The Silence (17 page)

‘But if the doctors say she needs it . . . ?’

‘Oh, she needs it all right. Women’s trouble. But you can’t budge her. Once Traude sets her mind on something, that’s an end of it.’

Gross had a bright idea. ‘You know Praetor’s father is a well-respected surgeon.’

‘There you go with Praetor again.’ But he calmed himself quickly, and shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t know.’

‘He is one of our clients in this affair.’

Drechsler did not reply to this.

‘Perhaps he could talk to your wife. Reassure her. Maybe even perform the operation himself.’

Drechsler said nothing for a time, merely stared at Gross.

Finally, ‘There’s something you should know.’

‘What is that, Inspector?’

‘The gun found at Steinwitz’s office. It was one of those fancy new Roth-Sauer automatic pistols. Fires a 7.65 mm.’ Drechsler paused.

‘Is there something I should glean from that?’

‘We didn’t find a gun at Praetor’s, but we did find a casing.’

‘A 7.65 mm?’

Drechsler nodded. ‘Clearly can’t be the same weapon, as Steinwitz died more than two weeks before Praetor. But it made me wonder at the time. Can’t be too many of the Roth-Sauers around. They only went into production this year.’

Walking from Werthen’s office in the Habsburgergasse, Gross regaled his friend about his morning’s activities, including the forlorn Drechsler, the rather startling linkage provided by similar weapons in the death of Steinwitz and Praetor, and the possibility of securing the inspector’s further cooperation in their investigations.

‘But it is his job to investigate the death,’ Werthen said. ‘He should not need what is tantamount to a bribe.’

Gross shook his head pityingly at his colleague. ‘How many years have you lived in Vienna, Werthen? Not enough, obviously, to let you know how things work here. Connections, connections, good friend. They make our tiny empire go round.’

‘And how can you be so sure that Doktor Praetor will agree to see Frau Drechsler?’

‘Praetor may be an unreliable witness where his son is concerned, but I am absolutely certain of his commitment to see his son’s killer brought to justice. I am sure I can put it to him in such a way that he sees the benefits of such altruism.’

‘You can’t be proposing that he operate without a fee?’

To which Gross merely hmm’ed a response.

When they finally reached their lunchtime destination, the Café Frauenhuber, the place was in a state of confusion, as much as such an orderly establishment can be. The
Herr Ober
standing by the door when Gross and Werthen entered did not give them a polite salutation; yesterday’s
Neue Freie Presse
was still hanging in the wooden reading rack; and Herr Otto took a full three minutes to get to their table for their order.

For a noble coffeehouse such as the Frauenhuber, this was pandemonium approaching chaos.

‘Unheard of,’ Werthen muttered to Gross.

‘Yes, it is,’ Herr Otto, whose hearing was most acute, agreed as he sidled up to their table. Then, in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘They want to get rid of number fourteen.’ He pulled his pad of paper out of his jacket pocket, the tip of a stub of pencil poised to write. A look of bereavement etched his face.

‘A blasphemy!’ Gross sputtered, setting the bill of fare down resolutely on the marble-topped table.

Werthen did not understand at first, and then it dawned on him. Herr Otto was referring to the classic bentwood café chair produced by the Brothers Thonet. The firm, not to mention their famous number fourteen production line, was a Viennese fixture. The very chair he was seated on now had likely been around for several decades and would assuredly last several more. Thonet’s design was simple yet both elegant and ingenious: a mere six pieces of wood bent by steam and assembled with ten screws and two nuts by anyone with access to a few tools. This ease of assembly had made the number fourteen one of the world’s first mass-produced chairs, sold in pieces and put together in a matter of minutes. The chair had taken design prizes and was universally recognized as
the
café chair. Werthen often wished his father had been prescient enough to invest some money in the firm at its outset.

Herr Otto allowed his voice to rise a bit now, sensing a sympathetic audience. ‘You can blame it all on Herr Loos, that’s what I say. Him and that hospital ward he calls a café. Though I do not mean to speak ill of anyone.’

‘I could not agree with you more,’ Gross said, a finger impatiently edging the menu. ‘The Café Museum is an abomination.’

‘Herr Loos is an architectural pioneer,’ Werthen said. Or at least that was what Berthe told him. Rosa Mayreder, close confidante of Berthe, was married to the architect Karl Mayreder, who had in fact employed said Loos in his architectural firm. Remembering this, Werthen also recalled that Karl Mayreder’s brother, Rudolf, was a city councilor. Was there an inroad for him there?

Werthen did not, however, spend much time in the Café Museum, an establishment where ornament had been kept to a minimum.

‘A pioneer he may be,’ Herr Otto allowed, ‘but whoever said we needed any re-inventing of the coffeehouse? A man goes to his coffeehouse for comfort, for a nice quiet and comfortable place to sip his
kleine Mocha
, not for an education in art.’

The comment made Werthen smile, for he’d made a similar argument to Klimt not that long ago about the decoration of his law office.

‘The management cannot seriously be considering getting rid of this furniture,’ Werthen said.

Herr Otto put pad and pencil down now and jerked his head toward the waiter at the door.

‘Herr Bauer has now become lead
Ober.
Which means he speaks with Frau Enghart from time to time. The good Frau loves this establishment of course, but since the death of Herr Enghart it has not been easy for her. There are no children to counsel her in the operation of such a noble institution. But now Herr Bauer has gotten her ear. I’m told he takes night classes at the Museum of Art and Industry, even attends lectures on his days off. Oh, he’s got ideas, he has.’

Though Werthen was all for self-improvement, he found it too much that a waiter at his favorite café should be the arbiter of taste for interior design.

‘He’s even mentioned getting rid of the potted palms.’

Gross huffed at this comment, again losing interest in the food at such a challenge.

‘We must put a stop to this travesty.’

‘We’ll sign a petition,’ Werthen said. ‘Pass it around to all the customers and get their opinion on these proposed changes. Surely Frau Enghart would listen to reason then?’

‘I wouldn’t want to stir up any trouble,’ Herr Otto said rather too meekly, again preparing to take their order.

Werthen felt that he had been played like a Stradivarius, but that was fine. Herr Otto, after all, had a job to protect, a family at home to support. It was the task of the clientele to preserve such a haven as the Frauenhuber.

‘I’ll make a note of it,’ Werthen said.

This seemed to mollify even Gross’s outrage, for he was already deep in a perusal of the dishes on offer today.

In the end, Gross opted for a
Kalbs Beuschel
, tender slices of calf lung and tongue in a light purée over
Semmelknödel
, bread dumplings of the softest consistency. Werthen chose the
Bauernschmaus
, a hearty heaping of sausages and pork with sauerkraut and a massive dumpling – the perfect food for such a bone-chilling day. They shared a bottle of Gumpoldskirchen Müller-Thurgau, a relatively new Riesling hybrid that was fast becoming a favorite of Werthen’s.

During the meal Gross explained his further progress: he had secured the platen and ribbon from Praetor’s typewriting machine and would send it express mail this afternoon to his eager students in Czernowitz. The photographs were to be delivered to Werthen’s office this afternoon, courtesy of Inspector Meindl, who after all did owe his career to Gross’s tutelage. Not a bad sort, Gross informed Werthen, but like so many small men, inclined to bark at the slightest excuse.

‘I wish I had such progress to report,’ Werthen said. And then detailed the visit of Frau Steinwitz and of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s delivery of his brother Hans’s diary.

‘What is in the diary?’ Gross asked.

‘Afraid I haven’t had the opportunity to look. Seemed like rather a dead end. I mean, that case has been solved.’

‘Yes,’ Gross said, but not very convincingly. He peered more closely at Werthen for the first time. ‘I do not mean to pry, old friend, but isn’t that a bruise you are sporting on your cheek?’

‘How observant of you, Gross. Yes, it is. And I have a matching one on my back. You see, I was attacked on the street yesterday after leaving you.’

‘But why have you waited so long to tell me? You should have telephoned the hotel, sent a pneumatic.’

‘And have Adele discover that you are involved in another case when you promised her not to? Or spoil your evening out? To what end?’

‘You play awfully fast and loose with violent crime, Werthen. And did you consider the possibility that someone might be dispatched to deal with me, as well?’

No conciliatory words from Gross, not that Werthen expected them. He did, however, feel badly about Gross’s second comment. It was something he had not thought of, and he should.

‘What did the scoundrel look like? Describe him.’

Werthen gave as close a description as he could, but realized that he could be giving the particulars of any number of toughs and roughnecks to be hired for a handful of
Kreutzer.
Truth be told, he had been too intent on merely preserving his life to take real notice of the man’s features, other than that he was hulking and menacing and had at one time or several times in the past broken his nose.

‘Bielohlawek?’ Gross said, echoing Berthe’s assumption. ‘Would he have set someone upon you?’

They were momentarily interrupted by Herr Otto, who wished to know if they would complete their meal with a
Mehlspeisen.
There was a
Kaisertorte
today, fresh from Fiegl’s bakery.

Werthen patted his abdomen. ‘I think not, thank you, Herr Otto.’

Gross reluctantly shook his head, as well.

‘I meant to tell you, Advokat,’ Herr Otto said as he totted up their bill. ‘There was a . . . certain fellow inquiring after you the other day.’

Both Werthen and Gross pricked up their ears at this information.

‘A large, bullish-looking fellow?’ Werthen inquired.

Herr Otto shook his head. ‘Quite the opposite. Short and thin and dressed in a manner to suggest he perhaps makes his living on the street.’

‘What did he want with me?’

‘To know if you were a frequent customer. I told him that was none of his business and to be off or I would fetch a constable. But obviously he did not take me seriously. He is there now, waiting at the corner of the street. I noticed him a few moments ago.’

Gross stood, tossing his damask napkin to the table and leaving Werthen to pick up the tab as usual.

‘Well, let us see what this chap wants then,’ he said.

Werthen signed the chit that Herr Otto produced, for he now ran an account with the café. Gross was halfway out the door by the time Werthen caught him up.

The man saw them coming, but did not budge from his spot on the corner. He wore a shabby derby hat and an overcoat a size too large with patches on the hem and at the wrists. There was something about the way the man stood, feet spread and hands on hips defiantly, that reminded Werthen of somebody. As they drew closer Werthen could see the man’s face. Though the pallor of his cheeks was the sickly gray of the underside of a fish as if he seldom saw the sunlight, there was withal a somewhat robust nature to the man’s face: round and full with a nose that could serve as a beacon. He was grizzled; obviously the fellow could do with a good shave. With a bath as well, Werthen discovered as he got within scent-range of him.

‘You were looking for me, sir?’ Werthen said, standing a meter from him and towering at least a head higher.

‘If you would be Justice Werthen, I am.’

‘Advokat,’ Werthen corrected. ‘What exactly is it you want, Herr . . . ?’

‘They tell me you have my son,’ the man said in quite the thickest Viennese accent Werthen had ever heard. There were those who swore they could place a Viennese to their home district by their accent; all Werthen could tell by this man’s was that he most definitely belonged to the vast underclass of the metropolis, homeless perhaps, assuredly out of work.

‘Your son?’ Werthen repeated.

‘My name’s Beer. Erdmann Beer. Friends tell me you have my son.’

‘Beer?’ Then it clicked. ‘You mean Huck?’

The man stared at him as if Werthen were insane.

‘Heidl?’ Werthen corrected. He remembered now that Fräulein Metzinger had mentioned a ne’er-do-well father who practiced the trade of
Strotter
, a rag and bone man scooping out bits of fish detritus from the sewers to be sold for soap fat. Which explained the man’s pallor.

Herr Beer nodded his head. ‘That’s my boy, all right. You do have him, you do not deny that?’

‘Now just one moment,’ Gross broke in. ‘I do not like the sound of that question.’

‘Not to worry, Herr Doktor, not to worry. I know what you aristocrats get up to, and it’s no worse treatment than he might get on the street. It’s just that I thought . . .’

‘We are not aristocrats nor profligates,’ Werthen all but shouted at the man. ‘And we do not prey on young boys. Heidl is, in fact, employed in my law office.’

A look of cunning swept over the man’s face at this piece of information.

‘He’s earning an income, is he? That’s more like it. In that case, I can rightfully ask for a small compensation. An apprentice fee sort of.’