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Authors: J. Sydney Jones
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were everywhere, roses popping out of vases, violets and lilies worked into celebratory wreaths, bunches of carnations of every hue, and potted plants as well-elephant ears, ferns, and palms in brass tubs. The perfume of the various flowers hit them like an olfactory hammer and held them in the doorway momentarily.
“Yes? What is it?” The large voice came from an exceedingly small man-smaller even than Meindl-all but hidden by purple chrysanthemums in a faux Ming vase set upon a dressing table. The man gazed at them in the reflection of his mirror. His face was as white as that of the corpse in the morgue. However, in Girardi’s case the whiteness was achieved by artificial means.
Werthen now understood the reason for part of Girardi’s fame: not even gone two o’clock and the man was already getting into makeup. It seemed his whole life must revolve around the theater.
Gross quickly introduced himself, referring to Werthen only as “my colleague.”
Girardi stood, muttering,
“Enchanté,”
and looked awfully silly in his opera pumps. He eyed them with a cunning sort of suspicion; an actor assuming the role of discerning speculation. “How may I help you gentlemen?”
“Sorry to trouble you, Herr Girardi. It’s the Landtauer matter. Fräulein Elisabeth Landtauer,” Gross said.
Girardi changed roles-now he was the shrewd bon vivant.
“Liesel? Dear girl, I know her well. You could say that I
have
known her, in fact.” His impeccable Burgtheater German suddenly became infected with the twang of Viennese dialect. Girardi’s timing was perfect: a raffish grin came right on cue.
“Are you gentlemen acquainted with her?”
Werthen and Gross exchanged momentary looks.
“Then you don’t know,” Gross began. “You haven’t seen the papers?”
Girardi slowly began to lose his stage roles; a human expression briefly peeked through his masks.
“I do not follow the news before a performance. It unsettles one. What’s this about?”
“It is my sad duty to tell you that Fräulein Landtauer is dead…. Murdered,” Gross added.
For an instant Girardi thought it was a joke in poor taste. He was about to protest the badness of taste, but then saw the pained look in Werthen’s eye.
Girardi’s hand groped blindly in back of him for the chair at his dressing table, and finding it, he slumped down onto it.
“How?” he muttered barely audibly.
“Someone broke her neck,” Gross said, a consoling hand on Girardi’s shoulder. “It was instantaneous. She felt no pain.”
As silence reigned in the dressing room, the sounds from outside became louder than ever: shouted commands, last-minute hammering on sets, a contralto singing somewhere in the auditorium for God knew what purpose.
“It can’t be,” Girardi finally said. “There must be some mistake.”
Gross shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Herr Girardi. She has been identified.”
Girardi looked straight ahead. “When?” Then he looked up at Gross. “What time did this happen?”
“Sometime between midnight and three the night before last. The medical examiner could not be too certain.”
Girardi was holding his head in his hands and cupped his eyes. He made a sudden jerk, as if pulling a marionette’s string on his own body, straightened in his chair, and clenched his jaw.
“Why have you come to see me about this? How could you even know we were … friends?”
Gross produced the packet of letters. “The young womansaved your letters, you see. The most recent indicates that you were together the night in question.”
“Correction,” Girardi said, rising once again, a tiny puffed-up rooster ready for a fight. He put his hand out for the letters and Gross obliged him, handing them over.
“She wanted to be together Tuesday night,” Girardi continued, slipping the packet into a drawer in his makeup table. “But I sent the girl packing after a light dinner at Sacher’s. You may not know it, but I have a premier tonight. Liesel
“Yes? What is it?” The large voice came from an exceedingly small man-smaller even than Meindl-all but hidden by purple chrysanthemums in a faux Ming vase set upon a dressing table. The man gazed at them in the reflection of his mirror. His face was as white as that of the corpse in the morgue. However, in Girardi’s case the whiteness was achieved by artificial means.
Werthen now understood the reason for part of Girardi’s fame: not even gone two o’clock and the man was already getting into makeup. It seemed his whole life must revolve around the theater.
Gross quickly introduced himself, referring to Werthen only as “my colleague.”
Girardi stood, muttering,
“Enchanté,”
and looked awfully silly in his opera pumps. He eyed them with a cunning sort of suspicion; an actor assuming the role of discerning speculation. “How may I help you gentlemen?”
“Sorry to trouble you, Herr Girardi. It’s the Landtauer matter. Fräulein Elisabeth Landtauer,” Gross said.
Girardi changed roles-now he was the shrewd bon vivant.
“Liesel? Dear girl, I know her well. You could say that I
have
known her, in fact.” His impeccable Burgtheater German suddenly became infected with the twang of Viennese dialect. Girardi’s timing was perfect: a raffish grin came right on cue.
“Are you gentlemen acquainted with her?”
Werthen and Gross exchanged momentary looks.
“Then you don’t know,” Gross began. “You haven’t seen the papers?”
Girardi slowly began to lose his stage roles; a human expression briefly peeked through his masks.
“I do not follow the news before a performance. It unsettles one. What’s this about?”
“It is my sad duty to tell you that Fräulein Landtauer is dead…. Murdered,” Gross added.
For an instant Girardi thought it was a joke in poor taste. He was about to protest the badness of taste, but then saw the pained look in Werthen’s eye.
Girardi’s hand groped blindly in back of him for the chair at his dressing table, and finding it, he slumped down onto it.
“How?” he muttered barely audibly.
“Someone broke her neck,” Gross said, a consoling hand on Girardi’s shoulder. “It was instantaneous. She felt no pain.”
As silence reigned in the dressing room, the sounds from outside became louder than ever: shouted commands, last-minute hammering on sets, a contralto singing somewhere in the auditorium for God knew what purpose.
“It can’t be,” Girardi finally said. “There must be some mistake.”
Gross shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Herr Girardi. She has been identified.”
Girardi looked straight ahead. “When?” Then he looked up at Gross. “What time did this happen?”
“Sometime between midnight and three the night before last. The medical examiner could not be too certain.”
Girardi was holding his head in his hands and cupped his eyes. He made a sudden jerk, as if pulling a marionette’s string on his own body, straightened in his chair, and clenched his jaw.
“Why have you come to see me about this? How could you even know we were … friends?”
Gross produced the packet of letters. “The young womansaved your letters, you see. The most recent indicates that you were together the night in question.”
“Correction,” Girardi said, rising once again, a tiny puffed-up rooster ready for a fight. He put his hand out for the letters and Gross obliged him, handing them over.
“She wanted to be together Tuesday night,” Girardi continued, slipping the packet into a drawer in his makeup table. “But I sent the girl packing after a light dinner at Sacher’s. You may not know it, but I have a premier tonight. Liesel
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