a memento of the victim.” Meindl smiled with thin, saurian lips.
“I assume you are familiar with my writings on blood, Meindl?” Gross said. “The difference between venous and arterial bloodsplattering? Were Klimt to have opened a victim’s artery in his studio, even a dead victim, there would have been a clear splatter pattern. The human body holds five liters of blood more or less, and much of that would have found its way onto the walls and floor of his studio. Quite a cleanup job, yet your men found no other traces of blood besides this rag.”
Meindl nodded. “I was not saying I agreed with the criminal police, simply that there are questions that require answers.”
“We can produce the corpse of the animal,” Werthen said, advancing the attack. He had had a hurried consultation with the painter in his cell at the Landesgericht prison before coming to this meeting with Meindl. Klimt had obviously been distraught, but still cogent enough to dismiss the charges against him.
“Klimt says he buried it under the apricot tree in the studio garden,” Werthen added.
“Which proves nothing,” Meindl replied sharply. “Herr Klimt could be more clever than any of us give him credit for. Perhaps this is all a feint, a ruse.”
“I thought you said you advised against his arrest,” Werthen said.
“At this juncture, yes. But we may well find further evidence. To be fair, this murder is the only one with loose ends vis-à-vis the people who knew the victim. In the other cases wives or husbands could all account for their whereabouts at the time of the murder. In Fräulein Landtauer’s case, however, the man closest to her, Herr Klimt, cannot account for his whereabouts.”
“Or chooses not to,” Werthen added.
“Or chooses not to,” Meindl allowed. “Which amounts to the same thing.”
“You assume Herr Klimt was the girl’s only ‘friend’?” Gross suddenly asked. “Have you spoken to her roommate?”
“Surely these murders presume someone with more strength than a mere slip of a girl,” Meindl replied.
Gross grimaced and shook his head as if disappointed in his former apprentice. Werthen, however, understood what he intended.
“He means that Klimt has told us that Fräulein Landtauer sent a message to cancel their sitting the night she was murdered. She said that she had to take care of her sick roommate. Klimt knew it was a lie, though, for he saw the very roommate leaving his premises after delivering the note. That Fräulein Landtauer felt it necessary to concoct a lie with which to cancel her appointment with Klimt implies a guilty conscience. Perhaps she was seeing another man that evening?”
“That is obviously another matter that needs to be gone into,” Meindl said with a sigh. “I understand that the investigators visited the girl’s residence, but found nothing untoward.”
Meindl sighed, releasing the pince-nez and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Understand my position. I am not in charge of this case, but I do care about the reputation of the Vienna constabulary. I contacted you this morning, Professor Doktor Gross, as I knew of your interest in the case.” A beat, then a grudging nod to Werthen. “And of yours, counselor. I am willing to share with you what we have thus far discovered if it will help to prevent any future embarrassment. Such assistance, must, of course, be in the strictest confidence.”
“Of course, Meindl,” Gross said.
Ever the careerist, thought Werthen. Meindl was in self-preservation mode. Though Klimt was a painter, he still had some powerful friends. Half the society women in Vienna were said to have sat for him, and in their altogether. These women clearly had persuasive powers over their husbands, for Klimt had also won prize public commissions, creating a series of controversial paintings for the new university entrance, among others. The criminal police surely did not know whom they had in custody; they were thrashing about madly
“I assume you are familiar with my writings on blood, Meindl?” Gross said. “The difference between venous and arterial bloodsplattering? Were Klimt to have opened a victim’s artery in his studio, even a dead victim, there would have been a clear splatter pattern. The human body holds five liters of blood more or less, and much of that would have found its way onto the walls and floor of his studio. Quite a cleanup job, yet your men found no other traces of blood besides this rag.”
Meindl nodded. “I was not saying I agreed with the criminal police, simply that there are questions that require answers.”
“We can produce the corpse of the animal,” Werthen said, advancing the attack. He had had a hurried consultation with the painter in his cell at the Landesgericht prison before coming to this meeting with Meindl. Klimt had obviously been distraught, but still cogent enough to dismiss the charges against him.
“Klimt says he buried it under the apricot tree in the studio garden,” Werthen added.
“Which proves nothing,” Meindl replied sharply. “Herr Klimt could be more clever than any of us give him credit for. Perhaps this is all a feint, a ruse.”
“I thought you said you advised against his arrest,” Werthen said.
“At this juncture, yes. But we may well find further evidence. To be fair, this murder is the only one with loose ends vis-à-vis the people who knew the victim. In the other cases wives or husbands could all account for their whereabouts at the time of the murder. In Fräulein Landtauer’s case, however, the man closest to her, Herr Klimt, cannot account for his whereabouts.”
“Or chooses not to,” Werthen added.
“Or chooses not to,” Meindl allowed. “Which amounts to the same thing.”
“You assume Herr Klimt was the girl’s only ‘friend’?” Gross suddenly asked. “Have you spoken to her roommate?”
“Surely these murders presume someone with more strength than a mere slip of a girl,” Meindl replied.
Gross grimaced and shook his head as if disappointed in his former apprentice. Werthen, however, understood what he intended.
“He means that Klimt has told us that Fräulein Landtauer sent a message to cancel their sitting the night she was murdered. She said that she had to take care of her sick roommate. Klimt knew it was a lie, though, for he saw the very roommate leaving his premises after delivering the note. That Fräulein Landtauer felt it necessary to concoct a lie with which to cancel her appointment with Klimt implies a guilty conscience. Perhaps she was seeing another man that evening?”
“That is obviously another matter that needs to be gone into,” Meindl said with a sigh. “I understand that the investigators visited the girl’s residence, but found nothing untoward.”
Meindl sighed, releasing the pince-nez and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Understand my position. I am not in charge of this case, but I do care about the reputation of the Vienna constabulary. I contacted you this morning, Professor Doktor Gross, as I knew of your interest in the case.” A beat, then a grudging nod to Werthen. “And of yours, counselor. I am willing to share with you what we have thus far discovered if it will help to prevent any future embarrassment. Such assistance, must, of course, be in the strictest confidence.”
“Of course, Meindl,” Gross said.
Ever the careerist, thought Werthen. Meindl was in self-preservation mode. Though Klimt was a painter, he still had some powerful friends. Half the society women in Vienna were said to have sat for him, and in their altogether. These women clearly had persuasive powers over their husbands, for Klimt had also won prize public commissions, creating a series of controversial paintings for the new university entrance, among others. The criminal police surely did not know whom they had in custody; they were thrashing about madly
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