The Keeper of Hands (22 page)

Erika – they were on first-name terms now and addressing each other
per du
– was a great fan of photography. A great fan of the twentieth century, in fact. Indeed, she often touted the wonderful advances that society would make in the next generation: in science, labour practices, women’s rights. According to Erika, this inexpensive cardboard box camera with the comical name Brownie was another example of such progress. It took not photographs but what were, using the American vernacular, dubbed ‘snapshots’. Although no snob, Berthe could not help being irritated by the creeping Americanisms now current in her country and culture.

Which thoughts served only to take her mind off the difficult matter at hand.

She stood in front of the door of Room 205. It was the pigeon-hole for that room into which, several days before, the concierge had placed the handkerchief that Berthe had used as a ruse. The Baron would, she guessed, be a man of habit about such things – using the same hotel repeatedly and the same room, as well.

At least she hoped that was the case.

Berthe took a deep breath and then knocked on the door with her gloved hand. At first there was no response. She knocked again, a trifle louder this time. What if she were wrong? Would she have to knock on the door of every room in the Hotel Metropole?

She heard a stirring inside the room, the scratch of a chair being pushed back on parquet. In another instant the door opened, revealing the tall, thin visage of Baron Arthur von Suttner, who was dressed impeccably in morning coat, wing collar and tie. A tall man, he stooped in the doorway, his thinning reddish-blond hair neatly coiffed. His long waxed moustaches seemed to bristle as he looked at her with grey-green eyes that held both suspicion and disdain.

‘I thought you might be the chambermaid,’ he said.

‘Who is it, Uncle
?
’ a female voice inquired from within.

‘Good day, Baron,’ Berthe said. ‘I have come with urgent news for you. May I come in?’

‘This is rather irregular,’ he said, clearly not knowing what to make of Berthe. ‘Who are you, young lady? And why have you come to our room?’

Berthe heard the squeak of wheels coming from around the corner of the corridor. The chambermaid was clearly about her work. Berthe did not want to complicate matters with her presence.

‘All will be revealed,’ she said. ‘I bring vital urgent news for you.’

‘Is it Frau von Suttner? Has something happened to my wife?’

‘Allow me to come in, and I will share what I know with you.’

She did not wait for a response, but simply bustled in past the astonished baron.

‘It is as we suspected,’ Gross said, slapping down a sheaf of papers on Werthen’s desk. ‘The Marsh test was positive. Von Ebersdorf died of arsenic poisoning, not bad shellfish.’

‘In all of this one thing is clear, at least. We are talking about murder.’

‘Three murders,’ Gross added, taking a seat opposite Werthen.

‘But of widely different
modus operandi
.’

‘Ah, Werthen, you take a page out of my book on criminal investigation.
Every deed is an outcome of the character of the doer
. I hope I quote myself correctly.’

‘I am sure you do, Gross.’

‘But you recall, also from that book, my theory of the staged crime scene? In some cases the perpetrator wishes to confuse the investigators by purposely changing the evidence, adding clues that lead nowhere.’

‘So von Ebersdorf’s killer and that of Mitzi and Fanny could be one and the same, but simply chose poison for the Count to throw off investigators.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Thus, we either have two killers or one,’ Werthen said. ‘The three murders are connected or, by the wildest improbability, a matter of coincidence.’

‘We continue to knock our heads against the wall of coincidence. We must also remember, however, that even if the crimes are linked, they may not be connected.’

‘You might just as well be spouting
haiku
now, Gross.’

‘A convergence despite different motives.’

‘Franz Ferdinand implied that the Intelligence Bureau of the General Staff could have had a hand in von Ebersdorf’s death.’

‘In fact the Archduke has been as good as his word, now it has been established that it was murder. He has dispatched the long-suffering Duncan to take up guard across the street from this office. I saw him upon entering.’

‘More than an implication, then?’ Werthen said, feeling a sudden tightness in his stomach. ‘It would appear that all three are the victims of an absurd power struggle between rival intelligence agencies?’

‘I am more comfortable calling them what they really are, the espionage arms of the government. I have witnessed little sign of intelligence thus far.’

‘That does not answer my question,’ Werthen replied.

‘It’s one possibility,’ Gross allowed. ‘In such a scenario we have Fräulein Mitzi recruited by the General Staff. But how?’

‘Perhaps someone knew of her predicament, of the situation with her uncle. Or more importantly that she was working in a bordello. And then threatened to tell her parents if she did not cooperate?’

‘Plausible,’ Gross allowed. ‘Or simply paid her for the services.’

Werthen thought about this for a moment. It simply did not fit the mental picture of Fräulein Mitzi he had built up.

Gross did not wait for a reply, ‘Recruited her to do what . . .?’

This was an easier one for Werthen to answer. ‘Gather secrets from someone in the Foreign Office. Compromise them, make them look like amateurs.’

‘Yes, good.’ Gross was beginning to enjoy this. ‘But our man from the Foreign Office, von Ebersdorf – who perhaps talked more than he should have done to a sweet young thing – somehow discovers this and kills the informant, the unfortunate Fräulein Mitzi.’

‘And the General Staff retaliates by killing von Ebersdorf,’ Werthen added.

‘Which leaves us with Fräulein Fanny. You see the problem of course? If von Ebersdorf was the killer in the first instance, he was clearly not around to commit the third murder.’

‘He himself or his minions? A man like von Ebersdorf is surely not going to bloody his own hands.’

‘Or his minions,’ Gross allowed. ‘Still, why the need to kill the second girl?’

‘She knew what Mitzi knew. They were room-mates. Perhaps they shared more than she let on when I first interviewed her. Perhaps she tried to sell her information to the wrong person.’

‘In which case the score is not even, is it?’

It took Werthen a moment to understand what Gross meant. ‘Yes, right. If this theory is correct, it means there may still be a retaliation for the murder of Fräulein Fanny.’

Gross nodded, solemnly. ‘The stakes would seem to be rising.’

‘Who is this woman, Uncle
?’

Berthe was happy to see the couple were still attired. In fact it rather looked as if they had been reading together; a book lay open on the table in the middle of the room. The bed had not been turned down.

‘I have no idea,’ Baron von Suttner said. Then to Berthe, ‘I suggest you leave immediately or I shall call the police.’

‘There are those who know of your assignations,’ Berthe blurted out.

‘It’s your wife!’ the young Marie shrieked. ‘She hounds us everywhere we go.’

‘No,’ Berthe said firmly. ‘I have come upon information that one of this country’s intelligence services is following you. In fact, you can see the man just outside your window.’

‘Who are you?’ insisted the young woman.

‘Don’t move the curtains,’ Berthe advised. ‘Look from the corner of the window. He is below, just by the lamppost across the street from this hotel. Wearing a boater and a summer suit.’

‘It’s a trick,’ Marie hissed. ‘How could anyone but your wife know about our trips to Vienna?’

Berthe turned a stern eye on the young woman. ‘You told them.’

‘You’re mad!’

Meanwhile, the Baron edged towards the window, peering below.

‘He is there.’

‘Which proves nothing,’ Marie said. ‘It is probably this woman’s accomplice. They have come to extort money from us.’

Marie faced Berthe again. ‘How could I have told anybody?’

‘It was all there in your novel,
As Light Dawned.
The book your aunt so generously had published. The book you dedicated to her. All there for anybody to read: the thinly veiled
roman à clef
about a young woman’s love for a much older man bound to a loveless marriage. About their passion for one another. You’ve set the dogs on yourselves. You’ve provided the fuel.’

‘What interest would the intelligence services of this country have in us?’ Baron von Suttner asked, but it was clear he already knew the answer.

‘You don’t believe this woman?’ It was almost a shriek.

‘Perhaps we should hear her out,’ he said. ‘Now you must identify yourself and apprise me of your interest in this matter.’

‘My name is Berthe Meisner,’ she said. ‘I confess to being a great follower of your wife’s work, and I have come here out of my own sense of duty.’

A partial lie, but she could hardly say that Frau von Suttner had hired her to follow her husband and niece. Karl had warned her about the dangers of getting too close to an investigation, of investing emotion rather than intellect, and now she was paying for it. Bertha von Suttner was her idol in so many ways; she did not want to disappoint her, nor did she want to expose the Baroness’s fears to this horrid little niece.

‘My husband is a lawyer who also is involved in private inquiries.’

‘His name?’ This from von Suttner.

‘Werthen. Karl Werthen.’

‘They do not even share a family name,’ Marie said. ‘Why should we believe her?’

But he ignored this outburst, ruminating. ‘I have heard of your husband. He did some work for the Herbst family. A trust, I believe. They recommended him highly.’

She nodded at this acknowledgement. ‘In the course of one of his investigations he discovered that an intelligence service has a dossier on your wife; and that they were following you in the hope of gathering incriminating evidence, something they could use to compromise your wife’s peace work.’

‘
Our
peace work,’ he said.

‘They must have read the novel, as they suspected there were trysts. And that is why I have come.’

‘To gloat?’ Marie said.

‘Hardly. No, to offer a solution. An explanation for these trips to Vienna and the hiring of a hotel room.’

‘And that would be?’

She took the Brownie camera out of her handbag. ‘I would like to take some photos of your niece.’

‘I know I put it down somewhere here,’ Erika Metzinger said, looking with great attention under each table in the breakfast room.

‘I still do not recall you, Fräulein. And I have a very good memory for faces.’

The concierge said this, but was not looking at her face at all. His inspection of her bosom made her blush.

‘Perhaps someone else was at the desk at the time,’ she finally managed to say. Over his shoulder she saw Berthe descend the stairs and head for the exit.

‘It is doubtful.’ He smirked as he said this. ‘Was it for the night or the hour?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The room. Were you a guest or . . .?’ He left the rest unsaid.

‘I am sure I do not understand what you are getting at. I seem to have wasted my time in this fruitless search.’

She began to leave, but he cut her off from the door, a sneer on his face as he drew close to her. ‘Oh, I imagine you do, understand, Fräulein. Strict policy here. You share your income with the management. That would be me. I don’t recall receiving any share from you. Perhaps we could strike a little bargain, you and I?’

He placed his right hand on her breast and she let out an audible gasp.

‘An actress. How wonderful!’ He moved in closer, his other hand now groping at her skirt.

A sudden wave of anger swept over her, replacing any fear she might have felt.

‘You pig!’ she shouted, then spat in his eye. As he wiped away the spit, she brought her right foot down and stabbed his instep with her heel. He howled in pain and reached for the injured foot. This gave her the opportunity to push him over; as he fell, he crashed into a table, upturning it on top of himself.

‘You little vixen!’ he cried, attempting to untangle himself from the table legs and cloth.

But she was out the door of the breakfast room before he could stand; and then flew out of the hotel, running for the fiaker that Bertha had waiting at the corner.

As she leaped aboard, she discovered a strange emotion flooding her body and then heard an odd sound issuing from her own throat. She was laughing like a gurgling drainpipe.

W
erthen had to get some work done today on the von Königstein will. Cases were piling up with both him and Fräulein Metzinger otherwise occupied. This was a fairly straightforward matter – the addition of a codicil stating that if any son married outside the aristocracy, he would be excluded from participation in the proceeds of the said will. This codicil was, of course, directed at the eldest son, Waldemar, who was widely known to be infatuated with an operetta singer from the Carlstheater. Werthen had actually seen the young woman playing Zingra, the gypsy girl in Carl Michael Ziehrer’s new operetta from last spring,
The Three Wishes
. Charming as a singer she was, but then one assumed the von Königsteins did not want a girl who plays gypsies as the mother of their heirs.

Even as Werthen was thus engaged, part of his mind was still playing over Berthe’s latest request. On the whole, she had concocted an admirable plan for the von Suttner affair and had executed it almost perfectly. The ‘almost’ was reserved for the fact that violence had befallen Fräulein Metzinger. The man responsible needed a good thrashing, but that was not what Berthe was requesting. He would need to confer with Gross on her novel request to deal with the hotel concierge. It might put them further into debt
vis-à-vis
the Archduke. Gross needed a say in that. But all in all it seemed an appropriate solution.

He looked down at the half-finished codicil. He really must get this done. Focus, he counseled himself.