Requiem in Vienna (3 page)

Werthen was still not sure what Klimt meant, but pushed on. “Are they close, then, Mahler and Alma Schindler?”

“Hardly. She’s only seen him from afar, but swears he is the one for her. And what Alma wants, Alma gets.”

“Sounds like a force to be reckoned with. But how does this pertain to me?”

“Here is the drama. She wants a private inquiry agent to make ‘certain investigations,’ as she so mysteriously puts it. She will tell me no more, but has listened to my tales extolling your brilliance in such matters and is desperate to meet with you.”

Werthen thought for a moment. It sounded all very unpromising; sordid, as if the young girl wanted someone to follow Mahler about to see if he were carrying on an affair. Domestic work of the least interesting sort.

“I would consider it a personal favor,” Klimt said.

The painter looked so eager that Werthen gave in.

“Well, I suppose you can tell her to arrange an appointment at my office. I’ll see if there is any assistance I can offer.”

“Bravo for you, Werthen. Giving up the old wills and trusts, are we then?”

“More like putting them in abeyance.”

“And how is that excellent wife of yours? So sorry I could not be at the wedding. You see, that was when I was in Italy.”

“It was a quiet affair,” he said. So quiet his own parents had not deigned to make an appearance, protesting that it was a civil rather than a church affair.

“Do give her my best. A spirited filly, that one.”

Werthen was not sure Berthe would care for the horse analogy, but understood Klimt’s sentiment.

“Yes, she is. I’m a lucky man.”

Werthen made to pay for his coffee, but Klimt stopped his hand. “Please, Werthen. Don’t insult me.”

Klimt turned back to the remaining crumbs of cake as Werthen gathered his hat and gloves.

About to leave, he said, “Oh, and Klimt—”

“I know. I know, old friend. It’s in the mail. Or will be by tomorrow.”

K
limt was right, Werthen thought. A beauty.

Alma Schindler sat across the desk from him in his office. His wife, Berthe, now acting as part-time secretary at the firm, was seated in the corner behind the young lady and to his right, ready to take notes.

Fräulein Schindler wore a feathered hat that was much too old for a nineteen-year-old, obviously from the noble firm of Habig on the Wiedner Hauptstrasse. Her hair, one could see once she’d removed the hat, was done up in the popular fashion of the day, piled luxuriantly on top of the head, and full of waves and curls. She had on a white dress, embellished with appliqué, lace, and embroidery, with a high collar and puffed sleeves. Over this, she wore a tight-fitting vest of a cream color striped in dark silk. Werthen was not certain about such things, but thought he had seen a similar outfit in the exclusive dress shop Fournier on the Graben.

Overall, Fräulein Schindler gave the appearance of a smartly dressed woman about town. Yet when she spoke, it was like conversing with an overly precocious adolescent. She was knowledgeable, but too eager to show her knowledge. Too enthusiastic in
general for an era that prized reserve and a kind of bored satiety in its society ladies.

Looking at Fräulein Schindler and then at his wife, Werthen marveled at how different the two women were. Berthe was only a few years older than the Schindler girl, but there was a solidity as well as originality to his wife that was intoxicating. Where Alma Schindler wanted to shine and thereby gloat in her own reflected glory, Berthe was entirely within herself: poised, quietly confident, calm. Just the trace of a sardonic grin on her fine mouth, as if she always found the world slightly amusing. Berthe drew you in not by the separate strength of her features, nor by an animalistic force, but by her overall appeal. Hers was a quiet, domestic beauty, a warm jumble of womanhood that was not on display for the entire world.

Of course Werthen was not to be trusted for objectivity regarding his wife.

“It was good of you to see me on such short notice, Advokat Werthen.”

What
does
one say to that besides the obvious? he wondered. “Not at all.”

“I don’t know how much Gustav . . . Herr Klimt might have told you. . . .”

“Very little. Just that you had a concern you wished to discuss with me.”

“You’ll think I’m a silly little girl.” She blushed on cue.

Werthen raised his eyes, glancing at Berthe. She did not alter the faintly amused expression on her face, busy with her shorthand.

Fräulein Schindler now leaned across the narrow desk to speak directly into Werthen’s face, just a foot away. He could smell strawberries on her breath, the first of the season.

“You see, it is about Herr Mahler, the composer.”

“The Court Opera director,” Werthen added.

“That, too, but have you not heard his music? Sublime. If I
could one day compose like that, my life would indeed have meaning.”

She smiled sweetly at him as she spoke, still invading his side of the desk. Her dress had a sheer piece of lace for the uppermost half of the bodice; he studiously kept his eyes from her décolletage.

“No, I have not yet had the pleasure. He is most formidable at the podium, however.”

“Sleight of hand.” She said it dismissively. “But that is not why I am here. Dear, it sounds so silly now.”

“Please,” he said, being drawn to her obvious charms now in spite of himself. “Our conversation does not go beyond these walls.”

“Someone is trying to hurt him, kill him perhaps. There. I’ve said it.”

She sat back in her chair, folding her arms at her chest like a reprimanded, stubborn child.

Werthen took a breath. This was hardly what he was expecting. Berthe cast him a quick glance.

“What makes you say that?”

“Incidents.”

“Plural.”

“Yes.”

“I have read, of course, of the unfortunate accident last week. The death of the young soprano.”

“It was no accident.”

He again looked at his wife; Berthe raised her eyebrows now.

“Could you elaborate?”

“Fire curtains do not simply fall by accident. They are double roped. The asbestos safety curtain at the Court Opera hangs directly behind the proscenium and has its own dedicated winch. It does not come down unless it is meant to.”

Werthen was impressed. She had been doing her homework. Of course, all of Vienna was theater mad, himself a qualified
inclusion therein. Fire curtains were a relatively new innovation in theaters, their worldwide spread the result of the tragic Ringstrasse Theater fire in this very city in December of 1881. Hundreds had been killed when a backstage blaze spread through the auditorium; the charred skeleton of the theater was later torn down, to be replaced by an apartment house called appropriately the House of Atonement.

“And what does the stage manager have to say of this?” Werthen questioned, coming back to the task at hand.

Fräulein Schindler now did something Werthen found quite uncharacteristic: she wrinkled up her pretty nose as if smelling horse droppings under the hot summer sun.

“The man is an idiot. He has no explanation other than that the ropes must have come untied somehow. These are not simply pretty bows tied in the hemp, Advokat Werthen, but quite ornate knots meant to hold. And two of them, remember.”

“You mentioned other incidents.”

“A scenery flat that fell perilously close to Herr Mahler. If you can believe it, the Court Opera is still primarily a hemp house.”

She smiled at her use of the technical term, most likely expecting Werthen to be puzzled. Instead, he nodded. He, too, had a knowledge of stagecraft, a holdover from a case in Graz when he was practicing criminal law. It had involved an action against a stagehand accused of vandalism after being fired from his position at the Grazer Stadttheater. In Graz, as in Vienna, tradition was a strong influence; the oldest way was often considered the best. Thus, much of the scenery at the Court Opera was still hoisted by sheer human muscle power, with several men flying the scenery flats by use of hemp ropes. A “hemp house,” in fact.

“Counterweight flying is, I understand, being introduced,” Werthen responded. “Herr Mahler is no fan of tradition, so I hear.”

A different sort of smile showed on her lips now, a rueful acceptance
of the lawyer’s knowledge; a realization that he would not be impressed by her obvious encyclopedia cramming.

“ ‘Tradition is laziness.’ I have heard Mahler say that a hundred times.” Another coquettish smile from her. He noticed that she used the man’s last name with no “Herr” before it; already a self-appointed intimate. “You see, I have taken to attending rehearsals. Mahler knows nothing of it, of course. A friend of Carl’s . . . my stepfather’s, sees that I come in a side door and that I sit very quietly in the fourth balcony.”

She let a moment of silence pass for this to sink in.

“His morning cup of chamomile tea was also once seemingly inadvertently used to mix paint. Mahler was fortunate not to drink from it.”

“The opera direction has not seen fit to investigate these?”

“They are a pack of old ladies.”

“And what about Mahler himself? Has he made no complaints of these incidents?”

“He is too involved in his music to see anything more than coincidence.”

“But, Fräulein Schindler, why should anyone want to harm Mahler? He is, according to the press, quite transforming the musical scene in Vienna.”

“There are winners and losers in any such transformation.”

She was right, of course, but all of this sounded a bit too melodramatic. Kill a man because he wants to get rid of the claque or paid applauders? Because he turns the houselights down before performances and allows no latecomers in until pauses?

“And what is it you would like me to do?”

“Investigate. See who is responsible for these outrages. Stop him . . . or her before Mahler is seriously hurt. Or worse.”

“I see.” He said it flatly, without emotion.

“I am willing to pay. I have a secret bank account from my father. My real father, that is.”

Werthen waved a hand at the suggestion. “Let us see where things stand first.”

“Then you will take my case.” For the first time, her face showed honest emotion, a childlike glee.

“I will talk with Herr Mahler.”

“You mustn’t tell him it was I who commissioned you.”

“Strictest privacy, I assure you.”

She stood suddenly, thrusting her hand forward.

“Klimt was right about you. He said you were marvelous. I think so, too.”

He was surprised by the strength in her tiny hand when he shook it.

Alma Schindler nodded to Berthe on the way out, but otherwise made no acknowledgment of her presence.

They waited for a moment, listening for the exterior office door to close.

“Well?” he said.

“She’s hard of hearing.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell me you are, too.”

“Why do you say that?”

“That little act of leaning across the desk as if to become more intimate with you. Not the reason at all. She just has trouble hearing. I had a friend from school who did the same thing and with the same effect on the boys.”

“I assure you—” he began.

“Oh, not to worry, Karl. She is an attractive thing, I will give her that. And smart. A difficult combination for a woman.”

“What do you think of her story?”

Berthe gathered her notebook and pencil. “She has an active imagination, to be sure. But then, there is a dead soprano, no?”

“So, you think it is worth following up?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, does it? You’ve as much as promised the girl. And pro bono to boot.”

He felt like a fool. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

She came across the room to him, placing her warm, soft palm against his cheek.

“Don’t worry, Karl. I am sure she has gotten the better of many other men, as well.”

Werthen and his wife took lunch out today, dining at one of their favorite
beisln
just two doors from the office. The Alte Schmiede was a simple and cozy place with a luncheon menu that changed daily. Today there was
leberknödel suppe
followed by a spicy goulash served with steamed new potatoes. They drank a red wine from Burgenland with lunch; neither had dessert. They sat for a time over small cups of coffee instead, talking of the morning and planning the afternoon.

Werthen, after the departure of Fräulein Schindler, had decided to push forward with things, and had placed a telephone call to the Court Opera attempting to get in touch with the director. Mahler, he was told, was at home today, suffering from a severe sore throat. He asked for, and, due to his title of lawyer, was given Mahler’s home telephone number. A call there was answered by a female, who turned out to be one of the musician’s sisters, Justine Mahler. She was chief housekeeper and, it would seem, bodyguard, by the manner in which she so closely questioned Werthen about the purpose of his proposed interview. He had pleaded the importance and privacy of his proposed meeting—and ultimately was able to secure an appointment for two this afternoon.

“Gustav should be up from his nap by then,” the sharp voice on the other end said. “Otherwise, you will have to wait.”

He took leave of Berthe, who was off to her afternoon work at the children’s care center in Ottakring. The day was perfect for walking: a light breeze with high scudding clouds in a robin’s-egg blue sky, like something out of a Bellotto view of the city.
Strolling through the peaceful cobbled lanes of the Inner City, Werthen felt well with himself and the world. It was all he needed for now: the love of a good woman, a fine lunch under his belt, a day made for walking, and at the end of the stroll, a possible case.

Mahler’s apartment was just outside the Ringstrasse on Auen-bruggerstrasse, a short lane that led into Rennweg, the diplomatic quarter near the Belvedere. As he made his way up the Schwar-zenbergplatz, he was reminded of the morning he and his old friend, the criminologist Hanns Gross, had left that same palace, the uninvited guests for the night of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.