Herr Wittgenstein was engrossed in paperwork at his large desk as Werthen entered, though the man was supposed to be retired. He waved away the servant, and then nodded to a chair for Werthen.
‘Fast work, Advokat.’
Werthen took this as a compliment and nodded, placing the photograph he had borrowed from Fraulein Hermine on the desk.
‘I understand you gave Kurt a bit of a shock at the morgue.’
‘I felt he would be the best to consult,’ Werthen said tactfully.
‘You were wrong, Advokat. I do not need to be handled like an over-sensitive child. You really should have mentioned your deeper concerns.’
‘After a week with no word, it was a possibility. Also, I assumed you preferred a degree of anonymity.’
Wittgenstein let out a low grunt at this. Werthen did not know what it was supposed to signify.
‘So he’s taken himself off to New York. Just like his father.’ Herr Wittgenstein seemed almost proud of Hans for the deed. Then, ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘A school friend loaned him money. He seemed awfully certain. We’ll know for sure when the passenger manifest is released.’
‘Is it this Praetor chap Kurt tells me of?’
‘Henricus Praetor,’ Werthen said. ‘A journalist.’ He wondered if the father shared Kurt’s misbegotten assumptions about Hans Wittgenstein’s sexual orientation. He did not want to have to deal with that question again. Happily, the elder Wittgenstein was more interested in Praetor’s journalism than his choice in partners.
‘The man’s a cad, if you ask me. Irresponsible yellow journalism that cost a fine man his life.’
Werthen was surprised by this sudden outburst, unaware that Wittgenstein was a friend of any sort to those in power in City Hall. It was not just Lueger and company’s anti-Semitism, but also their scapegoating of big businessmen such as Wittgenstein that would seem to make them natural enemies.
‘He’ll be back,’ Herr Wittgenstein said at length. ‘I was full of myself and searching for “freedom” just like young Hans. I came back. So will he.’
Werthen was not so sure of this, but it was not his place to offer such opinions. Instead, he indicated that he had pressing business and rose to leave.
‘A payment will be posted.’
Werthen nodded at this, even though there had been no discussion of fees. He was sure Wittgenstein would know what was appropriate.
He was led downstairs by Meier and in the entrance hall met with young Ludwig Wittgenstein again, just returning home it seemed, for he was dressed in quite a sporty loden coat with a fur collar and his cheeks were brilliant red from the cold air.
‘Advokat Werthen. It is nice to see you again.’
‘And you, as well, Master Wittgenstein.’
‘Have you found our Hans for us?’
So the patriarch had not eased family minds the night before.
‘He is on his way to America.’
Ludwig smiled brightly at this. ‘Good for him. And for you for being so clever as to solve the mystery in one day.’
‘Thank you. It has been a pleasure.’
Werthen was about to step out the door when Ludwig added, ‘I hope to meet you again, sir. Under more favorable circumstances. It is now time for my Greek lesson, or I would show you another project I am embarked upon. A working model of Herr Daimler’s motorcycle.’
A week later Klimt came to the office at eleven forty-five with a smile on his face and a money order in hand.
‘Quite generous,’ Werthen said, looking at the amount and happy he had not stated his fees.
‘Herr Wittgenstein was most pleased. The family received a telegram from New York yesterday. It seems Hans is safe.’
‘All’s well, et cetera, et cetera. It’s awfully good of you to hand-carry this for Herr Wittgenstein.’
‘None of that,’ Klimt blustered. ‘I’ve come for my reward. A fine lunch at the Cafe Frauenhuber.’
Seven
It was an auspicious date, Werthen thought, the forty-sixth day of the new century. According to his Brockhaus encyclopedia there had been a number of important events that occurred on February 15. Socrates was sentenced to death on this day in 399 BC; Ferdinand III became Holy Roman Emperor in 1637; the Spanish-American War started two years ago. And now, February 15, 1900, he, AdvokatKarl Werthen, was about to become a landowner.
To attempt to do so, at any rate.
It happened this way.
He and Berthe were avid walkers, and the Vienna Woods afforded them a myriad of favorite hikes. One in particular would take them by the village of Laab im Walde, a pleasant little crossroads with a Gasthaus that served some of the best Reh or venison Werthen had ever eaten. Across the road from this inn was an old four-square: a farmstead from the seventeenth century built in a square like a fort around a Hof or courtyard. The walls of the farm were painted a delicate shade of ochre, reminiscent of the faded golden yellow one saw at the Habsburg summer palace of Schonbrunn. On their last hike, before Berthe grew too close to her delivery date, Werthen had seen a sign posted at the gate to this old farmstead. It was a notice of public sale of the farmhouse and some of the adjoining land. Werthen had just the previous weekend taken another hike to Laab im Walde and discovered that the sign was still there.
I am a family man now, Werthen had reasoned. How fine to have a place nearby for weekends and summers. He could even imagine the Christmas holidays that could be spent in such an environment, a candle-lit spruce tree giving off flickering shadows in the low rooms of the old farmhouse. He had peeked in a number of windows and could see that the interior of the farm needed a good deal of work, but also that several of the rooms bore exposed beams and one still had a blue ceramic Kachelofen in a corner for heating. He could well imagine fixing up that old farmhouse, and watching his daughter grow into adolescence and adulthood there. There would be other children, too, perhaps a boy with whom he would rough-house in the yard. There was a stable attached to the house; a pair of horses could be kept and his children could learn to ride as he had. An idyllic picture.
Werthen had duly gotten in touch with an estate agent and was now in the process — with Berthe’s blessing — of proposing an offer for the place.
The payment from Karl Wittgenstein had finally prodded him into action. Feeling adequately solvent, he decided it was time to make a bid on the farm in Laab im Walde, time to take the first step toward establishing a country house. Grundman, his agent, had spoken with the owners and ascertained that they were eager and ready to sell. All that remained was for Werthen to make a serious bid, a number from which subsequent negotiations could begin. Per Grundman, a serious offer would come in somewhere around sixteen thousand florins. The land agent told Werthen a similar property had sold in nearby Hinterbruhl for that price. Renovations would take another ten thousand, easily. The Wittgenstein payment would be coupled with the belated wedding present of twenty-five thousand florins his parents had presented him and Berthe with.
The extreme generosity was in part due to the guilt they felt at not recognizing the union at first. Guilt, of course, was a two-way street. Werthen’s own sense of it had in part sent him to his parents’ hotel last week to repair the damage done by his speaking plainly. He would love to have let it go for a time, to buy a portion of peace for his family for just a few more days. Berthe’s father, Herr Meisner, had taken himself off in a huff, back to his home in Linz. The flat was once again theirs and they could enjoy their new baby unimpeded. But in the end, it had been guilt and Berthe — who had shoved his hat in his hand — that had sent Werthen with roses and chocolates to the Hotel zur Josefstadt to beg pardon of his mother and father.