As arranged, Bachman returned to the train station to pick up Berthe and Frieda.
‘Hotel Metropole,’ he said as she lifted Frieda into the fiaker. Bachman stored the Richardson Carriage on the luggage-rack at the back and then nodded for her to take her seat.
Berthe shuddered when she heard the destination. She had spent the last fifteen minutes, since the Baron von Suttner and his niece left the station, correcting her initial impression. Perhaps she was reading too much into a kiss on the cheek. The grateful niece giving her stodgy uncle a peck in appreciation for her day out. Perhaps the Baron had simply made a mistake about the opening days of the Reinthaler Collection. Perhaps it was nothing more than that.
She had almost accepted this revision, but now Bachman put paid to that. It seemed the Reinthaler Collection had not been on the Baron’s itinerary, after all.
Berthe did not want Frau von Suttner’s fears to be proved true; she did not want to be the one to tell her idol that her husband was conducting a tawdry affair with his own niece.
The hotel was only a few streets distant, not in the best neighborhood and definitely not known for its rooms or restaurant. Instead, it was known for the discretion of its staff.
As the fiaker pulled up to the kerb, Frieda peeked out of the window and then stared back at Berthe, grinning widely and showing off her two bottom teeth.
‘Dah,’ she said.
‘Mutti,’ Berthe corrected.
Erika Metzinger came up to the coach.
‘Are they still there?’ Berthe asked.
Erika nodded. ‘It appears they have taken a room.’
Berthe’s stomach knotted.
‘The stupid man.’
‘Dah,’ Frieda said.
‘Yes,’ Berthe agreed.
And then, across the street, she noticed the man in the straw boater from the train station, so intent on watching the front of the hotel that he seemed unaware of Fräulein Metzinger or of Berthe’s arrival.
Berthe motioned for Erika to join her in the fiaker. ‘Are you sure about the room?’
‘In truth, I cannot be absolutely certain. Through the glass front doors, I could see the Baron speak with a concierge at the desk. I can only assume. .’
‘Yes. But we have to be sure.’
She turned to Frieda. ‘Will you stay with Tante Erika for a moment? Mutti needs to talk to someone.’
‘Tan-tan,’ Frieda said.
Erika’s face brightened at this. ‘Clever girl.’
Berthe slid along the leather bench and let herself out of the door of the carriage.
‘What will you say?’ Erika asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ Berthe confessed. ‘But a bit of fresh air always helps activate my brain cells.’ Then, from the pavement, ‘Has anyone entered the hotel since they did?’
‘No.’
‘You be sweet with Tan-tan,’ Berthe said to her daughter, but Frieda was already delighting in the examination of the outdated lorgnette that Erika insisted on wearing.
Berthe made her way to the entrance of the hotel. Out of the side of her vision she could see that she had finally attracted the attention of the man in the linen suit and boater. He watched her closely as she walked up the steps to the hotel and entered.
Berthe experienced a momentary frisson of delight in the precincts of this hotel so well-known for illicit assignations. The gray-faced, jowly man behind the desk looked up at her as she entered. He appraised her with rheumy eyes that had seen it all. She stopped for a moment, then straightened her back and strode to the front desk.
‘Madam,’ the concierge said.
‘Good day to you.’
‘May I be of assistance?’ He managed to insert a large dose of nuance into those five words, so that Berthe felt she must bathe at once upon returning home. He spoke with a heavy Italian accent, and his eyes went up and down her body.
‘Yes you may,’ she replied. Opening her handbag, she extracted a lace handkerchief that Karl had just purchased for her. He enjoyed surprising her with small gifts: flowers, a special book, this lacework handkerchief.
‘I am playing the Good Samaritan. This was left in the fiaker I am riding in. The driver says he dropped his fare here. I thought-’
‘Very nice of you, Madam, I’m sure.’
He reached for the handkerchief, but she pulled it back from him.
‘Don’t you want to know which guests?’
He puffed his lips. ‘Of course. How silly of me.’
‘My driver tells me he deposited the young woman and a man here not fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Ah,’ the concierge nodded knowingly. ‘That would be Herr and Frau von Tilling. They make a point of staying with us when they come up from the country. It must be the young lady’s.’
He thrust his meaty hand palm upward across the desk. ‘I would be happy to return it.’
Karl will understand, she told herself as she relinquished the prized lacework.
‘Von Tilling, you say?’
‘Yes, Madam. Perhaps you know them?’ He turned for a moment, stuffing the prized handkerchief into one of the pigeon-holes behind him. Room 205.
She shook her head, wanting badly to get out into the fresh air once again. ‘No. But I have done my good deed for the day.’
‘Indeed you have, Madam.’
She made her way out of the hotel and back out on to the sunny street. The man in the boater tipped his hat at her as she walked back to the fiaker.
Inside the carriage, Erika and Frieda were happily engaged in a game of schnick, schnack, schnuck. Frieda had just made the scissors sign with forefinger and middle finger, while Erika’s hand was outstretched as paper.
‘Oh, you win again,’ Erika said.
Berthe got in and took a deep breath.
‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ Erika said. ‘What did you discover?’
‘They are there. As husband and wife.’
‘Registered as Suttner?’
‘Worse. As von Tilling.’
Erika looked puzzled.
‘More, Tan-tan!’ Frieda pleaded.
‘Just a moment, love,’ Erika said. Then to Berthe, ‘Who is von Tilling?’
‘It’s the name of the protagonist in Frau von Suttner’s Lay Down Your Arms. This is a double betrayal! How sad.’
PART TWO
TWELVE
She had a bad feeling about this one. He did not smile, did not look her in the eye.
‘I was expecting Herr Forstl.’
The man did not respond.
‘Did he send you?’ She looked around the park. The other walkers had disappeared.
‘He was busy,’ the man said in German that was curiously devoid of accent. The voice was without any distinguishing characteristics, like a face that has been badly burned.
‘Did he send the money with you?’ Her eyes darted down the empty pathway. She forced herself to keep calm. After all, it was mid-afternoon in a public park. She had arranged the meeting place with her own safety specifically in mind.
But this man’s gray eyes made her shiver. Like his voice, they were totally without expression.
‘Herr Forstl regrets to inform you that he cannot meet your conditions.’
There was a momentary twitch of his lips, almost a smile. And though his message enraged her, the lip movement made her relax her guard for just an instant.
It was long enough.
She did not even register his right hand coming up to her face, palm open. The ball of his hand smashed into her nose with enough force to crush bone and cartilage, driving shards into her frontal lobe.
She was dead before she hit the ground.
The emissary bent over her body, quickly putting his forefinger to her carotid artery. Then he made a rapid movement with his right hand, sighed, and stood up straight once again.
Satisfied, he strolled back down the path, past the under construction sign he had earlier placed to block the path and keep other pedestrians away.
‘You know her?’ Detective Inspector Drechsler said.