Sydney Jones - The Keeper of Hands

Werthen knew this routine only too well from his days in Graz: Gross was removing himself from the distractions of society in order to concentrate all his formidable powers on this most challenging case. As with so much investigative work, Werthen was coming to understand, the real problem was not discovering who did it, but making sure they paid for their transgressions.

Before entering his ruminative hibernation, Gross issued a stern caveat: no one was to attempt to have the incriminating evidence hidden at Forstl’s apartment ‘discovered’ by the police.

Berthe fumed at this directive. ‘I risked my life to uncover that evidence and now he wants to give the man a chance to dispose of it.’

Werthen raised his eyebrows at this.

‘What?’ she said. ‘It was dangerous. You said so yourself.’

Next morning, Gross deigned to breakfast with the mere mortals of the household. But Berthe was still with Frieda, so Werthen and Gross had the dining table to themselves.

‘Have you got the solution, Gross?’ Werthen asked as he passed the warmed milk for the coffee.

‘Time will tell,’ he said, pouring a trickle of milk into his steaming cup of coffee. There were fresh Kipferls today, and he plucked one of these predecessors to the croissant from the linen-lined basket and dunked it exuberantly into the coffee, leaving a brown trail dripping on the tablecloth as he maneuvered it to his mouth.

‘I have but one request,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and removing a small sheet of paper. On it the criminologist had written a telephone number and a paragraph of text.

‘Ten minutes after I leave this morning, I want you to place a phone call to that number and relay the accompanying information to the person who answers the phone.’

Werthen quickly perused the note.

‘You cannot be serious, Gross.’

‘I am only too serious, my friend. Deadly serious.’

‘But this is far too rash.’

‘That is exactly what I am hoping.’

‘And where exactly will you be while I am making this call?’

‘Paying a long overdue visit.’

‘This isn’t a plan, it’s a death wish.’

‘Drama so early in the morning, Werthen. It is unbecoming.’

He rose suddenly before Werthen could proffer further arguments and passed out of the dining room just as Berthe was coming in, with Frieda in tow.

‘Doktor Gross,’ she said. ‘We are honored by your presence.’

Gross shot her a sly smile. ‘I am only sorry I cannot stay to converse over coffee. There is business to attend to.’

‘Gross,’ Werthen called to him, but it was no use. He heard the door of the flat open, and then close behind the criminologist.

The phone rang six times before it was finally picked up. Werthen looked at the script that Gross had provided, and immediately said ‘I have something to tell you.’

A voice at the other end replied, ‘Forstl, is that you?’

Werthen paused a moment, needing to extemporize. Obviously some colleague of Forstl’s had answered his telephone; just as obviously this meant that Captain Forstl was not at the Bureau this morning.

Werthen coughed once into the mouthpiece and then automatically replied to the man’s question, ‘Yes.’

‘Then you had better damn well get in here quick. The Colonel is about to explode. Somebody’s been messing around in the vaults. The mobilization plans against Russia have been stolen. Do you hear me, Forstl?’

Werthen paused again. ‘Yes. I will be there. Sick today. A summer cold.’

‘Well, you don’t sound like yourself. But this is no time for personal considerations.’

The receiver on the other end slammed down, then Werthen set his own down.

Berthe was standing by him in the hall. ‘Well?’

‘I think Gross is walking into a trap.’

He maneuvered past the Portier with ease, waiting for her to finish sweeping the sidewalk at the far end of the building and then slipped inside behind her. He knew where to find the apartment, from the story Werthen’s wife had told them, and reached it without any curious residents passing him on the stairs.

Gross took deep breaths as he stood in front of the door, not because he was out of breath from climbing the stairs, but because he wanted to calm himself. He patted his jacket pocket automatically, and was reassured by the hard bulge of the Steyr pistol. He knew he might have to use the gun if, as he hoped, his message to Forstl — relayed by Werthen — brought the man’s Russian controller out of the woodwork.

‘ I have something to tell you ,’ Gross had written. ‘ You are being watched. Your every move is tracked. We know about your memento mori collection, and your double agent status at the Bureau. We are coming for you. ’

Melodramatic, to be sure, Gross thought as he waited a moment longer outside the door. But it should prove effective, spurring not only Forstl but also his controller into action.

What had Werthen called it? Rash? Sometimes subtlety was insufficient to the moment, and Gross thought this was such a moment.

He reached inside his breast pocket and brought out the leather case containing his lock-picking tools. Arrayed on one side of the case was a set of skeleton keys; and on the other, more intricate L-shaped picks for a lock that proved more difficult and that would need its tumblers lifted one by one before the bolt could be slid back and the door opened. Gross was ready with the picks, for he assumed that a man like Forstl, acting as a double agent, would have at least a modern mortise lock in place — though it could not be difficult, as Werthen’s secretary had managed the feat with a hatpin.

But, with his many years of experience in gathering evidence, Gross knew he should simply try the door first. It was amazing how many times a person forgot to lock the door when leaving in the morning.

He looked both ways along the corridor; there was no one about. He put his hand on the cool brass knob and twisted. The door opened. He hesitated. Luck or the unexpected?

Either way, there was no going back now.

A heavy brass smell assaulted his nostrils once he was inside the apartment, but Gross was sure this was not from the hardware on the door. The room was still in semi-darkness with the long drapes on the windows securely closed. A dim light shone from a room deeper in the flat.

Suddenly, more cool metal met his skin, but this time it felt like the barrel of a pistol biting into the back of his head.

‘Move inside, Doktor Gross. Slowly. Do not reach for the pistol in your pocket or it will be your last action.’

‘Tidying up, are you?’ Gross said as the barrel dug deeper into his scalp, forcing him to move forward. The door closed behind them.

‘Well, what did the pompous fool expect?’ said Berthe, letting the note Gross had composed for Werthen drift from her hand to the parquet.

‘This is hardly the time for recriminations. Forstl is most likely at his apartment now and it would seem that Gross is on his way there.’

‘I’m sorry, Karl. I didn’t mean to sound so shrewish, but sometimes Gross can be exasperating. He had a full night of cogitating and this is the best he could come up with? Stirring a nest of snakes?’

‘He had to find a way to trap both Forstl and his controller. I assume this was it. With what you found in his apartment, Forstl would be the one to take the blame for everything. The controller would walk away free.’

‘If there is a controller. I think we should call Inspector Drechsler.’

‘I’ve got to go there. Warn Gross. .’

‘That is exactly why we need to call Drechsler. You are not going there alone.’

‘I have read about you, Doktor Gross,’ Schmidt said. ‘You surprise me. This hardly seems your style.’