The Keeper of Hands (7 page)

‘Glad to see you survived.’

‘He’s eccentric, not insane.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘A matter of class, Herr Fehrut. A simple matter of class. The lower classes are insane. The upper are eccentric.’

‘So what does that make us?’

‘Employed and relatively well adjusted, Herr Fehrut. But next time try growing carnations instead.’

T
hus, Werthen, in the course of a morning on the job already had a handful of suspects. Fräulein Fanny, despite her protestations, had much to gain by the death of Mitzi. In all probability the lonely Frau Mutzenbacher would turn to her again for comfort and support. And Mutzenbacher’s brother, Siegfried, though he attested to pure friendship for the girl, might have done her in during a fit of pique – perhaps she rejected his advances? After all, he only had the man’s word for it that he and Mitzi were friends rather than lovers. There was also the mysterious client of Mitzi’s who enjoyed doling out punishment. As Altenberg said, perhaps play-acting got out of hand. And finally there was Altenberg himself. Werthen was honestly moved by the man’s declaration of love for Mitzi, but who can tell what dark places lie in each of us? Perhaps he grew weary of waiting in line – or perhaps, worse, he grew jealous.

Now, as Werthen searched out a gasthaus where he could take his midday meal, he thought of his next steps. First was the caricature of Mitzi’s client sketched by Altenberg. He would take that back to the Bower and see if anyone there recognized it. Perhaps they could even put a name to the face. Then, if that proved unsuccessful, he would take the sketch to Detective Inspector Drechsler of the Vienna constabulary. Perhaps the face would match that of someone on the police registry. Short of inserting a personal ad in the newspaper – not, to Werthen’s mind, a wise move as it would possibly alert the man if he were actually the guilty party – this was all he could think of doing with the sketch.

The Bible next. Werthen was unsure about that. He assumed it belonged to Mitzi – as well as the note interleaved in
Joshua: 2
,
for the date at the top of the note fitted into the timeline of Mitzi’s occupancy. It had the appearance of a letter; but until he could determine what language it was written in, he could not be sure. However, it might very well cast some important light on what had been troubling her recently, a fact that more than one witness thus far had commented on.

As he walked, Werthen remembered a wine house in Fürichgasse that he had not frequented lately. They served a passably spicy
Bohnensuppe
along with a
Kalteteller
of cheese and wurst that would be perfect for today. He was there in less than three minutes, found a single table in the corner under a dusty pair of stag’s horns, and settled in for his lunch, which he accompanied with a glass of chilled Welschriesling.

Eating, Werthen decided that the next obvious step was to pay a visit to Arthur Schnitzler, the man who had led Altenberg to Mitzi. How was Schnitzler involved in all this, Werthen wondered, other than in the most obvious ways?

Salten, Altenberg and now Schnitzler. Half the literary establishment of Vienna seemed to be connected to Mitzi. Werthen speculated how many more men of Vienna’s literary world would be included in his investigation.

Werthen finished the last of the wine with a chunk of nutty-tasting Emmenthaler and decided now was a good time to talk with the playwright.

Werthen stayed on foot. Though Schnitzler had not practiced medicine in almost a decade – ever since scoring his first dramatic success with
Liebelei,
a play that defined flirtation and was the first in Viennese dialect to be performed at the austere Burgtheater – the writer still lived in the medical quarter of the Ninth District. His flat was on Frankgasse, just behind the Votivkirche.

In a way, Werthen felt an affinity for Schnitzler. There were similarities in their lives. An assimilated Jew, Schnitzler had been forced against his will into a suitable profession. In his case, as the son of a famous laryngologist, he had gone into medicine, becoming an ear, nose and throat specialist, a much-needed profession among the numerous singers in Vienna. In Werthen’s case it had been the law, despite an inclination toward writing. But there, it seemed, the similarities ended. Schnitzler had more than a mere inclination to the literary life. He was fast becoming one of Vienna’s most respected writers. As mentioned by Salten, the man’s early plays featured the playboy Anatol; and Schnitzler had single-handedly created the trope of the
süsses Mädel,
the sweet young thing from the lower classes and the suburbs who has sexual adventures with aristocratic or upper-class men before settling down to a quiet life with an honest husband of her own station. Schnitzler’s plays and stories examined sexual love in all its aspects, focusing on the psychology and outcomes of passion.

By all accounts, Schnitzler himself was an Anatol character, finding love where and when he wanted. It was said that he had been initiated into the sexual world by an actress at the age of sixteen; and that he kept a journal tallying the exact number of his orgasms with various mistresses.

This year he had created a sensation with
Lieutenant Gustl
, a short play about a military officer, the lieutenant of the title, who gets into an altercation with a baker following a concert. The baker goes so far as to grab the lieutenant’s sword, but Gustl fails to challenge the man to a duel, fearing that he might indeed lose to this burly fellow below him in class. Instead, he hurries from the concert hall, hoping that no one has witnessed his shame. He spends the rest of the night worrying about his lost reputation – only to discover in the morning that the baker has had a stroke and is dead. His guilty secret is safe. Recovering, Lieutenant Gustl resumes his aggressive ways and makes plans for a duel that he is certain to win.

Werthen read this play when it was first published as a serial in the special Christmas editions of the
Neue Freie Press.
It had caused a firestorm of protest from the military-loving conservatives, who pilloried Schnitzler for depicting the army in a bad light. The gutter press had resorted to their tried-and-tested theme: anti-Semitism. A writer for the satirical journal
Kikeriki
asked what more one could expect from such a “Jew writer.” In fact, the same writer averred, the cowardly lieutenant of the title was most likely a Jew himself.

For Werthen it was not this implicit indictment of the military that made
Lieutenant Gustl
interesting; instead, it was the manner in which Schnitzler told the tale. ‘Interior monologue,’ the critics were calling the device. The entirety of the story was told from inside the mind of the lieutenant, a bold new method Werthen thought.

Werthen had now reached Frankgasse 1, where the portal was guarded by three putti-like stone warriors, seemingly Roman legionnaires, on the façade overhead. The street door remained unlocked during daylight hours; he checked the name-plates to see which was Schnitzler’s flat before entering. He noticed that Schnitzler had never bothered to change his brass plaque announcing him as an ear, nose and throat doctor.

Several minutes later he found the flat on the second floor and was about to ring the bell when suddenly he was gripped from behind by a pair of thick and exceedingly strong arms. He tried to struggle free, but the man had him in an iron grip.

‘
Gott in Himmel
, if it isn’t Advokat Werthen!’

Werthen would have recognized that choirboy’s voice anywhere. And now, as the owner of the voice appeared, he saw he was right. A week for reunions with the criminal class, it seemed: first Fehrut and now Herr Prokop.

‘Let him go, Meier,’ said Prokop, in that high sweet voice which ran counter to his pugilist’s appearance.

Released, Werthen was able to gather his breath again. ‘What are you doing here, Prokop?’ He swung around and the hulking Meier smiled down at him sheepishly. Both of them were dressed in their usual work clothes: tattered suits and dented bowler hats. Prokop, Werthen noticed, had not had dental work done since their last meeting – he was still missing a front tooth. And Meier’s left little finger had now healed, its stub missing the last joint. Hazards of the trade.

‘I suppose I should be asking you the same question, Advokat,’ Prokop said. ‘Herr Doktor Schnitzler described everyone he knows who might pay him a visit. You were not on the list.’

‘You’re working for Schnitzler?’

The two of them nodded in unison.

‘Whatever for?’

‘Half-crown a day each,’ the literal Meier answered.

At which Prokop merely shook his head in disgust. ‘Ah, then you haven’t heard, have you? The Herr Doktor suffered a vicious beating not three days ago. We have been engaged for protection.’

‘Klimt recommended you?’

A smile appeared on both their faces.

‘Herr Klimt never forgets a favor,’ Prokop said.

Indeed, Werthen and the painter Klimt had earlier secured the services of these two toughs when their lives were endangered by an
eminence grise
at the Habsburg court; Werthen had also later employed them to watch over the composer Gustav Mahler when someone was trying to kill him.

‘It is good to see you both again,’ Werthen said brightly. ‘But how is Schnitzler? Can he receive a visitor?’

Meier and Prokop exchanged glances, puffed out their lips and stared at Werthen.

‘Perhaps you could ask,’ Werthen suggested. ‘You might tell him it is important.’

‘I suppose I could do that,’ Prokop said. ‘His fiancée is out. She’s been a terror, I can tell you. Won’t let a soul in. Terrified, she is, his attacker will come back. His mother has the adjoining apartment. You would think she’d be the one hovering over the wounded son – but no, she’s off to a spa somewhere. Something tells me she and Fräulein Olga don’t get along very well. She can’t be twenty, but she’s already got the makings of a real Viennese wife, if you know what I mean.’

Werthen nodded, though he was not sure what Prokop meant, other than that the said fiancée must be a strong-willed woman. Anybody who could get Schnitzler to propose marriage must have special talents.

Werthen waited in silence with Meier on the landing as Prokop went to Schnitzler. Meier was not one much for talking. Prokop made up for that deficiency; they made a good team.

Another minute of silence and then Prokop lumbered back out on to the landing.

‘He’ll see you. Seemed almost eager, I’d say. Gentleman like Herr Doktor Schnitzler, I don’t think he’s used to being cooped up.’

Prokop led the way down a long dark hallway to double doors that opened on to a large and bright study, its walls covered in bookcases. A massive potted palm stood in a brass pot near the floor-to-ceiling windows, through which he could just make out the spire of the Votivkirche.

Schnitzler lay on a divan, a white bandage round his head. A boyish lock of hair stuck out of the wrapping, dangling over his forehead. He was a good-looking man, despite a somewhat pained expression on his face. He wore a beard, closely trimmed on the cheeks and longer at the chin. As he looked up, his eyes were inquisitive and sparkling. Dressed in a royal-blue velveteen suit with kid slippers, he held a book in his hands. As he approached the divan, Werthen could see that this was a volume of the works of Lessing.

‘Advokat Werthen,’ Schnitzler said as he drew near. It appeared he was struggling to get up to welcome his visitor.

‘Please Herr Schnitzler, stay recumbent. What a nasty state of affairs.’

Schnitzler leaned back against a mound of white pillows, giving up all thoughts of
politesse
.

‘Isn’t it just?’ He motioned to a chair near the divan. ‘Please, bring it over here next to me and sit.’

Werthen did so, and sat close to the divan. ‘Who did this? Have the police caught the blackguard?’

‘Well, I assume that is why you are here.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand.’

‘I assume Klimt sent you. He talks much about your deductive powers.’

‘No. Sorry for the misunderstanding. I have come about a completely different matter. I had not heard of your unfortunate circumstances.’

Schnitzler closed the volume of plays, setting it on his lap. ‘And what matter would that be?’

‘I have just come from Altenberg. He tells me that you introduced him to a young woman . . . Mitzi is, or was, her name. From the Bower.’

Schnitzler’s eyes suddenly grew larger. He looked around the room as if fearful someone might overhear.

‘That part of my life is past,’ he said in almost a whisper.

‘I understand that you are recently engaged,’ Werthen said. ‘I do not wish to create any difficulties—’

‘Hardly engaged,’ Schnitzler interrupted. ‘Fräulein Gussman and I have a certain understanding. Still, it would be better if she did not learn of my visits to the Bower.’

‘I understand,’ Werthen said. ‘You know, of course, of Mitzi’s death?’

Schnitzler nodded rather vigorously; the motion seemed to cause him pain. He put a hand to his bandaged head.

‘I sent flowers to the funeral. Anonymously. Such a sweet young girl, she was. A pity. But then, it does come with the profession, doesn’t it?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, servicing all sorts of men. One can never be sure of the type of client, can one? It appears she broke the golden rule and met one of her clients after hours.’

‘That is one possibility.’

‘Might I inquire as to your interest in the matter?’ Schnitzler said.

‘Frau Mutzenbacher has employed me to find the murderer. She was very attached to Mitzi.’

‘I see. And you suspect me?’ He said it with arch humor.

‘Hardly. But I was hoping you could tell me something about the young girl. I visited Herr Altenberg earlier today and he indicated that you had introduced him to Mitzi. I thought perhaps you might have known her and could somehow help in the investigations.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Advokat. But ours was strictly a working relationship. I discovered her at the Bower before she was too much tainted. I grew bored with her services after a couple of months and passed her on to Altenberg. He has, as I imagine you discovered, a penchant for the young ones. Though Mitzi was not the schoolgirl she pretended to be.’