A Matter of Breeding (23 page)

‘I think I might have mentioned it the other night at dinner. The wines of Styria.’

She nodded, recalling the dinner conversation now.

‘Von Hobarty has dedicated a fair amount of his property to vineyards and the development of premium wines,’ Werthen added. ‘The locals around Hitzendorf are none too pleased about it, as I understand. And the cost of the vineyard has eaten into the family inheritance.’

‘“From minister to vintner”. I believe that was the title of Krensky’s piece on von Hobarty. Saving our nationalist soul by producing fine wines at home so there would be no need to drink French “poison”. That sort of vitriolic drivel. I assume Krensky was desperate for cash to write such garbage.’

‘So Krensky knew von Hobarty,’ Berthe said.

‘One assumes so,’ Sonnenthal replied. ‘Some fellows might cobble together a story out of an assemblage of other dispatches, never actually meeting their subject. But from what I knew of Krensky that was not his style.’

They discussed the matter for several more minutes. Sonnenthal was proving to be such a wealth of information that Berthe took a chance and asked him if he knew any journalists who were close to Krensky, to whom he might entrust his notes and identity of sources. But this drew an abject shaking of the head from the young journalist.

‘He was a true outsider. I never talked to him though I knew him by sight. He did not frequent the journalists’ cafés nor did he seek our company. Does he have family? Perhaps he entrusted them to his parents? I can pursue that for you if you would like.’

Erika patted his arm at this, a silent measure of praise.

‘That would be most helpful, Herr Sonnenthal,’ Berthe said. ‘Thank you.’

Meanwhile, young Franzl had left the inner office and was quietly now seated at Erika’s desk, drawing one of his beloved horses. When the five of them adjourned and as Sonnenthal and Tina Blau were taking their leave, Blau noticed the young boy hard at work. She went to the desk and peered over his shoulder.

‘That is really quite good,’ she said. ‘It almost reminds me of my husband’s work.’

Franzl smiled up at her. ‘I can’t get the withers right, and the neck is—’

‘A trifle short,’ Blau said.

‘Exactly!’

‘Well, young man, you should come along to my studio one day with Frau Meisner and I could help you with that.’

‘Really. Are you a painter? An
artist
?’

‘There are those who might disagree, but yes, guilty on both counts.’

They lay in bed that night, exhausted, but neither could sleep. Frieda, who had taken to sleeping with them since her illness, was in such a deep slumber it was as if she were hibernating.

‘Perhaps von Hobarty was Krensky’s source,’ Berthe finally said in a low voice, breaking the silence.

They had tracked Krensky’s parents late in the afternoon. The couple lived in Hernals, and, despite his penchant for country garb, Krensky had spent his youth entirely in the city. The family had, two generations earlier, lived in Styria, which explained the dead journalist’s fixation with that locale. The parents had had almost a month to accustom themselves to the death of their only son, but were still obviously distraught and had no idea of the stories Krensky had been working on. He had left nothing in their safekeeping, and his room – for he had still lived with his parents – offered up no secrets, either. His parents allowed them to search it once Werthen explained the importance of the work their son had been engaged in, and the spartan room was quickly examined. A small bed and wardrobe and large typewriter on a deal table were the only contents. No file of notes, no notebook. Nothing but a well-thumbed Langenscheidt dictionary by the typewriter.

‘Why von Hobarty?’ Werthen said in equally quiet tones so as not to awaken Frieda. ‘If the photo of him and Hohewart has any significance, it would seem to imply a partnership there. That von Hobarty is an investor, perhaps even part of the scheme. Why would he confide in Krensky?’

She sighed, sitting more upright in bed and drawing her wrap more tightly across her chest.

‘It was something Krensky said the last time I spoke with him. I was trying to pry the name of his source out of him, but he was being coy. Finally he said that he was on his way back to Styria to get to the bottom of Hohewart and Premium Breeds. And he added that he might even contact his mysterious source once more. Implication being that his source is in Styria. And now we know that Krensky and von Hobarty were acquainted with one another. That is clear by the wine article he published on von Hobarty.’

‘I repeat, why would von Hobarty be a source for the scandal if he were involved somehow in it?’

‘We don’t know that he is,’ Berthe said. ‘We only have a ten-year-old photo linking him with Hohewart. Perhaps there was a falling out. Or perhaps the photo records an accidental meeting between the two. Von Hobarty
was
a public figure at the time, a powerful man in parliament.’

‘Or perhaps we should not wake this sleeping dog. I am sure that would be my father’s advice.’

The next day Werthen did something he had not done in several months: he went to the Café Central for a mid-morning coffee. Anything to get away from the infernal Wiesenthal land dispute. He had just settled in with coffee and this morning’s edition of the
Neue Freie Presse,
when he sensed someone standing by his table. He lowered the paper to reveal none other than Karl Kraus smiling sardonically at him.

‘Herr Advokat,’ Kraus said, ‘I have the feeling you have been avoiding me of late.’

‘Nonsense, Kraus. Sit down, sit down. Have you had coffee yet?’

Kraus, dressed like a banker as usual, accepted the invitation. He seemed to have aged since Werthen last saw him. The curly head of hair was still there as well as the oval wire-rim glasses and the usual smirk, but there were also signs of wear and tear: wrinkles at the eye, a slight twitching of the left eyelid. And no wonder, for this self-appointed culture critic and grammar policeman almost single-handedly wrote, edited, and published his thrice-monthly journal,
The Torch,
uncovering the hypocrisies of the day, taking on the rich and powerful, and battling against societal stupidities. Kraus was democratic; he angered everybody.

He also knew where the bodies were buried in Vienna. They had developed a symbiotic relationship in the past: Kraus supplied valuable information, Werthen served up possible fodder for articles.

‘What wonderful case are you working on, Advokat?’ He said this as he tipped a finger at a waiter. It was all he needed to do, for he was a regular at the Central and all the staff knew his penchant for a double mélange with a bit of hot chocolate and a dollop of
schlag obers
on top.

Werthen, after first ensuring that this discussion was not for public consumption, described his recent work in Styria and the rather unsatisfactory resolution of both.

‘So you wanted to be in on the kill, did you?’ Kraus said, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. ‘I kept myself and my publication well out of that tragedy. Blood libel and vampires. As if this were not the twentieth century but the fifteenth.’

Werthen ignored this. ‘It seems we might have a new area of inquiry regarding the Lipizzaner matter.’ He explained about the discovery of the photo, tangentially mentioning the vandalizing of Blau’s studio.

This made the diminutive Kraus squirm in his chair and clap his hands in delight.

‘Oh to see Kleinwitz shoveling shit with his hands! What a treat. What a wonderful life you lead, advokat. While I am stuck in my airless office beavering away at my next edition.’

Werthen smiled at this comment and took a sip of his coffee.

‘It seems that our dear Herr von Hobarty has continued to place himself in the thick of things even after his fall from grace,’ Kraus said. ‘One of his servants so viciously killed and now his possible involvement with a breeding scandal. You will inform me when I can write about that one, please. Horses make for such titillating discussion.’

‘I sense a tone of sarcasm, Kraus.’

‘Not at all, Herr Advokat. The horse is at the heart of Austro-Hungary. It is the very metaphor for Habsburg rule. Dumb brute force that can, at times, be exquisite to look at. But why bother, Werthen? A man of your talents. Far better the debunking of a Kleinwitz. Or of a von Hobarty. You should speak with Herr Prochazka. I am sure he could provide some entertaining stories for you.’

Werthen did not immediately recognize the name.

‘The former member of the Reichsrat representing part of Moravia in our auspiciously neutered parliament?’

‘You mean the man von Hobarty assaulted?’ Werthen asked.

‘The very one. He lives in quiet retirement in Sievering on the edges of the Vienna Woods. I believe he has turned from politics to painting.’

Werthen thanked Kraus for this bit of information, but did not see how von Hobarty’s time in parliament could be relevant. Contracts for Lipizzaner breeding and the stud were, after all, a matter of ministerial largesse rather than political patronage. But it was something to file away for later.

They talked a bit more about other Viennese scandals – which nobleman’s wife was carrying on an affair and which industrialist was approaching bankruptcy. It was the currency in which Kraus dealt.

As he was taking his leave, Kraus seemed to remember something. ‘You know, I made the acquaintance of a fellow at the Concordia last month. Man named Stoker. He came to speak to us about British letters. Odd choice, I thought. An Irishman speaking of British letters,
and
one who writes about vampires, but there you have it. Said he knew you.’

Werthen allowed that he did, but did not go into detail.

‘He seemed most agitated about events in Styria. Also said your little girl had been terribly ill. I do hope she is recovered.’

‘She is, Kraus, and I thank you for your concern.’

‘Take this for what it is worth, but I sense matters in Styria are not quite finished. A bit too conveniently tied up, don’t you think so?’

With that, Kraus made his way out of the crowded café, nodding to various other regular customers as he went.

Matters in Styria, Werthen thought. It was apparent Kraus was not referring to the Lipizzaner breeding affair.

On the way back to his office, Werthen thought some more about the photograph Berthe had uncovered. It did indeed appear to link Hohewart and von Hobarty. However the one argument mitigating against such an unholy alliance was the fact – as Werthen himself had already noted – that breeding contracts were not a matter of parliamentary influence but of ministerial preferment, in the case of the Lipizzaner stud, the Imperial Ministry for Agriculture. In which case, von Hobarty could not have been an agent of influence for Hohewart, the major reason for their collusion if indeed there had been any.

It struck him however, as he neared Habsburgergasse 4 that von Hobarty may have had connections at that ministry, a friend in high places. Perhaps this actually was a matter of influence?

Werthen smiled to himself as he approached the office. He had just found a way to avoid the maddeningly complex Wiesenthal land dispute, clearly a case better suited to the patient understanding of Fräulein Metzinger anyway.

What was it Kraus had said at the café:
What a wonderful life you lead, advokat.

Yes, well, thank whomever for Fräulein Metzinger making that life possible.

Two hours later, after handing off the Wiesenthal affair to Erika Metzinger and taking himself off to the Imperial Ministry for Agriculture on the Stubenring, he was not so sure about his wonderful life. His hands were dry and dusty and his nose uncomfortably stuffed from the dust on the files he had been going through at Department Eight, Animal Husbandry. He was not quite sure what he was looking for, and the white-coated archives assistant appeared as frustrated as Werthen himself. He had fetched file after file out of the labyrinthine archives, anything with reference to Hohewart, von Hobarty, or Lipizzaner in their abstracts in the catalogue, all to no avail.

‘It would help, Herr Advokat,’ the assistant, Herr Simonic, said in a broad, sing-songy Viennese accent, ‘if you could be a bit more specific about your specific research goal.’

Werthen gave this petty bureaucrat a quick once over and decided, why not?

‘Actually, I am looking for any references to the breeding of the Lipizzaner stud, beginning a decade ago.’

The man shot him a quizzical look, scratching at his cheek. ‘You mean the Premium Breeds contract?’

Werthen tried to hide his surprise.

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘You seem to be familiar with that matter.’

‘I should say so,’ the assistant said proudly. ‘That was Baron von Grunfeld’s final action as department chief. In those days I was personal assistant to the chief.’

He said the last bit with a note of rancor in his voice that Werthen now exploited.

‘Inner-office politics?’ he ventured. ‘You seem a capable sort.’

A nod of the head from Simonic. ‘The new chief brought his own man with him. Wanted to “clean house” as he put it. As if we had soiled the place with our administration.’

‘And so you were demoted to archives librarian. That must have been difficult for you.’

‘Indeed it was, sir. But I am a loyal servant to his majesty. Far be it from me to complain.’

Werthen had to bite his tongue to stop him from telling the man that was exactly what he was doing now. Instead he said, ‘Very good of you. I hope your loyalty has been duly noted … About Premium Breeds …?’

‘Yes, that was a stroke of luck, I can tell you.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, the fact that outside breeding was urgently needed seemed to come out of the blue. The baron was preparing for retirement at the time and had little time to research such things. So when his good friend recommended Premium Breeds—’

‘Did this good friend have a name?’

The assistant gave him the sort of look one reserves for slow learners. ‘But of course. Herr von Hobarty. You have been asking for records dealing with him for the past two hours.’