Sent to the Devil (19 page)

“What do you mean, you are leaving me?” It was Valentin von Gerl.

“I'm quitting, sir,” a second voice replied. “I've had enough of you.”

“Don't be an idiot, Teuber,” said von Gerl. “Is this about money? I don't pay enough? Here, take these.”

I heard coins clink on the ground.

“Hello,” I called, turning the corner.

“Da Ponte! We meet again!” Von Gerl, clad in the blue velvet suit I had admired at his palace last week, turned away from his servant and smiled. The plume on his hat bobbed up and down as he shook my hand. He showed no embarrassment at the memory of the last time we had seen each other, when his face had been buried in the young bosom of my landlady's daughter.

“I'm sorry I had to run off after dinner the other day,” he said. “I hope you enjoyed viewing my collection as much as I enjoyed showing it to you.”

“I did, sir.” I glanced over his shoulder to see Teuber scowling at his master's back.

“You must come back, soon. And we must discuss plans for my library.”

The bells of the Am Hof church sounded the hour.

“Is it two already? I must be off again, I'm afraid,” von Gerl said. “Good to see you, Da Ponte. I'll send you another invitation to dinner soon!” He hurried away.

Teuber stood looking after him, his face sullen. I nodded at him and started down the street that led to the Bognergasse.

“Signore,” he called.

I turned back.

“What happened to the young lady last week? Miss Cavalli?”

I stared at him. “I helped her find a place to stay. But why do you care? You threw us out of the house.”

He reddened. “That was by order of my master, signore.”

“His order? What do you mean?”

The manservant backed away from me. “I've said enough, signore. But don't worry. He'll get what is coming to him someday.”

“What did you say? What do you mean?”

“Nothing, signore. I said nothing. I meant nothing.” He turned and scurried toward the Am Hof.

*   *   *

I ate dinner and worked the rest of the day in my office. As I was turning into my street a little before six, I met Erich Strasser. My fellow lodger was pale. Small beads of sweat lined his upper lip.

“Erich, are you ill?” I asked.

“Oh, good evening, Lorenzo.” He took a handkerchief from his cloak pocket and ran it over his face. “No, I am merely tired—too much work,” he said.

“We should have a glass of wine together some evening,” I said. “I'd like to hear more about your experiences with the Turks.”

“Let's do that, Lorenzo,” he answered. “But now, if you'll excuse me, I am late for a lodge meeting.” He walked in the direction of the city.

Stefan stood in front of the house, feeding a carrot to his horse.

“Good evening, Signor Da Ponte,” he called to me.

“Good evening, Stefan.”

“I wanted to thank you, signore, for seeing Sophie safely home the other night,” he said. “I came back for her around midnight but could not find her. Her friend Liesl told me she had left with you and Miss Cavalli.”

“Why did you leave her alone at the ball?” I asked.

He reddened and stared down at his shoes. “She was flirting with that baron, von Gerl. I was so angry I had to leave.” He looked up at me. “I swear, signore, I never would have left her there alone, without a ride home. But I couldn't control my temper. I wanted to punch the baron in the mouth.”

The horse nudged his hand, and he gave it another carrot. “Sophie is young, signore. She can be very silly. She thinks she can manage every situation, but I knew what he wanted from her. But if I had hit him—well, I'm not stupid. Even a simple stonemason knows not to argue with a nobleman. I'd have been drafted and sent to Semlin the next day.” He clenched his fist. “If it weren't for that, I'd take care of Baron von Gerl.”

“Have you heard anything about the draft?” I asked. I knew that most young men Stefan's age had already been taken for the army. I was curious how he had managed to evade their fate.

“My master is protecting me,” he explained. “When the bureaucrats came to register me, he reported that I was a necessary worker. But that won't last much longer. Our work is disappearing. No one is building anything new, with the war on, and the nobles are all leaving for their estates. They aren't ordering repairs or additions to their city palaces.”

“Oh, Stefan, there you are,” Sophie said, coming into the street from the courtyard. She gave me a flirtatious curtsy. “Good evening, signore.” She put her arms around Stefan's waist and turned her cheek to receive his kiss. He stood stiffly, his arms at his sides.

“Are you angry with me?” she asked. “Whatever for?”

“Don't touch me,” he said, pushing her away.

“What is it? Are you still upset because I was flirting with that baron? I already told you, he means nothing to me.”

I took a few steps into the courtyard.

“You silly boy!” Sophie said. “Come on, why don't you beat me? I'll just stand here and take it. You must want to pull my hair out.” Her voice was teasing. “Go ahead.”

Stefan groaned. “You'll be the ruin of me,” he said.

“But what is this?” Sophie's laugh was light and lilting. “You don't want to beat me after all? You no longer have the heart for it? In that case, you'd better forgive me, hadn't you?”

The courtyard and garden were empty. As I reached for the door, I heard the two young lovers kissing and cooing. I shook my head. I did not envy Stefan his long future with Sophie.

Inside, the house was silent. My legs grew heavy as I climbed the stairs to my room. The last week had been too horrible, too long. I entered my room and put my satchel on the desk. I hung up my coat and waistcoat, and lay down on my bed. As I closed my eyes, visions of Hennen's mutilated body came to me.

I got up and lit a candle, then took my Dante out of the cupboard. I sat on my hard desk chair and continued my reading of
Inferno
. Occasionally I closed my eyes to rest, but the vivid scenes of the murders soon returned to wake me.

I had read for about two hours when a knock sounded at the door. I opened it to find Marta standing there. Her red-gold hair flowed over the shoulders of her white nightgown. Her eyes were swollen, as if she had been crying.

“Marta? What is it?” I asked.

“Oh, Lorenzo,” she whispered. “I'm all alone, all alone in this dark place. It is so cold. May I come in?”

For a moment, my heart stopped beating in my chest. Then I took her soft, small hand and drew her into the room.

 

Sixteen

The memorial service for Alois was held the next morning in the Chapel of the Cross in the Stephansdom. A few rows of chairs had been set up to accommodate the small group that had gathered: the priests Krause and Urbanek, a few of the workers from the cathedral staff, the porter from Alois's building across the plaza, and Franz Krenner, the proprietor of the bookshop where my old friend and I had first met.

I sat in the front row next to Krause, who would lead the service.

“Poor Father Bayer.” He sighed. “I did not realize how much I would miss him. We had such heated debates about theology. He was a worthy sparring partner.”

Felix Urbanek came over. “We might as well start,” he said to Krause. “I think everyone is here. I'm not expecting Father Dauer to attend.” His jaw tightened. “He said he would try to make it, but that he had meetings all day. One of the noble families is considering donating a large collection of sacred art to the cathedral treasury.”

“‘How brief the comedy of vanity that is committed to fortune,'” Krause murmured.

“It is a shame,” Urbanek continued. “But after all, Father Bayer was just a simple priest. I suppose it is too much to expect that someone as busy as Father Dauer could fit this into his schedule.”

Krause rose and went to the altar. As the familiar words of the service flowed up to the old vaulted stone ceiling of the chapel, I fell into deep thought. I wished to concentrate on my treasured memories of Alois, but my mind rebelled and wandered to the circumstances of his death and my failure to make any progress in finding his killer. I sighed inwardly. Perhaps Benda had been right to dismiss my idea that the murders were somehow related to Dante. I was grasping as desperately for answers as he was with his theory that the killings were motivated by the war. After all, Dante was everywhere, if one looked. Why, Krause had just quoted
Inferno
a moment ago. It was probably just my vivid imagination that saw some crude markings carved by a madman into dead men's foreheads as Dante's
peccatum
.

*   *   *

Krause intoned the final prayer for the dead and the small group of mourners stood. As I turned to leave the chapel, I saw Benda standing near the door.

“Thank you for coming,” I said. We walked out into the Stephansplatz. Off to the right, near the archbishop's palace, Michael Richter, surrounded by a few spectators, stood on his crate.

“I've heard the terrible stories about the conditions in the camp,” he shouted. “Men are dying there every day.” He caught sight of us, climbed down from the crate, and charged over to us, his face purple with rage.

“You!” He grabbed Benda's arm. “What were you doing at my home yesterday?”

Benda shrugged off the protester's hand. “I don't know what you are talking about,” he said. He turned to me. “Come, Da Ponte, let's continue our conversation in a quieter location.”

“My mother told me two men came to talk to her—friends of mine, she said.” Richter's lip curled. “I know it was you,” he said to Benda. I shrank back involuntarily as he turned his anger on me. “Who are you? Were you there also?”

“I—”

“Is that what you two gentlemen consider amusing?” Richter sneered. “Harassing a poor blind woman?”

“Yes, we were there,” Benda said coolly. “We are investigating a series of murders. We needed information from your mother.”

“Murders! Murders of whom?”

“Of General Peter Albrechts, for one,” Benda said. “You were the last person to see him alive, in the Am Hof.”

“I told you the other day, I wasn't there,” Richter said.

“You are lying,” Benda said. I had to admit, despite his deficiencies as an investigator, the count remained calm and steady under pressure. His color was normal, his voice steady and confident. My own knees trembled underneath me.

“We have a witness,” Benda continued. “Someone heard you arguing with the general, and saw you running out of the square. The general's body was found hours later.”

Richter gaped at him. “You think I … but you cannot … who is this witness?” He shook his head. “I don't believe you.”

“An upstanding citizen saw a man running from the Am Hof a little after one o'clock the morning of April 9. He recognized you.”

Richter opened his mouth to retort, then thought better of it and clamped it shut. A wary look came to his eyes.

“Your mother confirmed that you went out at about one in the morning,” Benda said. “You lied to me the other day, and you are lying to me now.”

The protester shook his head. “No! No, you have it all wrong! You are accusing me because I am not afraid to express my opinions about your war. I know all about you noblemen.” He poked Benda in the chest. “You're probably making a fortune in the black market these days, aren't you?”

A constable hurried over. “Is this man bothering you, sir?” he asked. He pulled Richter away from Benda and shoved him. “Move on, you, before I arrest you.” Richter glared at us and slowly walked away.

“Thank you, Constable,” Benda said, brushing the front of his coat with his hand. He motioned to me to follow him, and turned toward the Stock-im-Eisen-Platz. I glanced back at Richter. The protester had retrieved his crate and stood at the opposite edge of the plaza, watching us. He saw me look at him.

“You will regret this!” he shouted after us. “You have it all wrong!”

*   *   *

Back in my lodgings that evening, I tried to expunge the emotions of the morning from my mind as I dressed in my best suit. I was going to a repeat performance of
Axur,
my latest opera with Salieri, accompanied by a beautiful young lady.

I took my cloak and went down the hall to Marta's room. Her door stood ajar, and I paused to admire her before I knocked. She sat on her bed reading a message. The light of the candle on the small side table danced off the glass at her ears and illuminated the golden flecks in her hair, which was bound with a sapphire-blue velvet ribbon. Two spots of pink colored her cheeks. She wore the same blue dress she had worn to the ball, and she toyed idly with its collar as she studied the missive.

I knocked.

She looked up and, seeing me, hurriedly folded the message. “Hello, Lorenzo. You look very handsome this evening.” She stood, crossed the room, and put the message in the cupboard.

I took her in my arms. “Let's stay in tonight,” I murmured.

She gave my chest a playful push. “Don't be silly. How often does a woman get the opportunity to attend the opera and sit next to the librettist?”

She took her cloak. I doused the candle and followed her out the door, beaming with pleasure at her excitement. We left the house and walked to the end of the street, where I hailed a cab. I paid no attention to the route the driver took, for I was preoccupied with my lady's kisses all the way into town.

When we arrived at the theater, I lifted Marta down from the cab and whisked her in the front door. Mozart was standing in the lobby chatting with another composer, my Spanish friend Martín. I introduced them both to Marta. Martín winked at me and excused himself. I took our cloaks to the checkroom. When I returned, the bell summoning the audience into the main hall sounded. Marta and Mozart were chatting companionably.