross met once again, for a cup of afternoon tea at the Café Landtmann.

“It was as we suspected, Werthen,” Gross said. “I checked with the secretary at Breitstein and discovered the employees keep a record of the private physicians in case of emergency. I visited Binder’s medical man. Herr Binder was suffering from the tertiary stage of syphilis.”

“Deranged, of course.”

“It would appear so,” Gross agreed. “Though, as Krafft-Ebing predicted, not yet physically incapacitated.”

“That would seem to be conclusive, then,” Werthen said. “Inspektor Meindl told me to inform you that they had indeed found traces of blood in the washtub, just as you said. And on the scalpels, harness, and siphon, as well as on other parts of the walls. The harness was apparently used to hoist the victims, and then the siphon was employed to help drain the blood from the copper tub in order to fertilize the roses.” Werthen shivered despite the warm day. “A ghoulish business, all in all.”

“Yes, but one that has not yet quite been explained. One assumes the bottle of chloroform dug up at Binder’s was used to drug his victims. Easy enough to lure a person to a waiting carriage by asking for directions. A quick application of the chloroform on a rag and the person would become senseless and put up no fight, offer no resistance. Which explains their seeming disappearance into thin air, as you once put it.”

“My assumption, as well,” Werthen noted.

“There is, however, the not insignificant matter of Herr Binder’s supposed alibi for the Landtauer killing, and then there is also the knotty problem of transport. How did Herr Binder
move his victims to his garden hut and thence to the Prater? He could hardly have hired a
Fiaker
for such services.”

It was Werthen’s turn now to appear self-important. “I believe I can help you there, Gross. You see Meindl managed to track down Dr. Weininger from Klagenfurt. Seems he was vacationing near here, in Baden. And according to the doctor, Binder was not in Klagenfurt last Tuesday and Wednesday, but rather on Tuesday morning only. Weininger met with him at ten
A.M
., and the salesman told him he had a train to catch at noon. Which gave Binder plenty of time to return to Vienna and kill Fräulein Landtauer.”

Gross nodded his head. “And transporting the bodies?”

Werthen smiled. “In fact, I had the idea to check with Herr Direktor Breitstein while you were visiting Binder’s doctor. I wondered if the firm might have a delivery wagon.” Werthen paused dramatically.

“Get on with it,” Gross muttered.

“Well, the short of it is, yes, they do. And when questioned by Breitstein, the warehouseman responsible for maintaining it says that Herr Binder used it overnight several times that he knew of. Binder said he had large consignments to deliver to customers outside of office hours.”

Gross made a most uncouth sound, almost like flatulence, as he blew disgustedly through his lips.

“Not so sad, Gross. After all, Binder himself wrote that your discovery of his serrulate scalpel was what convinced him the game was up. You were directly responsible for putting an end to these horrible crimes.”

“That, dear Werthen, is one way to look at it. More satisfying, however, to clap the handcuffs on the killer oneself.”

“And you received recognition from the court,” Werthen added in a vain attempt at cheering him up. Indeed, the day following Binder’s suicide, an official letter arrived from the Hofburg,
seat of the Habsburgs. Cutting under the red wax seal, Werthen was amazed to read a personal commendation from Prince Grunenthal, adviser to Emperor Franz Josef, thanking them both for their invaluable assistance in putting such an unwholesome matter to rest. The letter had done little to cheer Gross at the time; reminding him of it now did even less.