‘You could have been killed!’
‘We did not really consider that,’ Berthe said. Werthen had gone from relief to anger as she told him her story of discovery.
‘And how are we supposed to get the authorities to search the man’s premises?’
‘You men will think of something, I am sure,’ Berthe said, her voice sounding bolder than she felt. The adrenalin was wearing off, the moment of excitement passing, and she realized that Karl was right: they all could have been killed had Forstl caught them in his apartment.
Gross had remained silent throughout Berthe’s recitation of events. Frau von Suttner and Frau Ignatz had left earlier, but Erika continued working in the study. She came in now as she heard raised voices.
‘It was my fault, Advokat Werthen,’ she said. ‘I was the one who suggested we do something concrete.’
‘Well, to be completely truthful,’ said Berthe, regaining some of her former fearless giddiness, ‘it was actually Frau Ignatz who suggested we break into the man’s flat. She’d read stories about such endeavours.’
‘Proves once again the danger of an education in the wrong hands,’ Gross muttered.
Berthe finally said. ‘I am sorry this has given you a fright, Karl. But you must stop wearing a funereal face, both of you.’
‘It’s the fruit of an illegal search,’ Gross said. ‘You broke into the man’s apartment.’
‘But you’re the only ones to know that,’ Berthe insisted, suddenly tired of having to apologize for breaking the case wide open.
Karl smiled at her, then turned to Gross.
‘She’s right, you know.’ Then swinging back to Berthe, ‘Not that I condone such an action, but we had apparently come to a standstill in the case. This puts the murders squarely on Forstl’s shoulders.’
‘But Frau Ignatz did tell us he was not the man she had seen on the stairs that evening,’ Erika reminded them.
‘And who is to say that was the man who set the lethal charge?’ Werthen replied.
Gross made a sound somewhere between clearing his throat and moaning. Was he actually growling? Berthe wondered.
‘May I point out the results of the investigative work your husband and I have done today?’ Gross said this as if speaking to a classroom of first-year students.
‘Point away,’ Berthe said.
He quickly filled her and Erika in on the conversation with Moos.
‘Then we know that Forstl was in charge of the Bower operation,’ Berthe said. ‘It all fits.’
‘And what of this other man, the nondescript one who visited the Moos farm, who would also seem to fit the descriptions given by Frau Ignatz and the good Duncan? It would make sense that he is running Forstl for St Petersburg. And protecting him, keeping him undiscovered.’
‘Then why that horrible collection in Forstl’s flat?’ Erika said.
‘Ah, I was hoping you would ask about that,’ Gross said, looking awfully pleased with himself. ‘Now, a professional – and I assume our man, shall we call him Herr X, is a professional – would never keep such a collection. That is the sort of perverse action that bespeaks a neurosis. I do see a connection with such macabre ornaments and Herr X, however. The way the man holds his fingers . . . Moos was quite insistent about that. It indicates that the injuries to his little fingers were quite savagely applied. One does not like to make surmises on such scant facts . . .’
‘Please, Doktor Gross,’ Berthe interrupted. ‘feel free to do so.’
Werthen shot her a look, but Gross was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he did not hear the sarcastic tone to her voice.
‘Well, in point of fact, our Herr X might have suffered a most grievous injury that set him on the path of becoming an agent provocateur.’
‘You are right, Gross,’ Werthen said. ‘Scant facts for such a surmise.’
Gross eyed Werthen with something very close to disdain. ‘An agent must be among the fittest of the fit. Able to use brains and brawn. Able to kill with gun or knife, and even with his bare hands. Herr X appears to have a disability in that regard. It’s doubtful whether an intelligence service would actively recruit such a man. Ergo, Herr X was able to overcome such a seeming disability by sheer force of will, perhaps inspired by the injuries done to him. To convince skeptical professionals that he could perform the tasks of a secret agent as well as, or better than, others.’
The three of them listened closely to Gross’s argument.
‘You have been giving this some thought,’ Werthen said.
‘You must become one with your nemesis in order to conquer him.’
‘And what if Herr X is imaginary? And Forstl is the one responsible for all of this?’ Berthe asked.
Gross did not bother with this question, but instead plunged on.
‘There is one way to make Herr X become visible,’ Gross said. ‘It appears that his task is to protect Captain Forstl, to keep him from being exposed. If he were to suspect that Forstl was in imminent danger, he might come out from under his rock, might expose himself. He has been following us, of this I am sure. Watching our every step as we get ever closer to dropping the net on Forstl. That, Werthen, was what the bomb at your office was about. An attempt to stop our investigation before it reached the door of Forstl’s office at the Bureau.’
‘Not much of a professional,’ Berthe said. ‘Killing the wrong man.’
Gross nodded. ‘Exactly, Frau Meisner. He should have known about the Portier’s brother, but time was running out. He could not undertake a meticulous operation. Urgency was his undoing. And I am counting on that for my plan, as well.’
They saw little of Gross the rest of that day. He kept to the study, displacing Fräulein Metzinger. The only communication Werthen or Berthe had was via Frau Blatschky, who complained mightily about the prodigious amounts of coffee being consumed by the criminologist.
Werthen knew this routine only too well from his days in Graz: Gross was removing himself from the distractions of society in order to concentrate all his formidable powers on this most challenging case. As with so much investigative work, Werthen was coming to understand, the real problem was not discovering who did it, but making sure they paid for their transgressions.
Before entering his ruminative hibernation, Gross issued a stern caveat: no one was to attempt to have the incriminating evidence hidden at Forstl’s apartment ‘discovered’ by the police.
Berthe fumed at this directive. ‘I risked my life to uncover that evidence and now he wants to give the man a chance to dispose of it.’
Werthen raised his eyebrows at this.
‘What?’ she said. ‘It was dangerous. You said so yourself.’
Next morning, Gross deigned to breakfast with the mere mortals of the household. But Berthe was still with Frieda, so Werthen and Gross had the dining table to themselves.
‘Have you got the solution, Gross?’ Werthen asked as he passed the warmed milk for the coffee.
‘Time will tell,’ he said, pouring a trickle of milk into his steaming cup of coffee. There were fresh Kipferls today, and he plucked one of these predecessors to the croissant from the linen-lined basket and dunked it exuberantly into the coffee, leaving a brown trail dripping on the tablecloth as he maneuvered it to his mouth.
‘I have but one request,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and removing a small sheet of paper. On it the criminologist had written a telephone number and a paragraph of text.
‘Ten minutes after I leave this morning, I want you to place a phone call to that number and relay the accompanying information to the person who answers the phone.’
Werthen quickly perused the note.
‘You cannot be serious, Gross.’
‘I am only too serious, my friend. Deadly serious.’
‘But this is far too rash.’
‘That is exactly what I am hoping.’
‘And where exactly will you be while I am making this call?’
‘Paying a long overdue visit.’
‘This isn’t a plan, it’s a death wish.’
‘Drama so early in the morning, Werthen. It is unbecoming.’
He rose suddenly before Werthen could proffer further arguments and passed out of the dining room just as Berthe was coming in, with Frieda in tow.
‘Doktor Gross,’ she said. ‘We are honored by your presence.’
Gross shot her a sly smile. ‘I am only sorry I cannot stay to converse over coffee. There is business to attend to.’
‘Gross,’ Werthen called to him, but it was no use. He heard the door of the flat open, and then close behind the criminologist.
The phone rang six times before it was finally picked up. Werthen looked at the script that Gross had provided, and immediately said ‘I have something to tell you.’
A voice at the other end replied, ‘Forstl, is that you?’
Werthen paused a moment, needing to extemporize. Obviously some colleague of Forstl’s had answered his telephone; just as obviously this meant that Captain Forstl was not at the Bureau this morning.
Werthen coughed once into the mouthpiece and then automatically replied to the man’s question, ‘Yes.’
‘Then you had better damn well get in here quick. The Colonel is about to explode. Somebody’s been messing around in the vaults. The mobilization plans against Russia have been stolen. Do you hear me, Forstl?’
Werthen paused again. ‘Yes. I will be there. Sick today. A summer cold.’
‘Well, you don’t sound like yourself. But this is no time for personal considerations.’
The receiver on the other end slammed down, then Werthen set his own down.
Berthe was standing by him in the hall. ‘Well?’
‘I think Gross is walking into a trap.’
He maneuvered past the Portier with ease, waiting for her to finish sweeping the sidewalk at the far end of the building and then slipped inside behind her. He knew where to find the apartment, from the story Werthen’s wife had told them, and reached it without any curious residents passing him on the stairs.
Gross took deep breaths as he stood in front of the door, not because he was out of breath from climbing the stairs, but because he wanted to calm himself. He patted his jacket pocket automatically, and was reassured by the hard bulge of the Steyr pistol. He knew he might have to use the gun if, as he hoped, his message to Forstl – relayed by Werthen – brought the man’s Russian controller out of the woodwork.
‘I have something to tell you,’ Gross had written. ‘You are being watched. Your every move is tracked. We know about your memento mori collection, and your double agent status at the Bureau. We are coming for you.’
Melodramatic, to be sure, Gross thought as he waited a moment longer outside the door. But it should prove effective, spurring not only Forstl but also his controller into action.
What had Werthen called it? Rash? Sometimes subtlety was insufficient to the moment, and Gross thought this was such a moment.
He reached inside his breast pocket and brought out the leather case containing his lock-picking tools. Arrayed on one side of the case was a set of skeleton keys; and on the other, more intricate L-shaped picks for a lock that proved more difficult and that would need its tumblers lifted one by one before the bolt could be slid back and the door opened. Gross was ready with the picks, for he assumed that a man like Forstl, acting as a double agent, would have at least a modern mortise lock in place – though it could not be difficult, as Werthen’s secretary had managed the feat with a hatpin.
But, with his many years of experience in gathering evidence, Gross knew he should simply try the door first. It was amazing how many times a person forgot to lock the door when leaving in the morning.
He looked both ways along the corridor; there was no one about. He put his hand on the cool brass knob and twisted. The door opened. He hesitated. Luck or the unexpected?
Either way, there was no going back now.
A heavy brass smell assaulted his nostrils once he was inside the apartment, but Gross was sure this was not from the hardware on the door. The room was still in semi-darkness with the long drapes on the windows securely closed. A dim light shone from a room deeper in the flat.
Suddenly, more cool metal met his skin, but this time it felt like the barrel of a pistol biting into the back of his head.
‘Move inside, Doktor Gross. Slowly. Do not reach for the pistol in your pocket or it will be your last action.’
‘Tidying up, are you?’ Gross said as the barrel dug deeper into his scalp, forcing him to move forward. The door closed behind them.
‘Well, what did the pompous fool expect?’ said Berthe, letting the note Gross had composed for Werthen drift from her hand to the parquet.
‘This is hardly the time for recriminations. Forstl is most likely at his apartment now and it would seem that Gross is on his way there.’
‘I’m sorry, Karl. I didn’t mean to sound so shrewish, but sometimes Gross can be exasperating. He had a full night of cogitating and this is the best he could come up with? Stirring a nest of snakes?’
‘He had to find a way to trap both Forstl and his controller. I assume this was it. With what you found in his apartment, Forstl would be the one to take the blame for everything. The controller would walk away free.’
‘If there is a controller. I think we should call Inspector Drechsler.’
‘I’ve got to go there. Warn Gross . . .’
‘That is exactly why we need to call Drechsler. You are not going there alone.’
‘I have read about you, Doktor Gross,’ Schmidt said. ‘You surprise me. This hardly seems your style.’
Gross was sitting on a straight-backed chair; his eyes had adjusted to the weak light in the flat. He looked closely at the small, compact man sitting across from him, gun in hand, examining him for any distinguishing characteristics. The only thing he could notice were the little fingers, sticking out stiffly from his hand. Gross’s own pistol lay on the table next to the man.
‘I am sorry to disappoint you, Herr . . .?’
The man simply nodded at him.
‘But I badly wanted to talk with you.’
A smirk on the man’s face. ‘So you knew I would be here?’
‘Eventually. Rather sooner than I had planned, I must admit.’
‘And what is it that’s so urgent for us to discuss?’
‘Your murders, to begin with. You have been a busy man, Herr . . . I must call you something.’
‘Schmidt will do.’
‘Ah, the man of no name. Well, Herr Schmidt, you have been active around the capitals of Central Europe. I have a litany of deaths attributable to you.’
Schmidt lost the smirk momentarily, to be replaced by a quizzical look.
‘Your signature removal of the left little finger,’ Gross added.
Schmidt nodded. ‘Glad you noticed.’
‘A bit of revenge for your own fingers, one assumes.’
This seemed to hit home. The muscle in his left jaw worked. ‘You may assume whatever you want. I can only say I am grateful for your visit. It saves me the trouble of calling on you one final time.’
‘And what business do you have with me, Herr Schmidt?’
‘The same you have with me. Murder. You really should not pry so deeply into other people’s affairs, you know. It shows a basic lack of courtesy.’
‘I investigate murders, Herr Schmidt. If you do not want your affairs, as you call them, gone into, then I recommend you refrain from engaging in homicide.’ He paused an instant. ‘Herr Moos was correct about you, you know.’
‘And who would this Moos fellow be?’
‘You see that is the tragedy of such wholesale killing as you engage in. You even forget the names of your victims. Fräulein Mitzi’s father. You paid him and his family a visit in the Weinviertel, I understand. Checking to see how much the family knew, I would assume. A man like you wants no loose ends that might start unraveling.’
‘You said he was correct about me.’
‘Well, in that your accent is neither Austrian nor German. No, there’s a trace of the salt of the Baltic states about your speech, Herr Schmidt. And I see, by the sudden dilation of your eyes, I have hit home with that.’
‘You’re a smug one, aren’t you? Very satisfied with yourself. I expect you know all about this matter.’
‘You mean about you and your creature, Forstl? One must tire of cleaning up the messes of others. Especially when the others are so much less talented.’
‘Please, Doktor Gross. None of your primitive psychological games. But yes, it is a tiresome business.’
He stood suddenly, an action abrupt enough to cause Gross to inhale deeply.
‘Nothing to worry about . . . Not yet, at any rate, Doktor Gross. But there is something you should see. Someone who would like to meet you.’
Werthen put the receiver back on its cradle.
‘He’s not there,’ he told Berthe. ‘The desk sergeant said Drechsler went out earlier this morning.’
They hovered over the telephone as if expecting it to make a decision for them.
‘I’ve got to go there,’ he finally said.
‘No,’ Berthe replied ‘We’ve got to go there.’
‘There is no sense in putting both of us in harm’s way,’ he reasoned. ‘Think of our daughter.’
‘I am. But I am thinking of you, too, Karl. My husband. Now where is that cane of yours? The one with the blade inside.’
He knew it was useless to argue with her. ‘I love you,’ he said.
‘Of course you do. So let’s arm ourselves.’
‘If only the Baroness von Suttner could hear you now.’
She pecked his cheek in response, grabbed the cane from the umbrella stand, and watched as he tucked Gross’s second Steyr pistol into the waistband of his trousers. She hoped the criminologist had taken its twin with him for protection.
Berthe told Frau Blatschky that they would be back for lunch, then hurried into the nursery where Frieda was just waking up. She gave the child a kiss and a hug and told her that Frau Blatschky, Baba, would play with her this morning. This brought a radiant smile to Frieda’s face, and she nuzzled her mother’s hair for a moment.
Werthen and Berthe were just going out of the door when Fräulein Metzinger arrived, ready to reclaim the study and get some office work done. But when she saw the determined look on their faces and the swordstick in Berthe’s hand, she knew something was afoot.
‘You’re going back there, aren’t you?’
‘Gross may have gotten himself into a bit of trouble,’ Werthen explained quickly.
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘Not you too!’ Werthen all but groaned.
‘What if the door is locked, Advokat?’ she said. ‘Have you thought of that contingency?’
‘Alright, alright.’ He held out his hands in supplication. ‘But let’s be off now, before more reinforcements arrive.’
The scene before him explained the heavy brass smell he had noticed upon first entering the apartment.
Schmidt had turned on the gas light in the bathroom and it made the scene even more garish, the water in the bathtub a brilliant crimson against the whiteness of the porcelain and the alabaster of Forstl’s skin. At least he assumed it was Forstl’s corpse he was staring at. The wrists rested languorously on the edges of the tub, ribboned gashes were apparent on each. A cutthroat razor had been left on the tiled floor by the bathtub, to give it the appearance of having fallen from the dead man’s hand.
‘So you were just in the process of tying up further loose ends when I interrupted you,’ Gross said, taking his eyes from the body.
‘Indeed.’ Schmidt smiled at him. ‘And you know, your arrival is the most fortuitous event I could wish for.’
Schmidt pointed at him with the stiff little finger of his left hand, a flicker in his eye.
‘Take your clothes off.’
Forstl’s apartment was only minutes away, close to the baroque Palais Schönborn, which housed the supreme district court. He had taken part in trials there. Its gardens were now open to the public; Frieda often went there to play.
Werthen occupied his mind with these quotidian matters rather than face his fears about Gross. If Forstl was not at the Bureau this morning, that meant it was highly probable he was at his apartment. Would he be armed? Would his accomplice perhaps be with him? What had kept the man from his post at the Bureau? Should they look for a member of the constabulary on foot patrol and explain their fears?
To continue with these endless questions would sap him of courage, he knew. Thus, as they approached the apartment building in question, he told the women to get behind him and blindly charged up the stairs, quite unaware of Inspector Drechsler and two constabulary officers hiding behind a row of metal garbage bins deeper in the entrance.
He was up to the mezzanine before he heard Drechsler’s voice calling to him.
‘Werthen. Stop, man. You’ll spoil everything.’
‘Werthen?’ Schmidt said, turning his ear to the shouting coming from the stairwell. ‘Would that be your ally, Advokat Werthen, come to the rescue? And then whose is the other voice?’
Schmidt lifted the pistol level to Gross’s eye, his forefinger tense on the trigger.
‘You have arranged quite a little party, haven’t you, Doktor Gross?’
Gross took a deep breath. He would not beg. That was beneath him.
The man’s finger began to squeeze the trigger. Gross felt sweat roll down his spine.
Then Schmidt emitted a barking laugh and lowered the gun.
‘This has been fun, Doktor Gross. We must do it again some time. Now into the wardrobe with you.’
Gross stood there dumbly for a moment.
‘Now,’ Schmidt hissed.
Gross did as he was told. He climbed into the cramped space, amid a welter of uniforms, and stumbled over a pair of knee-high boots. As he caught himself, the door swung to behind him and he heard the key turning in the lock. His hand fumbled into one of the boots and felt paper folded over on itself several times. He grasped this in a reflex action. From outside, came the sound of footsteps moving away. He thought he heard wood sliding on wood, but could not be sure. Then came a crash, which sounded like the apartment door flying open.
‘Gross! Are you here?’
He let out a deep sigh. Werthen. His dear friend.
‘In here!’ he shouted. Then he was sorry he had done so, for it gave him no time to change.
‘Where’s the key?’
Drechsler’s voice.
‘The hell with the key. Kick the blasted thing in.’
Werthen at his most intemperate, Gross thought.
‘Move back from the door if you can,’ Werthen yelled. Then a rather massive boot was thrust through the thin paneling of the door, a constabulary boot by the look of it, and Gross was even more mortified.
The door was soon torn from its hinges and Gross blinked at the daylight, for another of the team had opened the drapes.
‘Gross!’ Werthen stood wide-eyed in shock, gaping at the criminologist who was dressed in a green-silk evening gown.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Drechsler muttered, running a hand through his thinning hair.
Two constables stood behind them, smirking at the sight.
To complete his mortification, Werthen’s wife and secretary then entered the apartment.
Berthe took one look at Gross, tricked out in one of Forstl’s evening gowns, smiled and said, ‘You must introduce me to your dressmaker, Doktor Gross.’