The Empty Mirror by J. Sydney Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

Gross only smiled at the question.
    As they left the construction site, Gross was shaking his head.
    “What are we to make of the man? Flounces about in that outsized tutu, fancies himself a genius beyond the bounds of society, yet defends the honor of his shabby lady love.”
    “A complex individual to be sure,” Werthen said.
    “You never mentioned, Werthen. However did that man come to be your client?”
    “An act of professional charity on my part, I must confess.”
    Their conversation was interrupted by street urchins tugging at the hem of Gross’s morning coat. He sent them scurrying with a brusque wave of the hand. The two men left the carnival atmosphere of the building site, and Werthen continued his explanation.
    “As a younger man, Klimt was a bit feckless. But my, could he paint, even then. Got himself into a spot of trouble ‘going to Trieste.
    “Whatever for? And why Italy?”
    “His phrase only. Not the city but the street, Triesterstrasse, here in Vienna. A major traffic artery for teamsters bringing goods into and out of the city. Whenever Klimt’s artistic muse failed him, he would take himself off to Triesterstrasse and pick a fight with whichever driver he first found abusing his draft animals. Said it freed his vital juices to be in a bit of rough-and-tumble.”
    “And he was charged with?” Gross asked.
    Werthen shrugged. “Grievous bodily harm, I’m afraid. Broke a man’s arm with his bare hands.”
    “Like cracking a walnut,” Gross muttered.
    “I proved it was self-defense. The man had a knife.”
    But Werthen could only think of the strength of the man, the bone-breaking ability of the painter.

FOUR
     
    W erthen was at his desk earlier than usual, anxious to write up his notes on the events of the day before. This morning there was no interruption of his
coffee-and-Kipferl
routine, and after forty minutes he realized that he was enjoying such writing far more than he did his short stories.
    Just as he was finishing his second cup of coffee, there was a knock on the double doors of the sitting-room-cum-study, and Frau Blatschky peeked her head in timidly, then entered.
    “A visitor, Dr. Werthen.”
    He glanced automatically at the clock. Too early even for Gross, he thought.
    “A woman.” She said it with faint disapproval. Had she approved, the visitor would have been labeled a “lady.”
    He could not imagine who it might be. Shaking his head, he said, “Send her in, Frau Blatschky.”
    A woman entered the room in a graceful sweep of fabric and sinew, all youth and beauty, her skin alabaster, almost translucent. Her hair was done up in a fashionable frizz bound by a lavender scarf.
    “Herr Werthen. Finally.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.
    “May I be of service, Fräulein?”
    Suddenly he recognized her from the Klimt paintings. “Fräulein Flöge.”
    She nodded at his recognition.
    “That will be all, Frau Blatschky.”
    The housekeeper gave a final disapproving glance, then pulled the doors shut behind her with extra force.
    “Gustl has been arrested,” the woman, clearly in distress, blurted out. “They came for him at his apartment and took him away like a common criminal in front of his mother and sisters. You must help,
Advokat
Werthen.”
    He was astounded and for a moment quite speechless. Then he recovered his wits and his lawyer’s bedside manner.
    “We will get him out,” Werthen reassured her. “After all, the police could have no case against him.”
    “You mean his alibi, Fräulein Plötzl.”
    Werthen tried to hide his further surprise.
    “Please, counselor. Gustl’s affairs are an open secret to all of Vienna.”
    “He was trying to protect you,” Werthen said, relieved that he would not have to battle Klimt’s misplaced sense of propriety.
    “But he cannot know that I know.” Her voice might have been no more than a whisper, but it breathed determination.
    “I don’t think
you
understand, Fräulein Flöge. Herr Klimt has been