burghers.
“I am sure she was,” Werthen told her.
“Anything I can do to help convict the man,” she said. “Anything.”
As far as Frau Iloshnya knew, Werthen and Gross were on police business, not attempting to prove Klimt’s innocence.
She led them to a small room at the back of the apartment, giving out onto a light shaft. The room was dark in midafternoon. Looking out the window, you could just catch sight of one green branch of a chestnut tree in the courtyard of the apartment building. The room contained two single beds with iron bedsteads; crucifixes hung over the beds. A wardrobe was against the wall opposite the foot of each bed; the door to the one closest to the entrance stood slightly ajar. Gross opened it and discovered it empty.
“Helga’s,” Frau Iloshnya said. “I don’t think she is coming back. She was quite distressed.”
As Gross busied himself with a minute examination of the contents of the second wardrobe-the police had already made a cursory inspection and come up with nothing-Werthen tried to keep the attention of the Frau.
“We would appreciate any information you might have about Liesel. Do you know if she had many friends?”
The woman shook her head so vehemently that a strand of white hair dislodged from the bun she wore in back and dangled over her forehead.
“She and Helga stuck together,” she said. “Both worked at the same carpet factory.”
Gross, overhearing this, shot Werthen a skeptical look. They knew that Liesel had quit this job soon after arriving in Vienna. For the past six months she had made a living as an artist’s model, working primarily for Klimt. Gross’s look alerted Werthen to take anything the landlady had to offer with a grain of sand. She clearly did not know her tenant.
“No men in her life? She was by all accounts an attractive young woman.”
“She was a decent girl,” Frau Iloshnya all but shouted.
Gross had climbed atop the one chair in the room and was busily inspecting the top of the wardrobe now, Werthen noted.
“I did not mean to imply otherwise,
gnädige Frau
. But there is nothing improper, per se, dear lady, about having a gentleman caller.”
“Not under my roof, I assure you,” she said huffily.
To hell with it, Werthen told himself. He would get nothing but trouble from this old bat.
He took her arm and gently but firmly led her to the door. “Thank you so much for your help,” he said, moving her out of the room. “We will leave everything as we found it.”
She looked surprised, then annoyed, and was about to protest.
“We can let ourselves out,” Werthen quickly added, and closed the bedroom door in her face.
“I think we might have something here, Werthen,” Gross said, his arm reaching far back on the top of the wardrobe. He nodded as his probing hand touched something, then he produced what appeared to be a packet of letters tied with a red ribbon. He blew on the letters, but no dust came off. He climbed down and sat on the bed.
“Perhaps our Liesel has left us a clue.” He unwrapped the packet and opened one letter after another, scanning the contents quickly, until he came to the last letter.
“Aah. Now matters become more interesting.”
He handed the letter to Werthen, who read it quickly, nodding at Gross. “This does put a new wrinkle in things, I warrant.”
“Perhaps it is time to pay a visit to the theater,” Gross said, a twinkle in his eye.
The
Strassenbahn
delivered them twenty minutes later at the Burgtheater.
Werthen was a student of the hypocrisies of late-nineteenth-century Vienna. The building projects of the Ringstrasse had, inparticular, informed his short stories, giving a backstory that spoke of sham and artifice. The new ersatz buildings of the Ringstrasse were all gussied up to symbolize their function: neo-Renaissance opera as the home of the arts; neoclassical parliament as a tip of the hat to Greek architecture and the home of democracy; the neo-Gothic Rathaus,
“I am sure she was,” Werthen told her.
“Anything I can do to help convict the man,” she said. “Anything.”
As far as Frau Iloshnya knew, Werthen and Gross were on police business, not attempting to prove Klimt’s innocence.
She led them to a small room at the back of the apartment, giving out onto a light shaft. The room was dark in midafternoon. Looking out the window, you could just catch sight of one green branch of a chestnut tree in the courtyard of the apartment building. The room contained two single beds with iron bedsteads; crucifixes hung over the beds. A wardrobe was against the wall opposite the foot of each bed; the door to the one closest to the entrance stood slightly ajar. Gross opened it and discovered it empty.
“Helga’s,” Frau Iloshnya said. “I don’t think she is coming back. She was quite distressed.”
As Gross busied himself with a minute examination of the contents of the second wardrobe-the police had already made a cursory inspection and come up with nothing-Werthen tried to keep the attention of the Frau.
“We would appreciate any information you might have about Liesel. Do you know if she had many friends?”
The woman shook her head so vehemently that a strand of white hair dislodged from the bun she wore in back and dangled over her forehead.
“She and Helga stuck together,” she said. “Both worked at the same carpet factory.”
Gross, overhearing this, shot Werthen a skeptical look. They knew that Liesel had quit this job soon after arriving in Vienna. For the past six months she had made a living as an artist’s model, working primarily for Klimt. Gross’s look alerted Werthen to take anything the landlady had to offer with a grain of sand. She clearly did not know her tenant.
“No men in her life? She was by all accounts an attractive young woman.”
“She was a decent girl,” Frau Iloshnya all but shouted.
Gross had climbed atop the one chair in the room and was busily inspecting the top of the wardrobe now, Werthen noted.
“I did not mean to imply otherwise,
gnädige Frau
. But there is nothing improper, per se, dear lady, about having a gentleman caller.”
“Not under my roof, I assure you,” she said huffily.
To hell with it, Werthen told himself. He would get nothing but trouble from this old bat.
He took her arm and gently but firmly led her to the door. “Thank you so much for your help,” he said, moving her out of the room. “We will leave everything as we found it.”
She looked surprised, then annoyed, and was about to protest.
“We can let ourselves out,” Werthen quickly added, and closed the bedroom door in her face.
“I think we might have something here, Werthen,” Gross said, his arm reaching far back on the top of the wardrobe. He nodded as his probing hand touched something, then he produced what appeared to be a packet of letters tied with a red ribbon. He blew on the letters, but no dust came off. He climbed down and sat on the bed.
“Perhaps our Liesel has left us a clue.” He unwrapped the packet and opened one letter after another, scanning the contents quickly, until he came to the last letter.
“Aah. Now matters become more interesting.”
He handed the letter to Werthen, who read it quickly, nodding at Gross. “This does put a new wrinkle in things, I warrant.”
“Perhaps it is time to pay a visit to the theater,” Gross said, a twinkle in his eye.
The
Strassenbahn
delivered them twenty minutes later at the Burgtheater.
Werthen was a student of the hypocrisies of late-nineteenth-century Vienna. The building projects of the Ringstrasse had, inparticular, informed his short stories, giving a backstory that spoke of sham and artifice. The new ersatz buildings of the Ringstrasse were all gussied up to symbolize their function: neo-Renaissance opera as the home of the arts; neoclassical parliament as a tip of the hat to Greek architecture and the home of democracy; the neo-Gothic Rathaus,
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