On Monday morning Werthen set off for the office first, and would leave from there for his eleven o’clock appointment with Frau Mutzenbacher.
The day was glorious: a shimmering blue sky overhead and a soft warmth already at eight as he made his way down the Josefstädterstrasse. On the opposite side of the street he noticed the same military man he had seen for the past few months. Tall and thickly built, his moustache finely waxed, the patent-leather visor of his peaked cap shiny and without a smudge, as if the fellow put it on only after he had donned the fawn-coloured suede gloves he invariably wore. The greatcoat had long since been relegated to mothballs, Werthen imagined. The captain – for the three stars on his stiff collar indicated that rank – looked resplendent in the green tunic of the General Staff. His meticulously creased blue pantaloons were tucked into low black boots, as gleaming as the visor of his cap. A sword swung from his belt, and on his chest he wore the 1898 Jubilee Medal presented by Franz Josef in honor of the Emperor’s fifty years of service to his country.
This General Staff officer had interested Werthen from the first time he had seen him during the dark grey days of winter. Like Werthen, the officer was an inveterate walker. He stood ramrod stiff yet moved with a seeming casual elegance despite his size. Werthen, who still fancied himself a short-story writer in the odd moment, thought this officer would make a splendid character in a tale of love and regret. He secretly looked for a flaw in the captain as they continued to make their way down towards the Inner City on opposite sides of the street. A gambler, perhaps? There were enough of those in the military; forced to live on impossibly small army pay, many a young dandy had ruined his career attempting to supplement his income at the vingt-et-un tables of Baden bei Wien.
Soon Werthen lost interest in this game, however; and also lost sight of the officer as they approached the Volksgarten, since the other man headed off to the Ministry of War offices in the Hofburg while he, Werthen, continued through the park to his law office on Habsburgergasse. He was in an elated mood, looking forward to a new commission, wondering what to expect from Frau Mutzenbacher.
His orders from Berthe before leaving this morning were clear enough.
‘Eyes forward, Karl,’ she had teased.
‘I’m sure the working members of the establishment will still be sleeping, dear,’ he assured her.
Prostitutes were not his style. He neither fancied them nor frowned upon them. They had their job, and he had his. Quite simple, really. He had never sought their services, though once, when Werthen was sixteen, his father had made a clumsy effort at initiating his son into the ways of the world by a visit to a Viennese brothel. One look at the ghoulish eye makeup, however, at the sullen expression of the woman his father intended for him, and Werthen ran out of the place and all the way back to the hotel where they were staying, up from the country for the ball season.
His father never mentioned the incident.
The Habsburgergasse was bustling with activity when he arrived at No. 4. Down the street, Waltrum, the booksellers, had wooden boxes out on the street with second-hand books for sale. The flower shop next door was alive with bunches of lilac in large metal buckets of water, the heavy scent attracting honey bees. The Portier of his office building, Frau Ignatz, was out sweeping the cobbled sidewalk in front. The day was so splendid that he would not allow her presence to dampen his spirits.
‘Good morning to you, Frau Ignatz,’ he said, tipping his Homburg as he entered the door.
‘I am not so sure what’s so good about it,’ she said. ‘The refuse that’s left behind on this street is something awful.’
He ignored her remark, taking the stairs at a fast clip until he reached his office. As usual, Fräulein Metzinger had preceded him. She was already at her typewriter, beating out a staccato rhythm on the keys. A far cry from the forefingered typing that was all she had been capable of when she first came to his office. She looked surprised when she saw him.
‘I thought you had an interview this morning.’
There was a small sound of reproach to her comment.
‘I thought I would get some work done here first. The Herbst trust is still in need of that codicil.’
‘It’s been taken care of.’
‘Wonderful. I’ll look at the papers, then.’
‘Sorry to be so curt,’ she said as he was about to walk into his inner office. ‘I feel rather abashed at being caught out.’
‘At what?’
She swept her hand at the typewriter and the stack of letters next to it.
‘This is not office work.’
‘Ah,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘You really do not need to explain, Fräulein Metzinger.’
‘It is for the cause.’
‘I assumed so. You do more than your share here. The Herbst codicil, for example.’
‘Still, it is perhaps not right.’
She was waiting, he knew, for his approval. ‘It is a noble cause,’ he said.
‘The keeper of hands . . .’
‘I beg your pardon?’
She shook her head in disgust, looking at the paper in the carriage of her typewriter.
‘That is what they call the Belgian officer in charge of keeping the cut-off hands of natives deemed too indolent at gathering rubber.’
‘Why ever would they do that?’
‘Cut off their hands? As punishment, of course. King Leopold must have his slaves industrious at all costs.’
‘I meant keep the hands. Collect them like that.’
She sighed. ‘Those in charge of discipline make their living by keeping track of punishments. So many crowns for each hand.’
He felt a shiver pass over him.
‘Of course they take the hands of those who have done no wrong, as well. They must make a living, you see. It’s all been documented in Mary Kingsley’s book on Africa and by the reporting of Edward Morel. Even in the novel of that Pole, Conrad.’
‘British now, actually,’ Werthen said. ‘The Heart of Darkness.’ Werthen had read it in the English original, in instalments in Blackwood’s Magazine, and found it a powerful indictment of the horrors being perpetrated in Africa.
‘But people do not listen. Letters need to be sent to those with power and conscience all over the world, in order to end this savagery in the Congo Free State.’
Werthen swallowed hard. ‘It is a noble cause, Fräulein Metzinger. Keep up the good work. Spread the word.’
But she had already gone back to a furious clacking of keys, quite ignoring him. It had been like this ever since she lost the street urchin whom she had hoped to adopt, a tragedy that set her to fighting for noble causes wherever they might be, from pacifist campaigns to ones against European barbarism in the Congo.
In his office, he sat down at his desk, looking forward to the morning edition of the Neue Freie Presse. As per arrangement, Frau Ignatz’s younger brother Oskar should have already delivered the paper, but there was nothing on his desk. Oskar was slow – some would say disadvantaged mentally – but dependable. It surprised Werthen that the man had failed in his duties today. He was about to go and inquire about it with Fräulein Metzinger when he heard a commotion from that direction. There was a low mumbling and a higher voice. Surely that of Frau Ignatz? An argument seemed to be ensuing.
Poking his head out of his office, he saw his secretary, Frau Ignatz and Oskar in a tug of war over the Neue Freie Presse. Frau Ignatz saw Werthen and sighed.
‘There you are, Advokat. Will you please tell this stubborn man to hand over the paper and go back to bed? He has a temperature of a hundred and two.’
Looking at Oskar, Werthen saw that he was as pale as Semmel dough.
‘It’s my duty,’ Oskar countered, his usual booming voice a weak imitation.
‘I heartily agree with the ladies, Herr Oskar,’ Werthen said, approaching the stand-off. ‘I much admire your sense of duty, but you clearly belong in bed.’
He took the newspaper out of the man’s sweaty hand, clapped him on the back, and announced, ‘Back to bed with you. Have you seen a doctor?’
Frau Ignatz snorted at this suggestion. ‘Oskar won’t let the white coats near him. Had a bad fright with one when he was a child.’
‘Well, Oskar, you’re in luck. My friend Doktor Kramer wears a dark coat and knows more about stamps than anyone I know.’ This was Oskar’s passion, and it drew an instant response.
‘He’d know about the Basel Dove? First time they made a three-colour stamp.’
‘Absolutely,’ Werthen said. ‘Now let your sister put you back to bed. And Fräulein Metzinger, could you call Kramer’s office and see if he can pay a visit?’
She nodded, and reached for the telephone even as Werthen was returning to his own office with his prized, but somewhat battered, newspaper.
Werthen spent the better part of an hour perusing the paper. He skimmed over the lead article on Hungary – yet another question about that unwilling partner in the Austro-Hungarian empire. Then read a feuilleton from Pretoria on the war in South Africa, and finally settled into the sports news dealing with the Traber Derby. It seemed much the saner choice, but there was no safe ground today. Details of the Derby simply reminded him of his father, Emile, and his plans to create his own estate in the Vienna Woods with an equestrian area.
Werthen wanted to feel more kindly towards his father, but found it a difficult task.
Looking at the standard clock on the wall in front of him, he saw that he had managed to squander the better part of an hour. He grabbed his Homburg and left. In the reception, Fräulein Metzinger was still at her pile of letters. She did not notice his departure.
The establishment in question, the Bower, was located in a narrow lane in the First District near the Danube Canal. A narrow three-story baroque building, its exterior could have been that of a fashionable men’s club – for, compared to its bleak and dour neighbors, the façade of the Bower was newly repainted in a shade of buttery gold several tones lighter than the Habsburg yellow of Schönbrunn that continued to infect the imperial world. Multi-colored putti frolicked about the heavily shuttered street-level and second-floor windows that housed Frau Mutzenbacher’s establishment. It was clear the brothel was closed, but Salten had told him to simply ring at the front door. He would be expected. He let himself in through the street door and, as Werthen went to the door of the Bower in the vestibule, he heard a tssking of tongue: descending the stairs was an elderly woman about her shopping, reminding him that the third floor was still given over to apartments. She was not too busy to scold him for illicit behavior.
He read the small brass plaque on the door to ensure he was at the right place, pulled the bell, heard it jangle behind the oak doors, and was soon greeted by a man of about forty in suspenders and shirt collar. He looked as if he could use a shave.
‘You’ll be the investigator, then,’ he said.
Werthen had no chance to reply. The man turned and began heading down a long, darkened hallway. Werthen stood uncertainly at the door.
The man turned and waved to him. ‘Come on. She’s expecting you.’
Entering the hall, Werthen was struck by the heavy blend of aromas: cigar smoke, talcum powder and, from deeper inside, the smell of fried food. He followed the man down the long hallway with some difficulty. The world outside was iridescent in the spring light; here, inside the Bower, it was eternal night.
Finally they came to a door at the end of the hall. The man tapped gently and from inside a voice mumbled something. Werthen could not make out what was said. The man turned the knob, opened the door, and gestured Werthen inside with the wave of a hand.
‘In you go.’
Werthen found himself still in the gloaming; he could barely discern a figure sitting in an armchair at the far end of the room.
‘You may be seated on the divan,’ this figure – a woman by the tone of the voice – said.
Werthen did as he was bid. The divan was across the room from the woman.
‘Frau Mutzenbacher, I presume?’
‘Is this Salten’s idea of a clever detective?’
Werthen felt himself stiffen at the jeer. ‘May we have some light?’
‘No we may not, thank you very much for asking. You’re here so that I can determine if I want to hire you. What do you know of my business?’
The question took him aback for a moment. ‘I’m not sure what you mean. Salten tells me that you operate a house of . . .’
‘Say it, man. A house of ill repute. A brothel. A whorehouse.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Have you any familiarity with such establishments?’
‘Very little, I’m afraid.’ He tried to focus on her face in the darkness. It seemed she was wearing a veil.
‘Good. I want someone with fresh eyes. No assumptions. Would that be you?’
‘Madam, I must admit I am unaccustomed to this sort of interview.’
‘Too many words, Advokat. Speak plainly.’
This remark suddenly endeared the woman to Werthen, for it was an echo of what his wife Berthe had said to him when they first met several years before. She had accused him of sounding like someone running for mayor. ‘Pompous’ was the word she chose, and she was right.
‘Plainly said. I am quite good at what I do, as you are at your job. However, I am not a miracle worker. Neither do I have a bias against prostitutes. If you wish to employ me, fine. If not, I have other matters at hand.’
She said nothing for a moment. Then stirring in her chair, she nodded.
‘That’s better spoken, Advokat. With some feeling.’
‘What is it exactly that you want?’ Werthen asked.
Another long pause.
‘The young woman’s name was Mitzi, as I understand,’ Werthen began.
‘My girls are expendable,’ Frau Mutzenbacher said, as if not hearing him. ‘I can give you a list of Mitzi’s customers, but they surely use assumed names when coming here. Society spits on us, yet we hold the social fabric together. How many marriages do you think would survive, Herr Advokat, if we were not around to service oversexed husbands? How many marriages would be torn asunder by affairs with married women? How many ignorant youths would blunder on the wedding night were we not there before to train and gently guide? You ask what I want. I want justice for whores, that is what I want. I want society to finally acknowledge us. Barring that, I want to see the bastard who killed poor Mitzi rot behind bars in the Liesel for the rest of his pitiful days.’
‘Justice for all whores is a tall order. But I can try my best to find who killed this one young woman. And yes, I would like that list of names. It is a place to start, though the killer need not have been one of her clients. Do you have any suspicions?’
‘I’m not the detective.’
She sounded defensive; he did not bother to correct her choice of titles. ‘Private Inquiry Agent’ is what was listed on the brass plaque at his office below ‘Wills and Trusts’ and ‘Criminal Law’.
‘Was Mitzi close to any of the other women here?’
‘Fräulein Fanny.’ Said without an instant’s hesitation. ‘I will have her brought to us.’
‘In other words, you wish to engage my services?’
‘It appears so, no?’
‘Then I need to know something before we begin. Why do you care? You must have lost girls before. This can be a dangerous business for young women.’
She uttered a mirthless laugh. ‘Don’t I know!’
Suddenly, she turned up the wick on the kerosene lamp at her side and he could see her more clearly: a woman of ripe middle age, somewhat dowdy and matriarchal in appearance, thick in the middle with feet squeezed into lace-ups perhaps a size too small for her. She removed the veil covering her face and he saw the jagged line of a scar along the right side of her face.
Frau Mutzenbacher jabbed a finger at it. ‘That is what one of my clients left me as a going-away present. Did me a favor, actually. I couldn’t work the houses anymore, not even the streets, not with this. So I started using the other end of my body to make a living.’ She tapped her temple. ‘And it brought me all this.’
Werthen suddenly remembered what Salten had said about Frau Mutzenbacher: that she was not bitter about her former life.
Not a very discerning witness of human character, Salten.
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ Werthen said. ‘Why the concern for Mitzi?’
‘Well, take it as an old woman’s fantasy, but I looked on the girl as the daughter I never had. She was special. You never met her, you could not know. But she was attentive to one’s needs. Thousands of little kindnesses. I really don’t know how to explain it. She was also the living likeness of my younger sister, Theresa. Dead these twenty years from consumption.’
She paused for a moment, working the embroidered black silk of her skirts between thumb and forefinger as if searching for imperfections.
Werthen said nothing, allowing the silence to gather around them in the muffled room.
‘I was planning to adopt her,’ Frau Mutzenbacher said, looking up from her skirt. ‘This was all going to be hers.’
‘But she continued working?’
‘That was her decision. She was stubborn. Swore that she would keep working, that otherwise the other girls would think she had wormed her way into my affections and was using me.’ She permitted herself a sniffle.
Now she fixed Werthen with a look commingling ferocity and pleading. ‘She was special. You see?’
‘I am beginning to,’ he replied. ‘And as for my earlier question regarding any suspicions you might have. I cannot help you if you are not absolutely forthcoming with me.’
She touched the scar and then shook her head. ‘Everyone loved Mitzi. She had no enemies.’
He watched her carefully as she said this. After all, Frau Mutzenbacher was a woman paid handsomely for dissembling, as were all her employees.
‘No one client who was exceptionally attached to her?’
Another abrupt head shake. ‘As I said, she was beloved by all.’
‘Except for one,’ said Werthen. ‘The person who killed her.’