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

thought it unimportant enough, to be sure. But a man of my age needs sleep more than dalliance for several days before such a performance.”
    “What time would that be, sir?” Gross said.
    Girardi shook his head at the criminologist, not understanding.
    “That you sent the girl packing, that is?”
    The actor puffed out his lips in contemplation. “No later than eleven. Perhaps quarter past. Ask the waiters at Sacher’s. They saw us depart. She on foot, I’m afraid. A trifle miffed at me-refused the
fiaker
I called for her. Just set off into the night like-”
    “Yes, sir? Like what?” Gross said.
    “Inconsiderate thing to say under the circumstance, but just like a tart. A woman of the night. There are always quite a few of them prowling the streets of an evening.”
    “And you then went home?” Gross said, reaching for the notepad in his pocket.
    “Yes. My valet can vouch for that, if you’re wondering. Though I must admit I do not much care to be interrogated like this just prior to a performance.”
    Werthen could see that the shock was wearing off now. Girardi looked at them both with suspicion.
    “And who are you chaps, after all? Not the police, obviously. Are you reporters? I’ll have you thrown out.” His hand moved to a pull cord next to the dressing table.
    “We are trying to establish the unfortunate victim’s movements two nights ago,” Gross said, stopping the actor with his stentoriantone. “No, we are not reporters. I am Dr. Hanns Gross, formerly of Graz.”
    This brought not a speck of recognition from Girardi.
    “The slightest thing can help in such cases,” Werthen quickly chimed in, trying to smooth things again.
    Girardi sighed. “Well, talk to that painter chap of hers, then. She was supposed to see him in his studio that night, but came to supper with me instead. See him and find out what he was doing Tuesday night. A broken neck, you say. Well, that man’s built like a brick privy.”
    “This won’t do,” Gross kept saying as they plodded off along the Ring, the sun bright overhead.
    “Intolerable,” Gross spluttered again. There was impatience in his voice: desiring commiseration and not getting it.
    “What is it now?” Werthen finally asked.
    “That jumped-up blacksmith. Mistaking me for some damnable reporter in a celluloid collar. He is from Graz himself and does not even know I am one of the foremost names in criminalistics. That I have written textbooks, founded ajournai, advised monarchs and constabularies alike.”
    “Nerves,” Werthen said. “His premier tonight.”
    This comment, however, did nothing to mollify Gross.
    “Telling me my job, ‘Go find the painter chap,’ he says. Acting high-and-mighty”
    “He seemed genuinely surprised to find the Landtauer girl was dead.”
    “Hmmm.”
    “But why did you give those letters back to him?”
    “I doubt I would repeat the kindness,” Gross said, then shrugged. “What do they prove, after all, other than that Girardi is a plagiarist? Tender cooings of love, all expropriated from Shakespeare’s sonnets or Lessing’s romantic verse. But the Landtauergirl would surely not have known that; lucky if she read the tabloids or the penny dreadfuls.”
    “They are proof of a liaison,” Werthen argued. “Perhaps she was leaving Girardi for Klimt and not the other way round?”
    “We would hardly need the letters as proof of their affair. I am sure Herr Girardi would be only too happy for the world to know of that. Such conquests feed the ego. And the Sacher is certainly a public enough rendezvous. We can check his alibi in due course, but I am sure Girardi’s story is true. He simply sent the girl packing.
    “To her death,” Werthen added.
    Gross made no reply, but strode along more quickly in the direction of Schottenring.
    “So where does this leave us?” Werthen asked, following.
    Gross replied over his shoulder, “With just enough time to see a certain nerve doctor before sitting down to a hearty