‘You can’t let her get away with it,’ Berthe said, echoing young Ludwig, when Werthen explained matters to her.
‘I feel as angry as you do, my dear, but I do not see what is to be done. As long as she is in Switzerland-’
‘That’s it,’ she said, excited.
‘What?’
‘You must get her out of Switzerland somehow. Kidnap her if you have to.’
Werthen said nothing, thinking of what his wife had just said.
They were lying in bed, their favorite place to discuss matters since the birth of Frieda. Werthen was on his back and Berthe was nestled beneath his right arm, her head on his shoulder. She suddenly pinched him hard on the side.
‘What was that for?’
‘You are going to do it, aren’t you?’
‘I need a plan.’
‘You need Gross.’
The criminologist arrived two days later, after Werthen sent off a telegram and after a trunk call that was most unsatisfactory, voices coming in and out of hearing like a fast approaching and then receding train.
Werthen met him at the station; Gross, who had arranged an emergency leave from his university, looked sullen after the all-night journey from Czernowitz.
‘I believe I have an adequate plan,’ Gross said by way of salutation. ‘One problem only. We must first locate the woman.’
They headed to their favorite rendezvous, the Cafe Frauenhuber, by Fiaker, and over a late breakfast of warm Semmeln, fresh butter, a pot of apricot marmalade, steaming mugs of coffee with milk, and boiled eggs in freckled brown shells served in onion-ware egg cups, Gross explained his idea.
Werthen listened with rapt attention, stopping him once, then twice for clarification. They would quickly find out if such a plan would work when attempting to put the first parts of it into motion.
Gross was correct: the first thing they needed to do was ascertain Frau Steinwitz’s location, and Werthen had already begun work on that part of the mission.
Herr Otto presented them with the bill when it was apparent they were ready to leave.
‘Did you notice our salvation?’ he asked, his face an emotionless mask.
‘How do you mean, Herr Otto?’ Werthen asked, then realized that they were still seated on the wonderful Thonet cafe chairs that had been under threat. He had completely forgotten about the drive to modernize the Cafe Frauenhuber; about his promise to start a petition with others among the clientele to leave well enough alone.
‘How did you accomplish it?’ he asked the waiter in amazement.
‘I am sure you know Herr Reichsrath Nadelman of the Finance Ministry. One of our more robust clientele?’
Werthen knew only too well of the man. He was of such an enormous girth that fellows at the cafe actually ran a lottery — in which Werthen took no part — to determine the man’s exact weight. Another client of the cafe, Herr Bachman, was a functionary at the state stockyards in the Third District, and he invited Nadelman on a tour of the facility. The plan was that they would both mount one of the hoists used to weigh the beasts before slaughter, and then Bachman would simply subtract his weight from the total to determine that of Nadelman. In the event, however, the hoist broke; nothing to do with excessive weight, simply wear and tear. But the irony was not lost on the rest of the cafe clientele. Nadelman was thereafter referred to in whispers as the Ochse, or steer.
‘What about him?’ Werthen asked.
Herr Otto sighed, as if ready to report a death. ‘I regret to say that Herr Reichsrath Nadelman had a nasty accident last week. You see, he was sitting down in one of the new, modern chairs and it sadly fell apart under him. Had a bit of a jolt, landing on the floor. One must be thankful he was not injured, but he did complain mightily to Frau Enghart.’
Werthen surveyed the room and saw only Thonet number fourteen chairs in attendance. Something was missing, however, or in this case, someone. Herr Bauer, the new head Ober whose idea it had been to modernize the premises, was nowhere to be seen.
‘Unfortunate for Herr Reichsrath Nadelman,’ Werthen said.
‘Most,’ Herr Otto agreed, his face still without expression.
‘It seems to have done the trick, though. I assume Herr Bauer no longer has the ear of Frau Enghart?’
‘Sadly, it was thought better that Herr Bauer seek his modernization at another establishment. He will be missed.’
They paid, leaving a handsome tip for Herr Otto.
On the way out Gross muttered, ‘Remind me never to make an enemy of that man.’
They put Gross up in the rooms of the Hotel zur Josefstadt recently vacated by Werthen’s parents. After a quick visit to Berthe and her father, Werthen and Gross set off for the Police Praesidium.
Detective Inspector Drechsler was in his cramped office going over reports. Greetings and small talk were kept to a minimum. They did learn, though, that Drechsler’s wife was recovering nicely from her operation at the capable hands of Doktor Praetor.
‘I suppose you’ve come about that little matter we spoke about?’ Drechsler finally said.
Werthen told him that yes, that was the purpose of their visit.
‘Any luck?’
‘Easy enough,’ Drechsler said. ‘I have a Swiss colleague. I believe you met him, too, Doktor Gross, at the same conference where we met. Inspector Zwingl? A hefty sort of man with a left arm shorter than the right.’
‘Ah, you mean the Kaiser?’
‘Exactly.’
They did not explain, but Werthen assumed the nickname came from a similar affliction which the German leader, Kaiser Wilhelm II, shared.
‘Very thorough, the Swiss. They do keep track of their foreign visitors.’
Drechsler pulled a card out of the middle drawer of his desk and handed it to Werthen.
The address meant little to him, other than that it was in the vicinity of Zurich.
‘It’s a noble spa really,’ Drechsler said, ‘not a clinic at all. In the town of Kusnacht. Taking the waters, she is.’
‘Many thanks, Drechsler,’ Werthen said.
‘Just remember, gentlemen. Kidnapping is a crime.’
‘Not you again. I thought you declared tabula rasa last time.’ Herr Wittgenstein seemed in a fine mood, which was just as well. ‘And you’ve brought a friend with you, I see. Does he need a favor, too?’
‘Doktor Gross, at your service,’ the criminologist said with great ceremony. ‘And yes, I am in need of a favor. But first perhaps you would care to hear why you should help in this matter.’
Gross quickly outlined the case against Valerie Gutrum Steinwitz, putting special emphasis on the fact that she had attempted to kill Wittgenstein’s own son, but killed another instead.
Wittgenstein’s face became suddenly drained of color, his eyes squinted as if a powerful light were shining in his face.
‘The damned she-wolf,’ he said. ‘I’ll see she rots in prison for this.’
‘Exactly what I hoped you would say, Herr Wittgenstein,’ Gross said. ‘And this is how you can make it happen.’
At Werthen’s office they continued to marshal their forces. First Werthen found a gazetteer for Switzerland, noting that from the center of Zurich to the Park Hotel am See in Kusnacht was a matter of only ten kilometers.
A sudden ruckus sounded in the outer office, followed by the door to Werthen’s office being thrown open. Fearing that the same thug had come to finish his work, Werthen jumped to his feet, brandishing a hefty brass paperweight from the desk like a mace.
Herr Beer charged into the room.
‘I know what you’re up to,’ he said.
‘I am sorry, Advokat,’ Fraulein Metzinger said from in back of him. ‘He would not listen to reason.’
‘You should know about this, too,’ Beer said turning to her. Then again to Werthen: ‘You’ve found her, haven’t you? The one who killed my boy?’
‘I really do not know what you are talking about, Herr Beer. Now if you will excuse us, we-’