The Empty Mirror (38 page)

“Yes, Gross. It is the only way.”

“Not the only way, Werthen. We have been through this a dozen times. Not the only way, at all. But your way.”

“He is a fiend, a mad dog. He needs to be put down.”

Werthen did not sleep that night. Neither did Gross, for he was busy with last-minute preparations. It must all go according to plan, every piece of it, or death awaited Werthen.

Instead of sleeping, Werthen thought of the morning to come, reviewing all aspects of his plan. Archduke Franz Ferdinand himself had become an essential part of this, for, when approached, he found Werthen’s strategy inspired. It could rid him of one of his archenemies at no personal cost. And if the scheme failed, neither would he be compromised by it.

Werthen’s one regret was that he had had to invoke the name of his beloved in his challenge to the prince. However, it was the one offense that would be universally understood. Its very plausibility would provide Werthen with protection if he succeeded in the duel. After all, what man would not fight for his ladylove? What man would not want to seek redress for another besmirching the good name of his lady? That Grunenthal was widely known as a roué helped Werthen’s cause. The emperor himself could hardly punish a man for fighting such a duel.

Werthen was dressed by five. Frau Blatschky sniffled all through breakfast; her coffee was thin and weak.

“It will be fine, Frau Blatschky,” Werthen said at one point.

“Oh, Herr Doktor Werthen, sir, I sincerely hope so. It is a cruel world indeed when one such as you must bear arms.”

He knew it was meant kindly, but the comment did little to instill confidence in him.

Gross, who was to act as his second, arrived with the carriage at five thirty.

“All is in readiness?” Werthen asked.

“I sincerely hope so,” the criminologist said, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.

They set off in the darkness, the metal-rimmed wheels of the carriage clicking against the cobbles in the otherwise stillness of predawn.

Prince Grunenthal, hatless, and his second were already at the meadow when Werthen and Gross arrived. Werthen, suffering the effects of a sleepless night, felt a sudden fog in his brain. He took deep breaths, hoping to clear his thoughts and vision for what lay ahead.

As he and Grunenthal exchanged glares, the adjutant and Gross spoke of final arrangements.

“It is my duty,” the adjutant said, “to offer your man the opportunity to apologize for his insult. Otherwise, we shall proceed.”

“My man, good sir, has nothing to apologize for. It is your master who is at fault, and your master who will pay”

Then came the choosing of weapons. Grunenthal supplied, for the occasion, matching Webley and Scott .45 caliber revolvers, with ivory grips. The large caliber indicated that despite the rule of one shot this was still a duel to the death. Both seconds inspected the guns, insuring that each had a single bullet in their chambers.

Werthen felt the heft of his. He had been practicing with a much lighter Enfield revolver. As he was getting the feel of the pistol, Grunenthal called to him, “There will be no more chances for you-for any of you.”

Werthen made no reply. From the beginning he knew this would be a do-or-die gambit. All the others involved had agreed. All that is, but Berthe.

The horses at Gross’s carriage whinnied as the first rays of the sun broke over the eastern horizon.

“Gentlemen,” the adjutant said. “Time.”

He placed them back-to-back; Werthen felt the man’s rump in the small of his back, he was that much shorter than Grunenthal.

“When I command, you shall each take fifteen paces. At my next command, you may turn and fire at will.”

“You will all die now,” Grunenthal hissed at him.

“Ready, begin,” the adjutant shouted.

Werthen kept himself focused on the paces; he made each a long stride, for the farther apart the better. A trickle of sweat slid down his shirt collar in the chill morning air. Birdsong from the woods in back of him broke his concentration for an instant, and he lost count of his steps. Then he remembered that imitated birdsong was the agreed-upon signal. He took a deep breath. Or was it actual birdsong?

He took several more paces before the adjutant again called out:

“Turn and fire at will!”

Werthen half-turned as directed by the dueling instructor Franz Ferdinand had supplied. He did not offer his full body, but a profile only. He held his fire, also as instructed, allowing Grunenthal the first shot, but the prince seemed to have had the same instructor, presenting Werthen with his profile as well, and holding his fire.

“Fire at will,” the adjutant repeated.

This seemed to spur Grunenthal into action. He took careful aim and fired. It happened so quickly, Werthen did not even realize he had been shot. It was as if a loaded cart had slammed into his right leg, spilling him onto the ground.

“Werthen!” Gross yelled.

Werthen lay on his back for a moment, watching birds flap out of the trees at the sudden slap of the shot. He felt ridiculous lying there, like a character in a Tolstoy novel.

Suddenly Gross’s face filled his field of vision. “We need to get you to a doctor.”

Werthen closed his eyes for a moment. He knew the pain and nausea would soon strike. He needed to act now.

“Help me up. I still have my shot.”

“It is over, Werthen. Don’t be a fool. We will find another way.”

“Help me up, damn you. You are my second. Act like one.”

Werthen’s sudden fury startled Gross, and the criminologist did as he was told.

Werthen hobbled helplessly on his good left leg for an instant. Across the stretch of thirty paces, Grunenthal held the gun at his side, his face ashen now, seeing Werthen again on his feet. The shot should have killed him, the prince knew. Not his own, of course, but that of the marksman, Tod, hiding in the woods in back of him. So the birdsong
had
been their prearranged signal, after all. Meaning that Klimt and Duncan had taken Tod. He would in turn be dealt with appropriately. The sentence had already been delivered.

“Is your man in any condition to continue?” called the adjutant.

“Yes, I am,” Werthen shouted.

Grunenthal still looked in amazement as Werthen took careful aim. His would not be a body shot. He wanted to finish this, for once and for all. He planted his wounded right leg solidly in front of him and felt a wave of pain wash over his entire body. His shirt was drenched in sweat as he held the Webley and Scott in front of him, supported by his left hand.

Grunenthal jerked suddenly, as if fear had overcome him, but then forced himself to stand still and receive the shot.

“You haven’t the courage to do it,” he cried out suddenly. “You will always be a mere citizen.”

The crack of the shot stirred the remaining birds out of their nests and into the rose-colored dawn. The bullet struck Grunenthal over his left eye, toppling him and taking off the back of his head. His once white hair was now a mess of pink brain matter and blood.