The Empty Mirror (33 page)

“What do you intend telling him, Gross?” Werthen asked as they took the small flight of steps up to the main entrance.

“I haven’t quite decided, Werthen. I suppose we shall have time once we have registered for an audience to consider that.”

Gross was right: They were the last to be registered that day, and they would thus have a long wait to speak with the emperor.
A young adjutant took their name and looked rather skeptically at Gross as the criminologist described the ostensible reason for their visit: a formal thank-you for his post in Bukovina.

They took up uncomfortable seats on a marble bench against one wall of the large and ornate waiting room. Except that no women were present, the sixty or so other prospective visitors included a complete cross-section of Viennese society, from a foppish-looking young man in a yellow waistcoat and robin’s-egg-blue coat, to a muttonchopped, heavyset burgher in a rumpled brown woolen suit and the bright red nose of a tippler.

Werthen, like all Viennese, knew the myth of Franz Josef. The boy emperor who took the reigns of government in the difficult year of 1848, who faced the crowds demanding democratic reforms and turned them away. Concessions were made, but nothing lasting, for Franz Josef, a true Habsburg, believed fervently in the monarchy and deeply mistrusted the voice of the people. A constitution had finally been granted, and a parliament established, but both were more theoretical institutions than practical ones. Even Hungary had been granted more power in the empire via the
Ausgleich
, or compromise, of 1867.

Werthen, like everyone else in the empire, also knew the real power still lay in the hands of Franz Josef and his close circle of advisers and handpicked prime ministers. The emperor continually canceled the power of parliament, ruling instead by the loophole of Paragraph 14 of the constitution, which allowed for rule by emergency decree. Universal male suffrage-let alone the vote for women-was a long way off. These twice-weekly audiences were as close to democracy as the old emperor cared to come. Such individual meetings,
Angesicht zu Angesicht sehen
, as they were called, or face-to-face, lasted only a few moments at best, enough time for a few practiced words, but they served as a release valve for the people. After all, what need had they of a functioning parliament when they could speak to the emperor himself whenever they pleased?

The most famous bureaucrat in Europe, Franz Josef personally saw to the running of his vast empire. Rising at five in the morning, he worked steadily until eight, when he met with his ministers. Then came a simple lunch, and more work that often took him deep into the night. His diversions were few: a summer holiday at Bad Ischl, where he hunted in the mountains, and an occasional visit from his special friend, Die Schratt, as the Burgtheater actress was affectionately called by the Viennese.

However, twice a week, at ten in the morning, Emperor Franz Josef set aside several hours for personal audiences with his subjects. He heard complaints, received gifts, and kissed the occasional baby at such meetings with the common folk.

Then back to his reading of files and signing of documents. That he maintained this arduous schedule even in face of the tragedy that had so recently befallen him was a mark of the old man’s resilience. It made Werthen almost like the man, despite his autocratic ways.

But suddenly it struck Werthen: “You’ve come to accuse him, haven’t you?”

Gross had been busy twiddling his thumbs, first one direction then another. The question seemed to jolt him out of his thoughts, yet he made no immediate response.

“Franz Ferdinand said that we must strike quickly. Is that what you plan to do? If not Franz Ferdinand, then who would be powerful enough to order murders and assassinations? Who else would have the motive? But his own son and wife?”

Werthen had grown so excited with this line of questioning that his voice rose in volume, drawing the disapproving glances of several in the room.

“Steady, Werthen,” Gross counseled. “I do not believe we are at that extreme point as yet. I have, however, given some thought to our unexpected visit with Archduke Franz Ferdinand. His man Duncan was indeed the one we both saw from the train on the way to Geneva. His scar is, as the Archduke explained, immensely
noticeable, almost defining. I wonder, perhaps, if it was not too defining for us, as well.”

“I don’t follow you, Gross.”

“The hotel porter in Geneva, the young Austrian …”

“Planner,” Werthen offered.

“Yes. He described to us the man he saw helping the empress up after her attack. Tall, as I recall. And he mentioned the possibility of a scar. I believe we both jumped to the same conclusion without further questioning Herr Planner. The mere mention of a scar conjured Duncan’s visage in both our minds. Yet Franz Ferdinand insists that the real murderer, this Sergeant Tod, also bears a scar, but on his neck, not his face.”

“I see where you are going with this. We need to requestion Planner. He never described exactly where this scar was on the man he described.” They had, in their earlier investigation, also contacted the lady-in-waiting to Elisabeth, Countess Sztaray, but she had been no help in describing the mysterious coachman.

“A telegram should do, I believe. Unless we dare to chance an international call.”

Werthen shook his head. “We could wait hours for the call. Better to stop at a post office once we are finished here. We could have his reply by evening.”

Gross’s attention was suddenly drawn to the doorway, where the young adjutant sat. He was conferring now with a tall and forceful-looking old soldier, dressed in military blue, his snow-white hair giving him an aura of power rather than age. Werthen recognized him at once: Prince Grunenthal, the emperor’s principal aide and longtime adviser. The prince looked up occasionally as he spoke to the adjutant, looking into the waiting room, surveying those awaiting an audience. His eyes locked on Gross and Werthen and held them for several seconds before moving on to others. In the next instant, he was gone.

Gross, too, had noticed the prince’s stare and suddenly rose. “Come, Werthen. I believe we are premature in this.”

He strode out of the waiting room, not bothering to speak with the adjutant, leaving Werthen to simply straggle behind as best he could. Hailed by the adjutant, Werthen told the young officer that something urgent had come up and to please pardon their hasty departure. Gross was already out the main door to the Reichskanzlei by the time Werthen caught him up.

“What is all this, Gross? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“No.” Gross spun around, facing him. “In fact, I believe, dear Werthen, that I have finally
come
to my senses. We need more before we have a face-to-face with the emperor.”

“Was it Prince Grunenthal’s presence? It did seem as if he recognized us.”

But Gross did not bother to answer. Instead, he turned and strode forward, passing the Schweizer Tor again and now passing under the archway of the Leopoldine wing and through a passageway leading to the newest section of the Hofburg, still under construction. The proposed Heldenplatz with its new additions was still mostly bare ground bristling with surveyor’s sticks. To their right lay the Volksgarten, ahead the Ringstrasse, and on the other side of that boulevard the twin museums-art and natural history-which were to form the other axis of the huge Heldenplatz.

Gross finally favored Werthen with a bit of an explanation as they walked hurriedly toward a fiacre rank on the Ring.

“I’ve been a fool, Werthen. This is a two-pronged investigation, and I have left the trail of Herr Binder too long. Someone chose that unfortunate man as the sacrificial lamb. We need to know who. Once we ascertain that, we can work our way up higher. Our two investigations will have become one.”

Gross was lost in thought as their
Fiaker
drove them around
the Ring to the address in the Third District Gross had given the driver. Gross spoke only after they had left the
Fiaker
on Erdbergstrasse, not far from the surgical-equipment firm of Breitstein und Söhne.

“Herr Binder’s doctor,” Gross said by way of explanation. “As good a place as any to begin.” By chance a post office was on the next corner, and before going to the doctor’s office, they dashed off a telegram to Planner in Geneva asking specifically where on the coachman’s body the scar was and requesting a reply as soon as possible.

Dr. Gerhardt Thonau had his office across the street, on the top floor of the house at number 14. A large, rather forbidding woman, dressed in blue with a starched white apron, opened the door at their third ring and appeared to recognize Gross from his previous visit inquiring about Herr Binder’s medical condition.

“Are you seeking medical attention this time?” she said as she let them in. A strong smell of roses was in the entryway, but none were to be seen. Indeed, the scent was so cloying it could only have come from a bottle, Werthen decided. “This is a doctor’s office, after all,” the woman said with heavy irony, “not an information booth.”

“It is good to see you again, too, Frau Doktor Thonau. And I should be happy to pay your husband’s usual fee for a consultation.” He peered at the empty waiting room. “That is,” he said with an irony to match hers, “if I would not be displacing a more needy patient.”

“We were about to sit down to lunch,” she replied, “but I am sure the doctor can find time for you gentlemen. That will be fifteen crowns.”

Werthen was about to splutter a complaint: The best of the Ninth District surgeons would never dare demand such an exorbitant fee. However, Gross stopped him with a pat on the back.

“Excellent. Perhaps you could see to that,
Advokat?”

Werthen shot Gross a look, but it was no use. He brought out
his change purse and extracted a ten- and a five-crown coin, hefted them for weight, then handed the money over to the doctor’s wife, who duly noted the charge in a large and somewhat dusty ledger. Werthen was sure she noted no more than five of the crowns given to her.

“Go on in,” she said, slamming the large ledger closed. “You remember the way, I expect?”

Gross led the way through the threadbare waiting room and into a surgery at once dark and evil-smelling. Dr. Thonau, reed-thin, was busily washing medical instruments in a basin in one corner.

“Professor Gross, good to see you again.”

He did not, however, looked pleased. Werthen thought Thonau, could, in fact, do with a visit to a doctor himself. His skin was the pallor of old milk; his red-rimmed eyes squinted without benefit of pince-nez.

“Have a seat,” he said with false heartiness. “I was just cleaning up from the morning consultations. Have you come for an examination?”

Gross did not take the proffered seat. Neither did he bother introducing Werthen.

“No, Dr. Thonau,” Gross all but thundered. “I have come for the truth.”

Thonau shook his head. “What truth would that be, Professor?”

“Please, no insouciance. I haven’t the stomach for it today. Who did you tell about Binder’s syphilis?”

“Aside from yourself, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“No one, of course. A patient’s records are private. What do you take me for?”

“A poor man, a mediocre physician, and a henpecked husband whose wife would dearly love to see you earning more, and no questions asked. That, Dr. Thonau, is what I take you for. A man
desperate for a little extra cash. A man who would not stop at such niceties as patient confidentiality.”

Thonau tried to bluff it out for a moment, puffing up his hollow chest and blustering about false accusations and solicitors.

Werthen put a stop to that nonsense quickly enough, announcing himself as Professor Gross’s lawyer. At that Thonau suddenly slumped down in his chair like a deflated balloon.

“You won’t tell…”

He hesitated, and Werthen imagined he was referring to the physicians’ professional ethics board.

“… my wife, will you? She doesn’t know about my little arrangement with Direktor Breitstein. It’s the only spare change I get my hands on.”

“Breitstein!” Gross said.

“Yes.” Thonau shook his head, sniffling now. “I am or was doctor to several of his employees. He arranged a reduced rate for them and then paid me a regular allowance to keep him abreast of his employees’ health. It was all aboveboard, though.”

Gross snorted at this. “I am sure it was.”

“No, I mean, Herr Breitstein only wanted to know if his employees were healthy. It is important to him to have the best representatives he could. The ‘face of Breitstein and Son,’ he called his sales force.”

“Then why keep Herr Binder?” Werthen asked. “The man had syphilis, after all.”

Thonau turned to Werthen now, smiling as if to ingratiate himself with his other interrogator.

“That is what I mean about it being all aboveboard. Herr Breitstein did not use the information against his employees. He had their best interests at heart, too.”

“That is what he told you,” Gross said, “or that is what you assume?

Thonau shrugged. “I can’t remember. But please, gentlemen, I implore you, do not tell my wife.”

“That, Dr. Thonau, is one promise I assure you I will keep. When did you first report Binder’s condition?”

“Several months ago. Perhaps late May? I would have to look at my records. It was after my first consultation with Herr Binder. He came complaining of dizziness and loss of appetite. It was obvious to me what was wrong with the man, but I ran certain tests. Then when I told Herr Breitstein, he told me not to tell Binder of his condition. I treated him with Epsom salts. There was little else to be done for the man at that stage of the illness.”

“Binder did not know he had syphilis?”

Thonau shook his head. “Not from me, at any rate.”

“And what explanation did Breitstein have for this?” Gross demanded.

“He said he did not want the poor man to worry. There was nothing to be done for him at that stage of the disease anyway. It may sound unorthodox, but Herr Breitstein does have-”

“We know,” Gross interrupted. “The best interests of his employees at heart.”