Requiem in Vienna by J. Sydney Jones Page B

looks.
    This was really too much. On his own, he was quick to grasp all implications. However, the very presence of Gross seemed to unman him, to sap him of all intellectual initiative. Werthen was quick to cover up his question. “I mean, I assume you hypothesize that Herr Gunther was killed and then hung up here to make it look like suicide.”
    “Bravo, Werthen,” Gross said. “That is precisely what we believe. Though I note that your mouth still works more quickly than your mind.”
    Which brought a low chuckle from Constable Schmidt, silenced immediately by a glare from Drechsler.
    Werthen needed badly to rehabilitate himself. Though forensic pathology was not his strong suit, he ventured on.
    “The aspect of the man’s face would, however, suggest death by strangulation, would it not?”
    Gross, still leaning over the body, now looked to Drechsler for permission, and moved the noose to reveal bruising on each side of the neck.
    “As you say, Werthen, death by strangulation. The blood spots on the cheeks from burst ocular capillaries, as well as the cyanotic, engorged aspect of the face itself all indicate that. Manual strangulation. You can see the clear outline of fingers here and here.” He pressed his thumb into the small triangle formed by the junction of the dead man’s collarbones. “And a ruptured larynx, if I am not mistaken. We will know more with the full autopsy.”
    Drechsler stood now, flexing his back. “Motive,” he said. “A musician seems a harmless enough sort. Who would want to kill him?”
    “That, my dear inspector, is what we intend to discover.”
     
    Herr Regierungsrath Leitner was not overjoyed to see Werthen again.
    “I don’t see how the unfortunate death of Herr Gunther has anything to do with your investigations on Herr Mahler’s behalf.”
    “Humor us,” Gross said. “We are inordinately curious where violent death is concerned.”
    The addition of Gross to the investigation seemed to discomfit Leitner. The criminologist’s reputation preceded him; Leitner reddened at Gross’s comment, wringing his hands and attempting with little success to control an eye twitch.
    “Most irregular,” he muttered.
    They said nothing and finally Leitner rose from his desk in the opera offices, and led their way via a series of mazelike stairways to the main auditorium.
    As they approached the orchestra pit, Leitner pointed to a chair on the left side.
    “There. That was Herr Gunther’s position as third violinist. He sat in that very chair for the final performance of the season last night.”
    Without asking permission, Gross suddenly dropped down into the slightly depressed pit, sat on the chair in question, and peered at the stage.
    “I will need the curtain opened, if you don’t mind, Herr Regierungsrath Leitner.”
    When Leitner hesitated, Gross added, “A simple enough matter, no?” The criminologist grinned at Leitner with false bonhomie.
    “It will take a moment,” Leitner replied, leaving Werthen and Gross to summon a stagehand.
    “Examining the sight lines, Gross?” Werthen asked, now they were alone. “It would be better if you slouched down some in the chair. Gunther was a smaller man than you.”
    Gross was about to make a comment, but thought better of it. Instead, he took Werthen’s advice.
    “Yes,” he said, once the curtains were opened. “As I thought.” He sprang out of the chair and reached up to Werthen. “A hand, Werthen, if you please.”
    Werthen was surprised at the strength of his friend’s grip as he helped to tug Gross out of the orchestra pit.
    “I must thank our mutual friend Klimt,” the criminologist said, brushing at imaginary dust on his dark gray trousers. “He recommended a course of training with dumbbells, though I personally employ the Indian club. It’s done wonders for my stamina and mobility. Time was I would never have dreamed of jumping down into that pit.”
    “Damn the exercise, Gross. Did you find what I assume you