He did not disabuse her of the notion.
She looked at him with a sudden thought. ‘Several weeks ago, you said. Our daughter’s been dead for several weeks? But we must fetch her. Bury her.’
‘She was given a proper burial, I assure you.’
‘This Schnitzler again, was it?’
He responded only with a tight smile.
In the end, Frau Moos allowed Werthen to take one of the letters mentioning Mitzi’s ‘education’ at the hands of Herr Schnitzler and also retrieved from the cupboard a more recent one from the time when she would already have moved into the Bower. While at the cupboard, she placed his card next to the pile of letters. The letters he now had in hand were, like all the others, written in Volapük — which, Frau Moos went on to explain, the father, an ardent socialist, had religiously taught his children in hope of making the world a finer place.
Werthen assured the woman that he would do everything in his power to bring her daughter’s murderer to justice. He knew that once she composed herself she would have further questions about where her daughter had lived for so many months and where she was buried. These he did not want to impart to her today. Instead, he told her to feel free to write to him with any further questions; they had his business card.
Let her keep an untarnished memory of her daughter for the time being, he thought.
As he left, the three girls came back into the kitchen, gathering around their grieving mother. Outside, he saw Herr Moos stacking wood, stopping occasionally to wipe his eyes.
‘You’ve brought happy news then, haven’t you?’ Herr Platt said sarcastically as Werthen climbed on to the seat of the rig.
‘No discussion now, Herr Platt. Just take me back to the station. I have a train to catch.’
‘I said no good would come of the girl going to Vienna.’
‘Just drive, Herr Platt. Please.’
‘It appears that Herr Schnitzler has been less than forthcoming.’
They were gathered in the restaurant of Gross’s hotel for late-afternoon coffee. A generous portion of Schwarzwalder Torte sat in front of the criminologist.
‘He lied to me,’ Werthen said, choosing not to mince his words. ‘There could be more than one possible reason for the lie, or course, but the fact is that he knew Mitzi quite well prior to her being established at the Bower.’
‘You said he was in a close relationship with a young woman now,’ Berthe offered.
‘Yes,’ Werthen said. ‘But from what I have heard, that has never stopped Schnitzler from dalliances before. It appears the man has no conception of monogamy.’
‘I knew a fellow like that in Graz once,’ Gross said. ‘Convicted him of multiple murders.’
‘I hardly believe Schnitzler is our man.’ Werthen took a sip of his mélange. ‘A womanizer he may be, but a killer? Perhaps Berthe is right. Maybe he is simply in love for the first time and does not want the lady to know about his sordid past.’
‘All she needs to do is attend one of his plays,’ Gross said.
‘So what next?’ Berthe asked.
‘I visit Herr Schnitzler again and confront him with Mitzi’s letter. I will, however, make certain that Fräulein Gussman is not in attendance, so we can speak frankly. After that, I believe it is time to pay the mysterious Uncle Hieronymus a visit and find out why he did not notify Mitzi’s parents of her departure from his care.’
‘Go softly, Werthen. The man’s a priest.’
Werthen bristled at this, staring at his colleague. ‘But I am not Catholic.’
‘You mistake my meaning. I am not saying that his office automatically disqualifies him as a suspect. What I meant was that if cornered, he could hide behind the robe. It’s been known to happen before.’
‘I expect you had a case once in Graz,’ Berthe joked, dispelling the slight tension. It was always like this when Werthen and Gross worked together, she thought. The competitive tension, the misunderstandings. Like bristling father and son.
TEN
The spring weather broke suddenly and Thursday dawned wet and cold. Werthen decided to go to Schnitzler’s apartment directly from home, instead of walking to his office first. He closed the door of the house behind him and breathed in an aroma that confused his sense of time, for once more the smell of burning coal was in the air, as if it were the first raw days of autumn and not almost summer.
He called ahead before leaving the house. Prokop with his angelic voice had answered. Werthen ascertained that Schnitzler would see him and that Fräulein Gussman would not be in attendance that morning. He thought about walking, as he had his umbrella with him and was wearing stout walking shoes, but then thought better of it as the needle rain increased to a real downpour.
He was in luck, for Bachmann, his favorite driver, was at the head of the fiaker queue up the street — seated on the bench of the fiaker, huddled under a black umbrella, and whistling his usual Strauss tune. Bachmann, known to the other cabbies as ‘the Count’, had been a great friend of Werthen’s ever since the Advokat assisted him in a delicate matter a couple of years before. Fact was, Bachmann was actually the son of a Habsburg count, but because of a deformity he had been, in effect, traded for a healthier specimen, who, upon growing up, had entered the military and got himself killed. The Countess had then wanted her real son back, but Bachmann — the name he had grown up with — would have none of it. He renounced the title and stayed true to the only mother he had ever known.
At any rate, Bachmann was eternally grateful for the bit of legal work Werthen had done to effect the renunciation, and had proved a valuable and valued acquaintance ever since. Most particularly, he did not ask too many questions.
‘Advokat,’ Bachmann greeted him as he approached the fiaker. ‘It takes unseasonable weather to see you again. How is the young one?’
Bachmann doffed a battered bowler at Werthen as he spoke. His thick frame was covered chin to boot top in an ancient and somewhat moth-eaten woollen greatcoat.
‘She’s lovely, Herr Bachmann. A fine young sprout.’ Werthen climbed into the cab and then, speaking out of the window, supplied the address.
Other cabbies might have inquired as to the Advokat’s health, as the address was in the medical quarter, but not Bachmann. He moved his single-horse fiaker out into the slow-moving traffic and made his way towards the ninth district.
Schnitzler was again lying on the divan when Werthen was shown in to see him. He looked expectantly at the lawyer.
‘Progress already, Advokat?’
‘Yes, in a sense.’
Schnitzler indicated the chair as he had before, but this time Werthen placed it at a distance from the divan.
‘I paid a visit to the Weinviertel yesterday,’ Werthen said.
Schnitzler continued to stare at him expectantly as if awaiting good news.
‘Perhaps you don’t know why I went there,’ Werthen said.
‘I have no idea, Advokat, but I assume you will tell me.’
‘It’s where Mitzi came from. Her real name was Waltraude Moos.’
‘Oh.’ The disappointment showed clearly on his face. ‘That young girl from the Bower again. I had rather hoped you’d come about my case.’
‘They overlap, it seems.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You’ve been less than forthright with me.’ He handed Schnitzler the letter he had taken from Frau Moos.
Schnitzler opened it and looked quizzically at Werthen.
‘It’s in Volapük,’ he explained. ‘The family used it in communications with each other. Mitzi didn’t tell you about that?’
Schnitzler shook his head. ‘But what does this have to do with me?’
‘Look at the underlined part. Your name is mentioned several times. As it was in other letters from last summer. She was so proud to tell her parents of the grand writer in Vienna who had taken her under his wing.’
Schnitzler, realizing he was caught in a lie, tried to brazen it out: ‘Well, I thought it only right to help the young girl to better herself-’