A Matter of Breeding (18 page)

Besides Gross, Lechner, and Werthen, there were also Inspector Thielman and Stoker gathered in the office. Lechner had only reluctantly accepted the presence of the novelist after hearing of the man’s legal training and his credentials as clerk of court to the Irish petty sessions. On the wall behind Lechner’s desk was posted a large map of the province of Styria and next to it a calendar for October, 1901.

On the calendar, the dates of October 4, 12, 20, and 27 were circled. The map was also marked with the scenes of the four crimes: Judendorf-Strassengel, Köflach, Hitzendorf, and Gösting Castle. These formed an oblong rectangle to the north and west of Graz.

The more Werthen gazed at the map, the more he wondered about the distances between the crime scenes. They seemed to fit a pattern.

The distance between the first murder in Judendorf-Strassengel and the second in Köflach was a little over ten miles. Between Köflach and murder number three in Hitzendorf it was about eight miles. From Hitzendorf to the scene of the fourth murder, Gösting Castle, it was about five miles. The distance between crimes was decreasing. Did that mean that the next crime would be some distance less than five miles from the ruined castle? But in what direction?

Or, by completing the quadrilateral, the distance between Gösting Castle and Judendorf-Strassengel was only three miles, which fit the pattern of decreasing distances between crime scenes. Could this mean that murder number four – closing the quadrangle – was the last?

Wishful thinking. But was there anything to be learned by the locations of the murder? Were these connected in some way they could not yet discern?

Gross broke the moment of silence in the room. ‘And there is also the information from the young typist,’ Gross reminded them. ‘That is how our killer was able to gather information. By following the victims.’

‘Hardly monumental information,’ Lechner said. ‘We cannot even be certain the man was following the Stiegl girl, or if the victim’s colleague is a reliable witness.’

‘I spoke with her,’ Werthen said. ‘She did not want to offer up the information as it would show she too was following Monika Stiegl just to get a look at her boyfriend.’

‘A man of medium height, medium weight.’ Magistrate Lechner shook his head. ‘Not much to go on.’

‘It is more than we had before,’ Gross said. ‘And as I noted earlier, it provides us with a kind of profile of this killer. Someone who takes the time to get to know his victims, thus, someone not known by them.’

Another shrug from Lechner.

‘And let us not forget the profile we have from our learned colleague Professor Krafft-Ebing,’ Gross added. ‘Though these young women were not interfered with, theirs was still a deeply sexual crime committed by a person with a deep-seated sexual neurosis. He is, however, according to Krafft-Ebing, able to keep this sexual deviancy in check most of the time. But as a child or youth he may have displayed such impulses by mutilations of animals.’

Werthen once again thought of young Eddie Pichler; a chill ran up his spine as he did so.

‘We should not forget one important fact linking these murders,’ Stoker suddenly said.

Lechner cast a fish eye at the Irishman. ‘And that would be?’

‘Doktor Gross. The first three crime scenes contained clues straight out of his criminalistic writings. The killer even taunted him at one point with a note.’

‘By God, he’s right,’ Gross thundered. ‘I had quite forgotten about that note.’ And now he realized why the writing on the envelope to Monika Stiegl seemed familiar. ‘I will have to check this against the note that I kept in my hotel room, but I would swear they are very similar.’

‘And the fourth murder?’ Lechner asked. ‘How does that fit in with your theory?’

‘It proved Gross innocent,’ Werthen said.

‘One thing I am curious about, Lechner,’ Gross said. ‘How did you learn that I was already in Graz at the time of the first murder?’

Lechner sat in silence for a moment, looking down at some papers on his desk. The coloring on his cheeks was suddenly redder.

‘There was an anonymous letter. The writer wanted the police to know that the famed Doktor Gross might be committing heinous crimes so that he himself could solve them and add to his fame. I discounted that until the writer included the name of the hotel you were staying at.’ He paused. ‘Really, Gross, all you had to do was explain about your son—’

‘How did you find out about that?’

‘Not much in Graz escapes my observation.’

‘And you have the letter still, I assume,’ Gross said.

Lechner pursed his lips. ‘It must be filed somewhere,’ he said.

‘If it was to be used as evidence against me, I should hope so,’ Gross added acidly.

‘I will have my assistant find it,’ Lechner said. ‘Let me see that envelope from the Stiegls.’

Gross handed it over and Lechner examined it front and back. ‘They are similar,’ he allowed finally. ‘I initially discounted the letter sent to me simply because of the primitive penmanship.’

There was silence in the room for a time, and then Stoker spoke up.

‘As I said, Doktor Gross may very well be the linkage in all these murders. If the note sent to Doktor Gross matches the writing of these other two, then it proves the killer was directly attempting to implicate him.’

‘Which means,’ Gross said, ‘that our killer had bigger fish than myself to fry.’

Inspector Thielman, quiet as a church mouse all this time in the presence of his superior, finally decided to add his voice to the discussion: ‘And if Advokat Werthen is correct, there will be another murder in just two days, on the thirty-first.’

Berthe thought she was dreaming about a Lipizzaner stallion nickering to its handler, hoping to be fed. But she awoke in the middle of the night to realize it was actually a whimpering sound coming from Frieda’s bedroom.

She got up quickly, put on a robe, and went down the hallway to her daughter’s room. Turning up the gas lamp, Berthe saw that Frieda was still sleeping. Perhaps it really had been a dream, she thought. But then suddenly her child twisted under the covers, emitting the pitiful whimpering sound she had earlier heard. Now Berthe saw that Frieda’s face was covered in sweat and that she had a red rash on her cheeks and neck. She put her hand to Frieda’s forehead and the child felt as if she were burning up.

Frieda opened her eyes now and seeing her mother, she murmured, ‘Mama, I hurt.’ She grabbed her throat to show where the pain was.

Berthe felt panic rising, but calmed herself, taking deep breaths. Bring the fever down, she told herself. That’s the first priority.

‘It’ll be fine, dear. Don’t worry. Mommy is here. I need to get a cool towel for your head. OK? You just lie back and I’ll be right back.’

‘No, Mama.’

‘It’s fine, Frieda. Mommy has to go for just a few seconds. You know how to count to five, right?’

Frieda swallowed with difficulty and nodded.

‘Good, then. Just count to five. I bet I’m back before you finish. But you have to do it nice and slow, right?’

Frieda’s eyes were big and frightened-looking now.

Berthe ran to the kitchen, soaked a tea towel in cool water and was back just as Frieda was reaching number four.

‘There. I told you I could beat you.’ She forced a laugh and hoped that the concern she was feeling was not written on her face.

The next morning, Werthen decided to follow his hunch about Eddie, and traveled to the Pichler farm once again. Either he had to lay his doubts about the young man to rest or take him into custody as a suspect in the murder of these unfortunate young women.

He arrived at the farm mid-morning and was surprised to see very little activity going on outside. No one was in the barn or in the fields. The place had an eerie feeling, as if abandoned.

He went to the front door and knocked. Frau Pichler answered it after a second round of knocking, a lock of hair misplaced from her bun and dangling into her face. She looked harried, as if she had not slept in days.

‘Sorry to bother you, Frau Pichler, but I was just wondering if I could see Eddie.’

‘How did you find out?’

The question took him back. They must know of their son’s guilt, he surmised.

‘Is he here, Frau Pichler?’

‘Of course he is. You think we would send him to some filthy hospital to die.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Isn’t that why you’ve come?’ she said. ‘To pay your last respects?’ And then she crumpled into Werthen’s arms, weeping inconsolably.

He returned to the Hotel Daniel midday after learning that young Eddie had the perfect alibi for the murder on Sunday. He could not have killed Monika Stiegl, for he was too busy dying himself. The grief-stricken Frau Pichler told Werthen in fits and starts that her only surviving child had fallen ill not long after he and Berthe had stayed at the farm. By Saturday the local doctor told them it was scarlet fever; by early Monday morning he was already in a coma. He died later that day, and now the body was still laid out waiting for the undertaker. Frau Pichler had been afraid that Werthen was that man and hesitated to open the door.

‘I don’t want them taking him away,’ she said through her tears. ‘Not to lie all alone in a cold pine coffin. Eddie always liked sleeping near somebody.’

Werthen had made no attempt at explaining his visit; he simply listened to her sad story several times and then, when a neighbor came to visit bringing food, he made his escape in the fiaker he had waiting for him.

‘We’ve been looking for you,’ Gross said as he entered the hotel dining room at lunch time. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘Nothing of consequence,’ he said, still shaken by the visit. Poor Eddie. A simple soul after all. A brief life and a lasting sadness for his parents, now childless. What an awful thing it is, he thought, for a parent to outlive his child.

Gross reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a telegram.

‘This came for you shortly after you left this morning.’

Werthen suddenly did not want to take the paper, just as Frau Pichler had not wanted to answer the door that morning.

‘Take it, Werthen. It’s for you.’

Werthen opened the envelope slowly, unfolded the telegram and read the cold, precise words.

‘Frieda taken ill. Doctor says scarlet fever. Please return at once. Father.’

He stared at the words for several moments before he could understand them. He felt the paper slip out of his hand and he could only sit at the table as if in a dream.

Gross picked up the telegram. ‘My God,’ he uttered after reading it. ‘We’ve got to get you on the next train to Vienna. Stoker, quickly now, to the train station.’

‘The investigation,’ the Irishman began, but stopped when Gross handed him the telegram.

‘Travel with him,’ Gross commanded. ‘He’s in shock and in no shape to be on his own.’

It was late afternoon by the time Werthen, accompanied by Stoker, arrived at the Josefstädterstrasse. He was more in control now, though battling surges of panic. On the train from Styria, he had told Stoker of Eddie Pichler’s death and of his fear that Berthe was the carrier of the bacteria to their daughter, Frieda. He had to tell somebody, but made Stoker pledge not to repeat it.

Frau Blatschky must have heard his key in the lock, for she was heading for the door even as he opened it. Her eyes were red-rimmed and this made him fear the worst.

‘Frieda,’ he said desperately. ‘Is she …?’

Frau Blatschky sniffled, but shook her head vehemently. ‘She’s a fighter, our little Friedchen. They’re all in there.’ Frau Blatschky nodded down the hall to the child’s room.

Werthen felt a sudden elation. She’s still alive, he thought. There is hope.

The cook was right: they were all there, gathered around the bed. Berthe was on one side and his father, Emile von Werthen, was on the other, each patting one of Frieda’s limp hands lying on the comforter. Werthen’s mother sat in a chair at the foot of the little bed, and Doktor Weisman, the local internist, was also in attendance, closing a pocket watch and inserting it back into a vest pocket.

Berthe looked up when he entered and her long face brightened.

‘Thank God you’ve come.’

He went to her and held her tightly, feeling the breath of her sigh in his left ear.

‘I’m so afraid I might have brought this back from Styria,’ she whispered. ‘The doctor says there has been an outbreak there. Tell me I’m being silly.’

He held her out at arm’s length, shaking his head. ‘You’re being silly.’ He looked her straight in the eyes as he said it. He had never lied to his wife before and hoped he would never have to again.

He looked down at Frieda on the bed. She was sleeping fitfully and there was a red rash on her cheeks and throat. Don’t let her die, he thought. Please, don’t die.

He felt a sudden wave of guilt at how he had grieved for their unborn son, all the while ignoring his wonderful living daughter. If she were to be taken away …

But he could not even consider that.

As he looked up from the bed his eyes locked on those of his father. He too had been crying.

‘She’ll make it,’ he said to his father who nodded, slightly at first and then more vigorously.

He felt a hand at his arm and turned to face Doktor Weisman, an elderly man with a high voice.

‘We have controlled the fever,’ he said. ‘That’s important. But we’re not out of the woods yet. The next hours …’

He trailed off as if fearful to give such a deadline.

Werthen’s mother rose and went over to greet her son. She had never been a physically demonstrative woman, but now she clutched at her son like a life preserver.

When they separated, Werthen noticed that she, unlike the others, had not been crying. As far as Werthen could remember, he had never seen her cry. She had even refused to weep at the grave of her son, Werthen’s brother Max, a victim of suicide.

‘We should take turns sitting at her side,’ she said to him. ‘The poor little thing needs some air in here.’

She was right, Werthen realized. The air was close with so many packed into the tiny room.