Requiem in Vienna Read Online Free Page A

before it; already a self-appointed intimate. “You see, I have taken to attending rehearsals. Mahler knows nothing of it, of course. A friend of Carl’s . . . my stepfather’s, sees that I come in a side door and that I sit very quietly in the fourth balcony.”
    She let a moment of silence pass for this to sink in.
    “His morning cup of chamomile tea was also once seemingly inadvertently used to mix paint. Mahler was fortunate not to drink from it.”
    “The opera direction has not seen fit to investigate these?”
    “They are a pack of old ladies.”
    “And what about Mahler himself? Has he made no complaints of these incidents?”
    “He is too involved in his music to see anything more than coincidence.”
    “But, Fräulein Schindler, why should anyone want to harm Mahler? He is, according to the press, quite transforming the musical scene in Vienna.”
    “There are winners and losers in any such transformation.”
    She was right, of course, but all of this sounded a bit too melodramatic. Kill a man because he wants to get rid of the claque or paid applauders? Because he turns the houselights down before performances and allows no latecomers in until pauses?
    “And what is it you would like me to do?”
    “Investigate. See who is responsible for these outrages. Stop him . . . or her before Mahler is seriously hurt. Or worse.”
    “I see.” He said it flatly, without emotion.
    “I am willing to pay. I have a secret bank account from my father. My real father, that is.”
    Werthen waved a hand at the suggestion. “Let us see where things stand first.”
    “Then you will take my case.” For the first time, her face showed honest emotion, a childlike glee.
    “I will talk with Herr Mahler.”
    “You mustn’t tell him it was I who commissioned you.”
    “Strictest privacy, I assure you.”
    She stood suddenly, thrusting her hand forward.
    “Klimt was right about you. He said you were marvelous. I think so, too.”
    He was surprised by the strength in her tiny hand when he shook it.
    Alma Schindler nodded to Berthe on the way out, but otherwise made no acknowledgment of her presence.
    They waited for a moment, listening for the exterior office door to close.
    “Well?” he said.
    “She’s hard of hearing.”
    “What?”
    “Don’t tell me you are, too.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “That little act of leaning across the desk as if to become more intimate with you. Not the reason at all. She just has trouble hearing. I had a friend from school who did the same thing and with the same effect on the boys.”
    “I assure you—” he began.
    “Oh, not to worry, Karl. She is an attractive thing, I will give her that. And smart. A difficult combination for a woman.”
    “What do you think of her story?”
    Berthe gathered her notebook and pencil. “She has an active imagination, to be sure. But then, there is a dead soprano, no?”
    “So, you think it is worth following up?”
    “It doesn’t matter what I think, does it? You’ve as much as promised the girl. And pro bono to boot.”
    He felt like a fool. “Yes, I suppose I have.”
    She came across the room to him, placing her warm, soft palm against his cheek.
    “Don’t worry, Karl. I am sure she has gotten the better of many other men, as well.”
     
    Werthen and his wife took lunch out today, dining at one of their favorite
beisln
just two doors from the office. The Alte Schmiede was a simple and cozy place with a luncheon menu that changed daily. Today there was
leberknödel suppe
followed by a spicy goulash served with steamed new potatoes. They drank a red wine from Burgenland with lunch; neither had dessert. They sat for a time over small cups of coffee instead, talking of the morning and planning the afternoon.
    Werthen, after the departure of Fräulein Schindler, had decided to push forward with things, and had placed a telephone call to the Court Opera attempting to get in touch with the director. Mahler, he was told, was at