She glanced up as Sponer entered.
“Did a young woman come in about five minutes ago?” he asked. And, when she continued looking at him, he added, “In a green suit with a fox fur.”
“Why?” the woman asked, dunked a piece of roll in her coffee and continued reading the paper.
“I’ve a letter for her.”
The woman put out her hand.
“To be delivered personally,” he said.
“Second floor, on the right, Countess Dünewald,” and she stuck the piece of roll in her mouth and turned over the page.
Well, well, he thought, a Countess! Probably the daughter. And, as he glanced from the porter’s wife to the newspaper with artist’s sketches illustrating some crime reports, he said: “No, not the…”
“Not the what?” the woman asked.
“Not the Countess.” He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a letter. He pretended he was looking at the address.
“Her niece?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” he said, and then almost without thinking, “the Duchess.”
“She’s no duchess.”
“Isn’t she? Ah,” he went on, “you’re right, it doesn’t say that here either. But, anyway, it’s her niece.”
“Let me see,” she said, and held out her hand once again for the letter.
“No, I just wanted to check that the names tallied.”
“Raschitz?”
“That’s the one,” he said, as if simply confirming the fact. “And the first name?”
She again wanted to see the letter.
He stuck it back in his pocket. “No, that’s all right,” he said. He didn’t find out the first name. “Second floor, on the right, then?” he said. “Thanks.” And he adjusted his cap and left. He noticed she was staring at him as he closed the door. She had become curious and went to the door of the flat. He therefore pretended he was going to deliver the letter. He walked to the stairwell, mounted a couple of steps and stopped. It occurred to him that he really could walk up. He ascended a few more steps. On the second floor, on the right-hand door he saw a brass plate with the name “Dünewald”.
He waited two or three minutes and then walked down the stairs again. When he came to the entrance hall he saw that the woman was still standing at the door, staring. He got into his car and waited.
Every now and again trams passed up and down Prinz-Eugen-Strasse, and a couple of cars raced past.
Dry leaves from the Schwarzenberg Park fluttered in the wind.
He told a couple of people who wanted to get in that he’d been hired already.
He waited till about half past seven.
It had gone dark long ago; a strong wind had got up, and the street lamps flickered and swayed.
The porter’s wife came out of the house once, but he turned his face away and she didn’t recognize him.
At about half past seven the girl appeared, accompanied by two handsome older men, dressed in the manner of ex-cavalry officers. The three took no notice of the cab. They walked past, chatting about bridge.
They walked down the street. Sponer drove slowly behind them. After a while they turned left into a side street, then right into Alleegasse. They stopped in front of number sixteen. The two gentlemen said goodbye. The girl went into the house, and the men walked off in the direction of the centre of the town.
During that evening and the next morning, Sponer found out from the doormen in Alleegasse and from the head waiter of the nearby Café Attaché, but in particular from a commissionaire who used to sit either on the street corner or in a bar opposite, under a sign with two white horses, that the girl was called Marisabelle von Raschitz, that she was the daughter of a major, and was indeed the niece of Countess Dünewald, the widow of Count Dünewald, the erstwhile household steward of Archduchess Maria Isabella, after whom the young lady, whom the commissionaire had known since childhood, had been duly christened.
“They say,” he added, “that Major von Raschitz is still a wealthy man. Marisabelle also has a brother.” The commissionaire knew him, too, from childhood. He said that he’d often chatted to the two lovely young children when they were taken for walks. In Vienna, children, even from the upper classes would, in former times, happily talk to servant girls on street corners or to elderly invalids in the Belvedere Gardens. These invalids had either lost an arm or had a peg leg, they wore uniforms of days gone by, looked after the park amenities and used to talk to the children and their nannies; the commissionaire also reminisced about former times, about the Archduchess, her household, and the splendid carriages with their gilt wheels. Sponer listened to him for a while, nodded absentmindedly, and got back in his car.
In the next side street there was a taxi rank. He parked his cab there, got out and walked to the corner, from where he could observe the house. However, when the cabs that were parked in front had picked up fares and it was his turn, he explained, after driving a few yards, that there was something wrong with his car, and he let the others take his place. Some of the drivers offered to help. Sponer declined. He started tinkering with the engine himself.
At about eleven he saw Marisabelle leave the house. She wore a brown skirt and a short fur jacket. Her long gloves were still under her arm, but she started to put them on as she headed towards the centre.
Immediately afterwards, the house gates opened and a Cadillac drove out. Two men were sitting in the back. The Cadillac turned into the side street in which Sponer was tinkering with his engine.
He stopped, walked up to the commissionaire, and asked him whose car it was.
“It belongs to an industrialist,” the commissionaire replied. A certain Herr So-and-so, who also lived in the same building. Sponer didn’t register the name. But he asked if the Raschitzes, too, owned a car. The commissionaire replied in the affirmative.
Sponer now picked up a fare, then a second one at the Church of the Nine Choirs of Angels, who had to make several business calls at various government offices and departments, and for whom Sponer had to wait at each stop. When, however, at about one o’clock in Schwarzspanierstrasse there still appeared to be no end to these calls, Sponer asked his fare to leave, since he had come to the end of his shift. He drove back at breakneck speed to Alleegasse, and parked to await Marisabelle’s return.
She didn’t return, however, and at about two he reluctantly concluded that he had probably missed her. In the café Zu den Zwei Schimmeln he had a bite to eat with the commissionaire, who also had a few beers and regaled him and the other clients with tales of the former imperial court. In Vienna there were still quite a few of these old commissionaires, minor officials, former servants and the like, who sported side whiskers and waxed nostalgically about the Court, the Arcièren Life Guards, the huge tips dispensed by the foreign potentates, the Emperor’s house guests, and much more besides. Sponer, who was twenty-nine and knew hardly anything about such things, listened without paying much attention, constantly glancing over the street to the windows with the curtains.
I shall, he thought, park in front of the house so that when she comes out in the afternoon I can ask if she wants a cab.
He paid, left, and drove to Alleegasse. He stopped in front of the main entrance, pointing towards the city centre. After a short while a policeman asked him what he was doing there parked for so long. “I’m picking up a fare,” Sponer replied. “He hasn’t come down yet, he’s still in the house.”
The commissionaire, who by now was becoming suspicious of Sponer’s behaviour, also came over and asked him a question, which, however, Sponer completely ignored. For at this very moment Marisabelle emerged from the house. She was wearing a dark coat and a two-tone hat.