The Silence Read Online Free Page A

for long hours, low wages, and dangerous working conditions; socialist-anarchists who wanted to make an example of this ruthless American-style capitalist; consumers incensed at his monopoly pricing. All these in addition to a garden-variety kidnapper after money or a crazed anti-Semite. The list was long, Werthen knew.
    By the time he reached the Karlsplatz, the sun had come out and the temperature had suddenly risen at least five degrees. Werthen was almost too warm in his heavy coat as he made his way to the back of the immense Karlskirche and on to the Alleegasse, home to many of the nouveaux riches of the empire. The last generation had seen construction of immense and ponderous city mansions throughout this neighborhood, not just in the Alleegasse, but in the intersecting Schwindgasse, all in the various historicist styles of the Ringstrasse. Here was an aggregation of wealth eager to show itself off. Neo-baroque mingled with neo-classic and renaissance styles. Amidst this milieu of ennobled industrialists was a smattering of town houses belonging to lower princes and even an archduke – though it was said the archduke in question was in attendance there far less frequently than was his mistress.
    As Werthen turned into the Alleegasse he could see, beneath the now melting snow on the cobblestone street, that straw had earlier been spread. As he progressed up the street, he saw that the dried stalks extended for several blocks. It was a Viennese custom to spread straw to muffle the traffic noise for those of wealth, power, and/or prominence who had been taken ill.
    The Palais Wittgenstein was an impressive, if dour town house of two floors, its banks of second-story windows seeming to frown down on the Alleegasse while the bottom floor presented a fortress-like appearance. The façade was at least fifty paces in length. Werthen entered through a pair of heavy oak doors, behind which a Portier was stationed and directed him via a forecourt with an impressive fountain and ample grillwork to an entrance hall huge and imposing. The floor was done in mosaic, the walls in carved paneling. Frescoes also adorned the space as did a statue, which Werthen thought might be the work of the French sculptor August Rodin. He passed through stone arches and went up six marble stairs to glass double doors. There he was met by a liveried servant who led him up the central red-carpeted marble stairway to the second floor and ultimately into Karl Wittgenstein’s study, appointed in the most opulent gilt furnishing Werthen had seen outside a museum. Incongruously, modern paintings hung on the red plush walls, artists from Vienna and Munich, with Klimt prominent among them. On an immense carved walnut desk in the middle of the room were several small sculptures, obviously the work of Rodin. A fire pulsed in an open porcelain fireplace.
    Wittgenstein sat at the desk, a bear of a man, who seemed even larger once he stood to greet Werthen, offering a crushing handshake. The man’s dark hair was cut short (and perhaps dyed at the temples) and he wore a thick black moustache. He appeared much younger than his fifty-two years, wearing a frock coat, striped silk vest, maroon paisley bow tie under a fresh collar, and sporting spats – the newest fad from America. Werthen could not stop his eyes from traveling to these white canvas shoe coverings; for him they were too similar to the splatterdashes he had worn as a youth to protect his riding boots from mud to be considered high fashion. But fancy young men from Manhattan to Paris were wearing them this season, and it seemed Karl Wittgenstein or his tailor had decided to join the throng. It was hardly a fashion statement Werthen would have credited the man of business with.
    ‘Your good friend Klimt sings your praises,’ Wittgenstein said as he finally released Werthen’s pummeled hand. The man’s voice was deep and booming.
    ‘He is too kind,’ Werthen said, sitting in the pale-blue Louis