Cemetery of the Nameless Page 15

  “And you can call me Oscar—or Rocky, if you prefer.”

  “Rocky?” he asked, puzzled.

  “It’s a nickname my wife gave me. Most people call me that now.”

  “Rocky...” Ertmann repeated in a tone of voice that clearly said, how odd. He smiled again. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  Cutting right to the chase, I asked, “Do you have any idea how my wife wound up with this von Heislinger character? I had no idea she even knew the man, let alone well enough to do the damage she’s done to her career by walking out in the middle of a tour—even if this other...thing hadn’t happened. I just can’t fathom it.”

  Ertmann considered my request while sipping his coffee. Putting down his cup, he spoke. “The late Rudolph von Heislinger had a reputation as a Don Juan. According to one of his more forthcoming servants, he had become fixated of late on your wife. He attended several of her recent concerts and apparently purchased a photograph taken of your Fräulein Morgan practising—”

  “Oh, Jesus! Not that goddamn nude picture again!”

  Ertmann made a wry face. “Your wife is a very beautiful as well as talented woman.”

  “Yeah, and she’s also the pinup girl of just about every postpubescent male violinist on the planet. I could break that photographer’s neck.”

  “You will not have to,” Ertmann said with a smile. “Von Heislinger bought the rights to the photo. He had one final copy made and then destroyed the negative.”

  “Well, hallelujah! There just might be someone up there who likes me.”

  The Austrian flashed his wry expression again. “It is a very large photo, though. I have seen it.”

  Yeah, him and probably half the constabulary of Austria. “But can you tell me how Tory got into this mess?”

  My optimistic belief in Ertmann turned out to be well-founded, but what he told me was more distressing than I could have imagined. I had asked Ertmann not to worry about being blunt. I was used to it.

  Ertmann’s story was similar to what Montenegro had told me, but the impresario had left several key things out. After the other guests had called it a night, Tory and her host had spent several hours in a “very impressive” indoor garden the castle boasted. The investigating police had found evidence that the two had engaged in some pretty intense sex.

  “It is apparently the place where Herr von Heislinger was accustomed to, ah...entertain his female guests.” Ertmann stopped and looked up at me. “You told me that I could be blunt.”

  “You read faces very well,” I told him, chagrined at my lack of control.

  “It is part of my job, but with yours this is not very hard. Should I stop? I would certainly not wish to hear this about my wife.”

  I shook my head, and he continued.

  Rudolph von Heislinger had formed many relationships with women over the years. Promising young musicians seemed to attract him most. What they got out of it were open doors to expanding their careers. Predictably, when he’d gotten what he wanted, the man would tire of each and move on to the next one. Tory, the most notable in this long line, had been an anomaly. She didn’t need von Heislinger’s “help”. Ertmann, and by extension, the investigating officers, were very puzzled over what sort of inducement he could have offered her.

  I again decided to feign ignorance on the subject. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping you might tell me.”

  Ertmann fixed me with a penetrating look, watchful yet somehow sad, as if the realities of life were always letting him down. “I have spoken personally with three of Baron von Heislinger’s women, and they were not—how do you say it?—forthcoming with information. Their careers are going very well at the moment, and they do not wish to jeopardize them.”

  “And the others?”

  “It is hard to say. We believe they may have threatened to make trouble for him.”

  “How many others are there?” I asked.

  “Four, maybe five.”

  “And why haven’t you spoken to them?” Ertmann gazed at me for a moment before answering. “Because they are dead. All of them regrettable accidents or suicides.”

  “May I ask you a blunt question?”

  “By all means. I will answer if I can.”

  “Is that why you’re involved in this investigation?”

  The Austrian nodded but offered nothing more. I didn’t press. Ertmann drained the last bit of coffee from his second cup. “Herr Lukesh, we really need to find your wife. There may be mitigating circumstances. Do you know what I am saying? If you know where she is, then you must please tell me.”

  “I don’t. She has not contacted me.”

  “You are aware of the penalties if you withhold this kind of information?”

  “If it’s anything like other countries, I sure do, but my answer would have to remain the same. I don’t know where Tory is or what she’s doing.”

  He sighed. “Then that is that. I do not have any more information for you.”

  I rose also as he got up and pulled on his overcoat. “I want to thank you for meeting with me at such short notice. Even though it was a bit painful to listen to, I needed to hear what you had to say. Thanks.”

  Ertmann solemnly shook hands and walked to the door where he turned. “Good day, Herr Lukesh. Please call me if you hear anything.”

  Watching him cross the narrow street and walk into the shadow of the dark-gray stone bulk of the Vienna State Opera, I thought glumly about where my wife might be and what she might be doing. I also thought about the fact that I hadn’t admitted to this man who’d just helped me that I knew very clearly how von Heislinger had lured Tory to his castle.

  But most of all I thought about the likely reason Tory hadn’t gotten in touch with me.

  The weight of the huge building across the street seemed to settle on my soul.

  “Personally, I think she’s evil. Anyone who behaves the way she does has to be. Victoria Morgan is just another example of the complete collapse of morals in western society. She’s going to get what she deserves, and I say that it’s about time!”

  —Pam F. on the “Justice for Tory?” thread, alt.classicalmusic

  Chapter 12

  TORY

  Almost as far back as I can remember, the whole fabric of my being, how I see myself, has been defined and delineated by my musical abilities. I’m certain it’s that way with most people who have been blessed with an exceptional gift like I have. To have that gift vanish, to have the music that has been singing inside my head, since I first started bugging my parents at age three to buy me a violin, suddenly go silent, hit me with the force of a body blow. The emptiness I felt actually seemed far worse than waking up beside a dead man and realizing I was going to be blamed for it.

  “It’s just not there!” I said to Elen for probably the tenth time. “I’ve never felt so alone.”

  Elen had given me a tranquillizer that must have been pretty potent. Even though I still felt very fragile, the pills had gotten me to the point where I could actually talk about what was going on without collapsing on the floor and curling up into a ball. Unfortunately, her magic pills also made me feel as if I’d been shoved into the centre of a fifteen foot ball of cotton.

  “But your playing last night was brilliant,” Elen said. “I didn’t even realize you were asleep at first.”

  “Great! I can still play, but only in my sleep. That’s such a comfort.”

  She winced. “This can’t possibly be a permanent condition, Tory. Look what you’ve gone through in the last sixty hours, for heaven’s sake! What is that term you hear all the time on the news lately? Post traumatic—”

  “Post traumatic stress disorder,” I said, snapping off the facile term like some sort of curse.

  “That’s probably exactly what you’re suffering from, and those sorts of things are temporary or treatable.”

  I sat on an upholstered armchair across the wide room from her, legs drawn up tight against my chest. My bare feet were cold, but I didn’
t care. What I needed was not the medical term du jour but simply to wake up from this nightmare.

  “But what if it’s not temporary?” I countered “What if I have to go through years of therapy to get back to normal? This has me totally freaked out. Without my violin...who am I? I’ve spent my whole life being Tory the Violinist.”

  “It’s not hard to believe that the horrible thing that’s happened to you has caused some sort of—I don’t know—damage to your emotional stability. That can come out in all sorts of weird symptoms. This just happens to be the one your brain has picked. But I’m sure what you’re going through is just temporary,” she repeated, sounding as if she were trying to convince herself as much as me.

  “What’s in these pills you gave me?” I asked, changing the subject. “I can’t believe that I can actually handle talking about this. Somewhere in the background, I feel like I should be frothing at the mouth, but it’s like another part of me is acting like I couldn’t care less.”

  “I’m not sure,” Elen answered hesitantly. “I, ah, a doctor friend gave them to me when I was having trouble sleeping a few weeks back. You can’t keep taking them, though, Tory. They’re quite powerful and supposedly habit-forming. He warned me about using them too often.”

  “So what am I supposed to do then? Every time I close my eyes I see him, von Heislinger. I don’t dare go to sleep, because I know he’s there waiting for me. And now you’re telling me that I can play perfectly when I’m asleep, and guess where that puts me? It’s like my soul has been poisoned.”

  Elen looked concerned. “Maybe we can get you some help.”

  “But how are we going to do that? I’m wanted for murder!”

  My pulse began to race, so I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths and everything smoothed out again. Great stuff, these pills...

  All day, we’d tiptoed around what was really wrong. It was actually quite silly to be worried about whether or not I’d be able to perform again when the combined police forces of Europe were on the hunt for me, and everyone seemingly thought I deserved to be far away from any concert hall for a very long time. While this part of the world is quite progressive about penal servitude, I didn’t harbour any illusions that it extended to allowing prisoners to play musical instruments in their cells.

  Everything that had happened that fateful night was still so raw, I felt like a tightly-packed bomb. One touch the wrong way, and I would blow apart into a million pieces that no one, least of all me, would ever be able to reassemble again. So Elen and I had shied away from looking into that horrible black hole for the moment, magic pills or no magic pills.

  “Don’t you think you should try calling home again?” Elen had already asked this three times. “That might help.”

  “But I can’t get through to our Montreal number! Rocky’s probably pulled the phone right out of the wall. I can’t call mam and tad. What am I supposed to say to them? ‘Sure I woke up next to this dead guy the other morning, but don’t worry, everything will be okay.’ There’s no way I’m going to call them!”

  Elen looked at me and then at her watch. “You know, I think it would be safe to take another of those pills.”

  She went to the kitchen and came back with one, which I choked down with a glass of water. Elen picked up the remote and switched the TV on, while I got up and looked out the window at the narrow street below, filled with people on their way home. I envied them their freedom to come and go as they pleased.

  Suddenly, I became aware of a familiar voice coming from the TV.

  “Oh my God! That’s Rocky!” I cried, turning around. “What’s going on?”

  “He’s here in Vienna. I don’t recognize where it is, though.”

  “I do. That’s the hotel I always use. And that’s Roddy in the background! Why is he still in town?”

  “Probably the same reason your husband is,” Elen responded dryly.

  With our meagre knowledge of German, we managed between us to get about half of what the commentator said. I actually got more information from the belligerent jut of Rocky’s jaw, and even though the voice-over translation covered up most of his words, I could tell he was trying to defend me against the questions hurled by the media. Poor man. He didn’t deserve any of this.

  I asked Elen to turn off the TV when the broadcast moved on to other topics. We sat staring at the blank screen.

  “So are you going to get in touch with him?” Elen asked in a gentle voice.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? You know where he is.”

  “The cops might be monitoring his calls.”

  “Then I’ll take a message to him.”

  “No. I can’t face him,” I repeated.

  “If he came all the way here, then he must still—”

  “Love me?” I interrupted.

  “I was going to say that he must still believe in you. I’m sure that’s what the translator said.”

  “But I’ve humiliated him yet again. You could see that from the way he looked!”

  “I think you’re reading too much into it. He looked tired and fed up—and not necessarily at you! Why not at the media? You’re always telling me how much he hates dealing with them. Tory! Don’t look at me like that!”

  “If he wants to see me, he’ll answer the email I sent. He’d be sure to check for incoming messages on my laptop. I left it in my room.”

  Elen responded disgustedly, “Your parents should have named you Candida instead of Victoria. How do you know he’s even thought of turning it on?”

  I got up and went back to the window, looking out, seeing nothing.

  “You’re making a big mistake not telling your own husband where you are,” Elen continued. “He can help!”

  I spun around. “He can also get himself into a whole load of trouble, too, and knowing him, he would. I can’t risk that. I’ll kill myself before I’ll let that happen!”

  “Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?”

  “Look, I’m freaking out because I just found out I can’t play. Rocky hasn’t been able to play for over four years! And guess whose fault that is? I got myself into this mess, and I’ll get myself out. Okay? The cops are probably expecting me to get in touch with him. If I go anywhere near him, they’ll have both of us in jail so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

  Elen’s whole face tensed up. “What about me, then? I suppose it’s all right if I get in trouble?”

  “No one knows about you, Elen. I haven’t even talked about you much to Rocky. He certainly has no idea you’re in Vienna. Unless we do something stupid, they won’t come knocking on your door.”

  The pill started to kick in, and I slumped back into the armchair.

  Elen stood. “I’m hungry. Want some soup and crackers? You should eat.”

  I really had no appetite, but just to placate her, I answered, “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

  While she was in the kitchen, I forced myself not to think of the comfort I might find in a pair of arms that were probably not more than a mile away from where I was sitting. Or would Rocky get on the next plane and fly out of my life forever when he read the email I’d sent the night before?

  Only time would tell, and I had the distinct feeling that that commodity was not on my side. Always in the background, I could feel tendrils of the overwhelming panic I’d suffered earlier in the day creeping forward into my consciousness, slithering out of the darkness that harboured it, and held back only by the strength of Elen’s magic pills.

  I looked over at the clock on her desk. In six more hours, I could take another.

  ***

  Next morning, I woke up shortly after ten feeling a lot more hopeful, mainly because, when I opened my eyes, I was where I expected to be.

  As I stretched and yawned, it hit me with a sickening jolt that there were voices coming from the living room: Elen’s dark contralto—and a male voice, German-speaking, judging by the accent. Without thinking, I started looking for another way out of
the room. A quick glance told me that if it was the cops, I was toast. Elen’s room didn’t even have a closet, just one of those old-fashioned wardrobes. The windows were three floors up, and I didn’t fancy trying the rickety-looking fire escape.

  I got up and quietly padded to the door, pressing my ear against it. The conversation was in English, and although I couldn’t distinguish many words, my racing heart started slowing down immediately when I heard Elen’s relaxed laugh. She may have proved to be good at improvising at the border the day before, but I doubted anyone would have sounded that calm if the police had come knocking at their door and they had the most sought-after fugitive in Europe in their bedroom.

  Trouble was, I really had to go to the bathroom, which gave me a major problem, unless Elen and her friend knocked it off in a big hurry.

  “Come on, Elen!” I said to myself while doing a little dance, “Give this guy a peck on his cheek and send him on his way!”

  All she did was laugh again. After another three minutes, I couldn’t hold out any longer. Throwing on Elen’s robe, a beautiful hand-painted silk number which was draped over a chair. On me, it just about scraped the floor. I tied it up, took a deep breath, mentally crossed all body parts and opened the door.

  It couldn’t have been worse. The guy was facing in my direction.

  This had to be the “friend” who had loaned Elen the apartment. Dressed with studied casualness in slacks and an old shirt, he was handsome without looking particularly sensuous. Tall, almost what women’s magazines would call lanky, hair nicely styled and pretty well gone to gray, I pegged his age at somewhere in his mid-forties. His face was quite long, but he had a patrician brow, very intense blue-gray eyes and full, sensuous lips. All-in-all, a man at the height of his powers, and wealthy, too—if this apartment and his outward appearance were any indication.

  Elen turned around with a startled look on her face. The apartment had a small foyer which opened into the very large sitting room, about twenty feet on each side. Elen’s bedroom was at the end of a short corridor on the opposite side of the room and I had to walk about ten feet to get to the bathroom door, so I was only a few feet away from Elen and her visitor by the time I reached it.