The One from the Other

'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 Fraulein 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,