The Silence (31 page)

Werthen dearly wanted to remind his father of his ‘protective’ presence at Laab im Walde, but thought better of it.

‘Emile,’ Frau von Werthen said. ‘Perhaps you would care for an after-dinner cognac?’

‘Of course,
Maman
,’ Werthen said, getting to his feet and fetching bottle and snifters from a sideboard. He passed glasses all around, grateful for the diversion.

After they had all had a sip, Herr von Werthen cleared his throat. Werthen sighed internally. He, like his mother, was hoping that the cognac would change his father’s focus.

‘I believe,’ he said importantly, ‘it is time that I and Frau von Werthen return to Hohelände. I had word today from young Stein that the stables were in frightful disarray. High winds tore off one of the roofs. I really should be there to oversee things.’

Werthen checked his initial impulse to dissuade his parents from leaving.

‘If you think it best, Papa,’ he said.

Nineteen

W
ednesday was clear and so cold Werthen wondered that anyone could break through the snow and frost to dig a grave. But they had, and the mound of dirt was covered in a black drop cloth, the narrow coffin dangling from wooden supports over the hole.

Technically speaking, it was neither the best nor the worst plot in the Zentralfriedhof, the Central Cemetery of Vienna. Fräulein Metzinger had used family relations to secure a plot belonging to the descendants of a great-aunt. This lady had been a great supporter of hers, a champion of her attending university. Of course, for the burial to be allowed in this section of the cemetery, Fräulein Metzinger had to invent the fiction of Herr Heidrich von Beer, legal assistant. Otherwise the child would have ended up in a pauper’s grave.

Fräulein Metzinger, all in black, stood at the head of the coffin, her cheeks reddened by the chill air. She was flanked by the boy’s father, who had somehow managed to find a black suit for the occasion, and by the
Portier
, Frau Ignatz, and her brother, Oskar, from the Habsburgergasse. Rosa Mayreder was also in attendance, bundled in a black fur coat. Werthen had remembered at the last minute amid yesterday’s chaotic events to order the funeral wreath; it now lay atop the coffin, its hothouse lilies beginning to shrivel in the extreme cold.

Heidl had not, as it turned out, been baptized. Thus, Fräulein Metzinger, a Protestant, had asked her minister to conduct the brief funeral ceremony. The man was surprisingly young and went without the benefit of a hat on this cold day.

The minister began promptly at eleven, as scheduled, reciting the Twenty-third Psalm.

‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,’ he intoned in a pleasantly calming voice. Werthen found himself lulled by the familiar words, comforted almost.

‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside the still waters.’

Taking succor from these ancient words, Werthen suddenly wondered at his and Berthe’s obstinate refusal to let the von Werthens schedule a baptism for Frieda or to allow Herr Meisner even to have a naming ceremony for his grandchild. What did it matter, anyway? Frieda would be her own person; she would be the one to decide personal matters such as whether or not to follow a religion and if so, which one. Meanwhile, it would give pleasure to the grandparents. And now perhaps Herr Meisner would never have the opportunity to perform the naming ceremony of his own granddaughter.

‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever,’ the minister concluded and the subsequent moment of silence brought Werthen out of his thoughts.

The minister began again. ‘My friends, we are brought together on this day for the passing of a brother, Heidrich Beer, a young boy whose life was cut tragically short.’

Werthen was relieved that the fiction of Heidrich’s name did not have to be continued in the service.

‘This young man, who had experienced so many adversities in his short life, was on the cusp of momentous changes. But the good Lord had other plans for him, and brought him home to His eternal favor and bliss.’

At this point, both Fräulein Metzinger and Herr Beer began crying. The entire scene – shabby little coffin, mound of earth ready to spread, shriveling lilies, the few shivering mourners gathered at graveside – was incredibly tragic. Yet suddenly Werthen had the irrepressible desire to laugh. He had never reacted so to sadness, but the laughter welled up inside of him, a hiccough that could not be repressed. He quickly pulled a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit and pretended to be blowing his nose; all the while laughing uncontrollably into the cotton as if sobbing. Finally he had to remove himself from the proceedings to walk up and down rows of graves before returning as the minister was delivering the final prayer.

‘Grant, O Lord, rest to your servant Heidrich Beer in a place where there is neither sorrow nor sighing nor pain.’

Both Fräulein Metzinger and the boy’s father had recovered their composure, watching closely as the coffin was slowly lowered into the grave. Once the ropes were removed, Fräulein Metzinger was the first to throw a fistful of dirt. It landed with a hollow plonking sound on the top of the wooden coffin.

Only now did Werthen notice other spectators watching the proceedings from a distance. Two of these were Ludwig Wittgenstein and his sister Hermine. Seeing him looking his way, Ludwig waved, but then allowed himself to be dragged off by his sister without exchanging a word.

The other observer was Kulowski, bodyguard to Mayor Lueger. He stood his ground as Werthen approached.

‘What brings you here, Herr Kulowski?’

‘Same as everybody,’ the man responded. ‘Death.’

‘I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with young Heidl Beer. Or is this a subtle form of threat, perhaps? If so, I warn you—’

‘You’re a suspicious sort, aren’t you,’ Kulowski interrupted, his voice a low growl like a gravel machine.

They stared at one another for a moment.

‘The mayor sent me,’ Kulowski said. ‘He wanted to thank you for the story in the
Arbeiter Zeitung.
Said it was good you kept your end of the bargain.’

‘I assume
he
did, as well?’

Kulowski nodded. ‘Can’t say as I am sorry about it.’ He stepped closer to Werthen and spoke confidingly. ‘Between you and me, I like the Vienna Woods just the way it is. After all, what’s Vienna without its woods?’

‘A loyal Viennese at heart.’ Werthen said it with a twist of irony.

Kulowski understood. ‘Nothing funny about that, is there? I suppose you’re not from Vienna at all?’

‘No, not originally.’

‘Then why bother?’ Kulowski asked. ‘I mean why risk anything trying to stop the sale? Mayor Lueger is not a man you want as an enemy, I can tell you that for a certainty.’

‘It’s a matter of honor, actually. Two men gave their lives to stop the sale. And you can tell the mayor that his thug beat a harmless old man. That attack has only served to make me more committed than ever to seeking justice.’

Kulowski appeared honestly confused. ‘Look, I’ve got no idea what you mean about this thug, but I assume the two lives you’re talking about are the councilman and that journalist?’

‘Yes.’

Kulowski blew dry air through his lips. ‘Steinwitz. Now that was a surprise to the mayor. We were there when he shot himself. Well, not there, but coming down the stairs. Poor bastard. That’s a thing I can never understand, killing yourself. And with her there, too.’

Werthen wanted to leave the man’s company; he’d often found it the case that former enemies became unfortunately loquacious after a crisis such as they had had yesterday.

‘Well, Herr Kulowski, it was good of you to bring the message . . .’ Then something registered in his brain.

‘What was it you just said?’

‘About Steinwitz killing himself? Suicide’s not my game.’

‘No. After that. With
her
there. Who was there?’

‘The wife, of course. Don’t know that others noticed her. They were too busy taking cover once they heard the shot. But when we got closer to the office, I saw her just going off down the stairway. Must have been on her way to see him just when he killed himself. Horrible thing for the woman. Of course, I don’t think she saw her husband. That builder fellow, Wagner, he was at the door of the office. Say, where you off to in such a hurry?’

But Werthen did not bother to answer. He had to meet Gross. This changed everything.

Gross knocked on the door. There was no answer.

He was at the Zeltgasse apartment building where Henricus Praetor had lived, attempting to discover anything he could from the watchful Frau Czerny, the old woman who had seen Werthen the night of Praetor’s death. Perhaps she had seen something else, heard something else that could aid in their investigations, something that she had not told the police. Gross was sure he could ferret it out of her if that were the case.

He knocked again, but still there was no response.

He would try to speak with other occupants and perhaps also find out whether young Praetor had a cleaning lady who might shed some light on the dead journalist’s freshly cleaned apartment and the possible location of the missing notebooks. Not that such notebooks mattered now, but Gross liked to tie up loose ends in such matters.

Still standing at the old woman’s door, he checked his watch. Eleven thirty already. He had arranged to meet with Werthen following the funeral of the unfortunate office boy. Just a slip of a youth. Tragic, really, but not an unexpected outcome for a life lived so carelessly. Gross could not understand the younger generation. All of them, including his own son, were thoughtless and irresponsible in his book. They refused to take seriously the old values of respect and hard work. What invidious societal deformations would take place in this new century Gross did not want to contemplate.

He let out a grunt of disapproval at these thoughts just as the door to Frau Czerny’s flat opened.

‘What are you doing making rude noises outside my door?’ The woman was of a certain age, to be sure, but hardly the meek little sparrow one might think of as elderly; rather she was large and florid of complexion, wearing a white housecoat and brandishing a feather duster like a saber directed at Gross’s head.

‘Frau Czerny?’

‘Who wants to know?’

He extracted a professional card from the leather case he carried and handed it to her. She held the card out at arm’s length, squinting at it.

‘Criminalist. What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I am assisting the police in the investigation of Herr Praetor’s death,’ Gross said, enlarging somewhat on the truth.

‘Then you know what I told them.’ She made to close the door.

‘Dear lady,’ Gross quickly added. ‘From long years of study, I understand that sometimes it is not what one remembers, but rather what one is asked that matters.’

‘No. What matters now is that I have an apartment to clean. Wednesdays are cleaning day.’

‘Admirable that you do your own housecleaning, dear lady.’

This faint compliment made her pause. ‘Not always so, I can assure you. Frau Novatny is my cleaning lady. But she has been sick lately. Comes from working nights, I suppose.’

Gross was about to let this remark go, but instinct made him pursue it, for there was an ironic edge to the comment that intrigued him.

‘A cleaning lady working at night? For offices?’

She shook her head, obviously disgusted at what she took to be his complete lack of understanding.

‘How should I know that? No, not offices. Here, in this apartment house. All very well for her to work nights, but the days she is supposed to come to me she is suddenly sick.’

Gross was no longer intrigued. So much for his instincts. He was about to throw a question at her regarding any persons, known or unknown, who might have been at the apartment house the night of Praetor’s death. Not a visitor but a person. The distinction mattered, for witnesses often overlooked the obvious: a mail delivery, the gas man come to check the meters, someone’s personal help. But suddenly she squinted hard at him.

‘Well, I’ll be. I see what you mean.’

‘Madam?’

‘I mean about it mattering what one is asked. Aren’t you a clever one? Let us hope your wife thinks so at least.’ A lascivious wink from the old woman made him almost blush.

Gross was completely at sea. ‘I cannot see what my wife has to do with anything,’ he protested.

‘Don’t you? Well, it’s Frau Novatny, isn’t it? I heard her the very night of Herr Praetor’s death. Said she was too sick to come to me on the Wednesday and then here she was the next night.’

‘You did not report this to the police, did you?’

She shook her head. ‘I hardly thought of it. Herr Praetor used her services from time to time.’

‘You are sure it was Frau Novatny here that night? You saw her?’

‘No, of course not. But I heard voices from Herr Praetor’s apartment when I passed it that evening.’

She did not mention it, but it was clear Frau Czerny passed the other apartment on a trip to the
Clo
, or communal toilet. Like most apartments in Vienna, major plumbing was reserved for common areas in the hallway of each floor.

‘And you recognized her voice?’

‘It had to be her,’ Frau Czerny said. ‘After all, Herr Praetor was not the sort of man to have female guests, that I know.’

‘So it was a woman’s voice you heard and you simply assumed it was Frau Novatny?’

‘Yes. I suppose so.’

‘Frau Czerny, I thank you. You have been more helpful than you can imagine. This voice you heard. How close was it in time to when you heard the shot?’

‘How am I to know that?’

‘It is important, dear lady. No one will blame you for not recalling this vital fact before.’