Brockhurst could tell you what the von Dresslers were having for dinner that night or what toiletries the Kneizler family favored, or which domestic might have something to hide in any of these great houses.
What he did with such information on Graz’s society families, Gross had no idea. But the servants were another matter. Brockhurst lost his virginity to one such young maid, who feared for her position lest the young master tell her employers of her secret arrangement with the poulterer, who paid her five crowns every quarter for bringing the family custom his way at slightly inflated prices.
All in all, this had been a perfect training ground for the future spy — for that is what Brockhurst was, despite his protestations to the contrary.
‘After all, I am only a simple bureaucrat,’ he finally said in response to Gross’s request. ‘I hardly have access to such information.’
‘Let us cut through the blather, Brockhurst. Life is too short for it. We both know what the other is about.’
‘What does it matter to you whether the unfortunate von Ebersdorf was a diplomat or up to his eyes in espionage? He is dead. Full stop.’
‘It matters because it figures in our investigation.’
‘Into the murder of this prostitute of yours?’
‘Of von Ebersdorf’s, actually. He was her regular customer. Does that not raise any alarm bells for you?’
‘My God, Gross. Are you suggesting that a man of von Ebersdorf’s quality, whether spy or diplomat, would indulge in pillow talk with a tart? That he would divulge state secrets in between bouts of bedroom callisthenics?’
‘The thought had crossed my mind.’
‘Because of the coincidence in timing of their deaths?’
Gross said nothing, knowing that Brockhurst was surely experiencing the same suspicions.
There followed a long silence, punctuated only by the ticking of the baroque cloisonné clock on Brockhurst’s fastidiously organized walnut work table.
‘Russia desk,’ Brockhurst suddenly said. ‘But you didn’t hear it from me.’
‘Chief?’
Brockhurst nodded. ‘A family man,’ he added.
Gross understood the veiled threat: do not publicize the dead man’s connection to the Bower.
‘We were aware of Joachim’s peccadilloes, of course.’ He fixed Gross with eyes as grey and unforgiving as granite.
Gross felt a sudden chill, wondering if he were asking Brockhurst about the wrong death. Had he and his minions eliminated the source of the peccadilloes?
He returned the stare, and finally decided to lead the interview in a different direction.
‘Seeing that you are sharing secrets, perhaps you can aid me in another investigation — involving Herr Schnitzler.’
‘Our national treasure.’ Brockhurst said it with dripping sarcasm. ‘What’s your connection?’
Gross briefly explained the attack on the playwright.
Brockhurst appeared unmoved. ‘And what do you expect me to tell you? That Austria’s power structure has lashed out at the man who betrayed his own officer class? Hardly. More likely some cuckolded husband took long overdue revenge on that Lothario.’
‘Officer class?’
‘You didn’t know? The man was a reserve officer. As I understand it, the General Staff used his services from time to time.’
‘If I understand you correctly. .’
‘Yes. Schnitzler has the perfect cover. As an artist he has access to many influential people across national boundaries. He can travel without raising suspicion. In short, the perfect courier. A pity he had to ruin such a mutually profitable relationship by penning that worthless play.’
The kitchen at the exclusive Hotel Excelsior was in the basement, a cavernous space filled with the bustle and hum of lunchtime activity.
Finicky in his daily habits and hygiene, fussy about his bath and his application of bay rum, Gross was appalled by what presented itself before his disbelieving eyes.
A scurrying in the bags of rice left open in one murky corner could very well have been a rat in search of lunch. He twice witnessed a sous-chef drop bloody cuts of veal on the filthy sawdust-covered stone floor, then calmly pick them up and lightly brush them off with his soiled apron before delivering them to the chef to dip into egg batter for breading. Another kitchen helper (what rank does one have if attired all in gray stripes?) appeared to have a cold and was happily sneezing all over the cucumber he was dicing.
Marcel — not his real name, he was actually Felix Kolowitz from Hernals — stood majestic in his tall white chef’s toque, a commander in charge of spatula-wielding troops, dispatching his forces with a sang-froid that bespoke indifference to human suffering: the hallmark of all great leaders.
‘Herr Gross, this is not the most opportune moment for your queries.’
‘Doktor, actually, and Herr Direktor Mautner would beg to differ with your assertion. It is a simple query, actually.’
‘I will have to examine my records. There were a number of extra kitchen hands and stewards laid on for the von Ebersdorf banquet.’
A dramatic pause. Then, ‘Such a terrible occurrence! Nothing of the sort has ever happened in a kitchen of mine.’
‘I’m sure Count Joachim von Ebersdorf would be equally appalled,’ said Gross, ‘were he here to complain.’
The comment went unremarked upon by Marcel.
‘None of the other guests were affected?’
Marcel shook his head so forcefully that his toque cracked its starched confines and seemed to melt on his head like a pat of butter.
‘The rest of the guests were quite pleased with the feast.’
It was this very fact that made Gross wonder.
She was early. She was always early. She also still had dreams of oversleeping for her Matura exam.
It was the train that was late. The Franz Josef Station was hardly the place she would have chosen to spend an idle fifteen minutes; a cavernous and chilly mausoleum. Outside the weather had left behind the morning’s rain and gloom, and had changed to glorious summer-like warmth. In here, however, it was as if yesterday’s clouds had never dispersed.
The Franz Josef Bahnhof was, Berthe decided, a perfect example of the usual graceless, tasteless architectural pomposity that characterized monuments to the Habsburgs — this one thrown together hastily about two decades earlier.
Berthe found herself in a foul mood. The train from Krems was delayed, and she was twitchy.
You should be enjoying this, she counseled herself. It is what you have been requesting for months: direct involvement in a case. Not just lending a charitable and informed ear to after-dinner discussions of the progress of a case, but actual personal involvement. Like this bit of surveillance at the Franz Josef Bahnhof.
So stop being so impatient. Take a cue from Frieda, she told herself.
Indeed, her child was cooperating marvelously, making little bubbling sounds as she napped. And why shouldn’t she be content? Bertha thought. Like a little pasha, she was nicely bundled atop a feather mattress inside the wickerwork of a Richardson Carriage. A gift from Karl’s parents, of course, and almost as expensive as a landau. It really was quite a marvelous bit of engineering, though, she had to concede. Unlike other children’s carriages, in which the child always faced backwards, the Richardson Carriage’s bassinet could be reversed so that the child faced forward. All one needed to do was loosen an axle under the middle of the enlarged bassinet and turn the bassinet around. And thanks to the enlarged bassinet, one could even use it for toddlers like Frieda.
American, of course. It was as if they had invented inventing.
Berthe pushed the carriage along Platform 12, momentarily casting her gaze towards the exit, where Erika Metzinger had taken up her watch. They exchanged glances but made no hand motions. It was only now that Berthe finally inspected the man under the clock. He had the unmistakable military stature, though he was dressed in a linen suit and straw boater.