A Matter of Breeding (22 page)

‘Karl,’ Berthe said in an excited tone, ‘I believe we have another case.’

Bless you, he thought.

Berthe introduced Tina Blau to her husband and, seated now around his desk, she further explained the incidents of vandalism that led Blau to ask for assistance.

‘You’re sure the cat did not simply die of natural causes?’ Werthen asked after listening carefully. ‘Perhaps it was in a fight or ate something that had gone bad?’

‘Its neck was wrung,’ the painter said matter-of-factly.

‘And the times when there was damage done inside, did you also discover any breakage of windows or broken locks?’

Blau fixed him with her steely gaze letting Werthen know that she was aware of the power of her eyes.

‘I see what you are getting at, Advokat Werthen,’ she replied. ‘What the illustrated magazines might call an “inside job”, is that it?’

‘Along those lines, yes,’ he allowed.

‘Who has keys to the studio?’ Berthe asked.

‘Well, I do, of course. It is my working studio. But it is also part of the Vienna Art School for Women and Girls, and in that respect Frau Mayreder of course has a set of keys as does Herr Seligmann, the other director. But you cannot suspect—’

‘No,’ Werthen said forcefully, though he had learned too well from Gross that no one should be discounted as a suspect in criminal matters.

‘Who cleans the studio?’ Berthe asked.

‘I do, of course, but …’

‘Yes?’ Berthe said.

‘Occasionally, I employ a janitor to give it a thorough cleaning.’

She was silent again.

‘Frau Blau,’ Werthen said gently, ‘we cannot help you unless you are absolutely forthcoming with us. I am sure you understand that.’

‘His name is Bachmann. Herbert Bachmann. But he’s been working for me for several years. I am giving his wife lessons in partial trade for his services. He is a good man.’

‘I’m sure he is, Frau Blau.’ Werthen smiled at her. ‘I have a suggestion.’

They were in luck. Checking with Herr Seligmann, they discovered that he had lost his keys several weeks ago and had had to get a replacement set. That could explain how their vandal gained access so easily to Blau’s studio.

Then, when informed of this new case and of Werthen’s plan to lay in hiding and catch the culprit in the act, Erika Metzinger happily volunteered to join in, as did her young beau Sonnenthal. He had done his military service and knew his way around weapons, so Werthen felt secure in loaning him the Steyr automatic pistol Gross had recently given him. Rosa Mayreder also demanded to participate after learning of the vandalism.

Thus, they divided into two teams. Werthen, Berthe, and Tina Blau took the first night of watch, and Erika, Sonnenthal, and Frau Mayreder took the next. According to Blau there was no pattern to these events. She could not remember the exact dates of the various acts of vandalism, but they appeared to take place at random. They clearly were not connected with the days when the janitor Bachmann was at work. That would be too obvious if he were their villain. Thus, they would simply have to stand watch nightly until the culprit struck again. Werthen was not fearful of including the women in this, for whoever was committing these acts of vandalism was obviously a coward, Werthen reasoned. Otherwise he, or she, would confront Blau directly. With one man in each team, he was confident they could restrain the miscreant when and if they caught him in the act.

By Wednesday, it was Werthen’s turn again, and he was wondering how good his idea had been.

They were hidden away in the storage room off the studio which held a wealth of canvases from students, from Blau, and from Blau’s deceased painter husband, Heinrich Lang. It was uncomfortable and cold. They had learned from their first watch on Monday night that they needed to dress more warmly, but still with the building unheated at night it was most disagreeable. The storage room was so crammed with canvases that they could not fit in chairs, so they had to kneel or crouch on the hardwood floor when not standing.

Taking up position earlier in the evening with the lights still on in the studio, Berthe showed great interest in one of Lang’s paintings and began a discussion with Blau, but lights out put an end to that.

They had thought to bring a flask of coffee tonight, but by now the coffee had become tepid at best. Someday, Werthen thought, someone would invent a flask that kept hot liquids hot. He’d read about a British scientist who had created what he called a vacuum flask several years ago, but where was the commercial application?

Werthen occupied his mind with such desultory thoughts for another hour and was about to call it a night when he thought he heard the click of a lock. He looked to Berthe and Blau and they nodded. They had heard it, too.

Now came the sound of the front door creaking open and footsteps on the parquet. Werthen put his eye to the crack between the storage room door and its frame and squinted a sight line. He could see the uneven light of a hand-held electric light and finally caught a view of the man holding it. In his other hand the man gripped a large burlap sack. Stopping in the center of the studio by the upraised dais where the model would pose, he set down the light and began to empty to contents of the bag.

Suddenly Werthen threw open the door of the studio and tripped the switch to the newly installed electric lights. He already had the Steyr automatic in his right hand as the vandal turned around in alarm.

‘Hold it right there,’ Werthen commanded.

Berthe and Blau came out of the storage room behind him.

‘Herr Kleinwitz,’ Frau Blau exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

To Werthen it was all too obvious what the man was about. The burlap bag contained horse manure and he had been in the process of dumping it on the dais.

Herr Kleinwitz was too startled to respond.

‘Answer her, man,’ Werthen ordered.

‘I … I …’ His eyes went from Werthen’s pistol to Blau’s outraged face. He took a deep breath and seemed to find a reservoir of courage. ‘Put that gun away, sir, and I will answer your question. I am no thug.’

‘You obviously know him,’ Werthen said to Blau.

‘Yes. He calls himself a painter.’

Kleinwitz made an audile growl at this comment. ‘And you are single-handedly destroying Austrian art with this infernal school of yours. If women were meant to paint, they would …’ He searched for the apposite conditional, but in vain.

‘Would what, Herr Kleinwitz? Be born with a paint brush in the hand like you men?’

‘Very clever. But you know exactly what I mean. Painting is a man’s preserve. Be a weaver, if you like, or a clothing designer like Klimt’s mistress. Leave oil and watercolors to the men.’

‘And that is why you have been vandalizing these premises?’ Werthen asked incredulously. ‘Because you’re afraid of female competition?’

This comment brought a laugh from Berthe and Blau, but Herr Kleinwitz sputtered an obscenity.

‘This school is an abomination. It misleads the fairer sex into believing they can be artists. It takes the woman out of the home, destroys marriages. It is a worse scourge than alcohol.’

‘Pardon my saying so, Herr Kleinwitz,’ Berthe said, ‘but I find you an odious little man with a contemptible mind and minimal talent.’

‘Who are these people?’ Kleinwitz demanded of Blau.

‘These people are my friends, Herr Kleinwitz. And now, you will be so good as to clean up the mess on the modeling platform or I will call the police. Trespassing is a crime, I am sure you know.’

Werthen looked at her quizzically. They had not decided what they would do with the miscreant once he was caught, but Werthen surely did not want him to go free.

Kleinwitz glared at Blau. ‘I’ll need a shovel.’

‘Your hands should do nicely,’ she replied. ‘You can finally use them for real work.’

Another acid look from the vandal.

‘And I assume you also know that theft is a punishable offense?’ Blau added.

‘I stole nothing,’ he said.

‘The key, Herr Kleinwitz. The key to my studio.’

‘I found it.’

‘Yes. I am sure you did. While visiting Herr Seligmann’s studio, no doubt.’

The look on Kleinwitz’s face told Werthen that Blau had got it exactly right.

‘And after you finish cleaning up, you can write notes to the owners of the paintings you defaced, apologizing for such barbaric behavior.’

‘Not on your life.’

‘Let’s just call the police,’ Berthe said.

‘No,’ Kleinwitz shouted. ‘I have a reputation to maintain.’

‘You should have thought about that before turning to crime,’ Werthen responded.

‘You may retain your spotless reputation as a “collaborative artist”, Herr Kleinwitz, after certain chores. And after agreeing to a further stipulation.’

‘What stipulation?’

‘You have a certain facility with flowers. I have noticed that in the paintings you have worked on for our modern-day Makart, the muralist Feklin.’

‘There is nothing wrong with collaboration, Frau Blau,’ Kleinwitz protested. ‘Even so great an artist as Rubens hired other painters to do the animals in his paintings.’

‘Quite right,’ she said. ‘So perhaps you could provide the same service for some of our great women artists in the making who do not have such a felicitous hand where flora is concerned. A series of workshops on such painting, for example.’

‘That sounds like a wonderful idea,’ Berthe said, sounding as if she really
were
excited about it. ‘So much better than a call to the police.’

In the end, Kleinwitz had little choice but to agree to Blau’s terms. Werthen still felt it was a matter to be referred to the police, but he bowed to Blau’s decision.

‘Maybe we can even bring him into the fold,’ she said with a twinkle in her eye.

It was almost dawn by the time Kleinwitz had cleaned his mess and composed his letters of apology and Werthen was anxious to get home and steal at least a few hours of sleep. But Berthe had a question for Blau.

‘That painting I was looking at. You mentioned it was from a photo. Would you happen to have that photo?’

‘I should,’ the painter said. ‘Heinrich kept all his studies in files organized by year. Is it urgent?’

‘Well, if you can find it easily …?’

Blau indicated that she could, and meanwhile Werthen asked, ‘What’s this about?’

Berthe nodded for him to follow her and went back into the storeroom, dug through one of the storage racks of paintings, and pulled out an oil work of a Lipizzaner stallion rearing up on its hind quarters. It was done in a quite elegant style, set in the Spanish Riding School with muted tones.

‘It’s a fine painting, but I don’t really see—’ he began.

‘Look in the background. Those two figures.’

He had not noticed them before, so focused was he on the powerful steed.

‘Oh, yes. Now I see them. Two men.’ There was something familiar about one of them, the taller of the two.

‘If I am right …’ she said, and then trailed off as Blau returned, a photo in her hand.

‘Here it is. Heinrich was so meticulous about his work.’

She handed the photograph to Berthe, who studied it for a moment and then handed it over to Werthen. He immediately recognized the taller man now: Herr Christian von Hobarty. He said as much.

‘And the other man?’ he asked.

‘Herr Maximillian Hohewart, director of Premium Breeds,’ Berthe answered. ‘How interesting that they should know one another.’

‘But this must have been taken, how long ago?’ Werthen said.

‘Ten years ago,’ Blau said. ‘It was one of Heinrich’s last paintings.’

‘Just about the time the Lipizzaner breeding scheme is supposed to have begun,’ Berthe added. ‘Interesting, no?’

Later that afternoon, after Werthen and Berthe had snatched about five hours of sleep, the two teams – minus Rosa Mayreder, who was attending a public lecture given by her architect husband – met at Werthen’s office accompanied by Tina Blau and young Franzl.

Werthen explained to Erika and Sonnenthal about the capture of Kleinwitz and Blau’s fitting punishment, and then Berthe produced the photograph she had secured from Tina Blau.

She showed Franzl this photograph first, asking if he recognized anyone in it.

It took him only an instant to stub his forefinger at the likeness of Maximillian Hohewart.

‘That’s him. That’s the fellow came to see the captain the night before—’

Berthe interrupted, saving him the pain of dredging up evil memories. ‘You’re sure?’

‘That’s him all right. Younger looking, but the same man. Had his nose in the air like he thought the sun shines only for him.’

‘I could not agree with you more, Franzl,’ Berthe said.

‘Why do you find this so significant, Frau Meisner?’ Blau asked. ‘They are simply two men attending a morning practice at the riding school.’

‘Not just two men, but obviously two
privileged
men. They are in the arena, not in the seats. One understands such special treatment for Hohewart, as he was at the time and continues to be a contractor for the stud. Herr von Hobarty on the other hand …’

‘An investor in Premium Breeds, then,’ Werthen said. ‘Like my father.’

‘A possibility,’ Berthe allowed. ‘But if so, then he must have been a very important investor.’

Sonnenthal looked at the photograph now. ‘That is indeed Christian von Hobarty. He was at the height of his powers when this picture was taken. Before his infamous brawl in Parliament and jail term.’

Werthen was impressed that one as young as Sonnenthal should be so conversant with political doings a decade old. But then of course the young man is a journalist, Werthen thought.

‘I’ll give him this,’ Sonnenthal said. ‘He has physically aged better than his race-baiting ideology.’

‘You know von Hobarty?’ Berthe asked.

‘I very much doubt it,’ Erika interjected, to which her young man cast a wan smile.

‘I have never had the “pleasure” of meeting the man, no. But the illustration of him in Krensky’s article shows him to be quite vital.’

Werthen and Berthe exchanged looks.

‘I beg your pardon?’ she said. ‘What article?’