The Silence (11 page)

All eyes were on him now.

‘You see,’ he said to Berthe. ‘I was just so embarrassed at my earlier actions that I did not want to mention the name. I decided to stop and apologize again for my brutish behavior. But he would not answer his door. Praetor was in there. I saw a shadow behind a curtain from the street. And then I read the notice of his death the next day in the newspaper. I wondered if my presence had driven him to it.’

‘Dear Karl,’ Berthe said, kissing him on the cheek. ‘You can be boorish at times, but not to the point of making one suicidal.’

This levity from Berthe released the tension in the room, for the Adlers had clearly begun to feel uncomfortable at Werthen’s extended confession. Their laughter at Berthe’s remark was louder than her bon mot justified.

‘Well then,’ Adler said in a jocular tone, ‘it would seem you have good reason for looking into this case. After all, you may have been the last person to attempt to visit Praetor. You could be a suspect if there actually were foul play.’

There was more laughter, but Werthen knew only too well that Adler’s off-hand comment might prove very accurate indeed.

A telephone call from Doktor Praetor the next day sealed the bargain. The doctor was adamant that Werthen aid in finding the killer of his son. Thus it was that Werthen took on the commission, to be paid for jointly by Adler and Doktor Praetor, to investigate the death of Henricus Praetor.

Werthen lost no time the following Monday getting in touch with Detective Inspector Bernhard Drechsler of the Vienna police. He spoke to Drechsler by telephone from the Habsburgergasse. Drechsler, at his office in the Police Praesidium on Schottenring, was obviously just getting over a cold, for his voice was scratchy and still nasal in tone.

‘I appreciate you letting me know of this,’ the inspector said after Werthen fully explained the contacts he had had with Praetor. ‘And you were home by what, seven, seven fifteen, seven thirty last Thursday evening?’

‘Rather closer to seven fifteen, I suppose. I remember my housekeeper, Frau Blatschky, greeted me at the door, happy she did not have to hold dinner.’ He was about to ask the reason for such questions when Drechsler ploughed on.

‘Good. I think you can rest assured that you were not responsible for the young man’s death. People like Praetor lead a complex emotional life. It is far more probable that the fellow was despondent over a love affair. These people become fixated on such things.’

These people.
Werthen did not respond to this, however. Instead, he asked, ‘You are sure it was suicide?’

A momentary pause. ‘No. Though we thought it best to tell the father so. No use causing the man further pain.’

‘I’m not following you,’ Werthen said.

‘There was no gun at the scene, only a shell casing and a bullet lodged in the wall in back of the body. No suicide note. Thus, the alternate version is that his death was the result of a tryst gone wrong. Perhaps even male rage at an unwanted advance. No telling what such people get up to, is there?’

‘Now see here, Drechsler,’ Werthen began, but then thought better of it. After all, he had been guilty of a similar offense regarding Praetor.

‘You sound rather agitated, Counselor. No need to be. I am merely explaining why we are giving this death a somewhat lower priority than others.’

Werthen made no reply at first. Then, ‘Is there any indication when death occurred?’

‘At seven thirty-one that evening.’

So that explained Drechsler’s questions about the time he arrived home: it eliminated him from further suspicion.

‘Someone heard the shot?’

‘Very good, Advokat. Now I know why our mutual friend, Herr Gross, has such faith in your powers of deduction. A neighbor on the same floor, Frau Czerny. A very acute witness to events in her house. She heard a loud noise and looked immediately to the pendulum clock on the wall. She says she knew the sound was that of a gun going off. Lived through the events of 1848, did Frau Czerny, and seems to have had an intimate relationship with such sounds ever since. She saw you outside Praetor’s flat, as well.’

The woman who came out when he was knocking at Praetor’s door, Werthen figured.

‘Quite good ears for an elderly woman,’ Drechsler went on. ‘Said she heard some crazy person addressing Herr Praetor’s closed door. She recalled quite well that name: “It is I, AdvokatWerthen.” The very words she heard. So you see, it is a good thing we had this little discussion. I was going to contact you today at any rate.’

Werthen felt doubly pleased with himself for calling Drechsler so promptly.

‘We would like permission to enter the apartment,’ he said.

‘We?’

‘Herr Doktor Praetor and myself.’

‘Sounds like you have taken on another case, Advokat. Trust me, though, this is a dead end, for you and the father. Nothing but grief will come from stirring things up.’

‘Still,’ Werthen said, leaving the rest unsaid.

‘Yes, yes. You’ll get your permission. I’ll notify the men on guard duty to let you in. But remember, this is a possible crime scene.’

‘Just as Doktor Gross would counsel,’ Werthen said, getting in the last dig, for it was the criminologist Gross who preached the sanctity of the crime scene and the police who had reluctantly and at long last come to accept that principle. ‘The father simply wants to gather some mementos.’

It must be my imagination, Werthen thought.

There was the smell of decay about Praetor’s apartment. The father did not seem to be disturbed by the odor, but instead went about searching his son’s wardrobe and drawers for any sign of notebooks. Afternoon sun poured through the windows.

While the father busied himself in the bedroom, Werthen inspected the Regency desk. As he did so, he tried to form a mental picture of that same desk the time he visited Praetor. What he saw in front of him hardly tallied with that picture, for the desk, once a jumble of papers, now was clean and tidy. Paper was neatly stacked in one corner, an oilcloth cover was draped over the typewriting machine, pencils were stored with their freshly sharpened tips up in a ceramic jug, reference books lined the back edge of the desk, held up between two large jade dragon bookends.

And there was no sign of any notebooks, neither on top of the desk nor in any of the tidy compartments and drawers. He got down on hands and knees underneath the desk to make a careful search of the carpentry so as to assure himself that there were no hidden or secret drawers.

Getting up, he asked himself a simple question: Who would leave a desk so tidy just before killing himself?

And why no final message to anyone? No explanation of why he was killing himself? And most damning of all, where was the gun? After all, if Praetor had shot himself, the gun would, perforce, have to be next to his body. Unless, that is, one of the policemen on the scene decided to pocket it to use as an illicit and unregistered weapon. Werthen had heard of such things occurring.

Werthen now noticed the patch in the wall near the desk where the bullet must have lodged after tearing through Praetor’s brain. The police had obviously dug the projectile out. A dark stain in the wood of the floor below must be blood. So the body was found near the desk. But could Praetor have been seated when he died? Not probable, for in that case, the desk itself would have been splattered with blood. So Praetor was standing, pacing, perhaps. Who shoots themselves standing up?

Again the powerful scent of decay reached Werthen’s nostrils. He wanted to throw open a window, but remembered Drechsler’s admonition. He had earlier advised the father to leave things as he found them.

He tried to make himself believe that the smell was caused by an over-active imagination. After all, Praetor’s body had not lain in the flat long enough for any such smell to originate, let alone linger. According to Drechsler, the vigilant Frau Czerny had waited fifteen to twenty minutes before investigating the sound of the gunshot. After repeated attempts at rousing Herr Praetor, she had alerted the local constable. Praetor’s body was thus discovered before nine o’clock on Thursday night.

Still, Werthen was sure the stench was real. Looking behind the cushions on the daybed upon which he had sat on his previous visit to the flat, he quickly found the source. It was the golden parakeet Werthen had earlier seen flitting about the apartment. Its neck was broken, one wing was torn completely off, and its body was beginning to bloat with gas. This fact alone convinced Werthen that Praetor had been killed. He would never have committed such a barbarous act upon his pet. Killing the bird had been a final deed of spite, of revenge.

Whoever it was killed Praetor, he had done so out of an anger and spite so great that it could not be vented by simply pulling a trigger.

‘Have you found anything, Advokat Werthen?’ Praetor’s diminutive father came out of the bedroom, and began sniffing. He, too, finally smelled the decay. Perhaps, being a surgeon, his nostrils were inured to such odors.

Werthen showed him the dead bird and explained his theory.

The doctor’s shoulders slumped as if all the energy had been sucked out of him by this discovery.

‘You are right,’ he sighed. ‘Ricus would never hurt Athena. She was his prized possession.’

The father took no delight in being right about the cause of his son’s death. There was no vindication in this discovery. The realization brought only misery to the man. It was as if he visibly aged while gazing at the mangled parakeet. Perhaps Drechsler was right? Maybe there was only grief to be gained by this investigation.

‘This seems to be the act of some deranged individual. My son did not associate with such violent people.’

Werthen did, and knew that you can never predict the behavior of someone. Outwardly proper and well-mannered, the best of persons could turn homicidal if pushed to extremes. As a criminal lawyer in Graz, he had made a living from good people doing bad things.

No parents tonight. Berthe and Werthen had a quiet dinner together. Even Frieda cooperated, going to sleep early. They sat at the table amid a clutter of dirty dishes, enjoying the glow of candlelight, sipping the last of a Bordeaux Werthen had picked up on his way home. They spoke of small domestic things – Frieda’s new smile when she passed gas, the delivery of coke fuel that was overdue, Frau Blatschky’s recently discovered recipe for potted kidneys.

After the housekeeper had cleared the dishes and delivered the coffee, Werthen began a discussion of his new investigation. Berthe listened with rapt attention, eager it seemed for communication of a non-domestic variety. Werthen could understand; Berthe was a wonderful mother, but she also had a mind that needed to be fed.

‘Why do you discount what the father says?’ Berthe asked once Werthen finished his description of the investigation thus far.

‘You mean as regards the sorts of people his son would or would not associate with?’

She nodded, stirring a silver spoonful of sugar into her coffee.

‘I suppose it is because I suspect fatherly pride trumping reality.’

‘But he was right about his son not being suicidal,’ Berthe said. ‘Perhaps he knows his son better than you think.’

‘I have not discounted his opinion, but merely set it against opposing theories.’

‘Drechsler’s “these people” theory, you mean. What a horrid man.’

Werthen made no reply to this and Berthe took a sip of coffee, then set the cup aside with a sigh. She was being a good nursing mother; of the wine she had drunk only half a glass, as well.

‘You didn’t mention Drechsler’s response to your discovery,’ she said.

Werthen shook his head. ‘No. For the very good reason that I did not inform him of the parakeet.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘Telling Drechsler of it would not necessarily make him change his opinion of the case. In fact, I think it would convince him even more of his “berserk lover” scenario. Someone so deranged he would tear a harmless bird apart. There’s nothing to be gained then by telling him of the mangled bird, and doing so would, pardon the metaphor, very likely ruffle Drechsler’s feathers. After all, he warned about interfering with the crime scene, and then there is also the not insignificant matter that he and his fellows completely missed this vital clue.’

‘My, but I have a competent husband. Not only an investigator, but a diplomat.’

‘This is Vienna, remember?’ he teased. ‘I do not want to get on the wrong side of Drechsler. We may need him before this case is over.’

‘Theories?’ she asked.

Werthen took a sip of his coffee, unadulterated with sugar.

‘Discounting the homosexual angle—’ he began.

‘Thank you . . .’

‘I ask myself who might have a reason to kill a young journalist. These missing notebooks come to mind. His colleagues said he kept research notebooks, but there is no trace of them at the offices of the
Arbeiter Zeitung
or at his flat. The desk there had, I am sure, been tampered with. Someone had tidied it.’

‘Isn’t it possible that Praetor himself had just done a little housecleaning? After all, we are now virtually certain that he did not kill himself, so such an act would not be out of the ordinary.’

Werthen did not fail to notice the ‘we’ in Berthe’s sentence. It made him smile slightly.

‘Agreed. But he hardly seemed the housekeeping sort.’

‘Perhaps you should check with the building
Portier
on Zeltgasse to see if he employed a cleaning lady.’

‘Excellent,’ Werthen agreed, taking his small leather notebook from the breast pocket of his jacket to make a list.

After scratching a few lines, he looked up. ‘That is one direction of investigation. The whole idea of the notebooks and the story he was working on. Adler says it had to do with the 1873 Vienna Woods preservation act. Though it is difficult to believe someone would kill him over that. Hardly sounds inflammatory enough.’