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might tell him it is important.’
    ‘I suppose I could do that,’ Prokop said. ‘His fiancée is out. She’s been a terror, I can tell you. Won’t let a soul in. Terrified, she is, his attacker will come back. His mother has the adjoining apartment. You would think she’d be the one hovering over the wounded son – but no, she’s off to a spa somewhere. Something tells me she and Fräulein Olga don’t get along very well. She can’t be twenty, but she’s already got the makings of a real Viennese wife, if you know what I mean.’
    Werthen nodded, though he was not sure what Prokop meant, other than that the said fiancée must be a strong-willed woman. Anybody who could get Schnitzler to propose marriage must have special talents.
    Werthen waited in silence with Meier on the landing as Prokop went to Schnitzler. Meier was not one much for talking. Prokop made up for that deficiency; they made a good team.
    Another minute of silence and then Prokop lumbered back out on to the landing.
    ‘He’ll see you. Seemed almost eager, I’d say. Gentleman like Herr Doktor Schnitzler, I don’t think he’s used to being cooped up.’
    Prokop led the way down a long dark hallway to double doors that opened on to a large and bright study, its walls covered in bookcases. A massive potted palm stood in a brass pot near the floor-to-ceiling windows, through which he could just make out the spire of the Votivkirche.
    Schnitzler lay on a divan, a white bandage round his head. A boyish lock of hair stuck out of the wrapping, dangling over his forehead. He was a good-looking man, despite a somewhat pained expression on his face. He wore a beard, closely trimmed on the cheeks and longer at the chin. As he looked up, his eyes were inquisitive and sparkling. Dressed in a royal-blue velveteen suit with kid slippers, he held a book in his hands. As he approached the divan, Werthen could see that this was a volume of the works of Lessing.
    ‘Advokat Werthen,’ Schnitzler said as he drew near. It appeared he was struggling to get up to welcome his visitor.
    ‘Please Herr Schnitzler, stay recumbent. What a nasty state of affairs.’
    Schnitzler leaned back against a mound of white pillows, giving up all thoughts of
politesse
.
    ‘Isn’t it just?’ He motioned to a chair near the divan. ‘Please, bring it over here next to me and sit.’
    Werthen did so, and sat close to the divan. ‘Who did this? Have the police caught the blackguard?’
    ‘Well, I assume that is why you are here.’
    ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand.’
    ‘I assume Klimt sent you. He talks much about your deductive powers.’
    ‘No. Sorry for the misunderstanding. I have come about a completely different matter. I had not heard of your unfortunate circumstances.’
    Schnitzler closed the volume of plays, setting it on his lap. ‘And what matter would that be?’
    ‘I have just come from Altenberg. He tells me that you introduced him to a young woman . . . Mitzi is, or was, her name. From the Bower.’
    Schnitzler’s eyes suddenly grew larger. He looked around the room as if fearful someone might overhear.
    ‘That part of my life is past,’ he said in almost a whisper.
    ‘I understand that you are recently engaged,’ Werthen said. ‘I do not wish to create any difficulties—’
    ‘Hardly engaged,’ Schnitzler interrupted. ‘Fräulein Gussman and I have a certain understanding. Still, it would be better if she did not learn of my visits to the Bower.’
    ‘I understand,’ Werthen said. ‘You know, of course, of Mitzi’s death?’
    Schnitzler nodded rather vigorously; the motion seemed to cause him pain. He put a hand to his bandaged head.
    ‘I sent flowers to the funeral. Anonymously. Such a sweet young girl, she was. A pity. But then, it does come with the profession, doesn’t it?’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘Well, servicing all sorts of men. One can never be sure of the type of client, can one? It appears she broke the golden rule