Free The Empty Mirror by J. Sydney Jones Page B

of Aniline.’ It is all written there. I now long only for a life full of manly deeds, which will expunge and eliminate everything base, wanton, and confused that has ever been in me.”
    After Herzl had left, Werthen and Gross remained at the table for a time, planning their next move.
    “I need to confer with Klimt again,” Werthen allowed. “Perhaps he has ascertained his whereabouts the nights of the other murders.”
    “Capital idea,” Gross said. “As for me, it’s a visit to the Police Forensic Department, a guest of our esteemed Inspektor Meindl. They have arranged a viewing of autopsy photographs for me.”
    He said it with the obvious relish most people would reserve for a night out at the theater or at a restaurant.
    “Research for an article for my
Archive of Criminalistics,”
Gross said with heavy irony.
    Meindl’s cover story, Werthen assumed. The man was not going to stick his neck out too far, lest his head be chopped off.
    They arranged to meet at the forensic lab after Werthen’s interview with Klimt.
    Werthen paid the bill, then, before donning his hat, said, “I noticed you gave Herzl your address at the Bristol. Does that mean you are not leaving for Czernowitz as soon as planned?”
    Gross looked at him from hooded eyes. “Nor do I see you boarding the train for your parents’ country estate, my dear Werthen. Not while there is work afoot.”
    Werthen hesitated, wondering if he should broach the subject, but finally plunged ahead.
    “You took me off guard with your line of questions for Herzl. I feel I owe you an apology.”
    “Don’t be absurd, man. So you mistook me for an anti-Semite. I’ve been taken for worse. And it was not to protect your delicatefeelings that I did so. No, indeed. The crimes are an obvious provocation, as you suggested. Either committed by a fanatical anti-Semite, or by some other very clever chap who wishes to muddy the water, to create diversions and false leads.”
    “I am glad you think so.”
    “Make no doubt about it, however. There is such a thing as ritual killings. See the next issue of my
Archive of Criminalistics
for a long article on such Afro-Caribbean syncretic religions as Santeria, voodoo, and Palo Mayombe. Ritual murder plays a dominant role in those beliefs. As I say, just because a fact is abhorrent does not mean we should ignore or deny it.”
    Werthen was shown into Klimt’s cell at the Landesgericht prison, a cramped and airless space he shared with two unsavory-looking characters who, Werthen knew, were also charged with murder. In their cases, however, he could imagine the accusations bore some semblance to reality. They had the unhealthy pallor, the suspicious cast to their eyes, and the arrogant aspect of career criminals.
    The guards herded these two out so that Werthen could conference with his client. But as they left, the taller and meaner-looking of the two stared at Werthen.
    “You take good care of him, hear? I keep telling him he needs a real criminal lawyer, but Gustl’s the loyal sort. Don’t let him down.”
    “Move on,” a guard said, prodding the man with his nightstick.
    “It’ll be fine, Hugo,” Klimt told the man. “Not to worry.”
    Werthen waited for the cell door to slam shut behind the guards. “‘Gustl’?”
    “I seem to have made some friends. Actually, good enough chaps in their own way. But they never had a chance in life. Hugo for instance. His dad was killed working in a textile factory. No compensation for the family, and with the breadwinner gone, hismother was forced to rent out her body when Hugo was just a boy. He heard and saw everything. He was working the streets as a pickpocket by the time he was seven.”
    “Yes, I am sure these men have a wealth of stories. Enough to inspire a Stifter or a Grillparzer.”
    “It’s given me a new outlook on life,” Klimt said, his eyes shining. “And I thought I had it hard when my father died and I was left to take care of the family.”
    He