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The aide blushed very slightly. “The Hotel Bristol is very good. It is not inspiring from the outside, but it is beautiful inside, especially if you like marble. The food is excellent. It is first in the Karntner Ring. They speak excellent English, and will be delighted to help you.”
“Thank you,” Monk said graciously, relieved
to have Callandra’s money, and Pendreigh’s, so that the charge was immaterial to him. “I shall be obliged if whoever is good enough to assist me would present themselves there at nine o’clock at the latest, so I can begin this extremely urgent matter as soon as possible. You are no doubt aware of the tragic death of Mr. Pendreigh’s daughter, Elissa von Leibnitz, who was something of a heroine in this city.” He was highly satisfied to see from the man’s blush that he was not.
“Of course,” the aide said soberly. “Please convey my condolences to the family.”
“Of course,” Monk muttered, picking up his case and going out into the distinctly chilly night air, aware of the sharp east wind like a slap on his skin.
He was up and breakfasted early the next morning, and was waiting, his temper already raw, when a fair-haired youth of no more than fourteen or fifteen approached him in the magnificent marble lobby of the hotel. He was slender, and his face had a freshly scrubbed look, probably occasioned by the weather outside. He looked more like a schoolboy than a servant on an errand.
“Mr. Monk?” he asked with a certain eagerness which instantly confirmed Monk’s impression. He had probably come from the embassy to say that his father, or brother, could assist Monk in the afternoon, or worse still, tomorrow.
Monk answered him rather curtly. “Yes? Have you a message for me?”
“Not exactly, sir.” His blue eyes were bright but he maintained his self-possession. “My name is Ferdinand Gerhardt, sir. The British ambassador is my uncle. I believe you would like someone to guide you around Vienna and interpret for you on occasion. I should be glad to offer my services.” He stood to attention, polite, eager, a curious mixture of English schoolboy and young Austrian aristocrat. He did not quite click his heels.
Monk was furious. They had sent him a child, as if he wished to while away a week or so seeing the sights. It would be inexcusable to be rude, but he could not waste either time or Callandra’s money in evasion.
“I am not sure what you were told,” he said with as much good grace as he could manage. “But I am not here on holiday. A woman has been murdered in London, and I am seeking information about her past here in Vienna, and friends of hers who may be able to lead me to the truth of what happened. If I fail, an innocent man may be hanged, and soon.”
The boy’s eyes widened, but he did his best to maintain the sort of calm his imagination told him was dignified. “I’m very sorry, sir. That sounds a terrible thing. Where would you like to begin?”
“How old are you?” Monk said, trying to conceal his mounting anger and sense of desperation.
A couple of very pretty women walked past them, giving them a curious glance.
Ferdinand stood very straight. “Fifteen, sir,” he said softly. “But I speak excellent English. I can translate anything you wish. And I know Vienna very well.” There was a definite touch of pink in his cheeks.
Monk had no memory whatever of having been fifteen. He was embarrassed and angry, and he had no idea where to begin. “The events I need to enquire about took place when you were two years old!” he said between clenched teeth. “Which is going to limit your abilities considerably, no matter how excellent your English.”
Ferdinand was embarrassed also, but he did not give up easily. He had been handed an adult job to do, and he intended to discharge it with honor. His eyes did not waver from Monk’s, even though Monk’s were distinctly challenging and unhappy. “What year exactly, sir?”
“Eighteen forty-eight,” Monk replied. “I expect you learned about it in school.” It was not a question, simply a rather tart observation.
“Actually, not very much,” Ferdinand admitted with a slight tightening of his lips. “Everybody says something different. I’d jolly well like to know the truth! Or rather more of it, anyway.” He glanced around at the marble-faced hotel lobby where a small group of well-dressed gentlemen had come in and were talking. Two ladies seated on well-upholstered chairs exchanged a piece of entertaining gossip, bending towards each other very slightly to bridge the gap between them created by the billowing of their skirts.
“Are you going to stay in Vienna for a while?” Ferdinand asked. “If you are, maybe you’d be better to find rooms over in the Josefstadt, or somewhere like that. Cheaper, too. That’s where people sit around in cafes and talk about ideas and. . and plan sedition. At least, so I’ve heard,” he added quickly.
There was no better alternative offering, except wandering around alone, unable to understand more than a few words, so with as much gratitude as he could assume, Monk accepted. He checked out of his room, settled the bill, and with his case in his hand, followed Ferdinand down the steps of the hotel and into the busy street of a strange city with very little idea of what to do or where to begin in what was looking like an increasingly hopeless task.
“You may call me Ferdi, if you don’t mind, sir,” the boy said, watching carefully as if Monk had been not only a stranger in the city but one lacking in the ordinary skills of survival, such as watching for traffic before crossing the road, or paying attention so as not to become separated from his guide and thus getting lost. Perhaps he had younger brothers or sisters and was occasionally put in charge of them. With a considerable effort, Monk schooled himself to be amused rather than angry.
Most of the morning was taken up in finding a more suitable accommodation in a very small guest house in the less-expensive quarter, where it seemed students and artists lived. “Revolutionaries,” Ferdi informed Monk in a discreet manner, making sure he was not overheard.
“Are you hungry?” Monk asked him.
“Yes sir!” Ferdi responded instantly, then looked uncomfortable. Perhaps a gentleman did not so readily admit to such needs, but it was too late to take it back. “But of course I can wait a while, if you prefer to ask questions first,” he added.
“No, we’ll eat,” Monk said unhappily. This whole thing was abortive. He had made Callandra believe he could learn something of use when it was beyond his capabilities even to ask for a slice of bread or a cup of tea-or, as it was far more likely to be, coffee.
“Very good,” Ferdi said cheerfully. “I suppose you have some money?” he added as an afterthought. “I’m afraid I haven’t much.”
“Yes, I have plenty,” Monk said without relish. “I think it is perfectly fair that the least I do is offer you dinner.”
Ferdi duly found a small cafe, and with his mouth full of excellent steak, he asked Monk who, precisely, it was that he was looking for.
“A man named Max Niemann,” Monk replied, also with his mouth full. “But I need to learn as much as possible about him before he is aware that I am looking for him.” He had decided to trust Ferdi with a reasonable portion of the truth. He had very little to lose. “It is possible that it was he who killed the woman in London.” Then, seeing Ferdi’s face, he realized that he had no right whatever to endanger him, even slightly. Perhaps his parents would prefer that he did not even know about such subjects as murder. Although that consideration was rather late. “If you are to help me, you must do exactly what I say,” he said sternly. “If I allow any harm to come to you, I daresay the Viennese police will throw me in prison and I shall never find my way out.”
