The Silence (19 page)

Berthe liked Frau Gross; she was not the woman she had expected as the partner of the overbearing Doktor Gross. Adele Gross was no shrinking violet, but neither was she confrontational. Watching her and Gross at dinner last night – for she had insisted that they come after learning of their presence in Vienna – Berthe could see that theirs was a union, a relationship unique to themselves. It was not a caricature of the hen-pecked husband nor of the browbeaten, dominated wife. Werthen had told Berthe of the unhappy circumstances vis-à-vis their son. However, whatever their differences in that regard, the couple appeared to have a deep and abiding respect for each other, even if a degree of prevarication were still needed to maintain marital happiness.

Berthe had been sworn to secrecy by Werthen: there was to be no mention of their new case in front of Adele. But he had also suggested that she, Berthe, devise some entertainment for the woman, so that she did not grow suspicious of Gross’s absences.

The primary topic of conversation last night had been the reply to Werthen’s offer for the farmhouse in Laab im Walde. Grundman, the land agent, had, after almost a week of waiting, just received a counter offer from the owners: they wanted seventeen thousand florins.

‘Which means sixteen as a compromise,’ Werthen had allowed at table. ‘Exactly what Grundman recommended in the first place.’

‘Will we pay it?’ Berthe asked.

‘
Die Katze im Sack kaufen
,’ Herr von Werthen said sternly.

He was somewhat nettled that he had not been asked to inspect the place and seemed to take real pleasure in warning against buying a cat in a sack. Suddenly Berthe realized that she was also relying on her husband’s glowing descriptions of the place. She only knew it from the outside.

Thus was born the idea for today’s outing.

The carriage deposited them at the inn, where they would later take their lunch. Berthe was happy to see that venison was on the menu, and before she set out, she had the
Ober
set aside four orders of that delicious meal. Their carriage driver would remain at the inn while the party of five inspected the place. Grundman had been contacted, but was unable to supply a key on such short notice. He nevertheless assured Berthe they could see the various rooms from the windows.

The weather was a little less inclement today, though the wind was blowing across the empty fields, ploughed under for the winter, as they made their way down the single-track road to the house that could be theirs soon. Berthe had Frieda wrapped tightly in a blanket and held her close to her bosom inside the bulky
Wetterflecke
, the loden cape she wore. Only the baby’s small, smiling face stuck out of the top buttons of the cloak. She wore a white cap with embroidered buttercups that Berthe herself had knit out of fine lambswool. Seeing the ochre-colored four-square in front of her on the narrow road, Berthe’s heart began to swell with sweet expectation. A place to raise a brood of children.

‘It looks lovely,’ said Adele Gross.

‘Why, it’s just a farmhouse,’ Herr von Werthen said as they drew nearer.

‘Of course it’s a farmhouse,’ Berthe said. ‘A beautiful old fortress of a farmhouse.’

She noticed Frau von Werthen take her husband’s hand and give it a squeeze. It did not appear to be an act of affection, rather of reproof.

‘Well, yes,’ Herr von Werthen said. ‘Farmhouses
can
have their own sort of charm, one supposes.’

They entered the courtyard created by the sides of the farmhouse and Berthe noticed that the For Sale signs had been taken down. Obviously the owners were confident that they would meet their revised offer.

There would be a good deal of renovation, Berthe saw immediately, even from an exterior view. She must have seen the building first in bright sunlight, which disguised some of its faults. But now she could see tiles off the roof, a drainpipe hanging loose from the side of the building, patches of white undercoating showing through the paint, cracks in several of the windows and in one of the walls. But these did not deter her; she was still in love with the place, in love with the idea of a country home for her children to grow up in.

They all went to the windows, looking in the various rooms.

‘What a lovely
Kachelofen
,’ Frau Gross said.

‘And this would make a fine nursery,’ Frau von Werthen added, peering in another window.

‘Quite,’ her husband said.

‘Say, what are you lot doing in here?’

The voice was gruff and commanding.

Berthe spun around from the window. Three men stood at the entrance to the court.

‘Are you the owners?’ Berthe asked. ‘We checked with Herr Grundman before coming.’

The name obviously meant nothing to these three. Two of them were dressed in heavy coats and leggings as if working in the fields.

‘This is private property,’ said the one in the middle, a large man who appeared almost to burst out of his clothes. Unlike the other two, this one had a suit on under his heavy overcoat and wore no hat; his hair was cropped short like a criminal’s. ‘I’m telling you to get out of here.’

‘My good man—’ Herr von Werthen began.

‘Now!’ the big man spat out.

‘We are here to view the property,’ Berthe said. ‘We’ve made an offer on it and are here legitimately. And that is no way to speak to people.’

‘You’re trespassing,’ the same man said, now with an edge of menace to his voice.

The three men began approaching.

‘If I were you, I would take that baby out of here before someone gets hurt.’

‘This is really too much,’ Herr von Werthen said, moving protectively in front of Berthe and the baby.

‘Look, old one. You take these ladies along home now. And don’t come back.’

‘The police will hear of this,’ Adele Gross intoned.

This remark got the attention of the one doing all the talking. The other two men looked at him quizzically.

‘Lady, you are the trespasser. Who do you think the police are going to arrest?’

This brought rough laughter from the other two men.

‘Now, out of here.’ He came closer to Herr von Werthen, who stood his ground. The man gave him a sudden shove, and Herr von Werthen landed on his backside in a spot of mud.

‘You brutes,’ Frau von Werthen yelped, hesitating as if deciding whether to slap the ruffian or help her husband up. She finally opted for the latter.

‘I don’t know who’s been talking to you, but this place is not for sale. Understand? Now leave.’ The man made a fake bowing motion and swept his hand toward the road.

‘See here,’ Herr von Werthen said, struggling to his feet.

But Berthe stopped him. ‘We should go now,’ she said to the others. Frieda had begun to cry, frightened by the gruff voices. This was hardly the joyful outing they had planned.

‘That lady’s got some sense,’ the stranger said.

Before they left, however, Berthe made a close observation of each. She would be able to identify them later if need be.

‘Why, that is assault,’ Gross fumed. They were gathered at Werthen’s flat later in the day, and Berthe had informed them of their misadventure at Laab im Walde.

Werthen returned from the foyer where he had been on the telephone to Grundman.

‘They’ve taken it off the market,’ he said.

‘But they can’t do that,’ Berthe said. ‘Can they?’

‘Afraid they can,’ Werthen said, taking her hand. ‘No reasons. Grundman just says the owners have reconsidered.’

‘Draughty old farmhouse, anyway,’ Herr von Werthen said.

‘These men,’ Gross asked, ‘did they identify themselves as the owners?’

Adele Gross answered the question: ‘No. Though Frau Werthen asked directly.’

Gross had Berthe and the others describe, once again, their assailants. Werthen listened closely as she described the leader of the three, but the description – other than of a large man – did not tally with that of the man who had attacked him. That man wore an old bowler and had a thick head of hair. Neither could he see any connection between his attack and his wife’s visit to a property for sale.

‘Shouldn’t we contact the owners?’ Berthe suggested. ‘Try and trace these men? It seems awfully odd that last night the farmhouse was for sale and suddenly today it is off the market.’

‘I suppose we could,’ Werthen allowed. ‘I don’t quite see the point, though, unless we want to prefer charges.’ He looked at his father. ‘What do you say, Papa? After all, you were the one pushed to the ground.’

‘It was hardly a fair fight,’ Herr von Werthen said. ‘The blackguard gave me no warning.’

‘That is not the point, Emile,’ his wife counseled. ‘Karl wants to know if you would like a legal solution.’

‘Police, you mean? I don’t think so. Not for me, at any rate.’

Werthen imagined his father would not be over fond of having his name in the newspapers in connection with such a sordid little affair.

‘But surely you will not let those ruffians get away with their bullying,’ Adele Gross interjected. ‘They scared poor little Frieda.’

‘I think she will survive,’ Berthe said, for she too was losing her sense of outrage now.

‘I’ll have a word with Grundman,’ Werthen said, by way of addressing Frau Gross’s concern. But Berthe sensed his disappointment at losing their dream house. Perhaps it was better just to put the whole thing in back of them.

Adele Gross looked squarely at her husband. ‘Does this have anything to do with the case you and Werthen are occupied with?’

This statement brought absolute silence for a moment to the sitting room. Gross glanced at Werthen as if to accuse him.

‘Nobody told me,’ Frau Gross said. ‘So do not go bullying Werthen or his lovely wife. You do realize, Hanns, that you are far too happy lately. That cannot simply be the result of esoteric studies of a dead Flemish painter. And most definitely not the result of your attendance at Viennese balls or dinner parties. Ergo, you must be involved with a case. Every time you visit Vienna you do so.’

‘My dear Adele,’ Gross said. ‘I had no idea. You are quite the detective yourself.’

‘No. Just an observant wife.’

‘It would have been a fine place for our children,’ Berthe said when they lay together in bed that night. ‘But it’s not to be.’

‘We’ll find another place,’ he told her, wrapping an arm around her warm body.

‘With all the to-do, you never mentioned what happened with Gross’s visit to the Rathaus today.’

‘It was as he thought. There were blood traces leading from the desk to the door.’

Gross had explained that the thickness of the smudges nearer the desk meant that someone had stepped in the blood and then tracked it out with them, the smudges getting fainter as the person continued to walk.

‘Which proves . . . ?’ Berthe asked.

‘Fairly conclusively that Steinwitz was murdered. And by the same type of weapon used to kill Praetor.’

‘Perhaps the police fouled the scene?’

‘No. Gross checked with Drechsler. The police were there immediately following the shooting. They were careful to stay to the edges of the room, just as he has been advocating for them to do in order to avoid contaminating the scene. Drechsler guarantees that none of his men could have stepped in the blood.’

‘So it was murder,’ she said with a shiver. ‘You’ve got to be careful. Both you and Doktor Gross. These men . . .’

‘There is one other possibility,’ he said, trying to steer her away from these fears. ‘The architect Otto Wagner was the first to discover the body. We do not think he entered the room, but Gross wants to interview him to make absolutely sure.’

Which reminded him that he wanted Berthe to contact her friend Rosa Mayreder and see if she could arrange a meeting for Werthen with her brother-in-law, Councilman Rudolf Mayreder. He might be able to provide further inside knowledge from the Rathaus.

‘I am sure she would be happy to help out,’ Berthe said when asked, and then yawned.

‘Are you a tired mother?’

She nodded. But before sleep, she also had information to impart: her contacts at the
Arbeiter Zeitung
had come up with nothing more than what Adler himself had stated the other night at dinner: that Praetor was supposedly involved with the 1873 Vienna Woods preservation act.

‘Nothing there, then,’ Werthen said. Or was there? Was it mere coincidence that their own plans about the Vienna Woods had been thwarted? He and Gross suspected that whatever Steinwitz and Praetor were working together to expose got them killed. Did it, in fact, have something to do with the Vienna Woods?

Thirteen

W
erthen’s late-night ruminations were vindicated the next morning. He was reading the
Neue Freie Presse
at his desk at the law office when he noticed the leather-bound diary Ludwig Wittgenstein had delivered. Werthen had left it on top of the desk amid what was becoming a hillock of documents. It was most unlike him to allow such a mess on his desk; he put it down to his attention being focused on this troublesome case that seemed to grow daily in complexity.

He should store the diary away with the report on the missing Hans, he figured. Idly flipping through it as he pulled out the file drawer for inquiry cases, he stopped cold at the sight of a familiar name: Steinwitz.

He read the entry from January 17 of this year: