A Matter of Breeding (2 page)

‘We don’t need another Polna, Doktor Gross,’ Thielman said over his shoulder.

Gross could well understand the man’s concern. Nearing retirement, Thielman wanted simple pathological killings, not some religiously motivated murder that would spark a racial firestorm.

Gross continued to lean over the woman’s body, noticing something on the side of her neck. He gently moved the collar down to display two puncture marks at the neck along the carotid artery.

‘That looks like a vampire bite,’ Thielman said, though Gross doubted the man had ever seen such a mark.

The young gendarme had recovered enough to return to the scene just at this moment, and he shot an astonished expression at Thielman as he made this remark.

There was a note of relief in Thielman’s voice, Gross noted. Better vampires than Jews.

Later that same day in Vienna, Advokat Karl Werthen – wills, trusts, criminal law, and private inquiries agent – sat at his new desk in his freshly refurbished office at Habsburgergasse 4. A visitor could see no sign of the bombing several months ago that had gutted Werthen’s interior office and left much of the exterior office and waiting room in shambles. Werthen’s private office, in particular, had seen the most change in this refurbishing. Before, it had been decked out in stolidly safe professional-class décor: green wallpaper with a scattering of conservative prints of animals and flowers; furniture that was of heavy, substantial mahogany. Werthen’s friend and onetime client, the painter Klimt had often enough declared the place stodgy; Werthen would rejoin such criticism by saying that was exactly the effect he was looking for.

‘People come to me for reassurance,’ he would say, ‘not an introduction to aesthetics.’

But that tragic bombing episode had made Werthen reconsider. Why shouldn’t a lawyer’s office also have a touch of style to it?

Thus, the buttery yellow walls now formed a backdrop for a number of paintings on loan from the Secession: a wintery park scene from Carl Moll, a landscape by Kolo Moser, a portrait by Klimt, an exhibition poster by Anton Kling. Furniture and desk accoutrements by Josef Hoffmann.

However, Werthen was unaware of his surroundings today. In front of him lay the paperwork for a codicil to the seemingly never-ending Kleist family trust. Neither was he paying attention to these legal duties. Instead, he was doodling on a piece of foolscap folio, writing the name ‘Bastian’ over and over again in increasingly stylized strokes.

A knock at his door interrupted this mindless activity.

‘Yes,’ Werthen said, slightly dazed.

Fräulein Metzinger opened the door and poked her head in. ‘A visitor, Advokat.’

Their code word for an actual visitor, not a client or scheduled appointment.

‘I am in the middle of something—’ Werthen began, but a voice from behind his assistant caught his attention.

‘It is rather urgent.’

He knew the voice, knew the tone, felt the urgency even if it were fabricated. And fabricated it may very well have been, for the author of said voice was the well known playwright Arthur Schnitzler.

‘You may send him in, Fräulein Metzinger.’ He leaned back in his chair, looked down at the foolscap and felt a stab of pain realizing what he had spent the last number of minutes producing. He turned the page over as Schnitzler entered the room.

‘Advokat,’ the man said, sweeping the homburg off his head dramatically, ‘how good to see you once again.’

Werthen doubted the words. He knew for certain it was not a delight for him to see the dramatist. Schnitzler was a recent client and though Werthen had performed the duties for which he had been hired, he had also been forced to confront the man with some hard truths about himself. They had not parted on friendly terms at their last encounter.

Werthen rose, nodding his head toward the leather armchair across the desk from him. Schnitzler glanced around the office and smiled tightly.

‘Redecorated, I see.’ He sat in the chair holding a silver-tipped walking stick in front of him like a master of the dance about to beat out a rhythm.

Werthen said nothing and then Schnitzler seemed to suddenly recall the event that necessitated such redecoration.

‘I do apologize. It must have been an awful experience.’

Werthen sat without response, having no inclination to go into the matter. ‘What brings you here, Herr Schnitzler?’

‘Meaning if I were searching for a painful experience, why not simply visit my dentist?’

He smiled winningly at Werthen, giving him no chance for reply. ‘I came simply because you are the best at what you do. I do not want to allow our personal history to interfere with that.’

‘And what is it I do so well, Schnitzler?’

‘Protection, of course. I was, after giving it some thought, more than satisfied with your thoroughness. And I have a similar commission for you.’

It was not something Werthen relished doing, playing bodyguard, though he had done it for the composer Gustav Mahler a couple of years previously, as well as for Schnitzler just last summer. He was about to decline, when Schnitzler charged on.

‘I realize such work is beneath your deductive talents, but I implore you, Werthen, in the name of Austria. We have an important foreign visitor here, a man about to speak at the Concordia, and he appears to be in need of protection.’

The Concordia, the journalists’ club, meant, in all likelihood, some literary fellow, Werthen deduced. After his dealings with Schnitzler and other writers of the Jung Wien movement the past summer, Werthen was even less inclined to take the case.

‘I might as well tell you, the man asked for you personally. Seems he has heard of your achievements via your colleague’s little monthly magazine.’

By which he meant Doktor Hanns Gross and his
Archive for Criminalistics.
Gross and he had formed an irregular partnership, working on several cases together, which Gross, ever the meticulous recorder of events, had chronicled in his
Archive.

‘It seems you have a fair amount of fame, even in London,’ Schnitzler added. ‘That is where our guest hails from. Well, latterly, that is. Dublin is his place of origin.’

‘Am I to guess at his identity?’

‘Sorry, no. Simply trying to increase the drama. We would all be very grateful were you to take the case. Even Prince Montenuovo would find pleasure in such a turn of events. A great enthusiast of our chap’s work is the prince.’

Schnitzler was referring to the powerful second-in-line to the master of the court, a man who was the emperor’s eyes and ears in all things cultural, and a major force in the direction of the court theaters, including the Burg, where Schnitzler’s plays were often performed. Werthen and Gross had earlier been aided by a letter of introduction from the prince in the Mahler case.

‘Enough drama, Schnitzler. Who are we talking about and why?’

‘Mr Bram Stoker.’

Schnitzler pronounced the name with such a self-satisfied look that Werthen almost felt guilty when he said, ‘Who is that?’

For once, Schnitzler was at a loss for words. Finally he said, ‘The writer. You must have heard of
The Primrose Path
?’

A shake of Werthen’s head.

‘
The Snake’s Pass
?’

A shrug of the shoulders.

‘
The Shoulder of Shasta
?
Miss Betty
?’

‘Sorry,’ Werthen said.

‘My God, man,’ Schnitzler almost shouted, ‘Stoker was the business manager of the Lyceum in London for over quarter of a century. He’s been the manager for the actor Henry Irving for years. You’ve surely heard of Irving?’

This did ring bells for Werthen. He had seen Irving’s
Hamlet
once on a visit to London. And now the connection was made.

‘You mean that fellow who writes about vampires.’

‘Well –’ Schnitzler waved his hand as if brushing off crumbs from the ether all around them. ‘A mere bagatelle.
Dracula.
A silly little book. We can all be forgiven such a creation once in our careers. Stoker will surely be remembered for more substantial works by later generations.’

Hardly the sort of thing Werthen read, so he was not going to argue the point with Schnitzler.

‘Suffice to say, Stoker is a real talent and a visitor from London. Here to address the annual convention of the Concordia Club. But he seems to be dogged at every step by some cursed devotee. “Fan” is the word he used for it, a word he picked up on a visit to America. From “fanatic”. Most appropriate in these circumstances, I should say. For the past several months, as Stoker tells it, this
fan
has sent communications that indicate he has been following him, watching and planning.’

‘Planning what?’ Werthen asked.

‘Stoker can only fear the worst. Perhaps it is someone deranged by all this vampire business. Stoker thought he would leave it all behind him in London, but it appears the person has followed him to Vienna. Last night there was a note left for him at his room in the Hotel Bristol.’

‘The police, Schnitzler. Go to the police. Just as I advised you to do.’

‘Yes, yes. My very advice,’ Schnitzler said. ‘But as I stated, the man has all but demanded your services. His very speaking engagement might be in jeopardy if you refuse.’

‘Extortion? And I am the payment? A sorry state of affairs, Schnitzler. Perhaps you should find another speaker.’

Once again Schnitzler was momentarily at a loss of words. Werthen was beginning to enjoy this.

A sigh from the playwright, and then: ‘It is only for a week. It would mean much to the Concordia … and to Prince Montenuovo.’

‘Ah, yes, the prince being a
fan
, too.’ Which brought a grimace to Schnitzler’s face. Werthen quickly held a hand up. ‘Not to worry, Schnitzler. You may tell Mr Stoker I will take on the task.’

Werthen had no other cases at the moment and was not in the mood to tackle the Kleist codicil. Besides, he thought – looking at the foolscap he’d turned face down on the desk – he could use a diversion, something to take his mind off personal matters.

Schnitzler all but leaped to his feet, reaching his arm across the desk in a futile attempt at shaking Werthen’s hand. The desk, however, was wide enough to rebuff any such advances. Schnitzler quickly recovered, swooping his hand back as if he had simply intended to straighten his hair.

‘That is good news, Werthen. Austria will thank you.’

‘The Order of the Golden Fleece can wait,’ he joked. ‘A payment will suffice.’

They arranged for Werthen to meet with Stoker in his suite at the Bristol at four thirty that afternoon.

Strangely energized by this new commission, Werthen worked on the Kleist codicil for a couple of hours and then handed over the remaining work to Fräulein Metzinger. As reliable and knowledgeable as any lawyer Werthen had ever worked with, his assistant was barred from legal studies by antiquated laws at the university regarding the entry of female students. Fräulein Metzinger and her feminist friends had made a close study of advances – if you could call them that – in women’s rights in Austria. In 1869 women could become public school teachers; three years later they could hold positions in the post and telegraph office. It was not until 1878 that women could audit classes at the university and in 1895 the university was actually open to women in medicine and teaching. However, they continued to be firmly shut out of the legal field.

From a long line of lawyers and judges, Fräulein Metzinger had made a private study of the law and now it was Werthen’s good fortune that she worked as his assistant. She took the sheaf of papers he handed over and shuffled through the pages quickly.

‘Will tomorrow afternoon do?’ she asked. ‘I need to leave a bit early today.’

‘Of course,’ Werthen said. ‘Theater?’

She shook her head. ‘The opera, actually. Verdi’s
Masked Ball.
’

‘Mahler?’ Werthen asked.

‘No. The new one, Bruno Walter. I haven’t seen him conduct yet.’

‘Then it should be a pleasant evening for you and …?’

‘Herr Sonnenthal.’

‘Yes. The journalist. Please give him my best.’ Werthen felt like a gossip hound eliciting this information, but he was interested in Fräulein Metzinger’s happiness. She deserved a good young man in her life, and Sonnenthal, on the staff of the socialist daily, the
Arbeiter Zeitung,
seemed the perfect fit for her: progressive, intellectual, passionate about the rights of the common man, and also evidently very much attracted to Erika Metzinger.

Werthen filed this information away to share with his wife Berthe later this evening.

Out of the office, Werthen took his time strolling through the inner city. He went left out of his building toward the Josefsplatz, and turned again left into Stallburggasse and past the stalls where the famous Lipizzaners were kept.

Werthen loved this time of year in Vienna. As he made his way along Stallburggasse toward the Neuer Markt, he buttoned his overcoat against a sudden chill wind from the east of the plains of Hungary. The smell of coal fires was in the air and deliverymen could be seen carrying sacks of coal and coke from their horse-drawn wagons to low metal doors on the sides of buildings that opened to chutes leading to basement bins. Others had to hump the heavy sacks up several flights of stairs for delivery. A small inn at the corner of Stallburggasse and Dorotheergasse advertised the last of the
Sturm,
the freshly fermented stage of this year’s wine. Werthen made a quick stop to enjoy a small glass along with some roasted chestnuts, then continued on his way, following Dorotheergasse to Augustinerstrasse and around the massive structure of the Court Opera and finally to the corner of Kärntnerstrasse and the Opera Ring, home of the Hotel Bristol. Less than a decade old, and even younger at this location, the Bristol was already a Viennese institution.

In the elegant lobby Werthen cast a glance at the ten-foot grandfather clock next to the reception desk. In addition to the time, the old clock also displayed a circle of planets, a calendar, and the phases of the moon. This last area displayed a circle with the left half blacked in, signifying yesterday’s first quarter of the moon.