The Empty Mirror (16 page)

Gross left for his post in Czernowitz the following day. Werthen saw him off at the East Train Station. As if marking the departure, the weather too changed. A thunderstorm rolled in from the Hungarian plains, and steady rain sounded on the arched copper roof of the train station as Gross’s train was readied.

They were there a half hour early, as was Gross’s custom when traveling. His first-class compartment was still empty; he held a reserved window seat facing the engine. The porter finished storing his luggage; Werthen had agreed to send on several boxes once Gross was settled in Bukovina. The criminologist had saved all the items of evidence he could from this case and would use them to write up an article for his monthly journal.

“Or perhaps I’ll fashion it into a melodrama like those of the Doyle chap in England.” Gross attempted a smile.

“Why not, indeed?” Werthen was trying to keep a positive attitude, though Gross had been morose enough since the case was closed.

As the departure drew near, Gross settled in his seat. “No need to wait, Werthen. The train will leave with or without you here.”

Werthen had promised himself he would not be put off by Gross’s evil spirits. “It has been an honor working with you, Gross.” He stood with his hand outstretched for several instants before Gross took notice, stood, and shook his hand.

“And I you, Werthen. I suppose we shall become dull old dogs again, now, eh?”

Werthen shrugged.

“A piece of advice,” Gross said. “Go back to criminal law, man. It is clearly where your heart is.”

“For the immediate future, I am afraid it is the country for me. And see what new young woman the parents have ‘inadvertently’ invited in hopes that their only son and heir will finally marry, settle down, and produce progeny.”

“Don’t laugh at the proposition, Werthen. Without my Adele, I would be lost.”

The two shook hands again, and Werthen departed. He looked back once, but Gross was already settled again in his window seat, a copy of the afternoon paper open in front of him.

As Werthen was exiting the train station, an adolescent newspaper hawker called out the headlines of the day’s tabloid press, his voice breaking on every stressed syllable:

“Prater murderer captured! Dramatic events bring end to ring of terror! Inspektor Meindl in on the kill. Read it all here.”

Werthen shook his head. Gross’s joking comment about turning the case into a melodrama had already become reality. The Viennese lived for a good bit of theater.

Deep down he had to admit that he was just that little bit peeved that he and Gross would get none of the accolades. He thought about Gross’s advice to return to criminal law. Perhaps if all cases ended so successfully, he would consider it. Perhaps if next time he could be “in on the kill,” as the newspaper vendor had it.

He bought one of the papers from the young vendor, watching the effete lawyer making his way out of the train station. So he would not have to kill him and the older one after all. There was no relief in the thought; simply a fact. It was obvious the meddlesome criminologist was on his way to Bukovina, where he belonged. The lawyer would surely go back to his posh law practice, also
where he belonged. No more messing about in other people’s business.

He looked at the headlines on the newspaper and felt a certain pride at a job well done. Others sold tram tickets or cleaned streets or drove a
Fiaker
or even taught at fancy universities for a living.

He killed people.

He was seventeen when he killed his first man. At the time, the Major thought this demonstrated great promise, for he had made the kill with his hands, no weapons. Quiet and controlled.

They whisked him out of his cell in Linz and sent him to the elite Rollo Commando training school in Wiener Neustadt as a result. There he refined his craft of killing, learning to use a knife, a cord, his fingers, even the high part of his instep to kill. He did not leave training unscathed: his instructor, sensing his apathy one day, left a jagged scar with the thrust of a stiletto in close-fighting drill.

“You must never take an attack for granted,” the trainer had told him afterward. “There is no such thing as a friendly attack.”

It was a lesson worth learning. He came to love the resulting scar. He wore it like a badge.

He was just out of training when they sent him on his first commission. He remembered shivering in the snow outside the lodge, watching the to and fro of servants and drivers as the night settled around them. He and two other members of the Rollo Commandos.

An hour before dawn they went in, entering stealthily through windows. The bedroom was at the end of a long, narrow corridor, far removed from the rest of the household. The young man was there, as if waiting for them. The two others took care of him; one wrestled him to the ground and the second held a revolver to his head.

He was left with the girl, who pleaded for her life. “Don’t kill me,” she whimpered. “I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t kill
me.” It disgusted him. She opened her night shift and let him see her breasts, her patch of dark hair down there. In the end, he let his anger get the better of him, for the first and last time. He was not a degenerate, after all. He was only doing his duty. But she kept whimpering and thrusting herself at him. He did not use the pistol as ordered, but rather killed her with his hands, grabbing her by the neck and slamming her head hard against the bedpost until she stopped the gurgling sound in her throat.

He was sent to Serbia after that, where he rotted in a garrison for several years before being called back to Vienna. He was never sure why. He asked no questions.

There had been many others since then. The last ones had been a challenge, operating in the capital itself. He liked a challenge. He worked to instructions regarding wounds and cuts, but had chosen his own victims and decided on his own means. It took a certain bit of genius to hit on the underworld, he thought.

He never knew exactly where his orders originated, only that his service was of vital importance to the empire. Something he never told his superiors, never mentioned to another living soul: It did not matter if his orders were of vital importance. It did not matter if he was serving his fatherland by his deeds.

Unlike a street cleaner, he liked his job. It was not just a duty for him, but almost like creating a work of art. A perfect kill. The sharp snapping sound of vertebrae like lake ice cracking in the thaw. The terror in the eyes of the victims when accosted, then the peaceful, almost contented look to them after he was finished with his work. All of this was immensely pleasing to him. But that was definitely something he could never mention to his superiors.

And now he had been given the biggest assignment of all. They would not find him wanting.

T
he world was altered.

No longer did the horse-drawn carriages along the Kärntnerstrasse irritate with their infernal noise and smell. Instead they were a romantic invitation to an outing, perhaps at the Sacher garden restaurant in the Prater. The afternoon sun was not beating down upon his head but rather bathing him in golden light. Female pedestrians might carry parasols against its strength, but Werthen grinned bathetically at its life-giving rays. The one-legged war veteran selling lottery tickets outside the Stephansdom was no longer a sorry-looking creature, but had suddenly been transformed into a silent hero. Even the late-season tourists, many of them Americans and thus loud and disorderly, seemed charming in their cultural naïveté.

In short,
Advokat
Karl Werthen was in love.

The object of his affections sat across from him now at the Kleine Ecke, the outdoor café on the corner of Graben and Kärntnerstrasse. And wonder of wonders, all because of his parents.

Werthen had arrived at Hohelände, the family estate in Upper Austria, the Saturday after Gross’s departure, determined to give short shrift to any young women his parents had invited this year. This annual event, this horse show, was put on for his benefit, a parade of all the eligible young fillies for kilometers around under the guise of a coincidental visit. Maman and Papa were desirous of an heir; with the death of Werthen’s younger brother, Max, the duty of continuing the Werthen name had fallen to him. My God, what a notion, he thought. One would think we were local aristocracy or lesser nobility the way Maman and Papa harped on the importance of continuing the family line.

Truth was, their money had come from the wool trade, just as they had come, not that long ago, from Moravia, hardworking Bohemian Jews hoping to assimilate. Grandfather Isaac had established the fortune through a blend of shrewd business sense and twelve-hour days. Werthen’s father, Emile, had reaped the rewards of such labor when a “von” was granted to the family in 1876, five years after the family’s conversion to Protestantism.

Werthen had been twelve at the time and had always found the use of that title offensive. Just as he had railed at his father’s insistence on his sons learning the ways of a gentleman and the supposed joys of hunting and fencing.

This year’s pick was Ariadne von Traitner, daughter of Otto, a created peer who ran a successful pencil factory in Linz. Werthen had to hand it to his parents, the girl was fetching enough. She had blond hair and blue eyes and was tall and willowy. She was the sort of girl Klimt might enjoy painting. Her family had converted to Christianity in the 1840s; one would never know she was Jewish. Neither was she as vapid as the usual young woman whom his parents invited.

The first afternoon at Hohelände, they all had lemonade together on the side lawn, near the croquet court, with birds twittering in the nearby copse and the sun bathing them all in
golden light. Werthen, however, was feeling far from charmed or bucolic. He was polite enough, but when Ariadne proffered the opinion that Johann Strauss was the greatest Austrian composer of all time, he determined to figure out a way to let the girl down lightly. He could not imagine himself spending the rest of his life with one who ranked Strauss above Mozart, Haydn, or even that quirky old maid Bruckner.

Then, just as he had hit on a plan of action, a further guest appeared. Berthe Meisner was introduced as Ariadne’s traveling companion, an old school friend from Linz, now residing in Vienna.

Werthen’s parents had been ever so solicitous of this other young woman, but clearly they felt this was noblesse oblige, chatting up such an inferior person. Werthen could not explain it if asked, but he was instantly attracted to Fräulein Meisner. She had none of the Germanic looks of her friend and was not of high social standing. Instead, she had a darkly handsome face and eyes that shone with a sort of mischief and knowing. She was twenty-five and worked for the Municipality of Vienna in one of its new day-care centers for working-class children.

“Working with the unwashed to save her soul,” Ariadne pronounced in an irritatingly arch manner. Werthen’s parents seemed to find this comment vastly humorous, but Berthe had been little amused. Her eyes seemed to flash at her friend, and Werthen could see that she was prepared to retort, but then thought better of it, sipping at her lemonade instead and smiling knowingly.

Werthen appreciated her reserve. After all, one could say little to such an ignorant remark. It was as if Fräulein Meisner had been embarrassed for her wealthy friend and cared not to draw further attention to such silliness. Her silence spoke volumes to Werthen.

The next day, rising early to avoid Ariadne at breakfast, Werthen set out on a walk to the nearby Lake Iglau. Sunrise was
a magical time to be at the lake, with the mists rising off the water and the pike dimpling the surface in search of food. Ahead of him on the path to the lake, he discerned another figure, a female, and feared that he had been mistaken about the von Traitner girl: perhaps she was the type to arise early after all. Quickly, however, he realized that it was her companion, Berthe Meisner. For the second time in twenty-four hours he felt an immense attraction to her. He breathed in deeply and with joy just seeing her. As if sensing his presence, she turned, squinted rather myopically at him, then waved.

“Seems we both had the same idea,” he said, catching her up. “Mind if I accompany you?”

“Not at all. What same idea?”

“A visit to the lake.”

“Oh. I had no idea. I just came out to get some air.”

“Then do allow me to introduce you to the wonders of Lake Iglau.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “Do you always talk like that?”

The question took him aback. “Like what?”

“Like you were running for mayor of Vienna. Too many words. Pompous.”

He felt himself reddening.

“See, there I go again. I am so sorry. Mother always told me I spoke too rashly.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Werthen said, feeling offended and slightly defensive.

“It must be the lawyer coming out in you. You needn’t bother with me, though. Really. I love plain speech.” She saw his discomfort now. “Blasted. And I do like you. Rosa is always telling me just to think twice before talking.”

“Another friend of yours?” Werthen asked, hoping to change the subject and return to the warm feeling he had earlier.

“Rosa? Yes, I expect you could call her a friend. Rosa Mayreder. You’ve heard of her, no doubt?”

Werthen certainly had heard of the fiery Frau Mayreder, Austria’s Susan B. Anthony or Emmeline Pankhurst.

“So you are a suffragette?” Werthen said.

They began strolling again, in the direction of the lake.

“You don’t approve?” she asked, smiling at him.

“On the contrary. Women’s suffrage is long overdue. We are fast approaching the twentieth century, but Austria still drags its feet in the Middle Ages in many respects.”