The Empty Mirror (11 page)

“At least one of us has been doing something productive today.” Werthen sighed audibly.

“And how is Klimt and his criminal protector?”

“A superficial wound for Klimt, though he was shaken by the incident. Prison is no longer such a lark for him, that is sure. And his newfound friend Hugo has secured a cushy place in the sick ward for the time. Perhaps it will even work to his credit when he is brought up on murder charges himself, that he stopped a homicide in the Landesgericht.”

“Landtauer, I assume, is a guest of the state?” Gross said, laying aside the list and returning to a perusal of a Vienna telephone directory.

Werthen nodded. “Klimt refused to press charges, and the police were willing to simply put it down to the effects of the foehn.”
Vienna’s sirocco, a warm wind that blew off the Alps, unnerved the steadiest of men. Surgeries were not performed during these winds; the presence of the foehn was a legal defense in some cases, to Werthen’s chagrin. “But I requested them to contact the constabulary in Vorarlberg first and ascertain whether Landtauer had any history of violent behavior. It was quickly enough discovered the man was infamous for the way he beat his family. The police there in fact suspected him of beating his wife to death, though they could not prove it. His daughter Liesel, it seems, ran away from his abuse the first chance she could get. The Vorarlberg police say Landtauer has been a laughingstock ever since the penny press splashed Klimt’s nude portrait of Liesel all over the front pages. Not able to even show his face at the local
Gasthaus.”

“So Landtauer was avenging himself rather than his daughter when he attacked Klimt,” Gross surmised.

“It would appear so.”

Gross shook his head. “Charming man, Herr Landtauer. But, let us put all this behind us, right, Werthen? No real harm done.”

“Once the newspapers get wind of this, they will have a high old time.” The lawyer sighed, leaning back in the rococo chair and sipping from a snifter filled with fine cognac. One thing the ruckus had done: cured him of his hangover. “The gutter press will be trying Klimt in its pages now, most likely turning that hideous paterfamilias Landtauer into a national hero and Klimt into a despoiler of young virgins.”

But Gross was no longer listening; his attention, briefly diverted by Werthen’s tale, was again fully focused on the long refectory table he’d had installed in his rooms. Spread out upon it were photos of the victims that Gross had borrowed from the forensic lab and lists of possible suspects supplied by Herzl and compiled by Werthen of Klimt’s possible rivals and enemies.

There was also a list sent by special messenger from Inspektor Meindl, which contained names of political dissidents and
anarchists who were being watched; according to Meindl these people might be interested in stirring up trouble of any sort that might lead to a revolution. Gross dismissed this as poppycock, but Werthen decided to examine the watch list closely for possible suspects, only to be alternately amazed and amused by those who had made the list: everybody from hardened Italian anarchists to homegrown critics of the government such as Herzl and the socialist Viktor Adler.

Next to these were stacks of notes in Gross’s precise and minuscule hand, a playbill from the Burgtheater advertising the Girardi performance, and the Vienna telephone directory for 1898, which had dozens of bookmarks gummed in place.

Later that evening, they met another former colleague of Gross’s from his Graz days. Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing, chair of the psychiatry department of the University of Vienna. Werthen, too, was familiar with the man, for he had been director of the Feldhof Asylum near Graz until 1889, when he was summoned to Vienna to become director of the State Lunatic Asylum. Then in 1892 he took the chair in psychiatry at the University of Vienna vacated by the death of Theodor Hermann Meynert. Werthen knew Krafft-Ebing in his role as forensic psychiatrist, who both aided in developing profiles of suspected criminals from the specifics of their crimes, as well as championed the cause of what was becoming known as diminished capacity. For Krafft-Ebing, those who committed crimes because of mental illness should not be held accountable for such crimes. Instead, he proposed the novel concept of treatment rather than punishment, a course that would never, Werthen thought, find a basis in law.

Added to this, Krafft-Ebing was among the foremost researchers in syphilis and its side effects, a believer in hypnotism as
a possible treatment for mental problems, and a pioneer of the study of sexual deviancy His 1886 book,
Psychopathia Sexualis
, documented hundreds of cases of what Krafft-Ebing termed masochism, sadism, and other deviancies, including homosexuality, incest, and pederasty. Despite that Krafft-Ebing had written the case histories in Latin to avoid sensationalism, the textbook had still become an international bestseller, which never ceased to embarrass this prudish man. It was said that the sale of Latin dictionaries increased tenfold in Germany and Austria at the time of the first publication of
Psychopathia Sexualis
.

Krafft-Ebing hardly looked the part of a social revolutionary. He was of medium height and dressed conservatively. His graying and thinning hair was cut short, and his beard trimmed to a sharp V under his chin. His eyes were the most distinctive thing about the man, Werthen thought. They were gray-green and full of a kind of luminescence that seemed to come from within.

He was kind enough to act as if he remembered Werthen, but the lawyer doubted it. Krafft-Ebing and Gross were, however, fast friends as well as colleagues.

They met at the Griechenbeisl, a favorite of Werthen’s in the First District, and after a few minutes of small talk and study of the menu, Gross got down to business. They were seated in one of the private booths, so they could speak freely. Gross explained to the psychologist the crimes they were investigating, detailing minutely the wounds to the bodies of each of the victims.

The first course arrived, and Krafft-Ebing, obviously not put off with such graphic details, happily attacked the liver dumpling floating in his consommé.

“No signs of sexual interference, I take it?” he asked.

“None whatever. Though …”

Krafft-Ebing, seeming to understand Gross’s unspoken reservations, said, “I quite agree. Such wounds could be a sign of inversion on the part of the killer. Inspired by certain deep-seated neuroses,
sexual in nature, but which are released asexually. Which means that the killer keeps his deviancy well under control. He … I assume you suspect a male killer?”

Gross nodded, forking some cucumber salad into his mouth.

“He,”
Krafft-Ebing continued, “would be a person no one could suspect of deviancy. Outwardly, he projects the picture of decorum and balance. Inwardly he seethes. This makes your work that much more difficult.”

“You are describing half of Vienna,” Werthen joked.

“Do not misunderstand me,” Krafft-Ebing said, his eyes burning a hole in Werthen. “Sexual feeling is the root of all ethics. However, sexual feelings, misguided, can also be the most damaging impulse known in society. It is not to be taken lightly.”

“That is why you are here,” Gross said, his demeanor also having taken on a new gravitas.

As if satisfied by this avowal, Krafft-Ebing went on, “The nose is intriguing. The obvious inference-further enhanced by the draining of the blood-would be a Jewish ritual murder.”

“We
had
wondered about that,” Gross said, raising his eyebrows at Werthen.

“As I say, that is the obvious inference. However, my research in syphilis suggests another possibility.” Krafft-Ebing took a moment, dabbing his lips with his linen napkin.

The three were silent while a serving girl, under the direction of the tuxedoed headwaiter, delivered the house specialty,
Pariser Schnitzel
, made with paper-thin cuts of fresh veal.

When the girl left, Krafft-Ebing continued, “Modern systems of treatment with mercury have led to progress, but still fifteen percent of the male population are estimated to be infected with the disease. We all know famous examples of those who have suffered and died. Most notably here in Vienna, the painter Hans Makart.”

Krafft-Ebing paused for a moment to cut a trim bite of schnitzel and pop it in his mouth. Werthen was growing impatient
with the man’s account, wondering what this might have to do with their own case. Gross, however, the lawyer noted, was nodding his head appreciatively at the psychologist.

“The disease proceeds in a step-by-step pattern,” Krafft-Ebing began again. “The first stage is characterized by a chancre sore that develops about three weeks after contact with an infected person. This is followed by skin rash, headache, fever, and enlarged lymph nodes about two months thereafter. The second stage. At these early stages, the disease is easiest to treat, but many ignore the symptoms, which eventually go away. The infected person may live a healthy, normal life for another year, or perhaps even ten, before the tertiary stage begins. Here begins the degeneration of the nervous system, the infection of the cardiovascular system, disorders of the spinal cord, general paralysis.” He shook his head. “A horrible disease, to be sure. Gentlemen, I still hold that sexual feeling is the root of all ethics rather than the root of all evil. When manifested for its true purpose, procreation, sex is a gift from God. Yet when used for sordid enjoyment or perverted ends, then …” He spread his hands.

By now, even Gross had grown impatient for the psychologist to connect this long aside with the business at hand.

“And you believe that syphilis plays a part in these crimes?” Gross prompted.

“You have heard of the One Hundred Club perhaps?”

Both Werthen and Gross had to shake their heads.

“A cynical association if there ever were one,” Krafft-Ebing pronounced with venom in his voice. “A society of upper-class men-I refuse to call them gentlemen-who wear what they term the badge of sexual honor. Roués and debauched members of society’s elite who have been infected with syphilis and proudly display its ravages. Many of the members are forced to wear leather noses, for in the late stages of the illness, the bacteria eats away at cartilaginous areas, including joints and the nose. It is said that Archduke Otto, younger brother of the heir apparent, Franz
Ferdinand, is a prominent member of the One Hundred Club. Young virgins are brought to the celebrations of this perverted group and are infected.”

“Scandalous,” Werthen blurted out.

“Inspired!” Gross exclaimed, exhibiting a contrary emotion, though not at the activities of those debauchees, but rather at Krafft-Ebing’s insight. “They are in fact ‘thumbing their nose’ at society, is that it Freiherr?”

“Afraid so,” Krafft-Ebing replied. “The ‘noseless ones’ has become, in fact, a bit of street argot for sufferers of syphilis. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say that you should be looking for someone suffering from syphilis, though in stages early enough to enable them still to function. The disease has affected the mind but not yet the musculature. Far from being a Jew seeking revenge on non-Jews, your killer may well be a victim of
Treponema pallidum
with a twisted sense of persecution, wreaking a terrible vengeance on those not infected.”

G
ross or Werthen could achieve little on the sacred Sunday in Vienna. Shops and businesses were closed; if there was no chicken in the pot for many Viennese, then at least they had a day free from the cares of the workplace. For Werthen it had been a day of rest, copying out his notes for the progress of the case thus far. Gross had, however, kept himself busy with a minute examination of the lists of possible suspects, and with familiarizing himself with each of the firms handling the Harwood and Meier serrated scalpel.

On Monday they paid visits to the three firms distributing Harwood and Meier cutlery and surgical products in Austria, for each had its Austrian headquarters in Vienna. Breitstein und Söhne was located in Vienna’s Third District only blocks from where Liesel Landtauer had resided. This connection had not gone unnoticed by Gross, and he had thus chosen it as his first visit.

The director of the firm, the only Breitstein son, despite the “Sons” in the firm’s name, received them in his third-floor office. A large, effusive man, he was sweating heavily on this hot and humid day, for the foehn had now been replaced by a stifling heat wave without the hint of a breeze. The clopping of horses
hooves and the rumble of wheels over cobblestone came from the open windows in the large office. Breitstein sat at his large desk and gestured Gross and Werthen to armchairs facing him. A small gallery of black-and-white photographs hung on the wall directly in back of the director.

Gross had again used his letter from the Police Presidium as an entrée and explained that Breitstein’s assistance was needed in an official inquiry.

“Can’t imagine how I can be of help to the police,” he said with a nervous laugh.

Werthen had often noticed the seemingly guilty behavior of perfectly innocent people when faced with a police visit.

Gross attempted to put the man at ease, Werthen observed, for the criminologist taught that it was better to have witnesses relaxed than nervous. People were unreliable at their best; with their nerves on edge there was no accounting for what they might say just to please an interrogator.

“I am sure you have a wealth of information that you might share with us, Herr Breitstein,” Gross began. “A man in your position, running a company such as this, there is no telling the sort of information you accumulate. Of course, to you, much of it might seem inconsequential. You do not mind, I hope, if I therefore direct your attention to certain specifics.”

Gross’s garrulous words seemed to have a sedative effect on Breitstein, who leaned back in his chair and began losing the pinch lines around his mouth.

“It is true we see a bit of life in our business,” the director said. “Sales is a world requiring the ability to read the customer, to understand human nature.”