The Empty Mirror (24 page)

“An awful day,” she told them as they settled in the hotel lounge for midmorning coffee. She was attractive and alert, Werthen thought. The perfect combination for hostess of such an establishment.

“But it had begun so wonderfully for the empress,” she recalled. “She requested a tray full of our breakfast rolls, one of every flavor and shape for her morning repast. Thereafter, she ventured to Baker’s on the rue Bonivard and made the purchase of a player piano and music scrolls. Such a thoughtful, considerate person.”

Suddenly the lady began sniffling and pulled a lace cloth from the sleeve of her moss-green silk gown. “Sorry, gentlemen. But it was such a terrible thing. The world misunderstood her, I am sure. She was the kindest person. She remembered one’s name, even that of serving girls. That such a thing should happen.”

“Yes,” Gross sympathized. “Terrible indeed. And anything
you can remember will help to bring the guilty man to proper punishment.”

“I’ve already told the police everything I know.”

“Of course. Though sometimes one recalls things after a certain time passes. The shock of the event often clouds one’s memory, you see.”

This seemed to make sense to Madame Mayer, and she pulled herself together, sitting upright and replacing the lace hankie.

“Anything I can do. Anything. I still carry a small piece of bloodstained ribbon from the empress. I shall always.”

“You viewed it all from your balcony then,” Gross said.

“Right. The empress and Countess Sztaray had gotten a late start from the hotel and were hurrying to catch the steamer. I wanted to be sure that she in fact did arrive in time, and thus I watched her departure. The countess was in front with one of our porters, young Mouleau, who was carrying the empress’s case and cloak. You see, the empress had sent her entourage ahead by train …”

“Yes,” prompted Gross. “And then what happened?”

“They were just passing the Brunswick monument, the empress walking behind the others, and the first departure bell sounded for the steamer. I was concerned that they might, in fact, miss their passage. Just then, I saw this man get up from a bench on the quay, quickly approach the empress, and then strike her a savage blow to the chest. I gasped and then cried out. The empress was knocked down and this villain ran away. The countess turned around just at that moment, perhaps hearing my scream, and she in turn raised an alarm.”

“It must have been awful for you to watch,” Werthen said. “I mean, so far away and unable to give assistance.”

Madame Mayer nodded. “But others were there to help. A coachman rushed up and helped the empress to her feet. I remember he was so helpful, he even brushed her skirts. Then our doorman, Planner-he’s an Austrian, too-ran up and assisted, but it
appeared the empress was fine. A blow and nothing more. She and the countess continued on and boarded the steamer. In the meantime, they had caught the assailant and brought him here for questioning. A sniveling, cringing villain if ever I saw one. I must admit my husband, Charles Albert, grew quite agitated and even struck the man across the mouth. At that time we thought he was simply a petty thief who had tried to steal the empress’s diamond watch. Imagine our distress then when some minutes later the steamer returned to the quay and the empress was brought in a makeshift stretcher back to the room she had latterly occupied. There was nothing to be done. A doctor was summoned, but she died within minutes. I remained with the countess and her dead empress for the following six hours before her court returned.”

Despite her efforts at maintaining her composure, Madame Mayer once again began sobbing.

“There, there.” Werthen made to pat her shoulder, but thought better of it, not wanting to give offense at being too intimate.

“And this coachman,” Gross said. “He is a local man?”

She sniffed once more. “Coachman?”

“The one who assisted the empress to her feet.”

“Oh.” She thought a moment. “I really don’t know. Planner might be able to tell you.”

Planner was on duty at the door. Of medium height and undistinguished features, he nonetheless carried himself with great importance, decked out in a red uniform with gold epaulets and a shiny black kepi. He was pleased to talk to other Austrians.

“A right panic it was,” he said when asked of the events of the day Elisabeth was assassinated. “She said good-bye to me personally, she did, on her way out. Called me by name and all. She knew I was Austrian, see. Always left a good tip for me in one of her embossed envelopes. We won’t see her like again.”

“You were at the door then when the empress departed,” Gross said.

Planner nodded.

“Did you witness Luccheni, the assailant, attack the empress?” Werthen asked, tired of remaining the silent “associate.”

“No, sir, I can’t say I did,” Planner said, turning to the lawyer. “I was busy see, fetching a carriage for the Baron and Baroness Guity-Fallour. Regulars, they are. Always come in September for the opening of the opera season. And quite a fine opera it is, nothing on the par of Vienna’s Court Opera, of course-”

“I am sure it is not,” Werthen interrupted, “but to the point. You were busy with other guests and did not see the blow. What did you see?”

“It was Madame Mayer’s scream from above caught my attention. And then pandemonium out on the quay. I saw the empress on the ground and this bloke helping her up. I ran out to them.”

“Did you get a good look at this man helping the empress?” Gross now put in. “Madame Mayer seems to think he was a coachman.”

“Could have been. He was dressed common enough.”

“You don’t know him then?”

“Never saw him before nor since. Tall bloke. Tall and rangy. Had the empress up by the time I got there, seemed to be trying to clean her off. Only saw him from the back and side sort of before he left and let me and some other men plus the empress’s lady-in-waiting attend to her.”

“Anything else you can remember about the man?” Werthen queried. “Anything at all?”

“Well, one thing. Looking at the fellow from the side like I say, I thought I could see a nasty-looking scar. But I can’t be certain. It was panic, like I say. Could’ve just been a shadow.”

At the mention of the scar, Werthen felt a shiver pass through his body. He held his counsel, however, until they had interviewed several others among the staff who saw the events.
None of them, however, could recall the tall man who helped the empress.

Gross questioned Madame Mayer once again as to why she thought the man was a coachman and was given the sensible response that she had noticed him climbing into the driver’s seat of a two-horse carriage parked nearby and speeding off after the empress was on her way to the steamer.

Over lunch of fresh trout and a Rhine wine, Gross and Werthen discussed their findings.

“We need to contact the Countess Sztaray, of course,” Gross said. “I believe she has left for her family estates in Lower Austria. Perhaps a telegram would be the wisest. We need to ascertain what she has to offer about this mysterious coachman.”

“You believe this ‘coachman’ killed the empress, don’t you, Gross?”

“Afraid so, Werthen. Under the guise of cleaning her off, he expertly stabbed her with the stiletto-sharp file. She was still in shock from the broken rib, which Luccheni had caused with his blow.”

“Do you think Luccheni meant to kill her at all?”

“Do you remember the words of Frau Geldner from Vienna, his onetime landlord? That he was incapable of killing anyone? I think that is the fact. All bluster and no skill. Perhaps he thought to throttle her, but was scared off when help came. The fact is, I believe that the unfortunate-yes, unfortunate-Signor Luccheni was made to look the guilty party, when in fact an expert and practiced assassin actually did the deed.”

“In other words,” Werthen said, “Luccheni was somehow tricked into attacking the empress to provide a cover for the true killer. This was not an anarchist assassination at all. Is that what you are implying?”

Gross shook his head vehemently. He had not yet tasted his poached trout.

“No implications here, Werthen. That is exactly what I am
saying happened. And this fits perfectly with the death of Frosch, which also was made to appear to be the work of some other hand, that of the Prater murderer.”

“She was killed to maintain her silence,” Werthen muttered, feeling suddenly queasy. They were getting into very deep water here. “To keep the events at Mayerling a secret.”

“Perhaps. But let us not get ahead of ourselves.” Gross picked up fork and knife and began boning his fish. “It is my opinion that this coachman simply came back to the scene later that night and tossed the file into a doorway along the route where Luccheni had run. It is the simplest thing in the world to plant such faux evidence.”

“Gross. There is something I should tell you. The description of this coachman. If he indeed had a scar-”

“Then he is surely the man that has been following us,” Gross finished, smiling at his friend.

“Then you knew.”

“I have been conscious of someone following our movements for some days now. I believe I saw him on the platform in Zurich,” Gross said. “Where, I imagine, judging from the light that fell upon the platform from your open curtain, you saw him, as well.”

“But why did you say nothing?”

“For the same reason you did not. I could not be sure. Perhaps it was my nerves getting the better of me. Perhaps it was simply my imagination. Now we know it is not. Now we know that we are battling a powerful enemy, dear Werthen. An expert killer who must also realize we are onto him. We must take care, Werthen. Our lives are surely in danger now.”

T
hey were just in time for the one-o’clock steamer that stopped in nearby Pregny location of the Rothschild estate. They had come unannounced and thus found no little difficulty in talking their way through the gate and beyond the overly conscientious butler who answered the front door. That they were now armed did not help their cause.

Gross had taken the precaution of bringing two Steyr automatic pistols. These weapons, invented by the Austrian Joseph Laumann only six years earlier, had been artifacts in Gross’s crime museum in Graz, but the criminologist had for sentimental reasons taken them with him when leaving for Czernowitz.

Gross had appeared rather sheepish when presenting Werthen with one of the twin guns, but the feel of cold steel in his hand made Werthen, a crack shot, feel more comfortable. His father’s desperate attempts at assimilation-the riding, shooting, and fencing lessons young Werthen was forced to take ad nauseam-did have their benefits, it seemed. Though such efforts to wipe away the image of the intellectual Jew and replace it with the modern déclassé man of action had been far from successful, there were still atavistic holdovers of the regimen.
Familiarity with pistol and sword being two of those. A knowledge of fine wines was another and more pleasing one.

Any comfort the pistols might have afforded was, however, offset by their having to keep their heavy topcoats on to conceal the bulky weapons in their jacket pockets. Today, the afternoon heat of the day at Pregny made such a subterfuge all but intolerable.

Finally, Werthen, speaking with the Rothschild butler, was able to dredge up the name of local aristocracy with whom his parents were acquainted. He stretched the point to say that the Baron and Baroness Grafstein had sent their personal regards to Baroness Julie de Rothschild.

These names swayed the earnest butler, and he sent word to his mistress, who had been taking an afternoon rest. Julie de Rothschild appeared ten minutes later, a small and finely built woman with sparkling eyes and carefully coiffed brown hair. They met in a sitting room to which the butler had directed them, and Baroness de Rothschild set their two cards down on the side table next to the armchair she threw herself into.

“So you are not anarchists, after all?” she said.

“My good lady,” Werthen made to protest.

“Michel, the butler, said you looked like anarchists. Why else wear such heavy coats on a warm day? Are you carrying bombs?”

Her wry smile implied she did not for a moment suspect them, but Gross grew suddenly huffy.

“I can assure you, Baroness, we are here on the most vital business.”

“Then the Grafsteins … that was simply a ruse.”

Werthen began to apologize, but she waved it away. “Never mind. Life does get boring here. I am ready for an adventure today. What brings you gentlemen to Pregny? And please, do take off those ridiculous coats. Armed or not, it is all the same to me.”

They did as they were bid, and her eyes went immediately to their bulging jacket pockets, but she said nothing.

“It is about the empress,” Gross said.

“I thought as much. You wish to know her business here the day before she was killed.”

Werthen appreciated the lady’s directness, though he could still feel the heat in his cheeks at having been caught in his lie about the Grafsteins.

“Exactly,” Gross said.

“The empress came, as you have, under the guise of mutual friendship. My husband, Baron Adolphe, once a banker in Naples, gave up that life for the refinements of Paris, where I met him. We had the occasion later to know the deposed king and queen of Naples when they lived in exile in that fair city. My husband was able to, shall we say, aid the king out of potential financial difficulties resulting from his lost kingdom. The queen of Naples, is, as I am sure you know, the sister of Empress Elisabeth, who called as a courtesy to her sister, ostensibly to personally thank us for this earlier assistance. However, she, like you gentlemen, had another motive to her visit.”

“Which was?” Gross asked.

“To seek my husband’s assistance in the publication of her majesty’s memoirs. Adolphe has among his many other holdings a large publishing firm in Berlin. The empress wanted to ensure that her memoirs would not be censored. They were, to use her words, ‘potentially inflammatory.’ My husband of course said he would do everything in his power. Elisabeth apparently had not begun the writing, but was most emphatic that there should be no censorship whatsoever.”