The Empty Mirror (35 page)

“Did you perhaps inquire after this man?” Werthen asked.

“Why should I have? I had no idea what was in the note at first. By the time I’d read it, the child had vanished.”

“Your daughter’s lodgings?” Gross prompted him.

“Yes. Well, arriving in Vienna, I went straight to her fiat, but there was no answer. The
Portier
had not seen her since Tuesday. Then I went to the school where she volunteers. They told me she did not come to work yesterday and they had had no word from her. The children at the school missed her, that was what they told me.”

Werthen and Gross exchanged glances. “We will find her, Werthen,” Gross promised.

“What is all this about?” Meisner said, his voice no longer full of outrage, but now tinged with fear and grief. “What investigation is this fiend talking of?”

Another exchange of looks between the two. Gross nodded.

“We should sit, Herr Meisner,” Werthen said, taking the older man by the arm. “There is much to tell.”

As Werthen explained the investigation of the Prater murders that had eventually led to the very doors of the Hofburg, Gross used his magnifying glass to minutely examine the paper upon which the note to Herr Meisner had been written. Gross finished his labors first and sat quietly-uncommonly so, Werthen thought-as the lawyer finished his disquisition.

“So somebody powerful wants to protect himself,” Herr Meisner said. “What a foolish way to go about it, kidnapping my daughter. Why not just kill you two?”

The blatancy as well as the pure logic of the question took Werthen aback momentarily.

Gross replied, “Not for lack of trying, Herr Meisner. But an apt question. One that I have just now been giving thought to myself.”

“And double the fool,” Meisner continued, shaking his head. “For how can they be assured you will not pursue your investigations once Berthe has been returned?”

“Exactly,” Werthen said.

“I expect we shall discover that presently,” Gross said, holding up the note. “This piece of paper is, in effect, an invitation.”

“What are you talking about?” Meisner said, regaining his former belligerent attitude. “It’s an extortionist’s bill of change, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Is that so?” Gross said. “Then where are the conditions?”

“It says clearly enough here that once your infernal investigations have come to a halt, Berthe will be released.”

“Those are no conditions, Herr Meisner. Those are demands. How, for example, can it be made clear ‘such investigations have been brought to a close,’ as herein demanded? Do we take a full-page advertisement out in the
Wiener Zeitung
saying Professor Doktor Gross and
Advokat
Werthen are pleased to announce that their investigations of the Prater murders have now been closed? Do we seek an audience with the emperor and say the same? Pahh.” Gross made a dismissive sound somewhere between a sneeze and a cough. “I tell you, Herr Meisner, this is not an extortionist’s letter, but a clear invitation to a meeting.”

Werthen watched the two men square off against one another; they were too alike to ever find common ground, that was clear.

“Now you are a clairvoyant, is that it, Professor Gross?”

“There are no psychical tricks to my conclusion. It is all here.” He waved the note in the air. “Not in the text, but in the very paper upon which it is printed. I have made an exhaustive study of paper, you see, Herr Meisner.”

“I suppose you have even written a monograph on the subject,” the man said with heavy irony.

“Indeed I have. And I can tell you that this piece of paper has a footprint to it every bit as exact as that of a man. Firstly, the paper is of the finest linen content available. That immediately separates
the writer from the mass of people. Then the watermark is very distinctive: the letter ‘W inside a circle,
Kreis
, which is the monogram for ‘Wernerkreis,’ the premier papermaker in Austria, with its main outlet on the Graben in the First District. Moreover, this particular watermark bears what appears to be a personal symbol at the very bottom, hardly legible to the naked eye, but which I could discern with the aid of a magnifying glass.”

Gross stopped, looking awfully pleased with himself.

“Well, out with it,” Meisner demanded. “What is it you found?”

“The letters ‘AEIOU.’”

Austriae est imperare orbi universo,”
Werthen said. “‘It is Austria’s destiny to rule the world.’”

“Very good, Werthen.”

“Actually,” Herr Meisner said, “that simple series of vowels commissioned by Friedrich the third for his state carriage and churches and public buildings in Vienna, Graz, and Wiener Neustadt are hardly so simple of interpretation. Others have decoded their meaning as
Austria erit in orbe ultima
, Austria will exist eternally.’ Or even
Alies Erdreich ist Österreich untertan
, All the earth is subordinate to Austria.’ But whatever the translation, the higher meaning is the same, a belief in the historical calling of the House of Habsburg.”

Gross and Werthen both looked at this Herr Meisner with new appreciation.

“What?” he said. “Because a man manufactures shoes he cannot cultivate his mind? I will have you know I am, in addition to being an amateur historian, one of the foremost Talmudic scholars in Austria.” Then a pause and a shaking of his head. “I must apologize, gentlemen. It is not my usual manner to trumpet my achievements. I am distraught. The matter at hand is Berthe’s freedom and how to effect it.”

“I appreciate the added information, Herr Meisner,” Gross said, also moderating his tone. “And you are correct, all interpretations
of the insignia point to a member of or someone close to the House of Habsburg. We shall discover exactly who after a visit to Wernerkreis on the Graben.”

They were shown into his office, an opulent space overlooking the newest tract of the Hofburg, the Heldenplatz, with the plane trees on the Ringstrasse beyond now beginning to turn yellow and orange. This was the room of a man who exerted ultimate power. You could feel the self-confidence in the enormous rosewood desk, the six Louis XV chairs gathered in a small conversation circle at one end of the room, in the abundance of Flemish tapestries of hunting scenes hanging from the walls, in the elegantly crafted star-parquet floor, in the Meissen fireplace, in the green brocade curtains framing floor-to-ceiling windows, in the rows of books that filled one wall. Gross examined the books as they waited; Werthen fidgeted with his tiepin.

They had, with relative ease, discovered the identity of the person who used the AEIOU stationery. Gross had simply ordered a gift box of specialized stationery from the firm of Wernerkreis in the Graben, using those exact initials in the watermark, and when the clerk politely informed him that such an insignia was already in use, Gross feigned vague interest as to the identity of his doppelgänger. The clerk quite proudly announced the name, at which point Gross muttered, “Just as I thought.”

They had taken what precautions they could. Herr Meisner was sent to stay with Klimt until they returned from their visit. If they did not return, then Meisner and Klimt would be sure to report them missing, and to supply the name of the guilty party to newspapers throughout Europe.

Gross was certain they would make such a return, but Werthen was sure of nothing anymore. All of his fondest certainties had been turned on their heads by their investigation. But he would do whatever necessary now to see that Berthe was
released unharmed. It was his fault she had been placed in danger in the first place. If he had only had the common sense to take her into his confidence as she had demanded, then she, too, would have been on guard. But he had hoped to shield her by simply keeping her in the dark, thinking her ignorance would be her protection, and never realizing that she would be used as a bargaining chip by a ruthless Machiavellian monster.

Werthen’s ruminations were interrupted by an exclamation from Gross.

“Ah. As I expected.” He pulled a thin pamphlet out of a section of the bookcase. “My monograph on the identification of paper types and watermarks. This is indeed a formal invitation, Werthen.”

At that moment the double doors to the office were thrust open, and a tall, white-haired man swept into the room, dressed in the formal red robes and ermine collar of a Knight of the Golden Fleece.

“Sorry to keep you gentlemen waiting,” Prince Grunenthal said as he crossed to his desk. He also wore the formal chain of the order, whose motto, engraved on the precious metals of the links, was “Not a bad reward for labor.” Werthen had always been mildly amused by the motto, the baseness, the crassness of it, in juxtaposition to the stated purposes of the Order of the Golden Fleece, to defend the Roman Catholic religion and to uphold the chivalric code of honor of knights. Grunenthal sat in a rather regal chair behind his desk, leaving Gross and Werthen to stand. Gross, however, replaced his monograph on paper and was quick to take a seat in one of the Louis XV chairs, distant from the desk. Werthen followed suit.

“I forget my manners,” Grunenthal said, rising and crossing to join them. “I have been looking forward to this meeting for quite some time, though I do find myself torn in my emotions.”

“You could have simply invited us, Prince Grunenthal,” Gross said, not bothering with small talk. “It was not necessary to kidnap Fräulein Meisner in order to get our attention.”

“Hardly kidnap, Professor Gross. Let us say she is a guest of the state.”

“Let us say that you are desperate, Prince Grunenthal.” Gross looked at him with his piercing eyes as if he could bore a hole through the man. Grunenthal returned the stare with equal intensity.

“I want my fiancée back, Grunenthal,” Werthen said, purposely dropping the man’s title. He had forfeited any right to it, in Werthen’s opinion.

“And you shall have her back,
Advokat,”
the prince said, now turning his stone-cold gaze upon Werthen, “directly we come to an agreement.”

“Desperate,” Gross repeated. “Otherwise you would simply have had us killed, as you did all the others. But things are getting out of hand, aren’t they? Too many people are involved now. Who knows whom I or Werthen have told about this investigation? Who knows how many copies of our investigation notes I have sent to colleagues throughout Europe? Those questions are our life insurance, no? They are keeping us alive, for our very deaths would prove our investigations were correct.”

Grunenthal clapped his surprisingly tiny and well-manicured hands together slowly, menacingly. “Bravo, Professor Gross. It is a pleasure to finally confer with a man whose mind is equal to the task at hand. I would, of course, rather you were both … disposed of. But you are correct. That is no longer practicable. Therefore”-the prince shrugged, with palms upraised-“an agreement. A truce, as it were.”

“Treaties are your forte, are they not, Prince?”

“I pride myself that I have been of some use to the empire during my decades of service.”

Werthen wanted simply to throttle the man, but knew that would not help the fate of Berthe. He understood that he had to keep himself under control and let Gross handle these matters.

“A good diplomat knows about give-and-take,” Gross went on.
“You have something we want, that is clear. Berthe Meisner. We, on the other hand, have something you badly need, our silence. I expect you will explain how we can guarantee our silence.”

“Oh, indeed, I shall, sir. It is quite simple, really. You drop your investigations, tell your colleagues of your mistaken direction, refute any prior claims to knowledge of the identity of the killer and his master, or you shall find yourselves accused of the crimes.”

The prince smiled with absolutely mirthless eyes. Werthen thought he had never seen a living man’s eyes so completely void of life.

“I assume you have gathered certain ‘evidence’ that will further such a preposterous claim,” Gross said.

“Of course. A bit of a hobby of mine, you know, criminology.”

“I noticed.” Gross nodded toward the section of the bookshelves he had been perusing.

“Yes. I possess all the basic texts on the subject,” Grunenthal said, “as well as some of the finest fabulists, Poe, Collins, even this new chap Conan Doyle and his Sherlock Holmes. I have made an intensive study, you see. Your motive is quite wonderful, if you don’t mind my saying so. Hubris. Professional pride. You commit the most heinous series of murders so that you can solve them and gain international fame. That is, you and your henchman,
Advokat
Werthen.”

“So we have mutual insurance?” Gross said.

“I should hope so.”

“Why not simply proceed then?” Werthen blurted out. “Accuse us. Create another smoke screen.”

“Were I a younger man, I might. But all games must come to an end. I find this is perhaps the optimum result. A draw rather than outright victory.”

“It is no game!” Werthen felt himself go red in the face; the heat went down to his stomach. If he had a gun with him, he would have shot the man like the sick animal he was. “You and your creature have butchered innocent citizens.”

“Werthen,” Gross cautioned.

“No, no,” Grunenthal said. “Your colleague is right. This is no game, though it must be played with the cunning of a chess master and the courage of an equestrian. We are talking about nothing less than the survival of the Habsburg Empire.”

Werthen was about to comment again, but Gross placed a hand on his arm in restraint.

“You see me as a monster,” Prince Grunenthal went on, “but I see myself as the protector of this country and all she stands for. I have made difficult decisions, heart-wrenching decisions, but they have all been in the service of Austria and the greater good.”

For a moment, Prince Grunenthal sat still, staring off to some distant horizon or thought, as if unaware of their presence.

“It all began with Rudolf, did it not?” Gross prompted.

Grunenthal’s gaze was jerked back to Gross and the present. “Rudolf. The crown prince, yes. Such a promising boy. So much native intelligence. But his tutors, especially Latour, corrupted him. Turned him into an archliberal. And he was impatient. So impatient. He should never have become involved with the Hungarians. They convinced the boy to accept the crown of Hungary. The crown. Preposterous. As if he would be king, usurping his father’s role. Far too Shakespearean for my tastes.”