‘Very good, Frau Werthen.’
Werthen waited for his wife to correct Salten. Instead, she smiled wanly at his compliment.
‘Meisner, actually,’ she said after a pause. ‘Frau Meisner. I kept my maiden name.’
This made Salten sit up in his chair. ‘My apologies, Frau Meisner.’
Werthen was tiring of all this toing and froing. ‘The murdered girl, Herr Salten. What is Frau Mutzenbacher’s interest in her, other than commercial?’
‘You’ll have to ask her that, Advokat. That is, if you accept the commission.’
‘Frieda, dear,’ Berthe said to their daughter. ‘Don’t pull the doggie’s ears. She doesn’t like that.’
‘Sof ears,’ the child said.
‘They are that,’ Salten said. ‘Like silk.’
Frieda, squatting by the rather impatient animal, craned her neck Salten’s way.
‘Sill,’ she said.
‘Silk.’
‘And how is it you have come to me?’ asked Werthen, redirecting the conversation once again.
‘Well, it was over a game of Tarock, actually. I enjoy a hand or two at the Café Landtmann now and again, and two days ago my usual partners and I were joined by Gustav Klimt.’
‘I would never credit Klimt with the patience for cards,’ Berthe said, but her eyes were still on Frieda and the dachshund.
‘True,’ said Salten. ‘It is my considered judgment that he would be better off with a more physical pastime.’
‘Such as lifting dumbbells,’ Werthen said. ‘I mean it quite literally. He is very much the one for exercise.’
‘And for cream pastries,’ Berthe added. ‘Please, Frieda. Not the doggie’s ears.’
Salten eyed his beloved Mimi warily. ‘Perhaps I should tie her up outside.’
He got up and did so. Meanwhile, Berthe took Frieda to another room.
Once Salten returned, the dog began whining outside.
‘Quite a social animal, the dachshund. They don’t like being left alone.’
‘I’m sure she’ll survive,’ Werthen said. ‘So it was Klimt that put you on to me?’
‘I mentioned quite casually the intentions of Frau Mutzenbacher, and he immediately came up with your name.’
‘Most kind of him.’
‘He also mentioned you are quite zealous in your billing. I don’t believe there will be a problem with Frau Mutzenbacher.’
‘Did you know the girl in question?’
‘Mitzi? I’d seen her about. As I say, I am engaged by Frau Mutzenbacher on her memoirs.’
‘I mean in a professional way.’
‘You are a direct one, aren’t you?’
‘I like to know where I am in a case.’
‘No. Not that I haven’t been known for dalliances. I am, of course, now engaged to Fräulein Metzel of the Burgtheater.’
Werthen nodded at this information, but remained silent.
‘She was not my type,’ Salten added.
‘How is that?’
‘I do not know how familiar you are with such establishments as Frau Mutzenbacher’s, Advokat.’
‘Educate me.’
‘Well, there are usually young women to satisfy almost every taste. Including the hard-pressed woman of good birth who takes up the trade to pay off her father’s debts.’
‘A fabrication?’
‘Generally so. At Frau Mutzenbacher’s, always. Her premises are the home of illusion. The high-class lady fallen low appeals to the sensitive trade — the talkers rather than doers, if you understand?’
Werthen nodded. He’d had some experience of the trade during his years of criminal law in Graz, but thought it better to let Salten play the magister ludi in this regard. No telling what a fellow might blurt out when in an educative mood.
‘Then of course there is the pale young thing who never says a word, the mute of the boudoir. And the tough woman with the heart of gold, the soft woman with the harsh voice and tendency toward discipline. I’m sure you understand.’
‘And what was Mitzi’s role?’
‘The child virgin. Don’t get me wrong,’ said Salten quickly, seeing Werthen’s look of disapproval. ‘She was neither. But she was quite young-looking, a diminutive young woman who could and did easily pass for thirteen. In point of fact, she was nineteen.’
‘So her clients believed she was a child?’
‘I would assume so, though I’m hardly privy to their thoughts. Really, you must put these questions to Frau Mutzenbacher. I only saw the girl in passing a few times. Bringing tea to us as we worked during the day. That sort of thing. She seemed to be a special favorite of Frau Mutzenbacher.’
The whines grew more insistent from outside.
In the end, Werthen, deciding prostitutes also deserve justice, agreed to the commission and set up a time for an interview with Frau Mutzenbacher the following Monday. The case was already over two weeks old, so there seemed no need for undue haste, and Werthen and his family had planned a weekend in the country.
Salten said his goodbyes to Berthe and Frieda and went off down the lane, with Mimi trotting along quite proudly in front.
That evening Berthe experimented with a new spaghetti recipe. They waited for these breaks from Vienna and their housekeeper, Frau Blatschky, and her traditional Austrian cooking, to try more exotic fare. Werthen had noticed that of late his wife had taken more of an interest in cooking. He doubted very much that it was merely a sign of increased domesticity. Instead, he supposed that she was finding variation, and a sense of discovery in whatever way she could, for as a new mother she had been tied more closely to home since Frieda’s birth.
Stein, freshly scrubbed after his day’s exertion building the tennis court, looked at his plate of pasta with a degree of suspicion. Then, watching Berthe twirl a bit round the tines of her fork, followed suit and was soon slurping along with the rest.
They had moved on to the meat course, veal, which for Stein was more recognizable, when he said, ‘The rye grass is experimental at best.’
‘Pardon?’ Werthen said.
He was watching Frieda, who was lingering over her pasta, busily painting her cheeks a brilliant orange with the sauce.
‘We’re not really too sure about how well it will do in this loamy soil. Your father and myself, that is.’
‘I did not expect you were referring to your own father,’ Werthen said with a smile. Stein senior had long since been pensioned off, though still living on the von Werthen estate. ‘Young’ Stein, as he was called although he was a bit older than Werthen, had taken his place a number of years ago.
‘He still misses the work,’ Stein said ruefully.
‘Why the experiment?’ Werthen said at length.
‘Well, to see what grass will be best for your father’s new place.’
‘New place?’
Stein laid down his fork. ‘You didn’t know he is purchasing land near here?’
Werthen felt his entire face sag in dismay, then hurriedly got control of his emotions.
‘I expect he was planning it as a surprise.’
‘Yes,’ Berthe chimed in. ‘Very much a surprise.’
‘I must apologize,’ Stein said, his face reddening at his perceived faux pas.
‘Not at all, Stein,’ Werthen reassured him. ‘One assumes he is not creating a tennis academy to rival the All England Croquet and Lawn Tennis Club?’
A polite demi-laugh issued from Stein. ‘It’s to round out the new estate. I believe there’s to be an equestrian ground, as well. It is the sole topic of conversation at Hohelände.’
‘It’s only natural they want to be near their only grandchild,’ Berthe said.
They were lying side by side in bed, gazing up at the darkened ceiling.
‘Perverse, not natural. Stein says the property is near here. Just a bit of breathing room, that is all I require.’
‘They probably assume that now we have a summer home they would not see much of us at Hohelände.’
‘And they would be right. I do not have the fondest memories of that house.’
‘Even though that’s where we met?’