The One From the Other (33 page)

I took out a pipe and began to fill it. I had started smoking the pipe in an effort to look and feel more like Eric Gruen. I didn’t much like pipes, or all the paraphernalia that went with them, but I couldn’t think of a better way of convincing myself I was Eric Gruen, short of buying a wheelchair. “Is there anyone else coming to the funeral I might know?” I asked, innocently

“There are one or two old servants coming,” he said. “I’m not sure if you would know them or not. There will be others, of course. The Gruen family name still resonates here in Vienna. As might be expected. I assume you won’t wish to lead the mourners yourself, Herr Dr. Gruen.”

“No, that would be too much,” I said. “I shall remain very much in the background throughout the proceedings.”

“Yes, yes, that would probably be best,” he said. “All things considered.” He leaned back in his chair and, with his elbows on the armrests, brought the ends of his fingers together like the poles of a tent. “In your telegram you said that it was your intention to liquidate your holdings in Gruen Sugar.”

“Yes.”

“Might I suggest that the announcement be delayed until perhaps you have left the city?” he said carefully. “It’s just that such a sale will attract a certain amount of attention. And with you being as private a man as you are, some of that attention may, perforce, be unwelcome. Vienna is a small city. People talk. The very fact of your being here at all will occasion a certain amount of comment perhaps. Perhaps even, dare I say, some notoriety.”

“All right,” I said. “I don’t mind delaying the announcement for a few days. As you said.”

He tapped his fingers together nervously as if my presence in his office unsettled him. “Might I also inquire if it is your intention to remain in Vienna for very long?”

“Not very long,” I said. “I have a private matter to attend to. Nothing that need concern you. After that I shall probably go back to Garmisch.”

He smiled in a way that left me thinking of a small stone Buddha. “Ah, Garmisch,” he said. “Such a lovely old town. My wife and I went there for the Winter Olympics, in ’thirty-six.”

“Did you see Hitler?” I asked, managing at last to light my pipe.

“Hitler?”

“You remember him, surely? The opening ceremony?”

The smile persisted but he let out a sigh, as if he had adjusted a small valve on his spats. “We were never very political, my wife and I,” he said. “But I think we did see him, albeit from a great distance away.”

“Safer that way,” I said.

“It all seems such a long time ago, now,” he said. “Like another life.”

“Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” I said. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

A silence ensued and finally Bekemeier’s smile evaporated like a smudge on a windowpane.

“Well,” I said. “I had better sign these papers, hadn’t I?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you for reminding me. With all of this pleasant reminiscence I’m afraid I had almost forgotten our main business.”

I doubted that. I couldn’t envisage Bekemeier forgetting anything, except perhaps Christmas, or his infant daughter’s birthday, always assuming that a creature with just one pair of chromosomes could reproduce anything more than a gelatinous specimen of legal pond life.

He opened a drawer and took out a pen case, from which he removed a gold Pelikan and handed it to me with both hands, as if he had been presenting me with a field marshal’s baton. About two or three dozen documents followed, which I signed with a perfect facsimile of Eric Gruen’s signature. I had practiced it in Garmisch, so that I might match the signature on the passport. Which, incidentally, Bekemeier remembered to check. Then I returned the pen and, our business apparently concluded, stood up and fetched my coat from his hat stand.

“It’s been a pleasure, Dr. Gruen,” he said, bowing again. “I shall always endeavor to serve your family’s interests. You may depend on that, sir. As you may also depend on my absolute discretion regarding your place of residence. Doubtless there will be inquiries as to how you may be contacted. Rest assured that I shall resist them with all my usual vigor, sir.” He shook his head with distaste. “These Viennese. They inhabit two worlds. One is the world of fact. The other is the world of rumor and gossip. The greater the wealth, the greater the attending rumor, I suppose. But what can you do, Herr Doktor?”

“I’m grateful for everything,” I said. “And I’ll see you tomorrow. At the funeral.”

“You’ll be there, then?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. I’m sorry. I tell you frankly, sir, my memory is not what it was. It’s a terrible thing for a lawyer to admit to his client, but there it is. Things were hard for us here in Vienna, after the war. We all of us had to deal on the black market, just to stay alive. Sometimes it seems I’ve forgotten so much. And sometimes I think it’s best that way. Especially with me being a lawyer. I have to be careful. My reputation. The standing of this firm. I live in the Russian sector, you know. I’m sure you understand.”

I walked back to my hotel understanding only that there had been something I had not understood about Dr. Bekemeier. I felt like a man who had been trying to handle an eel. Every time I thought I had grasped it, the thing slipped away from me again. I decided to mention our curious conversation to Eric Gruen when I telephoned him with the good news that the meeting with the lawyer had gone without a hitch, and that his inheritance was as good as in the bank.

“How’s the weather in Vienna?” he asked. Gruen sounded like a man who wasn’t much interested in money. “It snowed a lot here last night. Heinrich is already waxing his skis.”

“It’s snowing here, too,” I reported.

“What’s your hotel like?”

I glanced around my suite. Gruen had done me proud. “I’m still waiting for the search party to come back from the bathroom and tell me what it’s like,” I said. “And apart from the echo everything is just fine.”

“Engelbertina’s right here,” he said. “And she says that she sends her love. And that she’s missing you.”

I bit some skin off the inside of my lip. “I miss her, too,” I lied. “Listen, Eric, this call is costing you a fortune, so I’d better come to the point. As I said, I met with Bekemeier, and everything went fine. Which is to say he seems quite convinced that I am you.”

“Good, good.”

“But there was something strange about him. Something he wasn’t telling me. Something he kept on creeping around. I couldn’t make out what it might be. Do you have any idea?”

“Yes, I think I might.” He laughed derisively and then his voice became awkward, like a man who has borrowed your car without telling you. “There was a time, years ago, when it was thought that old Bekemeier and my mother were, you know, lovers. If he seemed awkward to you, then that’s probably the reason. I guess he might have thought you knew about it. And was embarrassed. It was stupid of me not to have mentioned it.”

“Well,” I said, “that makes sense, I suppose. I’m going to see your old girlfriend this afternoon. The one you left with a bump in her road.”

“Remember what I said, Bernie. She mustn’t know the money comes from me. Otherwise she might not take it.”

“You told me. An anonymous benefactor.”

“Thanks, Bernie. I really appreciate it.”

“Forget it,” I said. And I dropped the phone back into its cradle.

After a while, I went out again and rode a number 1 bus clockwise around the Ring as far as the Hotel de France, for a spot of lunch. It was open to all, even though it was still under requisition by the French army of occupation. That was one thing against it. On the other hand, the food, according to the concierge at my own hotel, was the best in the city. Besides, it was just around the corner from my next port of call.

TWENTY-NINE

I got to Liechtensteinstrasse, in the heart of the Ninth District, as the light began to fade, which is always the best time of day in Vienna. The bomb damage, which isn’t much when compared with Munich, and nothing at all compared with Berlin, stops being noticeable and it becomes easy to imagine the city as the grand imperial capital it used to be. The sky had turned a purple shade of gray and it had finally stopped snowing, although this did nothing to deter the enthusiasm of those people buying ski boots in Moritz, which was next door to the apartment building where Vera Messmann lived.

I went into the building and started up the steps, which would have been easy enough if I hadn’t been recovering from pneumonia and hadn’t had such an excellent lunch. Her apartment was on the top floor and, several times, I had to stop and catch my breath, or at least watch it billow out of my mouth in the plummeting temperatures. The metal handrail was sticky with cold. By the time I reached the top, it had started to snow again and the flakes were hitting the stairwell window like soft icy bullets from the rifle of some heavenly sniper. I leaned against the wall and waited for my breathing to slow down enough to allow me the power of speech. Then I knocked on Fräulein Messman’s door.

“My name’s Gunther, Bernie Gunther,” I said, removing my hat politely and presenting her with one of my Munich business cards. “It’s all right, I’m not selling anything.”

“That’s good,” she said. “Because I’m not buying anything.”

“Are you Vera Messmann?”

She flicked her eyes on my card and then at me. “That all depends,” she said.

“On what, for instance?”

“On whether you think I did it, or not.”

“Did what?” I didn’t mind her playing with me. It’s one of the perks of the job when an attractive brunette teases you.

“Oh, you know. Murdered Roger Ackroyd.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Agatha Christie,” she said.

“Never heard of her, either.”

“Don’t you read books, Herr—” She read the card again, teasing me some more. “Gunther.”

“Never,” I said. “It’s terribly bad for business to sound like I know more than my clients tell me. Mostly they want someone who is not a cop to behave like a cop. They don’t want someone who can quote Schiller.”

“Well, at least you’ve heard of
him,
” she said.

“Schiller? Sure. He’s the guy who said that truth lives on in the midst of deception. We keep that quotation over the office door. He’s the patron saint of detectives everywhere.”

“You’d better come in, Herr Gunther,” she said, standing aside. “After all, he that is overcautious will accomplish little. That’s Schiller, too, in case you didn’t know. As well as private detectives, he’s also the patron saint of single women.”

“You learn something new every day,” I said. I went into the apartment, enjoying her perfume as I moved past her body.

“No, not every day,” she said, closing the door behind me. “Not even every week. Not in Vienna. Not lately, anyway.”

“Maybe you should buy a newspaper,” I said.

“I got out of the habit,” she said. “During the war.”

I took another look at her. I liked the glasses. They made her look as if she had probably read all the books on the shelves that lined the entrance to her apartment. If there’s one thing I like, it’s a woman who starts off looking plain but gets better-looking the more you look at her. Vera Messmann was that kind of woman. After a while I formed the impression that she was a rather beautiful woman. A beautiful woman who happened to wear glasses. Not that she herself was in much doubt about any of that. There was a quiet confidence about the way she carried herself and the way she spoke. If there had been a beauty pageant for lady librarians, Vera Messmann would have won it hands down. She wouldn’t even have had to take off her glasses and unpin her brown hair.

We remained, a little awkwardly, in the entrance hall. I had yet to make her day, although from what she was saying, my just being there represented a welcome novelty.

“Since I haven’t murdered anyone,” she said, “or committed adultery—not since last summer, anyway—I’m intrigued as to what a private detective could want with me.”

“I don’t do many murders,” I said. “Not since I stopped being a bull. Mostly I get asked to look for missing persons.”

“Then you should have plenty of work to keep you busy.”

“It comes as rather a pleasant change to be the bearer of good news,” I said. “My client, who wants to remain anonymous, wishes you to have some money. You don’t have to do anything for it. Nothing at all except turn up at Spaengler’s Bank tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock and sign a receipt for cash. And that’s pretty much all that I’m allowed to tell you except the amount. It’s twenty-five thousand schillings.”

“Twenty-five thousand schillings?” She took off her glasses, which let me see how right I had been. She was a peach. “Are you sure there’s not been some kind of mistake?”

“Not if you’re Vera Messmann,” I said. “You’ll need some form of identity to prove who you are at the bank of course. Bankers are rather less trusting than detectives.” I smiled. “Especially banks like Spaengler’s. It’s in Dorotheengasse. In the International Zone.”

“Look, Herr Gunther, if this is a joke,” she said, “it’s not a very funny one. Twenty-five thousand to someone like me. To anyone. That’s serious money.”

“I can leave now, if you’d prefer,” I said. “You won’t ever see me again.” I shrugged. “Listen, I can understand you being nervous about me coming here like this. Maybe I’d be nervous if I were you. So perhaps I should go, anyway. But just promise me you’ll come to the bank at three. After all, what have you got to lose? Nothing.”

I turned and reached for the door handle.

“No, please don’t leave yet.” She turned on her heel and walked into the living room. “Take off your hat and coat and come on through.”

I did what I was told. I like doing what I’m told when there’s a half-decent woman involved. There was a baby grand with the lid up and a piece by Schubert on the music stand. In front of the French window was a pair of silver gilt dolphin side chairs with blue tufted upholstery. Against one of the walls was a gilt-trimmed floral-design settee with roll arms. There were a couple of blackamoor pedestals that didn’t seem to feel the cold, and a big carved cabinet with cupid heads on the door. There were plenty of old pictures and an expensive-looking Murano wall mirror that showed me up looking about as out of place as a wild boar in a toy shop. There was a French marble clock with a bronze fop reading a book. I guessed it wasn’t a book by Agatha Christie. It was the kind of room where books were discussed more often than football, and women sat with their knees together and listened to plangent zither music on the radio. It told me that Vera Messmann didn’t need the money as much as she needed the glasses. She put them on again and faced a neat little drinks table underneath the mirror.