The Silence (23 page)

But the town planner was no naïf.

‘In other words, I could be next.’

‘Doubtful now. Too many know of the scheme.’

Sitte considered for a moment. Then, ‘You should speak with Taylor Remington.’

‘The American impresario?’ Werthen remembered that Fräulein Metzinger had mentioned interest in seeing the man’s Wild West Show with Huck. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Steinwitz was convinced Remington was the one buying the Woods parcel. I assume he would have the most to lose if the deal collapsed for some reason.’

They were dining together, the better to review the day’s happenings. Doktor and Frau Gross sat on one side of the Biedermeier table, the von Werthens on the other, and Berthe and Werthen at either end.

There were no complaints from Frau Blatschky, despite the extra work these added guests at table made for her. In fact, she seemed in absolute bliss, bustling about ‘her’ kitchen with real delight. Tonight she had outdone herself, bringing compliments even from Frau von Werthen. It had begun with a
Wiener Suppentopf
with bits of beef, sausage, noodles, and turnips in a clear bouillon. This was followed by a
Lungenbraten
, a tenderloin filet floured and cooked in butter with onions, mushrooms, and parsley, accompanied by a green bean salad in oil and vinegar with just the right amount of dill and diced onion. Now they were lingering at the table over coffee and
Kaiserschmarren
, a sugared crêpe with raisins.

Over the soup daily pleasantries were passed – Frieda had missed one of her naps, suffering from an acute case of hiccoughs; Frau and Herr von Werthen had spent much of the day at the Imperial Natural History Museum indulging one of Emile von Werthen’s few hobbies: lepidoptera. In particular, they had examined a new addition to the collection, a birdwing, or
Ornithoptera alexandrae
, the largest known butterfly. Discussion of this specimen took them on into the meat course, by which time Werthen had begun to detail their interviews with Wagner and later with Sitte.

‘Sounds like an odd duck to me,’ Herr von Werthen said following his son’s description of Camillo Sitte.

‘Happily so,’ Berthe said, for it turned out she had read his
City Planning According to Artistic Principles
, and was a believer in his theories of urban growth.

Emile von Werthen eyed his daughter-in-law as if demanding an explanation of her comment.

She obliged.

‘Just because we are in a new century does not mean we are bound to the idea of progress at any cost. Unbounded urban growth as some call for will create miserable lives for the vast majority. Now in Vienna half the area is taken up by the Woods and by parks and gardens. I for one would like that to continue so that Frieda and other children can grow up in a city that is habitable.’

‘I second that,’ Frau Gross said.

‘But surely you would not let a tree stand in the way of a new business,’ Herr von Werthen said, aghast at the idea. ‘Think of the work created. You have sympathies for the workers, as I understand. Would you pit their welfare against the life of one tree?’

Werthen chuckled at the analogy. ‘Papa, I do not think we are talking about one tree here.’

Werthen glanced at Gross, who nodded his assent. They had not yet shared the most volatile nugget of information gleaned today: the scheme to sell off a vast tract of the Vienna Woods, as detailed in Hans Wittgenstein’s diary. After Werthen divulged this plan, there was a prolonged silence.

Finally Emile von Werthen exploded: ‘The blackguards!’

‘Calm yourself, Emile.’

His wife attempted to pat the back of his hand, but he jerked it away.

‘But what of the 1873 ordinance?’ Berthe asked quite sensibly.

‘Sitte says they have found a way around that,’ Werthen answered. ‘That it is not a legally binding ordinance at all.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ Emile von Werthen said, facing his son now. ‘You and Doktor Gross contend that this councilman and also a journalist were murdered to silence them.’

‘Correct,’ Werthen said.

‘And that it was this secret scheme to sell off the Vienna Woods that is the reason for their deaths?’

‘That would appear to be the case,’ Gross answered.

‘Unbelievable,’ Herr von Werthen said.

Werthen was glad to see that his father’s sense of justice was finally aroused; for once he was not focusing on mere self-interest.

‘That means,’ Herr von Werthen continued, ‘that you have put us in danger by sharing this information. I warned you that this investigating business of yours would bring ruin to us all.’

‘Now Emile. Calm yourself,’ cooed Frau von Werthen.

Werthen could only groan.

After his parents left, Werthen brought out the Wittgenstein diary he had taken from the office so that his wife and the Grosses could see it personally. When it came his turn to examine the journal, Doktor Gross examined entries closely preceding the final ones. He also inspected the empty pages to make sure there truly were no more entries, turning all the way to the end pages.

‘What’s this?’ he said, finding a sleeve glued on to the inside of the back cover. From this he carefully extracted a folded piece of paper. By the looks of it, this paper had once been crumpled, perhaps balled up and thrown away and then later retrieved by Hans Wittgenstein.

Gross slowly unfolded the paper, which with closer examination was revealed to be a piece of fine linen stationery. The others now left their chairs and gathered around him. Once the paper was laid out flat on the table, two things were immediately apparent. The letterhead indicated it was from the desk of Karl Wittgenstein, father of the runaway Hans. Secondly, the letter, or protocol as it turned out, was titled ‘Opening and Development of the Outer Ring of Vienna.’

‘Meaning the Vienna Woods,’ Berthe said.

‘I believe so,’ Gross said, quickly scanning the letter. The others were doing the same and it quickly became apparent to them that this was a draft of a letter by Karl Wittgenstein, representing other unnamed investors, to offer bids on purchasing a large tract of the Woods for an estate development: large villas surrounded by immense grounds.

Gross thumped his forefinger on the letter. ‘This may explain why the son took leave of the family house.’

‘The final straw,’ Werthen agreed, returning to his seat along with Berthe and Frau Gross. ‘That his own father was involved in the scheme.’

So that was what the youth meant by the last entry, ‘All is lost,’ thought Werthen.

‘But what of this Remington person you mentioned?’ Adele Gross asked. ‘Isn’t he the one Herr Sitte said was the prospective buyer?’

‘It looks from this,’ Gross said, ‘that Lueger was going to sell the land off to the highest bidder.’

‘Auction off the Woods,’ Berthe said. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

‘But,’ Werthen said, ‘apparently not illegal.’

‘What could he hope to achieve by it?’ Frau Gross said. ‘It would be the ruin of him politically.’

Fair question, Werthen thought. If the sale could be done in private, the development of the Woods surely could not. Public outrage and outcry would follow. Or was Lueger wily enough to deflect his critics? After all, if he could turn anti-Semitism into a winning campaign plank, perhaps Lueger could make the sale of the Vienna Woods appear to be in the interests of the little people, too. But what was it all for? Why this grand risk?

‘We now have a template to follow,’ Gross said, interrupting Werthen’s thoughts. ‘Our theory is that Councilman Steinwitz and the journalist Henricus Praetor were both murdered and that there is a direct connection between the two crimes. We lack direct evidence, such as any sign of the various files Steinwitz shared with Praetor or of the journals that Herr Praetor is said to have kept. However, we have ample indirect evidence from Hans Wittgenstein’s diary entries that the two were linked by their involvement in making public the plot to sell off large parts of the Vienna Woods.’

‘Indirect evidence substantiated by Sitte,’ Werthen added, ‘and confirmed by this letter from Karl Wittgenstein.’

‘Thus . . . ?’ Gross said, his voice rising at the end as if asking for conclusions.

‘There are at least four persons or groups of persons that would benefit from the deaths of Steinwitz and Praetor,’ Werthen said. ‘First, the sellers. Those involved at the Rathaus.’

‘You are assuming that Mayor Lueger himself was directly involved in this?’ asked Berthe.

Gross nodded again. ‘You have a valid point, Frau Werthen. As yet we have no direct proof that Lueger authorized such a sale. His name is not actually mentioned in this letter. However, it would be a strong inference. Who else could authorize such an action?’

‘That is something I would like to pursue,’ Frau Gross said. ‘And I believe I have a direction to follow. Perhaps his legion of female supporters could tell us something. Far better for a woman to talk to a woman, don’t you think so, dear?’

They paused for a moment. Gross was not the sort to appreciate having one of his investigations become co-opted. However, issues of domestic harmony appeared to outweigh other considerations.

‘I think that would be a fine contribution to our inquiries,’ he said.

Werthen cast a smile at Berthe, who raised eyebrows at this suddenly domesticated Gross. Werthen suspected that there had to be other motivation for Gross. Surely if he kept his wife occupied interviewing the Amazons who supported Lueger, they would hardly have time to attend more balls. Clever man, Gross.

‘So,’ Werthen continued where he had left off. ‘The Rathaus is surely one avenue of investigation. I believe it is high time that we spoke with Lueger face to face.’

‘When he returns from the spa,’ Gross said.

‘That should be this Monday,’ Werthen said. Then, ‘Karl Wittgenstein and his investors are another group to investigate, for they would benefit if their bid won and lose out if the newspapers broadcast the scheme. And finally, Taylor Remington, another prospective buyer, would have the same motivation.’

‘Kill two people because of a business deal?’ Berthe sounded skeptical.

‘Lesser motives have resulted in larger death tolls,’ Gross pronounced.

But Werthen thought she seemed unconvinced.

‘You mentioned four,’ she said to him.

‘Sorry?’

‘Four persons or groups that stood to benefit. You only talked about three.’

‘Right. It is not likely, but Otto Wagner should be on the list. He had opportunity. He was the first on the scene. Gross estimates his stride and footprint could be consistent with the stains left on Steinwitz’s carpet.’

‘But whatever for?’ Adele Gross asked.

Werthen detailed his theory that perhaps Wagner, a close professional associate at the Rathaus and acknowledged friend of Lueger’s, had been offered some sort of commission to build and develop the land sold. After all, he appeared bitter that the majority of his designs had never been built. And after a little digging, Werthen had also discovered that the man was over his head in debt, having built two apartment and commercial buildings on speculation and now having difficulty selling them. The buildings were located on the Magdalenenstrasse on the River Wien, and one of them, in particular, the Majolika Haus, named so after the pink, blue, and green floral faience design on the façade, was termed by Wagner’s detractors as ugly beyond description. Thus far, according to Kraus, two separate purchases had fallen through, the prospective buyers put off at the last minute by the bad press the projects were receiving.

‘In short,’ Werthen said, ‘Wagner is badly in need of an infusion of funds.’

‘Aren’t we all,’ said Frau Gross. But both she and Berthe seemed unconvinced with this theory.

‘I said it was not likely, but we cannot rule out any suspects at this stage. Right, Gross?’

He looked to his old colleague for support.

‘I rather liked the fellow,’ was Gross’s sole response.

Fifteen

T
he Prater was powdered in a light snowfall. A sky gray and threatening hung overhead, but all around could be heard the delighted shouts and squeals of children. It was Saturday half-day at school and it seemed that most of the children of the city had thronged to Remington’s Wild West Show.

A tent city had popped up overnight on the grounds of the Prater like a cluster of gigantic mushrooms. Giant hoardings all around proclaimed the delights of the show: ‘Custer’s Last Stand,’ ‘The Buffalo Hunt,’ ‘The Greatest Shot in the World.’ It took several trains to deliver the four hundred white and Indian actors and stagehands, two hundred and fifty horses, twenty buffalo, fifteen elk, a dozen long-horned Texas steers, and all the paraphernalia needed to outfit the show – including an electrical generating plant to illuminate the night shows.

Gross puffed vapor bubbles into the chill air as they walked on to the grounds.

‘What would impel people to hold an outdoor attraction at this inclement time of year.’

It was not a question, but Werthen offered an answer anyway. ‘The feuilleton writers say Remington thought he was going to Australia. It’s summer there.’

Gross gave Werthen a look of utter disbelief.

‘It is possible,’ Werthen added. ‘After all, there have been numerous American tourists to arrive in Vienna only to be disappointed at its lack of canals.’

‘They’ll be searching for kangaroos next,’ Gross muttered.

Whether by accident or design, the arrival of Remington’s Wild West Show surely did not lack for enthusiastic customers. Schoolchildren, still in their uniforms and with school bags on their shoulders, roamed the grounds like hungry Indians on the prowl. Many of them carried paper sacks full of small puffy white balls. Werthen noticed that these bags came from a number of stands that looked much like a traditional Austrian
Wurstel
stand. Large signs advertised ‘Popcorn.’ It was something Werthen had read of, this toasted or popped corn, in relation to the early Spanish explorers in the New World. The indigenous people had attempted to sell the exotic food to these explorers, but the Spanish were having none of it. Werthen vowed to try some of this strange confection before he left the grounds. Of course this desire was not something he wanted to share with Gross.