Dead Drop

By F.C. Malby

A tense thriller from the People's Prize winner F C Malby, author of Take Me To the Castle and My Brother Was a Kangaroo.

Liesl is an art thief and an exceptionally good one. She steals priceless paintings from Vienna's art galleries and delivers them to wealthy private collectors. This life of anonymous notes

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linen Press
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781919624877

Book preview

Chapter 1

I hear the roll and clunk of the train’s wheels on the steel tracks below, feel its vibrations in my toes and through my thighs as it leaves the platform. The wind rushes into the tunnel from Stephansplatz, its caress warm as it whips down the steps to the underground platform and fills the void.

The Vienna spring brings with it cherry blossom and azure skies, the blues becoming celestial in the late afternoon light. Most count the short, hot summer months. I count the winter months until spring, and then when the leaves turn to a deep, burnt amber, I begin again.

As I reach the top step, a body lies on the pavement, feet contorted, laces undone, socks pushing through holes in the soles. A red, woollen hat rests on the concrete slab by his head, hands clutch an empty bottle of Kaiser beer. Not a soul stops to look. A body littering the pavement is a familiar sight on this part of the underground. It’s not always clear whether the person is alive or dead.

I am here for the note. Stepping closer to avoid the people coming up the steps behind me, I spot a corner of paper in his top jacket pocket and pull it free. Without reading the words, I slide it into my jacket. Checking the pocket on the other side of his jacket, I feel something hard and rough and pull out a brooch shaped like a star. I count the spokes, ten of them, and run my fingers across its surface. It lacks the pearls, but at a guess it would have been handcrafted by Hapsburg jeweller, Rozet und Fischmeister. I slip it into my pocket. An unexpected treasure. Reaching down and taking his wrist, I feel for a pulse. I should have checked it first but this is new territory for me. All signs of life have drained away and death was recent. A touch of heat still lingers on the skin, rough and calloused. I pull the hat down over his face. The beer bottle, I suspect, will have been planted to make this look like a natural event. He should have been alive when I reached him.

I stride across the concrete slabs towards the front door of the cathedral. The façade is a gothic foray of limestone circles, arches and towers, the outer layers charred with the fires of change. Digging my gloved fingers deep into the right hand pocket of my coat, I feel the star brooch as it clinks against a few loose coins. I lift them out and slip them into my left pocket before entering the cathedral. I pull each fingertip of the gloves and slide them off my hands. It’s too warm to be wearing gloves at this time of year. I touch the stone arch as I enter the building, feel history seep through my fingertips, and pass through the interior door, leaving the light behind. I feel the weight of the wood panelling as it swings back towards my body.

It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. My lungs fill with incense. I think of priests preparing for sacrament, imagine the scent of purification infusing the chambers of the cathedral, prayers rising upwards.

Omama brought me here when I was six years old. It was beautiful, haunting, like the Grimm’s fairy tales she used to read. I arrive for prayer each morning before work. It fills a gap in the empty spaces of my days, and sometimes, my soul. Morning Mass is in progress. I turn right and go into the side chapel to pray. It wouldn’t be right to sit through Mass, not now. I gave up using rosary beads a long time ago and don’t genuflect when I reach the statue of Mary. I’m alone when I enter the chapel, leaving behind the tourists circling the area at the back, gazing up at the organ pipes and looking through the stained glass window. Others are part of the congregation closer to the front. Some are down on bended knee, demonstrating a reverence I wish I shared.

Judgement can be crippling, but here in the sanctuary I feel a rare acceptance. Echoes of a hymn hang in the silence of St. Eligius’s Chapel and a shaft of light pierces the high window and falls on the altar dedicated to St. Valentine. Fresh flowers have been arranged to the right and the nectar gives off a sweet scent. I kneel down with my left hand in my pocket, check the position of the star, and close my eyes. I confess to my theft, glance at my watch and rise from my knees. Tomorrow is a new day, Omama used to say, but I always manage to tarnish it: a harsh word, an unsavoury thought, a brooch slipped into my pocket. I walk towards the flowers and pick a single bloom, twirl it between my fingers, and leave the building.

The smell of fresh espresso from Café Aida mingles with the scent of spring. The corner rooms of converted rooftops rise above the turrets and spires, reminding me of glasshouses and art studios. The copper-roofed domes have turned a marine shade of grey-green, the metals oxidised by humid air - a natural artist at work.

I turn left down Kärntner Straße, passing Swarovski and designer jewellery shops, guards standing a metre from each entrance. The windows of Café Gerstner are filled with miniature pralines and pink macaroons, waiting to be chosen and packed up in mint green boxes with gold-swirled lettering and the Gerstner crest: a coat of arms for the keeper of deer, its origins found in the Yiddish name Hirsh from the blessing of Jacob to his sons. A name is important, so, too, are its origins. High on the wall to the right at Number 16 is a mural detailed in gold leaf of several figures who watch people pass on the street below. It’s too high for most to notice, but I notice. I turn left and push through the glass door of Café Heiner, clutching the gold handle. I smile at Ulrike, who is wrapping individual slices of Nusstorte and Sachertorte for a customer. I could encase these slices in my sleep – remember each tuck and fold, and where the sticker is positioned to seal the cellophane packaging – and construct the boxes blindfolded. Any action repeated over and over becomes completely automatic like cleaning your teeth, following the same underground route each day, or taking something exquisite, something which doesn’t belong to you.

I pass one of our regulars on the red velour bench to my right with a Melange, a slice of Sachertorte and a copy of Der Standard.

‘Gruss Gott,’ I say.

He nods in return.

Greet God holds a familiar warmth for the Viennese. I pass the coat stand with its wooden swirls, hats dangling elegantly from the top hooks, and climb the stairs following the spiral up towards the next glass door which can swing either way. It confuses our customers.

Most take a window seat overlooking the street and the mural, except for the gentleman who comes in every Tuesday for a Kleine Brauner and a slice of Pflaumen Streusel. He sits in the corner seat, surrounded by deep pink, velour benches and flowered wallpaper from the late 1940s. He glances at the glass case wrapped around the kitchen. It draws in customers with elaborate tortes, all layered and topped with fruit, cream or swirls of chocolate. His face is a picture of lines and curves, his eyes twinkling as he orders the Streusel. I pass him a paper from the rack. He usually reads the local paper cover-to-cover in the time it takes him to drain his coffee cup and lick the last dusting of icing sugar from his lips, a wiping away of the final flurry of snow. He only speaks to the waitresses, rarely acknowledging other customers, and he tips generously. My tips are always larger than Katerin’s.

‘Liesl, you’re early. Come and give me a hand.’ Hans has been working here for barely a month but he appears to know everything about the place. He picks things up quickly, including girls.

‘Yes,’ I say with a smile, and I hang up my jacket in the back room, relieved not to have to peel off layers of clothing, along with gloves, hat and scarf. With my body blocking his view, I take out the scrap of paper and the star and slip them into the front pocket of my jeans. I pull my tunic down over the top.

‘How was your weekend?’ he asks, as I move back into the café.

‘Good. I went to the Albertina. They’ve got a new exhibition.’

‘You saw the Van Gogh exhibition?’ he asks, his eyes widening.

Hans appears to share my love of art; a chameleon, moulding himself to suit the company he keeps. It makes most people feel comfortable around him, but it gives me a sense of unease. I don’t know much about him, only that he’s from Graz and has worked in London and the south of France, somewhere I can’t recall. Maybe Nice, I forget. I suspect this is all I’ll ever know. He’s one of those people about whom you know everything and nothing: every piece of superficial detail, his need for an espresso before midday, his ability to retain historical facts and twelve-digit figures, his collection of mainly blue tops, and nothing about his family, his fears or hopes.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘that’s the one. How did you know?’

He smiles. ‘Because it’s the only new exhibition on at the moment. What did you think of it?’

He asks too many questions for this time of day, but I answer, hoping it will curb his flow of enthusiasm.

‘Good.’

‘Just good? Any favourites?’

‘Rain in Auvers. I find the lilacs pleasing. It makes sense to me.’

He nods and I wonder whether he understands. I take my apron from the peg and go to serve the two ladies who arrived after me and are now sitting by the window. I haven’t seen them here before. I recognise a face anywhere if I’ve seen it once, and I can tell you the eye colour of anyone I’ve met. Hans has hazel-coloured eyes, mine are ice blue. My parents, apparently, had brown eyes. I inherited mine from my paternal grandfather, although I’ve never met him. I saw some old black-and-white photographs. I’d like to have been a photographer or a gallery curator. I slipped into the art world through the back door.

‘What can I get you?’ I ask.

‘Do you have any fresh Apfelstrudel?’

‘We do,’ I say, pointing to the picture on the menu. ‘It’s here.’

‘We’ll take two slices and a Melange.’

I collect the menus as they fold away their glasses. They must be tourists. Locals don’t look at the menu, their personal tastes committed to memory. Although smaller than some of the more renowned cafés in the city, our history as the Royal Bavarian Court supplier to Emperor Franz Josef I draws in the more discerning tourists.

‘Liesl, are you all right? You seem tense.’ Hans’ hand on my back makes me jump.

‘Yes, I’m fine. Can you heat some strudel? I need two slices for the ladies by the window.’

‘Yes,’ he says.

I catch the beginnings of a frown as he turns away. I don’t know why he is working here. He’s smart and something doesn’t quite fit, but he’s charmed the rest of the staff. The café is beginning to fill its seats with elderly locals, a few tourists with museum pamphlets, children pressing their noses against the cake counter, and couples leaning in towards each other over steaming cups of coffee. The mirrored panelling on the side wall makes the place appear larger, duplicating customers in a kaleidoscopic spread of faces across the room: a Warhol painting of local life. I pull out my notebook and head towards customers who have waited longest, a family of four, all neatly dressed and could be Viennese. They look at me expectantly, like a nest of new starlings waiting to be fed.

‘Do you know what you’d like?’ I ask, then slip my hand into my pocket and clutch the star and the note. Still there. This is the fifth time I’ve checked since I left the cathedral. An image of the body invades my mind and I try to ignore it along with a growing sense of unease.

‘Yes,’ says the eldest of the baby starlings. She looks about ten years old. ‘I’ll have a hot chocolate and a croissant, please.’ Her reason for choosing a croissant when there are plenty of colourful tortes on offer, is surprising. Maybe this is what she has for breakfast, a familiar routine.

‘Of course,’ I say, and I glance at the others with one eyebrow raised.

‘Two cappuccinos for us and a slice each of the Kardinal Schnitte.’ She speaks for her husband. The Kardinal Schnitte or Vatican Cake is a particular favourite for its light coffee-flavoured cream and meringue.

‘Can I have an orange juice and the chocolate bomb thing?’ I assume the youngest starling is referring to the Sacherpunsch, a Sachertorte soaked in rum and espresso. I look in the direction of the chocolate covered cakes to the right of the display, each piece emblazoned with our gold lettered topping, a king’s seal. I’m not sure whether Daddy Starling knows that they’re alcoholic but it’s not my place to tell him.

‘Is that all?’ I ask, scanning the table.

They nod and I disappear into the kitchen to find Hans scooping the strudels onto blue-and-white china plates. He adds the cappuccinos and two glasses of cold tap water, loading them onto a silver tray with a panache I have yet to master, then carries them out balanced on one hand, leaving the door to swing shut.

I scan the kitchen, slip out into the ladies’ room, lock the cubicle door behind me and stand up against the wall. I can feel my heartbeat – a slow, steady thud – and I imagine the blood, red and filled with oxygen as it courses through my body. I hear my breathing, heavy enough to make my fingertips tingle. My life is split into two parts, each ticks over to prevent me from becoming a corpse on the street to be walked over, belongings pilfered.

I dig into my pocket and pull out the star. It’s identical to those once owned by Empress Elisabeth but I don’t yet know whether it’s an original or a fake. I slide it back and pull out the note, relieved that it’s typed. Most handwriting is almost illegible. Omama’s words were often written in crude black ink with a plethora of swirls, dots and dashes, like a mediaeval manuscript. Her letters reminded me of the shape of the waves the moment before they break against the shore, before they pummel the sand into submission, eroding the form of the beach, grinding down shell and stone until they’re barely recognisable.

Chapter 2

Liesl,

You will find Herr Schneider at Billrothstrasse 59. Knock firmly on the door or ring the bell three times. His hearing has been damaged and he may not hear you. Bring him a potted narcissi and bury the note deep into the soil. He will direct your next steps.

Albert

I know nothing of a Herr Schneider but I know the location of Billrothstrasse fifty-nine. I passed it on the number thirty-eight tram heading out towards Grinzing last week. My eyes were drawn to the large bay windows with vertical bars running from top to bottom. I noticed the house because it was set back off the road and it was more regal than the surrounding buildings which were modern and uncharacteristic of the city. I notice anything that stands out: a stray ear of corn blown down while the rest stand to worship the sun; a child in a bright outfit; a house with an air of aristocratic grandeur set amongst offices or derelict buildings. Some eyes spot the unfamiliar, objects out of place.

I’ve been away from the tables for all of four minutes, enough time to pile the order onto a silver tray and head back to the family of eager starlings waiting to be fed. When I reach the table they are folding the tablecloth at the corners, waiting. I’m sure I wasn’t as patient as the youngest starling at the same age. I hand out drinks and cake, placing the chocolate