The Empty Mirror (30 page)

“I should keep my opinions to myself then,” Krafft-Ebing said, “and simply help you two create a new profile of the killer. Like you, Gross, I believe that our killer created the signature wounds on the victims of the Prater murders for a reason. The mutilations were not done simply to make the perpetrator look insane. I think they are all significant and all help to sketch a picture of the killer. The nose first.”

“Settled?” Gross suggested.

“Yes,” Krafft-Ebing said. “I very much like your theory about Indian lore. The unfaithful servant gets his nose chopped off, just like an unfaithful wife. The fact that it is an American Indian practice is also a signpost. It means the killer has perhaps had the luxury of travel to the United States and back. We Austrians have not sent many immigrants to the New World. More likely it would be someone with the means to travel, or at least someone educated enough to read of such practices. This points to wealth, possibly even aristocracy.”

“The middle classes are well enough educated these days,” Werthen objected.

“Of course they can read,” Krafft-Ebing said. “Any shopkeeper could pick up the adventure books of Karl May and possibly find a reference to such practices in the Indians of the American Plains. But it is the use of such information I am referring to. Honor and faithfulness are terrifically important to this person. Most of us do not live by such symbolic acts. For our killer, such symbolism is important, no, vital. We see that if we look more closely at the other markers.”

“The blood,” Gross said. “After deciding against the Jewish angle, we did let that detail lapse.”

“It is as important as the nose,” Krafft-Ebing said. “Blood symbolizes so many things: life, fecundity, sexuality, breeding. But the draining of the blood is telling. Linked with the mutilated nose, I would say that the blood in this case indicates a lack of breeding, or of good blood, as the aristocrats might say.”

Werthen found this discussion somewhat ironic given that Krafft-Ebing himself was a
Ritter
, a member of the lower aristocracy, but the aristocracy nonetheless.

“Excellent,” Gross said, rubbing his hands. “And the placement of the bodies?”

“That is the third marker,” Krafft-Ebing agreed. “The Prater. Now an amusement park, and thus one thinks it is a symbol of the common man. Or perhaps it was merely a handy place to dump the bodies. Deserted enough in the middle of the night so that no one would notice.”

“Yet the killer took these people off the streets of Vienna, some even when it was still light,” Gross said. “No, I do not think it was the remoteness of the place that determined the use of the Prater.”

“It was a royal hunting preserve in the time of Joseph I,” Werthen said.

“Once again to the aristocratic connection,” Krafft-Ebing said. “And these victims were left as if they were trophies of the hunt.”

Werthen thought quickly of Franz Ferdinand’s reputation as a hunter who had slaughtered thousands of game animals, but said nothing. There was no reason to derail Krafft-Ebing from his speculations.

“We are coming closer to a full picture of the perpetrator, gentlemen,” the psychologist said. “A man of power and wealth able to most probably hire someone to do his killing for him. Someone for whom loyalty and breeding are all important. A soldier perhaps, or a member even of one of our illustrious knightly orders, such as the Austrian Imperial Leopold Order, the Maria Theresa Order, the Order of St. Stephen, or even the Order of the Golden Fleece. Those all have a code of honor which demands members to censure other knights for treason or heresy. Such a code could be extended in the man’s mind to a servant of the empire as Herr Frosch. Even to the empress herself.”

“I believe all members of the royal family are automatically members of some orders,” Werthen added.

“The Golden Fleece,” Gross said with a sly grin at his display of arcane knowledge. “But there is nothing saying our perpetrator must belong to such an order, merely that he wield power of some sort. Which leaves a wide assortment to choose from. First we have the eighty living descendants of Empress Maria Theresa and her son, Emperor Leopold II. Archdukes, archduchesses, princes, princesses, counts, and countesses.”

“The First Society,” Krafft-Ebing added.

“Quite. Any of those could wield the sort of power we are looking for. Then comes the lower hereditary titles from the other parts of the empire, many of which are Hungarian, I remind you. Most of these, with some prominent exceptions such as Esterhazy, Schwarzenberg, Grunenthal, and Thurn and Taxis, have titles no higher than count. Then comes the third tier of
Dienstadel
, who earned their titles, such as knight or baron, through service to the crown.”

“As with my own family,” Krafft-Ebing said.

“And let us not forget,” Gross continued, “the vast array of civil servants, military men, advisers, and even servants who are in positions of power at the court. I have read estimates of the number constituting the court as high as forty thousand.”

But Werthen had stopped listening. Franz Ferdinand was surely a member of the Golden Fleece, as had been Crown Prince Rudolf. Had Franz Ferdinand needed a rationalization to kill his older cousin, he could have told himself he was doing it for the good of the country, to save Austria from Rudolf’s love of the Magyars, who wanted to break from the dual monarchy. Franz Ferdinand would have been twenty-six at the time of Rudolf’s death, with enough allies to pull off such a coup as assassinating the crown prince and making it look like suicide.

“Do you agree, Werthen?”

Gross’s voice finally brought Werthen out of his thoughts. He did not know how long he had been out of their conversation.

“Sorry, my mind was wandering. Agree with what?”

“Our next step should be to determine if our central theory is correct.”

“And that is?”

“That all of this revolves around the death, no, the murder, of Crown Prince Rudolf a decade ago.”

“Short of finding a copy of Frosch’s memoirs, how do you propose to do that?” Werthen asked. “We can hardly reopen that investigation, as well. The crime scene exists no longer, as Rudolf’s bedroom was literally torn apart to renovate the Mayerling hunting lodge into a Carmelite nunnery. Many of those who were present at Mayerling that night, including Rudolf’s driver, Bratfisch, and now Frosch, are dead. So how to proceed?”

“By examining the body.”

“But the crown prince is in the crypt of the Capuchin Church,” Werthen argued. He did not like being diverted from this present investigation by Gross to waste time on a ten-year-old murder. “They would never let us open his sarcophagus.”

“Not the crown prince, Werthen, but the girl. Marie Vetsera, whom he supposedly shot before killing himself.”

“What could you possibly hope to prove by looking at that rotting corpse?”

“I am not certain, Werthen. Perhaps we shall only succeed in stirring up the killer even more. Enough, perhaps, to act unwisely. Or perhaps there is indeed something to be found in the cold, damp earth besides worms.”

Gross rose from his chair, nodding at the psychologist. “Krafft-Ebing, as always, it has been a delight. Many thanks for your assistance, and do look both ways before crossing the Ringstrasse tonight.”

The psychologist shot Gross a look. “You as well, Gross. We shouldn’t want to lose you, just yet.”

What they found so blasted humorous about the prospect of death, Werthen did not know.

“And let me know if the Vetsera clan agree to the exhumation,” Krafft-Ebing said as they were on the way out the door. “You’ll need a medical doctor present for the examination, I assume?”

O
utside, Klimt was still waiting for them. He had insisted on playing bodyguard, and-with the assistance of his former cellmate Hugo from the Landesgericht prison-he had recruited three hulking and rather unsavory-looking individuals, under whose bulging jackets Werthen imagined there to be an assortment of pistols, truncheons, knives, and brass knuckles. Each of these men wore a derby hat atop a medicine-ball-sized head. Klimt made no effort at introductions, and neither Werthen nor Gross insisted on formalities. Though Gross had scoffed at the idea last night, he was not, Werthen noticed, complaining of the company today.

They were sandwiched by their escorts as they made their way along the Ring.

“You seem to be a bit of an amateur historian of your adopted city, Werthen,” Gross said as they walked toward the nearest fiacre rank, at Schottentor. “Tell me, what became of the Vetsera girl’s mother?”

“Well, the court banished her, as you could quite imagine. She was blamed for throwing her beautiful young daughter at the crown prince. Fact of the matter was, however, though
Helene Vetsera was a social climber and not beyond arranging an affair between her seventeen-year-old daughter and Rudolf-indeed, rumor has it she herself as a younger and married woman tried to bed the crown prince-she was innocent this time. It was the empress’s niece Marie, Countess Larisch, who acted as go-between for her cousin and the Vetsera girl. She, too, was banished from court as a result of her involvement. I believe she recently married a Bavarian singer and is living in Munich.”

“Yes, yes, Werthen,” Gross said impatiently. “But the mother, that’s the one I am interested in.”

“She was dropped by all good society, though her brothers, the Baltazzi boys as they are known, have managed to remain in society’s good graces. Great racing gents, they are. You can find them at Freudenau in the racing season.”

“Werthen!”

“Yes, the mother. Last I knew Helene Vetsera was still living in the family mansion on Salesianergasse.”

“The so-called Noble Quarter. Then let us be off.”

“But, Gross, we cannot simply go calling on the baroness. There is etiquette to follow. One must present one’s card beforehand and wait to be invited.”

“Nonsense, Werthen. The lady is probably pining away, eager for any visitation. If she is the pariah you say she is, she will be only too happy to greet us. Quickly, man,” Gross said as he flagged a passing
Fiaker
, “we have no time to waste.”

He and Werthen jumped in the
Fiaker
, leaving Klimt and his crew scrambling for the next available carriage.

Arriving at Salesianergasse 12, Werthen was surprised to find that Gross was right about the baroness’s eagerness for company. They delivered their professional cards to the aged butler who answered the door, and within five minutes Helene Vetsera received them. Werthen saw Klimt and his bulldogs draw up in a
Fiaker
just as he and Gross were entering the house.

The baroness was seated in a large and rather dark room when
the butler showed them in. In her day, Helene Vetsera had been known as a beauty, Werthen knew. Her Levantine good looks came from her father, Themistocles Baltazzi, who came from Asia Minor and embraced the ideal of empire to such an extent that he grew rich off bridge tolls and other such government concessions. She was one of four children; the other three were boys, who had made names for themselves in England racing horses. Helene married an Austrian diplomat and had several children, most notably a daughter, Marie, who became infamous for her early death at Mayerling.

“I have, of course, heard of your work, Herr Doktor Gross,” the baroness said after introductions were made.

The light was so poor in the room that Werthen could not make out her features clearly; he imagined that was the intention. Gossip had it that she had aged horribly after the death of her daughter and banishment from society.

“That pleases me, Baroness,” Gross said with courtly grace. “I must apologize for our unannounced visit. I explained to
Advokat
Werthen that such behavior was not quite
au fait
, but he would not be convinced. My sincere apologies on his behalf.”

Werthen rolled his eyes at Gross.

The baroness cast Werthen a reproachful look, then turned again to Gross.

“This must be a matter of some urgency, then,” she said. Clearly her curiosity had been piqued.

“It is, Baroness. But to you, it may prove also a somewhat painful one. You see, my colleague and I are writing a review of police procedures in the tragic affair at Mayerling.”

An audible sigh came from her at the mention of that name.

“It will be published in my journal, the
Archive of Criminalistics
. A professional organ, you understand, read by criminologists around the world. We hope to put all gossip to rest regarding the death of your daughter and the crown prince. To that end, we require your assistance.”

“My baby.” A sniffle came from the dusk surrounding the baroness. “So misunderstood.”

“That is exactly why we have come to you, dear Baroness,” Gross continued. “We hope to clear up any misunderstandings regarding your daughter. It is my contention that she was, in fact, an innocent victim. That she was merely at the wrong place at the wrong time. Far from being part of a romantic suicide pact, young Marie was, sadly, an accidental casualty of other machinations. I believe we can prove this if we had the opportunity to view the remains.”

Gross left his pronouncement dangling without further explanation. Werthen assumed the woman would, after having time to collect herself, welcome any attempt to clear her daughter’s name and gladly sign an exhumation form for the body.

“That is quite impossible,” the baroness said, standing suddenly. “Do you know how long I have lived in exile from society? Almost a decade. And only now are things beginning to thaw. I received an invitation from the Princess Metternich for a soiree just last week. Perhaps my tragic loneliness is coming to an end. And you wish me to jeopardize that by opening up all those old wounds?”

Werthen was surprised but not amazed. He had dealt with people for too many years to be amazed anymore. The baroness was more concerned with her social standing than clearing the name of her dead daughter, which meant that they had to attempt a different approach now.

“Perhaps it is time to inform the good lady,” the lawyer suddenly said.