Free The Silence by J. Sydney Jones

stayed here for two days last week, borrowed some money, and then caught the overnight train to Hamburg.’
    ‘He has taken a liner?’
    ‘Very good,’ Praetor said with his arch tone once again firmly in place. ‘You should be a private detective and not a mere inquiries agent. A liner for New York and a new world. He wanted me to come with him, his dearest friend. But you see, in the end I am a coward. Hans’s life is music. He can make that anywhere. But mine is journalism. My language is not international. No. I settled for Vienna and a life lived in the shadows. Is that sufficient for you, Advokat?’
    ‘I really must apologize, Herr Praetor. I would never divulge such information—’
    ‘Do save the platitudes for your wife, if you have one.’
    Praetor was a young man difficult to like, Werthen decided. Difficult even to empathize with.
    ‘I thank you for your information. I shall notify his family of his whereabouts.’
    ‘He sailed four days ago. I greatly doubt the steamship company will allow their vessel to be diverted in mid-sailing, no matter how powerful Herr Karl Wittgenstein is.’
    ‘He is of legal age and can go where he will,’ Werthen said. ‘The family was merely concerned for his safety.’
    ‘I am sure they are. He’s safer away from them.’
    In the end, Werthen did not attempt again to put Praetor at ease vis-à-vis the possibility of scandal. It was obvious that any such overtures would only be met with derision. Neither did Werthen bother to thank him again.
    Outside, it had darkened almost to twilight. Evening was upon the city, and a chill gripped Werthen as he walked along the cobbled sidewalk.
    Not a bad day of work, he told himself.
    A call to Herr Wittgenstein was not enough for the industrialist: he insisted on seeing Werthen in person in the morning.
    ‘But please tell your wife tonight,’ Werthen said. ‘It seems rather sure that Hans is aboard the SS Wertheim .’ For he had checked shipping schedules after leaving Herr Praetor’s flat. ‘The passenger manifest is not available yet, I’m afraid.’
    ‘Manifest be damned,’ Herr Wittgenstein thundered down the line. ‘The boy’s absconded. We shall speak tomorrow. Nine in the morning. Please be punctual.’
    He hung up before Werthen had a chance to respond. Vexing, but not enough so as to put him off Frau Blatschky’s fluffy Germknödel , steamed yeast dumpling, filled with plum jam and topped with poppy seeds, butter, and powdered sugar. He was thankful his mother was not in attendance for dinner, as she would surely raise an eyebrow at such rich fare for the new mother. Which reminded him that he would have to make amends to his parents soon.
    Berthe ate like a prize racehorse, even indulging in a glass of white Gumpoldskirchen wine. Herr Meisner was also at table, but still awfully silent as a result of the ongoing tiff over the naming ceremony for Frieda, who was happily sleeping in the nursery.
    In the end, Werthen and Berthe simply ignored the grumpy older gentleman and he told his wife about the outcome of this first case of the year – withholding the fact of what he could only term his cruelty toward Praetor. It was not something he was proud of, this tacit bit of extortion using the implied threat of revealing to the world Praetor’s homosexuality. Still, the young man was a considerable irritant and he was happy to put the Wittgenstein family at ease regarding the oldest son.
    Dinner ended not long before cries from the nursery let Berthe know her daughter was once again hungry.
    Next morning, Werthen appeared at the Palais Wittgenstein at nine precisely, and was ushered up to the study by the servant, Meier.
    Herr Wittgenstein was engrossed in paperwork at his large desk as Werthen entered, though the man was supposed to be retired. He waved away the servant, and then nodded to a chair for Werthen.
    ‘Fast work, Advokat.’
    Werthen took this as a compliment and nodded, placing the photograph he had