The Countess of Prague Read online

  The Morgue was a new building, replacing the rat-infested structure that had adjoined the old ghetto down in Josefov. But at any hour, like its predecessor, it attracted the potentially bereaved and the curious to view the unclaimed bodies of the day. Fortunately, I had never had occasion to visit the place before.

  “But why, Uncle?” I asked. “Why such a ‘bad business’?” For all I was aware, Uncle Berty hadn’t visited old Alois in ages — although I had heard he had been very solicitous in paying the extra for him to have a single room in The Invalides with special rations — meat on Sundays and Wednesdays, fish on Fridays, and five large jugs of beer daily.

  “I’ll have to explain later,” he replied. “Didn’t Karel ever tell you about the Tontine?”

  Karel is my husband.

  “The what?” I asked.

  “Then obviously he didn’t. As I said, damn bad business all round if old Alois is on parade at this moment in front of the Almighty.”

  Even allowing for an early March day it was chilly inside. New electrically driven refrigeration devices had been installed, which I was informed, were far more efficient than the running water, cold from the Vltava, that had served the previous establishment. Uncle Berty was soon shaking hands with the Police Commissioner, who introduced Inspector Schneider, who was handling this case personally under the direct supervision of the Departmental Superintendent.

  We passed through a long chamber, bounded from the public by a series of plate-glass windows at which the morbid, the nosey, and the genuinely concerned were pressing their faces to get better views of the current crop of corpses laid on the slabs before them. Our man was in an adjoining room, a dormitory — if Sleep Eternal could be described thus — for just four departed souls.

  The sheet was removed and the scene revealed was one of utter horror. Something terrible had happened to the face of what was clearly an old man, now stripped of his clothes and whatever dignity he deserved in death. His features were really quite unrecognisable. Uncle Berty nodded for the sheet to be replaced, then shook his head. “I can’t say it was or wasn’t him,” was all he said at first — then he added, “And was it murder?”

  Inspector Schneider produced a type-written report. “The doctor completed this but an hour ago. Together with the police observations, it makes interesting reading. You see, it might not have been murder at all. The injuries to the man’s face were made sometime after death, which could well have been from natural causes — he was, after all, of advanced age. They could have been made as he was dashed against the staves in the river, for example — or some other accident.”

  “So he might have simply had heart failure and toppled into the river?” I asked. If I was brought here, without even being offered smelling salts, then I should at least put in my two-kreutzers’-worth.

  “Now that’s the curious thing,” Schneider went on, “for that’s impossible. You see his pockets were weighted with stones, and there was some form of cord about his ankles. Whoever dumped him into the river wanted him to stay there. It was only this flood that has meant his body couldn’t settle.”

  “But I don’t understand,” queried Uncle Berty. “If he had died of natural causes, why couldn’t he have been buried quite normally?”

  “That’s what we have to find out,” replied Schneider, “and there’s another even more curious aspect to this case. The matron at The Invalides says that Alois Tager is, allowing for his age, quite well and alive. In fact, you can go and visit him yourselves.”

  ***

  Uncle Berty seemed highly agitated at this revelation and we were very soon bound for The Invalides Hospital by the river in the suburb of Karlín. It was a large building trumpeting eighteenth-century military grandeur, home to several hundred pensioners of the Austrian army. The gravel drive was lined with cannons on wooden carriages that appeared to date from the Napoleonic Wars — but if it looked like a palace from the outside, the inside was quite different. Perhaps the inmates would have felt uncomfortable without the familiar Spartan surroundings of a barracks.

  The matron and warden, who were apparently a married couple, were anxious to give Uncle Berty the full treatment that a famous general deserved, although obviously somewhat put-out that no notice at all of his intended visit appeared to have been given. Employing a matron and a warden who could share the same bed, and who between them could take any leave that was necessary whilst requiring no outside help, with one always there in charge, was indicative of the spirit of meanness that pervaded the place. These two employees had caught the mood of the governors to perfection.

  It was soon clear that old Alois, dead or alive, did however get his extra allowances that Uncle Berty generously provided — but no doubt to the nearest gram of meat and centilitre of beer.

  The corridors were full of these old soldiers of the Empire, wearing the military-style tunics peculiar to The Invalides, relaxing in the weak afternoon sun by playing cards or smoking their long pipes. We were shown into a bare white-washed room with a plain pine floor and four simple wooden chairs. “Mr. Tager will be here in a moment,” we were told.

  “Mr. Tager?” asked Uncle Berty.

  “After working as a valet for some years, Tager sees himself as a servant rather than a sergeant. In fact he is allowed not to wear the military tunic. Others like to keep the old discipline, but it is really up to them. They find the blue tunic affords them better gratuities in the city, if the truth be told,” answered the matron.

  In less than a minute a door at the far end of the room opened and an old man, bent with age and seated on a wooden wheeled chair was pushed into the room. His head lolled onto his chest, and when he did finally look up his eyes seemed weak and watery and there was no recognition in them.

  “He’s like that, I’m afraid. He’ll not know you,” offered the warden.

  “And how long has he been…well, insensible?”

  “He had an unfortunate fall a few weeks ago. We thought he was dead. But we had the card and sent word to those people of his to come for him. They came within the hour and he was taken to hospital. When he came back, about a week ago, he was much reduced in his abilities.” It was the matron who replied this time.

  “But why wasn’t I informed?” Uncle Berty’s voice was rising. I could feel the pressure in that well-known steam boiler of his, behind his lined forehead, increasing. “And who do you mean, ‘those people of his’?” He seemed quite indignant.

  “Why, The Union of Servants, of course. His years as a valet had earned him entry,” said the matron.

  “But Uncle,” I interjected — and not just to calm him down — “is this old Alois or is it not?”

  It looked as if a sudden thought had struck Uncle Berty. Then he turned from looking in the direction of the old man and looked me straight in the eye: “Of course it is he. Who else could it be?”

  I was about to ask “then who is it in the Morgue?”, but for some reason I decided not to say anything. Uncle Berty, after all, must be able to recognise the man if anyone could.

  ***

  I shared Uncle Berty’s carriage back to Jindřišská Street.

  “I’d better tell you why Alois is so important to me. Besides being old comrades — we had survived the slaughter of the Battle of Königgrätz and many another scrape I can tell you, and never a day passed without my belt and boots being polished to perfection, decorations all in order and my coffee just as I like it — besides all that, there is the Tontine. And that’s a matter of real importance.”

  “You said you’d explain…”

  “And so I shall. I’m still surprised your husband hasn’t — I mean, you must have noticed.”

  “What, Uncle Berty?”

  “That your income suddenly dried up a year or two back. That was because of the Tontine. He never explained?”

  “I am only his wife, remember. But I shal
l be totally exasperated if you don’t this minute explain it to me.”

  Uncle Berty raised a bushy eyebrow. I think he would have rather liked to see his pretty Countess great niece have a temper tantrum. It might stir his blood. However, for a quieter life he proceeded to explain:

  “A Tontine is a lottery of sorts. It is a way of raising finance, and it is named after an Italian banker by the name of Tonti, who started such a scheme in France two hundred or so years ago. Twenty years ago a Tontine was proposed and raised here in Prague.”

  “Wasn’t there once a Tontine Theatre up near Vinohrady somewhere? The building would be about twenty years old, surely? It’s called something else now, I think.”

  “Precisely. The promoters of the theatre raised two hundred shares of one thousand guilders each to build the theatre, and then signed a lease to the management for forty thousand guilders a year. It was solidly built — not like these wooden arenas which have sprung up around the city in recent years. The rent from the theatre was distributed to the shareholders equally, but on the following basis — and this is where the Tontine idea comes in — each shareholder has to nominate a person over sixty years of age in order to join the syndicate. Then, as each of these nominees dies, the shareholder loses his stake, and the dividend to the remainder increases accordingly. When there is only one left — secured on the last surviving nominee — then that shareholder reaps all the benefits.”

  “And are you a member?”

  “Yes. The Tontine Theatre was indeed the investment, and I was persuaded to join by your husband. A thousand guilders was not a huge sum to put down, and the potential reward is enormous. Your husband —”

  “Don’t tell me — the great gambling Falklenburgs. He had a share, I suppose?”

  “He did.”

  “And he lost it?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. You see, he secured it on his mother’s life. She seemed a person in very good health for her age, able to live long, very long indeed. Věra had a strong constitution.”

  “But she met with my mother, and they began hunting together…”

  “The English. How reckless they are when they are around horses. And this ‘side-saddle’ — how could she be expected to survive jumps over hedges and streams perched up there like that?”

  “My dear Uncle, I am sure I could stay mounted through The Charge of the Light Brigade. Mother-in-law’s horse stumbled, that’s all.”

  “But the point is she died, and Karel lost his investment — the annual income together with the chance for the big dividend at the end. At the time we were down to three — Karel’s stake, mine, and a Jewish banker in Josefov.”

  “And who is your nominee?”

  “Trixie, you must have guessed —”

  “Of course. That’s why you have been so solicitous about paying for his extra comforts.”

  “My old batman, Alois. A man of iron. As tough as —”

  I cut him off: “But I saw you hesitate when trying to identify him. Did I not?”

  “My dear niece, I don’t really know if that is him or isn’t. It looks like him, but then I have to guess how he would look if he couldn’t recognise me. It was that mischievous glint in his eye which I missed. I have often found on the battlefield that corpses are quite difficult to identify — it is the animation in the faces of the living that counts for half the ease of recognition. But you understand I had to acknowledge him. Did you think I would possibly risk losing my share now too — the Tontine having got down to just two lives?”

  “You are an old scoundrel, Uncle — but why really did you invite me along for the visit to that chamber of horrors?”

  “There is more to this business than meets the eye. It is clear that dirty work is afoot — but why on Earth should someone else want to keep old Alois alive in this way?”

  I thought for a moment. “I agree. I should have thought that the problem with Tontines is the temptation to bump people off when it gets down to such ridiculous odds. This is just the opposite, and yet there is no such thing as a Good Fairy. I have had a sheltered existence, but that I do know.”

  “Precisely.”

  “And why me? I am good at solving the little mysteries in our own social circle, I grant you. Apart from a pair of silver spoons, I have repatriated an entire wallet containing no less than a thousand krone.”

  “I would have returned it. I had no wish to take the money — it’s just that the wallet was so very tempting, left in a jacket draped over a chair so near the billiard table. You understand?”

  “Quite so, Uncle. But this is a mystery in a very different class, surely. Which is precisely why it intrigues me already.”

  “I have the half dividend of the Tontine — that’s twenty thousand krone a year — coming in, so there’s enough to pay whatever your expenses might be. I see this being more complex than it may look. It needs looking into.”

  “And dangerous, Uncle? Have you thought of that? I wouldn’t like to end up at the bottom of the Vltava, of that you can be sure.”

  “I somehow feel that no-one will suspect a perfectly respectable Countess doing a little delving. It is the perfect disguise. I would not be surprised if the famous Sherlock Holmes himself does not adopt such a ruse.”

  “He would never get into the shoes, Uncle. Or tolerate the forty-five minutes it takes Sabine sometimes to sew me into my dress — but then the great Mr. Holmes would probably not be attending any balls.”

  By this time the coach had arrived outside the Harrach Palace in Jindřišská Street and had been standing for some minutes. The coachman was too well-disciplined to interrupt, and my footman was waiting patiently to open the door of the carriage. I put my gloved hand on the rail of the door, just under the window — the signal for my servant.

  “Where do you think you will start, Trixie?”

  “With this,” I said, and with my other hand proffered the card of The Union of Servants which I had removed from the matron’s desk at The Invalides. My first act in this saga, and the beginning of my new life — as a lady who does something.

  On such a high note, as if ending a scene in a cheap melodrama, I stepped out of Uncle Berty’s carriage which sped off towards the hustle and bustle of Wenceslas Square at the end of the street, and out of my sight.

  Chapter Two

  The Theatre of the Absurd

  The address given for The Union of Servants turned out to be a single door in a narrow side-street where the New Town meets Vinohrady. For centuries Vinohrady had been the site of the King’s vineyards, but over the last fifty years it had gradually been built over with apartment houses for the bourgoisie as Prague expanded up the hill beyond the limits of its old fortifications, rendered redundant by modern cannons. Indeed it was from Vinohrady’s commanding heights that the city had been bombarded by those wretched warlike Prussians first in the 1750s and then again in the 1860s.

  The door had no doorbell and no letterbox, and over it — in paint which had faded and begun to peel — was a sign which could still be made out: ‘The Tontine Theatre Stage Door’ and over part of this was a much newer black-and-white sign proclaiming “The Union of Servants.” On the door was painted: “In attendance, Mondays and Wednesdays, 8am to 11am.” Round the corner, The Fenix Theatre — as it was now called — stood in a distinguished square, the model of propriety. It was temporarily closed, awaiting a new production in the spring which would shortly be announced and which would be produced by the theatre’s manager, a Mr. Gerard Duvalier.

  I stepped back to where my carriage was drawn up outside that dingy side doorway and got back inside. “There must be some mistake,” I said to the coachman. “Drive me home.” Actually I thought otherwise: I knew I was onto something.

  It was as I was awaiting luncheon at home that I began to take stock of the situation and my preparedness to deal with it. I came into the dinin
g room and found an unopened telegram awaiting me by my place, which was the only one laid. It was from Karel announcing that he would not be home for luncheon as he had promised — for I thought he would be alighting from the train arriving at 11 a.m. — but that he would in fact be delayed for several more days in Vienna. I was annoyed because this meant that he must also have sent another telegram to the butler or the cook. Normally I resented anything which undermined my position as mistress of the house. How I would dwell on such petty affronts, but today I didn’t care a jot!

  My mind was being nourished by more important matters and the first thing on it was this Inspector Schneider. Should his investigations find that the man in The Invalides is not Alois Tager, but an impostor, then Uncle Berty’s finances would be in ruins. On the other hand, Schneider might well come across interesting evidence of what lay behind the fraud — for perhaps there was something worse in store for Uncle Berty if he were simply to ignore what was going on. But that was why he asked me to unmask the mystery, surely? Uncle Berty was to be found somewhere between the goading devil and the ocean’s deep. Whatever happened, I decided, I should keep in touch with this Schneider, if only to divert him away from the extraordinary truth which was staring us in the face, resolving that instant to invite him for English tea the following afternoon. Having called for pen and paper I hastily wrote a note which I had sent by pneumatic. The telephone was still an instrument of intimacy, like whispering in someone’s ear, whilst the pneumatic post literally flew one’s letters on a blast of air under the streets of Prague — the epitome of efficiency and modernity.

  But the usual tiresome day, that normally would have stretched forth listlessly until some amusement or another was destined to occur, seemed today filled with thoughts of things that had to be done. I summoned Sabine.

  “I want four or five plain dresses, just like the one you are wearing,” I asked her. “And I want hooks-and-eyes. I won’t have time for you to sew them on.”