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 andanarchists 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
“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 andanarchists 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
Similar Books
