The Figaro Murders (23 page)

I sucked a few more of the oysters and sipped my wine. The men at the table across the room conversed in low tones. The humiliation of the evening began to subside.

As Gaetano poured me another glass of wine, a loud banging sounded at the door of the shop. “Excuse me, signore,” he said and hurried out of the dining room. Several loud voices greeted him in fractured Italian. A minute later, Michael Kelly and two friends entered the room.

“Da Ponte!” The tenor slapped me on the back. “Good to see you, my friend. No hard feelings about tonight, eh?” He waved for Gaetano. “Champagne and oysters for all of us. More oysters, Signor Abbé? My treat.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Kelly,” I said in the haughtiest voice I could muster. “I've had enough.” I stood and signaled to Gaetano for the check.

Kelly grabbed at the small slip of paper. “Let me get this,” he said.

I pulled the check from his hand. “No, Mr. Kelly,” I said. My voice shook. “I am quite capable of paying my own bill.” He shrugged and laughed, then turned back to his friends.

I dug in my pocket for a few coins and handed them to Gaetano. “But signore, your food, your wine, you are not finished—”

“I no longer like the company, Gaetano,” I said. “I'll come back another time.” He ushered me through the shop, his face apologetic. I took my cloak and stick, shook his hand, and opened the door. I heard the tenor and his friends roaring with laughter in the back room. I closed the door behind me and tromped across the Graben, back to the palais.

Damn Kelly. I hoped he choked on an oyster shell.

 

Eighteen

By midmorning the next day I had already breakfasted in the Kohlmarkt; hailed a hackney cab back to the Palais Gabler; assisted Marianne in packing the vehicle with panniers filled with clothing, linens, and food for her imprisoned fiancé; and directed the driver toward the suburb immediately northwest of the city walls.

I tried to stifle a yawn as the horses clopped past the emperor's sprawling new hospital complex, said to hold five thousand patients, each with his own bed. I had tossed and turned all night, my emotions ranging from anger at Kelly to discouragement about my search for Vogel's mother to despair over my realization that I could not ignore the evidence that indicated that Caroline had murdered Florian Auerstein.

Marianne shared my mood. She had greeted me with none of her usual liveliness, and now she sat staring out the window of the cab, lost in her thoughts.

Once past the hospital, the cab turned down a short street and pulled up at a simple, long building with a steeply pitched roof. A row of small leaded windows lined the face of each of its three floors. I climbed down and turned to help Marianne, but she had already descended and was pulling the panniers out. I paid the driver, asked him to return in an hour, and helped Marianne carry the load through the arched entrance into the foyer.

The guard seated at the desk greeted Marianne and called to a small boy, who loaded himself with most of our bundles and started up a stairway on our right. Marianne, the guard, and I followed him up one flight, then down a long corridor lined with doors. Many of these stood open, revealing large light-filled rooms. Small groups of men sat about on beds or at tables. The effect was that of a large dormitory, clean and bright.

The guard stopped at an open door at the end of the corridor and waited patiently while I dug coins out of my pocket to tip him and the boy. When I entered the room, Marianne already stood in the center, her arms around Vogel, who was trying to return her embrace while holding a sharp razor in one hand. A portly, bald man sat in a chair nearby, his face half covered with foamy soap. Two other men sat on one of the beds, in line for the barber's services. Across the room, another three prisoners sat at a small table, playing cards.

“Signor Abbé!” Vogel put down the razor and reached over Marianne's head to shake my hand. “Thank you for coming.”

“You seem to be coping very well, Johann,” I said.

He laughed. “Yes, it's not too bad. The guards let me earn a little money.” He whispered to Marianne. She let go of him and sat on one of the empty beds. Vogel gave his customer's face a few flicks with the razor and wiped the soap off. The man wiggled off the chair, handed the barber a few coins, bowed to Marianne and to me, and left. Vogel looked at the two men waiting on the bed. “Could you come back in an hour, gentlemen?” They nodded and shuffled out of the room.

“Sit, sit, signore,” Vogel said, gesturing me toward the bed where Marianne sat. “I'm sorry, the chairs are all taken.” I sat down on the hard little bed. Vogel pulled over the customer's chair close to Marianne, turned it around, and sat down, leaning on the back. Marianne reached for his hand. “Marianne told me you are working at the palais,” he said.

I nodded.

“I am glad you are there to keep an eye on her for me. I don't like the idea of her staying in a house where there's been a murder.”

“I told you, I can take care of myself,” she replied. Her words were not angry. Her mood had lifted as soon as she had embraced her fiancé.

Vogel squeezed her hand. “Have you learned anything about my parents?” he asked eagerly.

I related everything: what I had learned about the items in the box from the pawnbroker; my finding of the medallion; the leads I had received from Alois Bayer and the bureaucrat Maulbertsch; and my disappointment at not being able to learn anything about the owner of the medallion.

“But there is still hope,” Vogel said. “This Maulbertsch fellow might find the convent records.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “Did your adoptive mother ever mention anything about that convent? About anyone with the initials ‘K.S.'?”

He shook his head. “No, I can't remember anything like that. To tell the truth, she was not very religious. Of course, she made me go to church, but we never talked much about it at home.”

I sighed. “I don't want you to get your hopes up,” I said. “I told you at the beginning that this might be an impossible task.”

“I know, signore. But hope is all I have right now.”

“I will keep trying, then.”

A guard poked his head in the door. “Visiting hours are over,” he said.

I rose from the bed. “I'll wait for you outside,” I told Marianne. Vogel pumped my hand.

“Thank you, Signor Abbé,” he said. “Once you get me out of here, I promise you free shaves for life.”

“I will do my best,” I said. I stepped into the corridor. When I turned around, I saw Vogel and Marianne deep in an embrace. A pang of longing stabbed me. As I watched, Marianne pulled herself away and drew a small purse from her pocket. “Here are my wages,” she said. “Have the guard bring you dinner from outside.”

Vogel's face reddened. Tears filled his eyes. “No, love, I cannot take your money. I am fine, don't worry about me.” She pushed the purse at him. He took it, threw it on the bed, and enveloped her in his arms. They clung to each other, whispering.

I looked away. The guard gestured to me. “We must go, Miss Haiml,” I said. She nodded, pulled out her handkerchief, and gently dabbed Vogel's eyes. He took it from her, then let her go. As she passed before me into the corridor, I saw him sit down on the bed, clutching the handkerchief, his normally cheerful countenance a picture of forlornness.

*   *   *

Marianne was quiet on the ride back to the city, staring out the window of the carriage, chewing on her lip. As the cab rumbled toward the Palais Gabler, I reached over and squeezed her hand. “He'll be all right,” I said.

She turned to me, tears in her eyes. “Do you really think so, Signor Abbé?” She balled her fists. “He has so much pride. That's what I fear. You must have seen how he didn't want to take my money. But I can't stand the idea of him eating the slop they serve in that place. I'm afraid that if he has to spend a whole year in there, it will wear him down.”

“He'll be fine, whatever happens,” I replied. “Why, he's already started a business in prison! He knows how to land on his feet.” My words brought a small smile to her face. “And I give you my pledge that I will do everything in my power to get him out of there. Johann is right. We will find the convent's records. If I have to spend days going through them looking for this ‘K.S.,' I will. In return, I expect to be invited to dance at your wedding!”

Her smile widened. “Oh, Signor Abbé, please forgive me. If I haven't seemed welcoming to you, or grateful for helping us, it is because I've been wrapped up in my own problems.”

“There's no need for apologies.” I looked at her closely. “But if I may, Miss Haiml—Marianne?”

She nodded.

“Is there something else bothering you, besides Johann's imprisonment?”

She lowered her eyes and shook her head.

“My dear, is it the murder? You must be frightened. I know I don't sleep well myself in that house. And Johann is afraid for your safety.”

She turned her attention to the scene outside the window. The cab had passed by the Scottish church just inside the city wall. We would reach the palais in a few moments. “He has no need to worry about me,” she murmured.

Icy fingers gripped my heart. My suspicions were confirmed. The two women trusted one another—the mistress knew that her servant would not reveal her as the murderer of Florian Auerstein, and the lady's maid knew that her mistress would not harm her because of her knowledge. I hated Caroline for involving this innocent girl in her crime. I grabbed Marianne's arm and turned her toward me. “Do you know something about the murder?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I know nothing.”

“I know you are torn, Marianne, but your loyalty is misplaced. You must look after your own interests, yours and Johann's. You cannot go on protecting a killer.”

The cab turned into the courtyard of the palais and pulled up at the front door. Marianne pulled away from me and descended onto the stones. As she ran toward the door, it opened. “Oh, Marianne, good morning!” Tomaso Piatti said. He looked over to where I stood paying the driver. “An outing on the Prater?” he asked.

“Don't be ridiculous, sir,” Marianne snapped. “I have no time for rides around the park. Signor Da Ponte kindly took me out to visit Johann.”

Piatti frowned. “Oh, forgive me, I forgot all about him. How is he doing?” He nodded at me as I joined them at the door.

“As well as can be expected, sir. Please excuse me. The baroness must need me.” She turned to enter the house.

“Wait, Marianne,” I said, grasping her by the elbow. I leaned in and murmured, “Think about what I said. You must go to the police.”

She shook loose from my grasp. “I will think about it, signore. Thank you again for coming with me.” She turned and fled into the house.

“What was that all about?” Piatti asked.

“Just some problems with Vogel.” I shrugged.

“I thought I heard you mention the police.”

My mind moved quickly. “Vogel is running a little barbershop in the prison. He has some clients who refuse to pay him.”

The music teacher laughed. “Well, what can he expect? He is in debtor's prison, for God's sake!”

I shook my head and laughed too. “I know, I know.” I moved toward the door.

“Do you have time for dinner, Lorenzo? I've read the portions of the libretto you gave me. I'd love to discuss them with you.”

I made a show of pulling out my watch. “Perhaps tomorrow, Tomaso. I have an important appointment at the theater this afternoon.” We said our good-byes. I hurried into the house and up the stairs to my room.

*   *   *

A message addressed to me sat on the desk. I quickly broke the seal and unfolded the paper. It was from Maulbertsch.

I have found something of interest. Come Thursday morning.

I washed the dust from my face and pulled on my best coat. On the way to the theater, I stopped and had a quick dinner. I worked a bit in my office until three, then went up to see Rosenberg. His secretary was apologetic: the count had gone out on a personal errand; he was due back at any moment; no, the theater poet should not return later; if he would just take a seat—

I sat for fifty minutes before the corridor door opened and the count entered, followed by a boy carrying a large crate. “Oh, Da Ponte, come in,” he said to me. I followed him into his office. Three times the size of my own windowless precinct in the theater basement, the room was dominated by a large mahogany desk set next to a row of tall windows overlooking the Michaelerplatz. On the left wall, a large painting of an elaborate hunt scene hung over an ornate marble mantelpiece. The blazing fire warmed the entire room, a feat that I could not attribute to the wheezy stove that purported to heat my own workspace.

“Put that down there,” Rosenberg told the boy, pointing to a small table to my right. “Can you get it out of the box? Quickly, we don't have much time!”

The boy opened the crate and slowly lifted out its contents. “Careful, careful!” Rosenberg bustled over to the table to supervise. “Da Ponte, come have a look. I've been after Deym to sell me one of these for years.”

Rosenberg's prize was a large gold clock. He waved the boy away. “You may go. Take the crate, if you would.” The boy waited a moment, then realizing that the highest nobility did not deign to tip, seized the crate and left.

Rosenberg consulted his pocket watch and began to wind the clock. “We just have a minute,” he said.

The clock stood about two feet high, its base just as wide. Along the base were several openings covered in fine grillwork. The clock face was made of mother-of-pearl, and sat atop the base, surrounded by small golden nymphs who pointed delicately toward the timepiece. I opened my mouth to ask what made the clock so special.

Rosenberg held up his hand to hush me. The clock hand hit the hour, and instead of sounding a chime or a gong, began to play a breezy tune.