Of course, Werthen thought as they walked toward Schottenring. Praetor’s ‘someone important’ whom the journalist’s father had become aware of, was none other than Councilman Steinwitz. And Councilman Steinwitz also had his ‘special friends,’ as Kraus had mysteriously alluded. Discovering such a tryst had been too much for Frau Steinwitz. She killed them both out of rage and jealousy.
But this was hardly a crime of passion; she had evidently planned the murders over weeks. Not a crime of passion then, but cold-blooded murder. Yet would a court in the land bring in a guilty verdict against such a wronged woman? Werthen doubted it; the very mention of a homosexual affair would be enough to sway most jurors.
Still, they had to try, Werthen thought as they approached the Police Praesidium.
‘I am afraid we need more than that to proceed,’ Inspector Meindl said, a gnome of a man seated as usual behind his monumental desk.
‘More than a confession?’ Werthen said, bewildered at Meindl’s statement.
‘More than an emotional outburst,’ Meindl said. ‘The woman is the daughter of Colonel Gutrum, after all.’
‘Who threatened us with a pistol,’ Werthen said.
‘You were on private property,’ Meindl said almost with disgust. ‘One does not simply accuse the daughter of such a man.’
Werthen looked to Gross to intervene, but the criminologist seemed lost in his own thoughts.
‘I know we could find evidence,’ Werthen said. ‘I mean, your men could find evidence. Send Detective Inspector Drechsler to the Steinwitz flat. Let him search through the lady’s closet. There is sure to be a skirt or shoes with traces of blood on them.’
Drechsler, seated against one wall, made no comment to this suggestion. A faint smile only showed on his features.
‘Because you have a theory? Please, gentlemen.’ Meindl directed his attention to Doktor Gross. ‘I have the utmost respect for you, Herr Doktor, but theories are hardly enough for a judge’s order to search the Gutrum premises.’
‘It is Councilman Steinwitz’s premises we want searched,’ Werthen said, but Meindl ignored this, continuing to stare at his former mentor, adjusting his tortoiseshell pince-nez and passing a forefinger along the tidy hairline over his right ear.
Finally Gross came out of his thoughts long enough to address the head of the Police Praesidium. ‘There is the matter of the typing ribbon from Herr Praetor’s flat.’
‘Circumstantial only,’ Meindl retorted.
‘Not if we decipher the accompanying message. I believe Herr Praetor was writing to confirm an appointment with Frau Steinwitz for the night of his death.’
‘Beliefs, suppositions, theories.’ Meindl spread his tiny and immaculate hands as if begging for more.
‘She was seen leaving the scene of her husband’s death,’ Werthen reminded him, for they had appraised Meindl of all their evidence.
‘Ah, that.’
Werthen did not like the sound of this response.
‘Herr Kulowski was very clear about it.’
‘Yes, well, the mayor’s office has been in contact since. It seems that there may be some debate about this sighting. Herr Kulowski, it turns out, does not have very perfect eyesight. In fact, he should be wearing spectacles, as I do, but in his line of work, as the mayor explained, Herr Kulowski feels such apparel might make him appear less than imposing.’
‘And the mayor offered this because. .?’ Gross said.
‘He was afraid that Herr Kulowski’s information might lead you two to the wrong conclusion about Frau Steinwitz. As it clearly has.’
Gross turned his head to look out the window to the gray and forbidding sky over the Schottenring. Werthen too refrained from comment. It was clear to him that Lueger had played a double game. The mayor, through Kulowski, had given the information about Frau Steinwitz in order to take suspicion off himself, and then proceeded to call it into question in order to keep the Gutrums in his debt. Politicians relished such machinations, Werthen knew.
Inspector Meindl took their silence as an admission of defeat.
‘When and if you have more conclusive evidence, we will surely act, have no fear.’
Werthen read about it in the next day’s Neue Freie Presse. It was under the society news.
Frau Valerie Steinwitz, nee Gutrum, has been taken to a private clinic in Switzerland, there to recover from nerve attacks following the tragic death by suicide of her husband, Councilman Reinhold Steinwitz. The family attorney released a statement to the effect that Frau Steinwitz will remain incommunicado for the duration of her treatment, which could be lengthy.
Twenty
‘So much for justice in the Habsburg realms,’ Herr Meisner said. His recovery had been speedy and seemingly full. He was sitting up in his hospital bed, munching unhappily on dried toast with all the appearance of a martyr. Crumbs collected in his salt and pepper beard.
‘Don’t think about it, Father,’ Berthe said, resting her hand on his, which lay on the counterpane. ‘We should not have told you about it.’
‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘It is not as if I am an invalid. I simply bumped my head.’
‘The doctor says you should not become overly excited,’ Werthen told him, feeling a fool now for having mentioned the outcome of his case.
‘You’ll be coming home tomorrow,’ Berthe said.
‘About time, too.’ Herr Meisner cast the piece of dried toast a baleful glance as one might a person expectorating in the street.
‘And we are arranging the Aliya,’ Werthen added.
Herr Meisner dropped the toast and reached a hand out to his son-in-law.
‘It takes a bump on the head for this to happen?’
But it was said in good humor.
‘As a matter of fact, it did. Life is simply too short for such quarrels.’
‘You’ve made an old man very happy,’ he said.
‘Hardly old, Father. But this doesn’t mean we are going to keep kosher.’
‘Please,’ Herr Meisner admonished her, ‘do not even mention that word until after I get a good meal in my stomach.’
And so the Werthen residence returned to a semblance of normality as February passed into March. Werthen’s parents did indeed depart for their estate in Lower Austria, though he was sure that the estate factotum, ‘young’ Stein — now approaching forty — would hardly be happy to have the old man back to bark out orders. And they held the naming ceremony as promised, Frieda taking the middle name of Ruth. Had his parents remained in the capital, Werthen would have maneuvered them into a christening instead of baptism, but without their presence it just did not seem important. Perhaps on their next visit.
At the office, Fraulein Metzinger was still observing a period of mourning, but Werthen no longer heard her sniffling mid-morning.
Werthen dreaded most speaking with Doktor Praetor, father of the murdered journalist. He did not want to tell the man that the murderer of his only son was beyond justice, for Austria and Switzerland had no extradition treaty. He had no idea how the man would react. Would he go to the newspapers? In which case Werthen could find himself in the midst of a nasty slander suit. But the man deserved the truth. Both Werthen and Gross met with Praetor and explained the events.
‘The daughter of Colonel Gutrum,’ he said, almost in awe.
The surgeon appeared to be a realist; he understood how things worked in Austria and made no overt protests.
‘At least we know,’ Doktor Praetor said. ‘But she is lying to you about the motive, mark my words,’ he said with fierce vehemence. ‘My son was no homosexual.’
Gross heard from Nagl in Czernowitz the day after Frau Steinwitz bolted. As suspected, Praetor was writing to confirm a meeting with her the very night of his death.
Additionally, Werthen happened to meet Oberbaurat Wagner again, this time in the company of Gustav Klimt. Out for a quick bite, he happened upon the artist and architect at one of his favorite eateries, The Red Stork, and accepted their invitation to join them at table. They exchanged pleasantries for a time, and then Werthen said, quite casually, that he was surprised to learn of the presence of Frau Steinwitz at the Rathaus the day of her husband’s suicide. Wagner, who had discovered the body, merely shook his head.