Sent to the Devil (6 page)

I went to the desk and picked up the message. Now that I examined it closely, I could see that it was different from the previous two. This paper was crisply folded and neatly addressed to me here at the house. When I turned the packet around, I saw the imperial seal stamped into the wax. My fingers trembling, I ripped the message open and read it. My attendance was requested by Count Anton Pergen, tomorrow morning at ten, at the offices of the Ministry of Police.

I changed into my nightshirt, snuffed out my candle, and climbed into bed. Exhaustion seeped through me, but I did not fall asleep. Reminiscences of my good times with Alois jostled with darker memories of my encounter with Pergen and Troger two years ago. Outside my window, a crash of thunder ushered in the storm. Soon raindrops hit the glass and flashes of lightning lit up my small room. I tossed and turned, finding no comfortable position that could lull my weary body to rest. A loose shutter on the house across the street banged in the wind. I lay and listened to it for hours, waiting for the dawn.

 

Four

“So now you see, Da Ponte, why we suspect there is more to Father Bayer's murder than a mere robbery gone wrong.” Count Pergen, the minister of police, looked tired, as if, like me, he had been up all night.

I had presented myself at the requested hour, and this time the secretary had taken my cloak and led me into the minister's office. The room was even more lavish than the anteroom, grand and airy, with damask wall coverings and large paintings hung around the walls, a setting fit more for the emperor than for one of his ministers. Thorwart's worries about the budget of the theater briefly crossed my mind, but I shook them away. The count must have paid for the expensive adornments himself. The emperor was too humble a man and frugal a ruler to allow treasury monies to be spent on decorating imperial offices.

Pergen had been seated behind a large, ornately carved desk. Troger sprawled in one of two chairs on the opposite side. He had gazed stonily down his hawklike nose at me as the count gestured me to take the remaining chair. In the corner of the room, staring out one of the tall windows that lined an entire wall, stood the blond-haired, stocky man I had seen the other day in the cathedral with Christiane Albrechts, the deceased general's daughter. Pergen had introduced her fiancé to me as Count Richard Benda. The count had greeted me in a softly accented voice, shaken my hand, and then returned to his station by the window.

Now I was reeling at the information Pergen had just related about the death of my friend. “I don't understand,” I said. “Alois's face was disfigured?”

“Yes,” Troger said. “His throat was cut first, with a short, thin dagger. The carvings in his forehead were made with its tip. The markings were strange—a straight line, from the bridge of his nose to his hairline. To the right of that, a half circle.”

A shiver ran down my spine.

“We believe the carving was done after Father Bayer was dead,” Pergen said gently. “He must have gone quickly, after the killer cut his throat.”

I nodded dumbly to keep him from saying more. My poor, gentle friend. What had he possibly done to deserve such a gruesome death?

“There's more you should know, Da Ponte,” Pergen continued.

I sagged in my chair. What more could the monster have done to a poor, defenseless old man?

“Father Bayer was not the first man to die in this manner,” Pergen said. “General Albrechts's body was found last week in the Am Hof, sprawled at the base of the Marian Column. His throat had been cut in the same manner.”

I frowned. “I heard that he died of a seizure,” I said.

“That's the word we put out,” Pergen said. “His body was found in the very early hours of the morning, before the market square became busy. We removed the body immediately and instructed the papers to print the story that the general had been taken by a seizure.”

I sat speechless.

“The general's forehead was not carved, like your friend's was,” Troger said. “But his body was also defiled. The killer burned his legs and the lower part of his torso, up to his waist.”

I sat silent, my mind grasping to understand the horror Troger described.

“His throat had been cut in the same manner, with what looks like the same weapon as killed Bayer,” Troger continued. “And his body was arranged around the base of the Marian Column, exactly the same way as Bayer's was around the Capistran Chancel.”

“It must be the same person committing these crimes,” Pergen said. “Someone with a vendetta against these men.”

“I don't understand,” I said. “I can imagine that the general might have had enemies. But Alois? He was a simple, peaceful priest. Why would anyone want to kill him?”

Count Benda turned from the window. “Was he involved in politics at all?” he asked me.

I shook my head. “No, I don't believe so. He was a scholar. He spent his days studying ecclesiastical philosophy. His books and work were his life. In all the years I've known him, I've never heard him speak about political issues.”

“What was his view of the war?” Pergen asked.

I shrugged. “I have no idea. We never spoke of it.”

Troger raised an eyebrow. “Never? Why, everyone in the city is talking about this war. It seems that is all people talk about. Surely you two must have discussed it once or twice.”

“We talked about books and poetry,” I said. “Are you saying that some madman killed Alois because of his political views? That is ridiculous.”

Pergen glanced at Benda.

“It could be that the old priest represented something to the killer,” Benda said. “The fact that he was murdered at the base of the Capistran Chancel—below that statue of the saint subduing the Turk—might be important. The killer may be attacking symbols of Austrian greatness.”

I opened my mouth to interrupt, but Benda raised his hand to stop me.

“He has already murdered the general, the country's greatest war hero,” he continued. “Perhaps he wished to attack the church next. He may have lurked outside the cathedral last night, waiting for a priest—any priest—to come by. Your friend might just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Pergen nodded. “That's as good a theory as we have,” he said. He turned to me. “Da Ponte, I have a proposal for you.”

I slumped in my chair.

“I was very impressed that you found the killer in the Palais Gabler two years ago,” he said smoothly. “We are shorthanded here at the ministry. Many of our staff investigators are with the emperor in Semlin. We have our hands full with other matters of great importance to the future of the empire.”

My heart sank. I knew where this was leading.

“Count Benda is going to lead the investigation of these murders for us,” Pergen continued. “When Troger mentioned that you had come here yesterday, I realized that you would be a good candidate to assist him. He knew the general well, and you were close to Father Bayer. You have some experience solving a murder, which he does not.”

“But—”

“I'm confident the two of you can solve this case for me.” He studied me. “What do you say? Will you help us find the killer of your friend?”

I shook my head. “I cannot—”

“If you are worried about the danger, you may rest assured that I will guarantee your safety,” Pergen said.

I sighed. I wished I were anywhere in the world but here, slumped in this chair in this opulent office. It had taken me a long time to recover from my ordeal two years ago. I didn't believe I had the strength to go through such a challenge again. And could I trust Pergen and Troger to protect me from harm? But then I remembered the look on Alois's bloody face. The fear I felt right now was nothing compared to what he must have felt when he had encountered his killer, and realized that his life had come to an end. He had been a second father to me. How could I not attempt to find his murderer?

I sat up straight.

“I'll do it,” I said.

*   *   *

Benda and I made our way to the pastry shop in the Michaelerplatz. At this time of the morning, the small, cheery café was bustling with patrons. The proprietor recognized Benda and led us to a small private room.

“Have you been here before?” Benda asked as we sat. “The cream slice is my favorite. But the doughnut puffs are also delicious. If you prefer something lighter, I'd suggest a fruit ice.”

I shook my head. “I don't have much of a sweet tooth,” I said.

“Oh, but you should try these. The owner, Dehne, came here from Württemberg two years ago.” He gestured toward the busy main room. “As you can see, he has built a following. He caters all of the society parties now.”

A waiter approached. Benda ordered a cream slice, and I asked for coffee.

“I had to use all my connections to get Pergen to agree to let me investigate the general's murder,” Benda said after the waiter left. “I promised Christiane—my fiancée, the general's daughter—that I would find her father's killer. She is distraught with grief, as you may well imagine.”

The waiter brought my coffee and Benda's pastry. The crust crunched as the count's fork cut into it. He took a bite and smiled. “Delicious, as always. Would you like a taste?”

I shook my head. I had no appetite.

“Pergen's busy tamping down the protests against the war and implementing the new censorship rules. He's also involved with suppressing the uprisings in the Netherlands. When the general's body was found, the ministry believed it was just a vicious robbery. They were content to let the constabulary investigate. Of course, that department is useless—they are hopelessly understaffed.”

He paused to shovel another large bite of pastry into his mouth.

“Christiane was indignant. She believed that one of her father's enemies had murdered him. I was at my estate in Bohemia when it happened. I rushed here to be with her. When I learned about the burns on the body, I agreed with her.”

I took a sip of coffee.

“Christiane had already asked the police to say that her father had died of natural causes. When I made inquiries, I found the constabulary had done little to investigate the crime. When your friend was found yesterday, Pergen was forced to pay attention to the similarities in the deaths.”

He ate the last bite of pastry, then scraped the remaining cream off his plate with his fork and popped it into his mouth.

“Ah, I could eat two more of those,” he said.

“Which day was the general's body found?” I asked.

“Last Wednesday morning. As I was saying, once Pergen's office became involved yesterday, I went directly to Prince Kaunitz.” Kaunitz was the emperor's chancellor, who was running the government while the emperor was away at the front. “He agreed with me that these killings had a political motivation. He instructed Pergen to let me lead the investigation.”

“I don't understand the politics,” I said.

“There is a lot of opposition to this war,” Benda said. “No, not many are as vocal as these young men who stand shouting in the streets, but in the private rooms of the city, there is a great deal of discontent.” He scraped his fork along the surface of the empty plate. “I believe the killer is murdering his victims as an expression of opposition to the war, to the government, to everything the country stands for.”

I thought for a moment. “I accept that someone might have seen the general as a symbol of the country, but what about Alois?” I asked. “He was just a simple priest, a scholar.”

“First the killer murdered the general, a great war hero. He struck at the heart of Austria's power, the army. For his next murder, he aimed at the church, another powerful institution.”

“But Alois wasn't involved in running the church—”

Benda shrugged. “As I said back in Pergen's office, I think the killer wanted a priest, any priest. Father Bayer just had unlucky timing. The killer would have chosen any priest he encountered that night.”

I gritted my teeth at his dismissal of Alois as merely a random priest, but I knew there was no purpose in arguing with the man. His mind was made up. “Where do we begin?” I asked.

“Yesterday Troger's men finally questioned people who live and work around the Am Hof, where the general was killed. They found a witness who says he saw the general early Wednesday morning. He's a baker who has a shop near the plaza. Do you have time to go see him now?”

I nodded. Benda called for the waiter and paid the bill. We left the shop and walked down the busy Kohlmarkt, then turned left and continued down the Naglergasse, the narrow street that had been home to the city's needlemakers in the Middle Ages. At the very end of the street, just before it joined the Heidenschuss, the baker's sign hung over the entrance to a small shop. As we approached the door, it opened, and a tall, red-faced man rushed out.

“You'll pay for this, Vetter!” he shouted back into the shop. He waved a loaf of bread in our faces. “Look at this! This is what he calls a loaf of bread! It's half the normal size!” He spat on the ground. Benda took a step back.

“He's a goddamn thief!” The man stormed off toward the Am Hof.

We entered the shop. There were not many loaves left on the shelves at this time of day. Baskets of stale crusts for soup and bags of crumbs sat on the long counter. To the side, charcoal left from the baker's ovens sat in tubs awaiting sale to those whose budget did not include fresh wood.

“I'll be with you in a moment.” The baker was leaning over his baskets, his back to us. When he turned and saw Benda's fine clothes, he hastily stood to attention.

“Gentlemen, how can I help you?” He glanced at the door. “I apologize for my last customer.”

“You must hear a lot of that these days,” Benda said.

“Oh yes, sir,” the baker said. He shrugged. “But what can I do? Everyone in the city knows that the wheat from Hungary is now sent to the troops. I spend half my day trying to locate new sources of flour. And no one wants the darker loaves; everyone wants the nice white bread. So I am forced to make my loaves smaller. What else can I do?”