Sent to the Devil (13 page)

“You should see some of the city while you are here,” I said. “The Prater is very beautiful this time of year, and very good for watching people, if you enjoy that.”

She smiled. “I expect I'll be here a long time,” she said. “I've sent a message to Valentin telling him where I am. He'll be coming for me anytime now, I expect.”

A pang of jealousy stabbed me. I opened my mouth, and to my surprise, found myself inviting her to attend the ball in the Redoutensaal. “A friend of mine has composed some dances,” I said. “You'd enjoy meeting him and his wife.”

She hesitated.

“It's a chance to see the glittering side of Vienna,” I said.

“Oh, Lorenzo, it sounds wonderful. But I shouldn't. What if Valentin comes for me while I am out?”

“He'll leave a message with Madame Lamm, and I'll deliver you to him myself,” I said. “Please. I would love for you to come. You would be doing me a favor.”

“What do you mean?”

“I recently lost a dear friend. I could use a nice evening to take my mind from my sorrow.”

She sat silently for a moment. “Well, I suppose I could go with you. You've been so kind to me,” she said. “But no, wait, I have nothing to wear. I brought just one gown with me. It's very simple, not suitable for a fancy ball. And I have no jewelry. I sold it all to pay for my carriage fare from Venice.”

“You'll look beautiful in anything,” I blurted.

She blushed and looked down at her hands. My hand reached for hers, but I drew it back before I made a fool of myself. I took a deep breath. What was I doing?

 

Nine

Although I tried to convince myself over breakfast in a coffeehouse that my worries about the anonymous messages were groundless, my stomach churned as I sipped coffee and chewed on a roll. It was April 21, the day my enigmatic correspondent had promised to arrive.

I turned my thoughts to the murder investigation. Benda must have heard from Troger about the background of the war protester by now. I sighed. The count seemed determined to blame the murders on the protester, but the evidence was thin. True, the baker had overheard an argument, and seen the man hurrying from the Am Hof the night the general was killed. Perhaps Benda was right, and the protester had murdered the general. But what about Alois? Benda's theory that my friend was killed because he was a symbol of the church seemed fantastical to me. I had been involved in the investigation of only two murders, but my experience had taught me that people kill for reasons deep in the human heart, not to make political pronouncements. Or so I chose to believe.

I dug a few coins out of my pocket, left them on the table, and went out into the Graben. It was clear that Benda wasn't going to give much consideration to the circumstances surrounding Alois's death. That was left to me. I was tired of waiting to get information secondhand. I walked over to the Stephansplatz, entered Alois's office building, and made the long climb to his little room. To my surprise, when I turned the door handle, it was locked. For as long as I had known him, Alois had never locked his door. He had once told me that if a thief was determined to steal a book, the man was welcome to the knowledge within it.

I went downstairs to the cellar and found the porter supervising a pair of boys who were stacking fresh firewood. I introduced myself. “I'm a friend of Father Bayer's,” I said. “I was just up at his office. The door was locked.”

He looked me up and down, his eyes suspicious. “Father Bayer is dead, sir. He was robbed just outside here, over by the cathedral. The ruffians cut his throat.”

“I know. I lent him a book before he died. It's a valuable volume. I wanted to get it back,” I lied.

“Well, sir, you'll have to go across to the cathedral and find that priest. He locked the door to Father Bayer's office and took the key.”

“Father Urbanek?” I asked the porter.

He shook his head. “No, the new one. What's his name? Dauer. Father Dauer.”

I thanked him and walked over to the front of the cathedral. I was spending more time here than I desired these days. I entered, hailed a passing deacon, and asked for Father Dauer.

“I haven't seen him today, sir,” he said. “There is usually a meeting over at the archbishop's residence every Monday morning. Chances are he's over there. Is there something I might help you with?”

“I was a friend of Father Bayer's,” I said. “I wanted to get a book from his office, but the porter says Father Dauer locked it and has the key.”

The young man sighed. “Poor Father Bayer,” he said. “He was a gentle old man.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “Is it true what I've heard, sir? That he interrupted a gang of thieves who were breaking into the treasury room, and they butchered him?”

“I don't know anything about that,” I said. “Would you know where Father Dauer has left the key?”

“No, sir. He probably has it in his office. You'll have to come back and speak with him. The meetings last until mid-afternoon. Come back then.”

As I walked over to the theater, I tried to think of anything I knew about Alois that might link him to General Albrechts, but nothing came to mind. I entered the theater and took the stairs down to my office. I groaned as I turned into the hallway. Thorwart had gone too far. All of the soldiers' helmets, swords, and elaborate Asian headdresses worn by the choristers of my opera
Axur
were piled against the wall with the ladder, mandolin, candelabras, and scythe. A path about a foot wide led to my office door. I picked my way down it and opened the door.

I drew in a sharp breath. A tall, muscular man stood with his back to me, studying the collection of librettos on my shelves, his shoulders slumped like those of a child who has just lost a game of hoops to his closest friend.

“You! What are you doing here?” I said.

The man turned and straightened. I may have imagined a flash of sadness in his heavy-lidded eyes and a sagging in his aged-lined, olive cheeks, but a moment later they were supplanted by a broad smile. He enveloped me in a smothering embrace.

“Lorenzo! There you are! I was afraid you weren't coming into work today.”

“Giacomo? What are you doing here?”

He frowned. “Didn't you get my notes? I sent several, telling you I was arriving in Vienna today.”

My knees felt weak. I grabbed the edge of my desk to steady myself, nodded toward my guest chair, and fell into my own seat. “You sent me those notes?”

“What do you mean, Lorenzo? Who did you think sent them? I put my name right at the top. “Casanova is coming to see you.”

I stared at him, my mouth wide open.

“Don't tell me you couldn't decipher the code.” He laughed. “It's basic kabbalah. I hoped you'd have some fun with it.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “Fun? I didn't know what to think! All I could understand was that someone was coming today, April 21. Your name was nowhere in the messages!”

“It was in the string of numbers, my friend. The fourth one, the 71. That's my name. It's a simple code. Assign the number 1 to the letter
a,
2 to
b,
et cetera, all the way through the alphabet. But
i
and
j
share the number 9,
u
and
v
are 20, and
x
and
y
are 21. Add up the number for each letter to get the number for the word.”

I put my head in my hands.

“It is simple—‘My dear friend, Casanova comes to Vienna to see you.'”

I looked up and swore softly.

He peered at me, his eyes full of concern. “I'm sorry, Lorenzo. An old man likes to think he can still play at games. It never occurred to me that you would be unable to decipher the code. Did I frighten you?”

“No,” I said. “I've just been very busy. And a good friend of mine died recently.”

He gazed at me with sheepish eyes, and after a moment the famous charm worked its magic on me. “It is good to see you again, my friend,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“The count was coming, so I rode along with him. I'll take any chance I get to escape from that awful palace.” Casanova, now in his sixties, had recently retired to Dux, in Bohemia, where he worked in the employ of a count who paid all of his living expenses in exchange for my friend's administration of the palace library. “Are you free for dinner this afternoon?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, I have a lot of work to do.”

“What about tonight? Do you have plans? We have a lot of catching up to do since we met in Prague last fall.”

“I'm going to a ball at the Redoutensaal. Mozart has written some dances that will be played.”

“How is the little fellow?” Casanova asked.

“He is fine, but he wouldn't enjoy hearing you call him that.” I smiled.

“I'll address him as the little genius. He'll like that.”

I laughed. “Why don't you come tonight? I am taking a friend, but you are welcome to join us.”

He raised a brow. “Interfere with a liaison? Never!”

“It's not like that. She is just someone I met the other day. She is from Venice. I'm sure she'd enjoy meeting you.”

“Are you in love, Lorenzo?”

I waved him off. “No. Her interests lie elsewhere.”

“Poor you! I can give you some tips about how to change her mind, if you'd like.”

“Thank you, but no.”

Casanova stood. “I have some visits to make this afternoon. I'll get a cab and pick the two of you up tonight. Are you still living in the Graben?”

“No, out in the Landstrasse.” I frowned. “You should know. You sent a boy to my house a few times.”

He looked at me blankly, and then his eyes widened. “Oh, with the notes? I have a good friend here in the city. I'm staying with her while I am here. Her husband is in the diplomatic service. He is stationed near Dux. Luckily for her, he seldom comes home to Vienna. I sent the notes to her through the diplomatic pouch—it goes on the mail coach every day. She must have instructed a servant to find out where you lived and deliver them.”

I chided myself for my foolishness, my suspicions that someone was threatening me. The simplest explanation is usually the correct explanation, it is said. I must keep reminding myself of that.

Casanova and I exchanged addresses and agreed that he would pick Marta and me up at eight this evening. After he left, I settled in for a long, quiet afternoon of work.

*   *   *

At quarter to eight that evening I was downstairs in the courtyard of my lodgings, clad in my finest dress suit, waiting for Marta to appear. Outside in the street, Stefan was wiping stone dust off the driver's bench of his humble cart. I walked over to greet him. Before I could engage him in a discussion, Sophie, resplendent in a low-cut pink dress, emerged from the courtyard, a cloak on her arm.

“There you are!” she said to Stefan. “Why didn't you come to the door? I've been waiting inside.” Her pretty face fell when she saw the cart. “I thought we were taking a cab,” she said.

Stefan looked at his feet and mumbled something I could not hear. I silently prayed that Casanova would not appear at that moment in the hansom cab. Sophie sighed and put her hand on her admirer's arm. “It is fine, Stefan.” She looked at the passenger side of the bench. “At least it is clean. We'll leave it in the Neuer Market and walk back to the Redoutensaal. What are you waiting for, silly? Help me up!” She gave me a jaunty wave as she rode down the street.

“The poor boy,” Marta said behind me. I turned. She was clad in a simple sapphire-blue gown, her hair piled on her head and bound with a matching velvet ribbon. She carried her traveling cloak in her hand.

“You look lovely,” I said as I helped her into the cloak.

Her cheeks colored. “Thank you, Lorenzo. I wish this dress were not so plain.”

“It is not plain, it is elegant,” I said.

She smiled. “Who is this friend of yours who is coming for us?” she asked.

“His name is Giacomo—Giacomo Casanova. He's also from Venice, but he's led an adventurous life. He's traveled all over Europe, and has written a few books. We met about ten years ago, when I was secretary to Count Zaguri.”

“Casanova? I've heard of him. Isn't he the one who escaped from the doge's palace? My father used to tell me the story.”

“Yes, but that was years ago. He's an old man now. He's retired from traveling. He spends his days tending to a count's library in Bohemia.”

A hansom cab turned into the street and pulled up at the house. The door opened, and a moment later, Casanova climbed down. He smiled at me and bowed deeply to Marta.

“Marta Cavalli, may I present my good friend Giacomo Casanova.”

I was pleased to see Marta's eyes twinkle. “I am honored to meet such a famous personage, sir,” she said.

Casanova took her hand and kissed it. “The honor is all mine, my dear. I have been locked away in a dusty dark library for many months. Your smile is a sunbeam lighting the corners of my pitiful life.”

Marta blushed.

“Marta,” Casanova murmured. “A lovely name. I knew a Marta once, years ago, when I was a young, innocent priest. She led me astray—” He waved his hand. “But enough of her. She's retired to a convent now.”

“Shall we go?” I asked.

Casanova took Marta's hand again. “I am delighted that you have agreed to allow me to accompany you and Lorenzo this evening, my dear. To be seen in the company of such a beautiful young woman will enhance my reputation.”

“That's enough,” I said, laughing. I helped Marta into the cab. Casanova climbed in after her. As I prepared to join them, there was a tug on my sleeve. I looked down to see a young boy.

“Are you Da Ponte?” he asked. “I have a message for you.”