Starb shook his head. ‘Not so you would notice.’
‘I’ll need to make a telephone call.’
‘Upstairs. I assume you never met the young man.’
‘No,’ Werthen said, watching the affable Herr Direktor carefully close drawer number sixty-three, and the corpse, covered in white, slide into the cooler once again. A strong aroma of ammonia accompanied the opening and closing, from the gas the morgue used in its refrigerating vapor compressor.
Starb discreetly left Werthen alone as the Advokat placed a call to Kurt Wittgenstein at the Kolowatring office. The decision seemed a simple one: he could not ask the father to come for the identification for fear he would be recognized. The other members of the family he had met, brothers Rudi and Ludwig, were not appropriate: Rudi was sick and Ludwig too young. And though the sister, Hermine, was termed a ‘brick’, Werthen did not want to bring a woman for such a job. Kurt Wittgenstein, however, was seemingly a man of business, a man who might be expected to have his wits about him.
Calling the number he was quickly connected with Kurt, who happily had been apprised of Werthen’s commission by sister Hermine. There was a momentary pause when Werthen explained his request.
Then, his voice breaking on the first word, Kurt said, ‘I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes.’
In the event it took twenty. Kurt Wittgenstein looked ashen as he followed Werthen and a white-coated worker — for Starb had maintained his discretion — to drawer sixty-three. White coat looked at Werthen as if asking for permission to begin, but it was Kurt Wittgenstein who answered the silent request with a sharp nod of the head.
The drawer came out slowly, accompanied again by the burning smell of ammonia.
Werthen kept his eyes on Kurt Wittgenstein, looking for any sign of recognition as the corpse’s head cleared the drawer frame.
Kurt looked at the dead man for several seconds, then took a deep breath.
‘No,’ he said finally. ‘That is not my brother. Poor man.’
‘I didn’t think it would be Hans,’ the brother said as they breathed in the fresh, crisp air outside the hospital. ‘We Wittgensteins are not the type to take the easy way out.’
‘Out of what?’ Werthen asked.
‘Well, just an expression, you know.’
‘Do you have any idea where your brother might be, Herr Wittgenstein?’
‘I would look for the nearest piano, if I were you. But no, seriously, I do not. Like my father, I am sanguine that Hans will come home soon. I assume dear Hermine has informed you of the family dynamics. Hans and I may only be a year apart in age, but we are vastly different people. For me, taking part in Father’s business is far from onerous.’
‘And for Hans? I gather he has musical aspirations.’
‘Yes. He can tickle the ivories quite flamboyantly.’ He paused momentarily. Then: ‘You must forgive me, Advokat. I am not quite myself. I must confess your call and then seeing that unfortunate young dead man. . well, it has all rather unnerved me. I do not usually talk such piffle. We Wittgensteins pride ourselves on being music lovers. Brahms, Mahler — many have found our house welcoming.’
‘It is understandable, Herr Wittgenstein. Any information you can give me would help. Do you know any of Hans’s friends?’
‘I wasn’t aware he had any.’
Werthen waited for an ironic laugh, but Kurt Wittgenstein was being absolutely serious; no more piffle.
‘Ever hear of a fellow named Praetor? Henricus Praetor? He and Hans were supposedly fast friends at the Theresianum.’
‘Sorry, can’t say I do. Is he in Vienna, this Herr Praetor?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Well, then. There you are.’
‘Where?’
‘Well, Hans has probably bivouacked in his old school friend’s cramped accommodations. Praetor? Name does sound familiar now I think of it.’
‘His father is the surgeon.’
‘No, I had newspapers in mind. Something to do with the hapless councilman who killed himself.’
‘Steinwitz?’
‘Yes, that one.’
Again, the Steinwitz connection.
‘I believe a fellow named Praetor was the journalist who first wrote about Rathaus shenanigans. We in the business community follow such things. Especially when they reach Mayor Lueger’s confidants.’
Werthen nodded at this, knowing that he still had one more question for the brother, and was not sure how to broach it.
‘I gather Hans was a very sensitive sort.’
Kurt Wittgenstein shrugged at this. ‘Hardly against the law. Especially in Vienna. Nerves and the waltz. City specialties.’
‘Those I have interviewed seemed to make a special emphasis of this sensitivity,’ Werthen said, pushing the point.
Kurt chewed on his cheek for a moment, squinting at Werthen.
‘I suppose if Father employed you, you are a man to be trusted with family skeletons, Advokat.’
‘Is that a question?’
Wittgenstein rubbed his chin. ‘I believe my brother is, as some put it, inverted, sexually speaking.’
‘Shy, you mean?’ Werthen said. He knew the phrase, but wanted to make sure.
‘Undoubtedly. But more than that. Inclined to one’s own gender.’
Which explained the priest’s embarrassment at recalling Hans Wittgenstein’s personality and character.
‘You’re sure of this?’
Kurt Wittgenstein shrugged. ‘We are not terribly close as siblings, Hans and I.’
‘Meaning he did not confide in you?’
A sharp nod of the head from Wittgenstein. ‘But one has a sense about such things.’
It was a very worldly comment for a man like Kurt Wittgenstein, who, frankly, appeared quite unworldly to Werthen.
‘I thank you for your candor, Herr Wittgenstein.’
‘At least Hans picked someone near to his own class.’ Seeing Werthen’s puzzlement, he added, ‘This Praetor fellow. One assumes. .’
A quick consultation of the current year’s telephone directory told Werthen that ‘Praetor, Henricus, Journalist’ lived at Zeltgasse 8. The Turks had set up camp on the site of this small street, not far from Werthen’s own home in the Josefstadt, two hundred years earlier when laying siege to the city for the second time. And for the second time, Vienna had proven the bulwark of Europe, turning the Muslim hordes back. The flowing tents of the enemy, however, gave the street its name — they were that close to the city walls.
Late afternoon and there was an off chance that Herr Praetor would be home this time of day. Herr Praetor was what was called a freelance journalist. Werthen found this a rather inspired usage from the real meaning of the term, denoting a medieval mercenary. The irony in Praetor’s case was that the original meaning was, in a way, apposite: the pen being mightier than the sword. At any rate, there was the possibility that Praetor, with no office to go to, might work at home rather than in his favorite cafe.
Werthen knocked once at flat fifteen. After a decent interval he administered a second series of raps. He heard footsteps approaching, felt rather than saw an eye being applied to the viewing lens built into the door, and then heard a bolt being freed. The man on the other side of the door as it opened was tall, thin, and aesthetic-looking, dressed something like a Turk himself, in a long silk smoking jacket with a fez on his head.
‘Herr Praetor?’ Werthen said.
‘Do I know you?’
Werthen quickly dug out one of his cards from the inside pocket of his overcoat.
‘Werthen,’ he said. ‘AdvokatKarl Werthen. I have been employed by the Wittgenstein family.’
‘How fortunate for you.’ Said with an acid dryness and a slight sibilance.
This was clearly not going to be easy, Werthen realized.
‘I wonder if I might come in?’
‘Please yourself.’ The young man turned and moved with elegant grace from the foyer to a sitting room that was a jumble of furniture of every style from a pine table in Alpine rustic to the heavy black bookcases of Alt Deutsch. Obviously young Praetor was not didactic when it came to furnishing. The same sort of happy serendipity seemed to inform the choice of reading matter stacked in piles and littering the room. Grillparzer mingled with Spengler, while Rilke rubbed shoulders with Stifter. Ernst Mach’s The Analysis of Sensations found a place with Sigmund Freud’s recently published Interpretation of Dreams. In one corner a large Regency desk in cherry wood was scattered with papers and a mammoth Regina typewriting machine.