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blankets on a settee; he soon saw that Mahler himself was huddled beneath this mountain of eiderdown, a white sticking plaster at his neck, and a thermometer in his mouth. Werthen had to suppress a laugh; it was like a cartoon out of
Der Floh
or some other comic illustrated weekly.
    Next to the settee was a small enameled table on top of which lay a carton of
loukoumi
, or Turkish delight as the British called these sweets to which Mahler was addicted, according to the popular press. One journalistic account Werthen had read explained that the composer had a steady supply sent directly from the Ali Muhiddin Haci Bekir Company of Istanbul; a guilty domestic pleasure that made Mahler seem more human to Werthen. The little cubes of jellylike candy were richly powdered with sugar and smelled strongly of cinnamon and mint.
    Justine Mahler halted abruptly in front of the settee, leaned over and extracted the thermometer from Mahler’s mouth,squinted at it, uttered a humming sound at the results, then tucked the glass tube in her blouse pocket.
    “Please do not tire him. He still has to prepare for the final opera of the season.”
    And she left them. Werthen felt the relief a person experiences when storm clouds blow over. He handed Mahler one of his new business cards. Mahler took it and also swept up a piece of Turkish delight now his sister was gone.
    “Sit down, sit down,” he said, popping the sweet into his mouth, not bothering to offer Werthen one.
    Mahler’s voice, sore throat or no, held authority and was much lower than one would expect, given his size. He reached for the pince-nez at his side, adjusted them on the bridge of his sharp nose, and appraised Werthen, then his card. He chewed the candy thoroughly before recommencing.
    “A trio of personalities,” Mahler said, tapping the card. “Which one visits me today?”
    “Inquiries,” Werthen replied vaguely.
    “So what is this vitally important information you have for me?” Mahler asked as Werthen drew a rather uncomfortable armchair to the settee. Lovely designs, the Werkstätte, but made for looking at rather than sitting on.
    The musician’s dark eyes sparkled. A ghost of a smile appeared on his thin lips. His shock of uncontrollable hair atop his head looked not so out of place here in a sick bed as it did seeing Mahler hatless making his way along the Kärntnerstrasse, his characteristic uneven gait often bringing jeers from children. Even now as he lay under the eiderdown, Mahler’s nervous energy caused the fingers of his left hand to tick out a rhythm against the comforter.
    Werthen cleared his throat and began. “There have been certain incidents at the Court Opera, as I understand. Culminating with the death of Fräulein Kaspar.”
    Mahler said nothing, continuing to hold Werthen in his steely gaze.
    “There was also the instance of a dropped scenery flat, of a poisonous substance in your teacup.”
    “My lord, Herr”—he examined the card again—“Herr Werthen. Had you told me you were coming with a new and quite melodramatic libretto, I would have dressed for the occasion.”
    Werthen felt himself redden, then decided to hell with politesse.
    “I’ve been commissioned to investigate attempts against your life.”
    This clear summation took the supercilious smile from Mahler’s lips.
    “And who might your commissioner be?”
    “I am not at liberty to divulge that.”
    “Yes, of course. It would be Prince Montenuovo. Protecting his investment.”
    Mahler was indicating the feared assistant court chamberlain and supreme administrator of the Court Opera, answerable only to Kaiser Franz Josef.
    “As I said, I am not at liberty to divulge that person’s identity. I have come to ascertain if you agree with such an assumption.”
    “What? That someone is out to kill me? Ridiculous. Grethe, perhaps. Fräulein Kaspar, that is. You can tell your unnamed client to investigate that, instead. Tell him to look at the opera cats who might have