Requiem in Vienna (12 page)

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.

“Herr von Tratten is, as I said, of German origin. As are you, I imagine, Dr. Gross.”

When he did not respond, she continued her tale. “For Herr von Tratten, such origins are not simply a matter of pride, but are something to protect, if you follow me.”

“That is to say that Herr von Tratten has certain leanings, certain preferences?” Gross delicately offered, not wishing to flush the bird before she had laid her golden egg.

“Exactly.”

Berthe interrupted. “Sorry, but just so that I can get the word correct for the files. We are speaking of anti-Semitism here, yes?”

“Yes,” Gross said, casting a disparaging look Berthe’s way. “I believe that is what Fräulein Schindler is implying.”

“Mind you,” Alma quickly added, “that in and of itself is not something to raise suspicion. Many hold the view that Vienna is too much under the sway of Jewish ownership, from manufacture to newspapers.”

“And the legal profession as well,” Berthe said, sotto voce, but she was again ignored.

“However, in Herr von Tratten’s case?” Gross prompted her.

“Well, you see, he discovered a silly photograph I carry with me. Some friends, knowing of my deep respect for Herr Mahler, went to pains to obtain for me a signed portrait of him. Several weeks ago, while seated next to him at a dinner party at the Zucker-kandls, I had occasion to open my handbag and he caught sight of the picture of Mahler. Naturally we began speaking about the maestro’s reorganization of the Hofoper and of his genius. Well, I began extolling his genius, that is. I am sure Herr von Tratten was able to read my emotions accurately, to comprehend my devotion to Mahler’s art, perhaps even to the man himself, though I have never met him. Herr von Tratten suddenly began the most frightening tirade about the anathema of the Jewish race and how any Jew who ever thought of despoiling a fair Aryan maid should be destroyed. That was the exact expression he used:
vernichtet werden.
It was quite chilling, really.”

“And why did you not mention this at your first interview with Advokat Werthen?” Gross asked.

“People say things in the heat of the moment. I was unsure of his actual intent. But you see, since that evening, Herr von Tratten
has continued to seek me out. I believe he is actively courting me, though I have given him no cause for optimism in that regard. He is an absolute toad of a man, regardless of his ‘von’ or family money. And he continues to pester me about my regard for Mahler, always asking me how my ‘Jewish song master’ is faring. Quite frankly, I do not care for his insinuations. Additionally, if I may be honest, he has the most horrid breath.”

“I am not sure that is actionable, Fräulein,” Gross said.

But she was all earnestness. “Nor did I mean to imply it was.”

“It is good you have come to us with this added information, Fräulein Schindler. We have a list of persons we intend to interview; Herr von Tratten’s name shall be added thereto.”

“So you do believe Mahler to be in danger?” Her eyes sparkled at the thought.

“We are taking this quite seriously,” Gross said.

“Marvelous.” She suddenly stood, extending her hand to Gross. “I am so excited you have been included in this matter, Dr. Gross. I know you will put things right.”

And she was gone, in a swirl of skirts and a whirlwind of scent, not bothering to discuss such mundane matters as fees to be paid.

“Quite a force to be reckoned with,” Gross said, after the outer door shut.

Berthe nodded her head.

“I should not like to be the man she sets her sights on,” Gross further pronounced. “He will stand little chance of escape.”

Later that same day Berthe sat alone in her husband’s office examining replies she had received to an advertisement inserted in the
Austrian Legal Journal
, seeking a new member of chambers specializing in wills and trusts. There were four promising candidates, though all but one were unavailable for the next several weeks. The one available immediately was a lawyer from Linz, one Wilhelm Tor, forty, with a degree from Berlin. A native of
Vienna, it seemed he greatly desired to return to his birthplace and was most eager to join a firm with the reputation of Advokat Werthen’s.

That Tor’s bona fides were in order, his résumé impressive, and his availability immediate all conspired to make Berthe pick up her pen and write to him a letter to be sent by afternoon post. Advokat Werthen would be pleased to offer Herr Tor an interview, she related. Never mind that Karl would not be present; she knew the sort of man they needed for the firm.

Let us hope that Herr Tor is as good in the flesh as he is on paper, she thought, signing the letter for her husband with a flourish.

She looked at the embossed letterhead, liking the solid, no-frills strength conveyed by the modern lettering; no Old German or Gothic styling for Karl. Admittedly, there was a baroque nature to her husband, a sensitive soul too often hidden by overly ornate verbiage; how to avoid such a thing if born in Austria? But her gentle teasing about his stuffy language, her barbs at his ambivalence vis-à-vis the monarchy, and above all her encouragement of his return to criminal law and to pursue his newfound love of investigations had all served to bring him out of his formal shell and make their union stronger, deeper.

Now, however, there might soon be need of a reckoning. It was all very well for Karl to branch out while he was still able to devote energy to the clients he already had. Yet now, with his absence in the Salzkammergut, things were coming to a head. The law firm could not simply run itself, nor could it rely on an assistant, no matter how talented and ambitious. After all, such ambition would lead any normal man to set off on his own eventually, to establish his own firm.

She dreaded the reality that was setting in on them, and at the same time longed for it. It was all very well for Karl to change his business sign:
ADVOKAT KARL WERTHEN: WILLS AND TRUSTS, CRIMINAL LAW, PRIVATE INQUIRIES
. However, it was the wills and
trusts that were making their living. Private inquiries had yet to earn a florin for the firm; Klimt had not even paid for Karl’s services from the previous year and Fräulein Schindler was obviously not quite so eager as she had been upon first meeting to dip into her inheritance from her father to pay for such investigations. Granted, Mahler had retained Karl, but one fee would hardly compensate for the others lost while her husband devoted all his energies on the case, neglecting other clients.

When Karl returned, they would have to have a serious discussion about all this. Circumstances had changed after the visit to her doctor last Friday. Now she was filled not only with a new sense of purpose, but also with a more urgent sense of responsibility. She dreaded such a discussion, for Karl had come alive with his newfound career in inquiries; still, neither of them were in a financial position where they could afford to play sleuth.

Karl’s parents could surely provide a larger allowance for their sole living heir, but they disapproved of his match. They made no secret of that, pointedly not attending Berthe and Werthen’s brief civil ceremony. Relations with her in-laws had continued to be decidedly cool since the marriage. And her own father was of the school that says money spoils. He was a successful, self-made man, and he had wanted his daughter to make her own way in the world, too, not to be considered a fine catch for some greedy suitor. Thus, he had not settled any money on her.

So, the reality was obvious, the new reality as revealed to her by Doktor Franck. She wished Karl were here now. Perhaps she should telegram him?

No. Instead she took five deep breaths—her usual remedy for any panic—and settled back in the chair. Things would work out. Oh, how she hoped they would.

Werthen was beginning to regret taking on this case. Here he was installed in the foyer of Villa Kerry like a butler waiting upon
his master’s wishes rather than a lawyer or inquiry agent going about his professional work. Of course it was not stated in so many words, but it was increasingly clear Mahler had determined that Werthen’s task should be to protect him from any and all obstacles to his composition. Thus, from early morning to late afternoon, Werthen was seated in his “office” in the foyer on a hard-backed chair, in attendance when either Justine or Natalie answered the door, ready to send autograph hounds on their way or to fend off advances of besotted young women and addled middle-aged men who wanted to share a melodic passage with the maestro. It also became clear that Mahler wished him to keep his sister, Justine, and his old friend, Natalie, at bay. This task had proved the most difficult, for it was obvious they both felt Werthen was usurping their own roles in Mahler’s life. They cast him evil glances throughout the long and tiresome days. Whenever food was served, Werthen’s portion was sure to be cold.

Yet occasionally Werthen felt it might be worth it, for he would hear bits and pieces of Mahler’s work, as pecked out on a piano in the third-floor room he had claimed as a music studio. Mahler had little piano technique; still the snatches Werthen overheard quite moved him. There was a simple lyricism to the melodic lines he heard; a sort of subtle majesty. Walking with Mahler in the afternoons after the composing work had been finished for the day, Werthen had been appraised of other aspects of this work. Unlike his earlier symphonies, Mahler would use no tubas or trombones in the Fourth Symphony. It was clear to Werthen why this should be so, for there were already far too many tubas and trombones in the umpapa band music wafting across the lake from Altaussee. It was also planned to be the composer’s shortest symphony to date, lasting perhaps just under an hour. Divided into the usual four movements, the last would be a song for soprano taken from the German collection of folk poems,
Des knaben Wunderhorn
, or
The Youth’s Magic Horn
, from which Mahler had taken earlier inspiration for songs. In this case,
he would employ a poem that deals with a young boy’s idea of what heaven might be like.

“There is just no music on earth, That can compare to ours,” the youth sings at one point, and Werthen had to admit that some of the passages he had overheard were heavenly, indeed.

Yet, did his involvement in such artistic pursuits really warrant his absence from Vienna? He missed Berthe and felt guiltier every day he was away from her. This was not the professional working holiday he had hoped for. In his imagination, he would be half sleuth and half stoic protector, not a functionary whose task it was to send unwanted visitors on their way or to be a sounding board for Gustav Mahler’s artistic musings as they tramped across the countryside in the afternoons, the brilliant composer munching continually on the Turkish delights he’d stuffed into his pocket.

No. Sublime though the music might be, it was not his objective nor duty to create an atmosphere conducive to artistic creation. It was his job to prevent Mahler from being killed, and quite frankly, Werthen could see no possible danger to the composer in Altaussee. His sister, Justine, and friend, Natalie, were the only watchdogs the man needed. While he, Werthen, was surely more in need in Vienna.

He stood now, flexing his back. His right knee hurt and his rear end had gone to sleep seated too long on the hard chair. Werthen decided at that moment that he would leave the next day or perhaps the day after. It was unfair of him to thrust the duty of finding a substitute for Ungar on Berthe. And thinking of Gross, he was also reminded that the criminologist was most likely usurping the case from him, following the more promising trail in Vienna while he languished in the rustic outback of Altaussee.

Indeed, he would have to return at any rate, for he had neglected to bring Mahler’s paperwork with him, the revision of his will. Yesterday Mahler had asked about it, wanting to sign it and
be done with the process of writing his newly married sister, Emma, out of his will.

The previous year, this sister had married Eduard Rosé, founder of the renowned Rosé Quartet. Gossip had it that Eduard, a cellist, had hoped for some advantage from this marriage to the sister of the new Hofoper conductor, but in the event, Mahler had, in a flight of pique that the man had taken his sister and helpmate from him, declared that he would never employ Eduard at the Hofoper. Thus, the couple emigrated to the United States, where Eduard was engaged with the Boston Symphony.

Eduard Rosé was the brother of Arnold Rosé, concertmaster of the Vienna Philharmonic and suitor to Mahler’s other sister, Justine. Werthen wondered if Arnold would fare any better than his brother once married. Of course, from what Werthen could judge, Arnold Rosé was going about things less precipitously than his older brother.

At any rate, the exclusion of Emma from his will had occasioned the rewriting. Werthen decided to send a telegram to Berthe, explaining that he would need to return to fetch the Mahler file. He did not want to simply tell the truth: that he missed her and was damned tired of being treated like a servant by Mahler. It seemed too much like returning home with one’s tail between one’s legs. Yes. He would send the telegram off this very evening.

“Herr Werthen.”

He brought himself out of his private thoughts, focusing on Justine, who had spoken his name.

“Gustav is ready for his afternoon walk.”

“Yes,” he said. “Fine. Fresh air is the very thing we all need.” He did not, however, feel too enthusiastic about the coming cross-country tramp, trying to keep up with Mahler’s presto walking tempo or his never-ending musical discussions.

“He so looks forward to these outings,” Justine said.

Werthen willed himself out of his lassitude and ill feeling toward Mahler. After all, he reminded himself, he was in the man’s
employ and had promised to watch over the composer. He knew that someone had tried to kill Mahler before and most likely would attempt it again. Thus, he, Werthen, would perform his duties to the utmost while at the Villa Kerry. Yes, Justine, and their friend, Natalie, were able watchers, but their care did not extend to that of bodyguards. He had conjured up a picture of Mahler’s seeming domestic security in part to rationalize his own departure.