The New Vienna was rich in mahogany and brass, with an exquisite mosaic floor in the lobby, laid out to depict a variety of exotic vines, game, fowl and fishes. The warm interior was heavy with the aromas of rich food, cognac and cigars.
The G-men showed their warrant cards to a man in a swallow-tailed suit who had emerged through heavy glass doors from the dining room. A buzz of conversation and laughter escaped momentarily into the lobby as the doors swung shut. Through the half-frosted panels Swallow could see that the restaurant was filled to capacity. Harry Lafeyre was not mistaken in his description of its popularity.
The man in the swallow-tailed suit scrutinised the warrant cards and then gave them back. His hand was scented with cologne. Swallow guessed he might be around forty. He smiled politely.
‘You have an unusual name. Like the little bird, yes?’
The English was precise but heavily accented.
‘And you are?’ Mossop asked.
‘I am Stefan Werner. I imagine that you must be here in connection with this terrible tragedy concerning our little kitchen waitress.’
‘Yes,’ Swallow said. ‘We are investigating the murder of Alice Flannery last night. What is your position here, Mr Werner?’
Stefan Werner clasped his hands behind his back as if to make a formal announcement.
‘I am the maître d’hôtel. My family are the owners of the New Vienna.’
‘Oh, so you have you a hotel here too?’ Mossop said. ‘I don’t think we knew that.’
Werner smiled tolerantly. ‘It has nothing to do with a hotel. It is a title used in the restaurant business.’
‘It’s a family business?’ Swallow asked.
‘Our family is well established in the restaurant business in Berlin,’ Werner said. ‘I came to operate this restaurant five years ago.’
‘Did you move directly here from Berlin?’ Swallow asked.
‘No. I have worked in London. For some years I was restaurant manager at the Savoy Hotel in the Strand. Perhaps you know it?’
‘Unhappily not,’ Swallow answered. ‘My billets in London on the only occasion of my visiting that city were a little less salubrious.’
‘You said Berlin?’ Mossop asked. ‘So you’re not from Vienna?’
Werner smiled. ‘Which do you think has the greater appeal to customers, a restaurant called New Vienna or one called New Berlin? Berlin is a dull, ugly place, populated by dull, ugly people. So we dull Berliners present ourselves as . . . how do you say . . . slightly more romantic Viennese. We bring a sense of the city of Haydn, Beethoven, Mozart, Schubert to our business.’
‘Is that legal?’ Mossop asked in a puzzled tone. ‘I mean, you couldn’t pass Tullamore whiskey off under that name if it wasn’t from Tullamore.’
Werner blinked uncomprehendingly. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t see the comparison.’
‘Never mind,’ Swallow said wearily. ‘We need to ask a few questions about the victim, Miss Flannery.’
‘I am extremely busy at this time. The restaurant, as you can see, is full. I supervise everything, the kitchens, the wine, the table service. I would wish to be of assistance to the Polizei of course, but I can be of little help with your questions. In fact, I did not know the girl other than to see her. She was a casual employee, you understand. We can go to the office for privacy.’
‘Thank you. That would be helpful,’ Swallow told him.
Werner led them down a corridor into a spacious oak-panelled office, illuminated by four gas mantles set in ornate wall brackets. He waved them to two leather armchairs and opened a glass-fronted cupboard built into one panelled wall.
‘May I offer you something to drink, gentlemen? A good cognac perhaps on a winter night like this?’
Swallow was tempted. He saw Mossop lick his lips in anticipation too. But it was better to be prudent.
‘No thank you, Mr Werner. Not while we’re on duty.’
Werner shut the cabinet door and eased himself into a seat behind the desk.
‘As you wish, gentlemen. Now, how may I help you?’
In the light, Swallow saw that Werner’s features seemed tanned, yet his hands were pale. Then he caught a gleam of oil on his cheeks. He realised the man was wearing some sort of make-up. Perhaps it was a continental thing. Swallow had never actually met a Prussian until now.
‘Did you know the girl well, Mr Werner?’ he asked.
‘Not so very well, as I have said. But she worked under my supervision, yes.’
‘Did you know her family? Anything about her background or circumstances?’
‘No, of course not. She was, as I say, casual labour. These people usually come in off the street looking for work. It’s rarely necessary for us to run a newspaper advertisement. We interview them, and if they are suitable we will give them work by the day, sometimes by the hour.’
‘You don’t look for references?’
Werner laughed. ‘References mean very little in this business. People will forge them. It’s easily done. Sometimes employers will write a good reference just to get rid of a troublemaker. No, we do not seek references when someone wants to start work in the still-room, scraping pots and saucepans.’
‘What did she do precisely? What were her duties?’
‘Just that, at first. She started here in the still-room. That is, washing and cleaning the equipment and the tableware. She was quite . . . ehrgeizig . . . ambitious . . . is that the word? She wanted to be a waitress. But she needed much training. She was a long way off being able to serve the tables.’
‘But you said she was a waitress?’
‘A kitchen waitress. She would have a uniform, but her job was to bring the prepared dishes from the kitchen to the sideboard tables on the restaurant floor. Then the waiters, our fully trained staff, serve the guests. This is a very efficient system, in use in most of the great restaurants in Europe. This is associated with service à la russe, as we call it.’
‘Sorry . . . à la what?’ Mossop asked.
‘Service à la russe. It’s the Russian way of serving dinner, with each course put up in succession. It’s generally used in restaurants across Europe now. In the older way, service à la française, the French way, all the dishes would be served together.’
Swallow saw Mossop struggling to get the narrative down in his notebook. Nor would he be able to grapple with Werner’s French. It hardly mattered.
‘How long was she working here?’
‘I would say about a year.’
‘Your employment records should be able to tell us precisely.’
Werner shrugged. ‘We do not keep records for casual workers. Our sommeliers, our chefs and our professional waiters, yes, but not for what is, as I have said, casual labour.’
‘So there is no record of her working here?’
‘I don’t imagine so.’
‘Not even in the wages book?’
‘She’d have been paid out of petty cash. I paid her myself.’
‘Did you pay her on Friday?’
‘As well as I can remember, yes, I would have.’
‘Was she a good worker?’
Werner hesitated for a moment. ‘She was . . . diligent, never late for work. She was respectful. But she was clumsy. We had breakages, spillages . . . more than the average I would say.’
‘But you kept her on?’
Werner smiled. ‘I am, I think, a kind man. Ask any of the employees, they will say so too. But in fact I had decided to terminate her work here. Her attitude had become, shall I say, resentful, übelnehmerisch? And she had learned the basics of kitchen work. It was time for her to move on.’
‘Did she have any particular friends on the staff here? Or any enemies?’ Swallow asked. ‘Can you think of any reason why anybody would wish to harm her?’
‘No,’ Werner shook his head. ‘She did not . . . how do you say . . . socialise. The employees will go to the public houses if we close a little early sometimes, but not her. And I have no reason to think she had any enemies here.’
‘Who would have been the last person to see her leave here last night, Mr Werner?’ Swallow asked.
Werner grimaced. ‘I believe it would have been me, Inspector. I recall now that I paid the girl her wages and I saw her leave through the kitchen doorway. I remember thinking to myself that she would be cold going home, walking out to Rathmines, since she had no coat, just a light shawl.’
‘That was thoughtful of you,’ Swallow said. ‘She was fortunate to have encountered that sort of kindness in you. And you have a good memory for detail,’ he added.
‘Thank you, Inspector.’
Swallow stood. He was tired, and he could see that Mossop was wilting too.
‘I’m not sure that it will be necessary to speak further this evening, Mr Werner. I understand that you’re busy with many things to attend to here. We can call back at a more convenient time. And we will need to interview other employees. You’ve been very helpful with your information. It’s getting late. Detective Sergeant Mossop and I have reports to write up and we’d best be going.’
Werner spread his hands in a gesture to indicate a willingness to assist.
‘I am very happy to assist, Inspector. If there is anything further I can help on, please let me know. It is important that you should catch whoever is responsible for this . . . Verbrechen . . . this dreadful crime.’
They walked the couple of hundred yards along South Great George’s Street to the Castle Lane. The streets were quiet now and the pavements were sparkling with the night frost.
‘What did you think?’ Swallow asked.
Mossop wrinkled his brow in concentration. ‘A smooth operator, boss. But maybe not as open as he wants to appear. He claimed to know nothing of her family or background, yet he knew she had to walk home to Rathmines.’
‘Fair point,’ Swallow acknowledged. ‘He put on a big show of wanting to be helpful, but every question we asked was simply deflected.’
They were at the junction of Dame Street and South Great George’s Street.
‘Go on home, Pat. Get a night’s rest and we’ll resume in the morning. We’ve done what we can for the day.’
He turned into Dame Street to make his way home to Maria.