Vienna Blood

  Praise for

  A Death in Vienna

  “[An] elegant historical mystery … stylishly presented and intelligently resolved.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “[A Death in Vienna is] a winner for its smart and fin-de-siècle portrait of the seat of the Austro-Hungarian empire, and for introducing Max Liebermann, a young physician who is feverish with the possibilities of the new science of psychoanalysis.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Frank Tallis knows what he's writing about in this excellent mystery. … His writing and feel for the period are top class.”

  —The Times (London)

  “An engrossing portrait of a legendary period as well as a brainteaser of startling perplexity … In Tallis's sure hands, the story evolves with grace and excitement. … A perfect combination of the hysterical past and the cooler—but probably more dangerous—present.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Holmes meets Freud in this enjoyable … whodunit.”

  —The Guardian (London)

  ALSO BY FRANK TALLIS

  A Death in Vienna

  Part One

  1

  THE ITALIAN LUNGED FORWARD. He was a small, lean man, but very muscular. Any disadvantage he suffered because of his lack of height was amply compensated for by his sharp eye and astonishing speed.

  Liebermann successfully deflected the foil's thrust but lost his balance. He was unable to produce a counterattack and his opponent advanced yet again. The tip of the Italian's foil came perilously close to the protective quilting over Liebermann's heart. Recovering his footing, Liebermann chose to make a passé—darting behind the Italian and taking a few steps backward. A trickle of sweat slid down his hot cheek. The Italian shrugged and walked away, flexing his foil in a gesture of indifference. After a few paces he swung around and adopted the preparatory stance, his chin tilted upward in an attitude of arrogance. Liebermann edged forward.

  The Italian seemed to relax, his foil wilting a little in an apparently weaker grip. Liebermann noticed the subtle change and struck. A violent brassy clang was followed by the shriek of scraping metal: the Italian's foil yielded, offering no resistance. Liebermann congratulated himself, believing that he had taken his opponent by surprise—but the concession was merely tactical. The Italian's blade deftly flicked around Liebermann's, displacing it with a powerful grazing action, and, once again, the tip of his opponent's foil effortlessly penetrated Liebermann's defenses. Liebermann retreated, executing a series of deflective maneuvers that barely contained the Italian's renewed fierce attack.

  They circled each other, occasionally touching blades in glancing contact.

  “You should have anticipated my froissement, Herr Doctor,” said the Italian gruffly. He tapped his temple and added: “Think, Herr Doctor! If you do not think, all is lost.”

  Liebermann examined the blank oval of Signore Barbasetti's mask, eager to observe some mark of humanity—a conciliatory expression or the glimmer of a smile, perhaps. The mesh, however, was impenetrable.

  Their foils clashed again—blades flashing in a shaft of early-morning sunlight. A swarm of lazy dust motes was sucked into a miniature cyclone of displaced air.

  Barbasetti produced a feint, switching from one line of attack to another, forcing Liebermann to draw back. However, the young doctor retained his composure and made a move that he intended should fail, thus provoking a predictable and powerful thrust from Barbasetti. Liebermann dodged and struck the forte of the Italian's foil as he stumbled past—Barbasetti almost lost his grip.

  “Bravo, Herr Doctor,” Barbasetti said, and laughed. “An excellent falso!”

  “Thank you, signor.”

  Barbasetti came to a halt and lifted his blade, scrutinizing it closely. “Please excuse me, Herr Doctor.”

  Barbasetti walked to the other side of the drill hall and pressed the hilt of his foil against the surface of a battered wooden table. He then hung a small iron weight from the tip and watched the metal blade bend. Its gentle curvature elicited an equivocal grunt from the watchful Italian.

  “Is everything all right, signor?” Liebermann asked.

  “Yes, I think so,” Barbasetti replied. The Italian raised himself up, marched back, and warned his student: “En garde.”

  Immediately they were engaged, Liebermann's foil sliding along his opponent's blade until the hand guards crashed together. The fencing master pushed and Liebermann was thrown back: he landed awkwardly, but was nevertheless able to execute an impressive flying parry.

  Barbasetti disengaged. “Much better.”

  Liebermann noticed that the button at the end of his foil was trembling—he was feeling tired. After his lesson, he would have coffee and croissants in the little coffeehouse close to the Anatomical Institute. He would need something in his stomach to keep him going. …

  “En garde!” Barbasetti barked again. The Italian had noticed that his student's mind had begun to wander. Liebermann was astonished by the fencing master's insight.

  Again their blades connected, and the plangent clatter of contending steel filled the hall. Liebermann thought that Signore Barbasetti was tiring too. His pace had slackened slightly and his movements were less balletic. The Italian deflected Liebermann's lunge, but failed to resume his guard. Observing the exposed chest protector, Liebermann recognized a rare opportunity. Excited by the prospect of victory, he raised his foil, ready to strike.

  But the blow was never delivered.

  His body froze, paralyzed by the inexplicable pressure that he felt against his heart. Dropping his gaze, he contemplated the tip of Signore Barbasetti's foil, which had found its home precisely above the intercostal space separating ribs five and six.

  Barbasetti pushed, and the cold steel curved upward.

  “I don't understand,” said Liebermann.

  “You were not concentrating, Herr Doctor,” said the Italian. “Such an error would certainly lose you a competition … and of course, in some circumstances, your life.”

  Barbasetti lowered his foil and then raised it in salute.

  Liebermann returned the gesture politely. In spite of the fencing master's dramatic declaration, the young doctor was ashamed to find that he was still thinking of the little coffeehouse near the Anatomical Institute: crisp flakes of buttery pastry, a pot of plum jam, and a cup of very strong black coffee.

  2

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR OSKAR RHEINHARDT followed a path that led upward through wooded parkland. He glanced over his left shoulder and saw part of the Schönbrunn Palace through the trees. It was a bright cold morning and the rotting leaves were crisp with ice. They made a satisfying crunch beneath his boots.

  Rheinhardt had not been to the zoo in years. As he progressed, he was reminded of the time when his daughters were very little—a time when he had been a frequent visitor. He remembered Mitzi's eyes widening at the approach of a lion, and Therese, laughing at the chattering monkeys. The memories flooded back, happy memories, as bright and colorful as a picture book. Rheinhardt smiled inwardly, but his recollections were shadowed with guilt and regret. Being a detective inspector was encroaching more and more on his personal life. If he wasn't investigating, there was always the paperwork—the endless form-filling and report-writing. How could he possibly find time to take his daughters to the zoo?

  A cast-iron gate loomed ahead. As he approached, he recognized the spindly wide-spaced gold lettering that curved over the archway: Tiergarten. Beneath it stood a stout man in a long winter coat. He was smoking, pacing, and occasionally stamping his feet. When he caught sight of Rheinhardt, he stopped and waved—a somewhat redundant signal as Rheinhardt was in no danger of missing him.

  “Thank God you've come,” the man called out,
stepping forward and taking a few steps down the slope.

  Rheinhardt smiled and felt obliged to quicken his pace.

  “Herr Pfundtner?” The man nodded. “Inspector Rheinhardt.”

  They shook hands.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” said the zoo director. “Please, this way …” He set off at a brisk pace and immediately started talking.

  “I've never seen anything like it. I can't think who would have done such a thing. It's appalling. So utterly senseless that I can hardly believe it's happened.” Pfundtner raised his hands in a gesture of incomprehension and shook his head. “What am I to do? We'll never be able to replace Hildegard. We'll never find such a fine example of Eunectes murinus again! She was a favorite of the emperor's, you know. He'll be devastated.”

  The two men marched past the tiger enclosure. One of the beasts lumbered toward them, pressing its nose up against the bars.

  “What time did it happen?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “Seven o'clock,” said Pfundtner.

  “Exactly?”

  “Yes. It was feeding time.”

  “A keeper was present?”

  “Yes. Herr Arnoldt. Cornelius Arnoldt. He was knocked unconscious.”

  “While feeding the animal?”

  “No, while preparing the food in an adjoining room.”

  The tiger's throat rattled. A deep, gurgling sound, like water pouring down a drain.

  “Do you know Herr Arnoldt?”

  “Yes, of course. I'm familiar with all of my keepers. He's an excellent fellow.”

  “So the intruder struck Herr Arnoldt and took the keys?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he let himself into the pit?”

  “Quite so,” said the director.

  The Tiergarten was arranged like a bicycle wheel, with pathways radiating like spokes from a central hub. All the buildings were painted mustard-yellow, just like the adjacent palace, a consistency of color that commemorated the zoo's earlier existence as the royal menagerie. They were heading in the direction of the central octagon, an elegant structure decorated with ornamental urns and braided bas-relief.

  “What time do you open?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “I'm not sure that we should. Not today. My staff are too … distraught.”

  “It would be a shame to disappoint your visitors.”

  “Quite so, Inspector, quite so. Like you, we too have a duty to perform.”

  “And a very important one. My family and I have spent countless happy afternoons here in the company of the animals.” Rheinhardt continued: “I have two young daughters.” His addendum hung in the air.

  The director turned to look at his companion and, smiling faintly, said: “We do our best, Inspector.”

  “Quite so,” Rheinhardt replied, mischievously appropriating the director's verbal tic. Somewhere, in a distant corner of the zoo, an unidentified creature, most probably an exotic bird, cawed loudly. Beyond the central octagon the two men veered to the right, finally approaching their destination.

  They entered the reptile house through a door at the rear of the building. The atmosphere was warm and humid, in sharp contrast to the icy air outside. A tall zookeeper was standing in the narrow hallway next to an open door.

  “This way, please,” said Pfundtner. The keeper pressed his back against the wall, allowing the director and Rheinhardt to pass. The door opened out from a small room, the occupants of which formed an odd tableau. A second keeper, with a bandage around his head, sat on a wooden chair. Next to him stood a sober-looking gentleman in a dark suit (clearly the doctor responsible for the bandage), and to their left was a white slab on which several animal carcasses were laid out. Rheinhardt was dimly aware of an arrangement of pelts—one of them lying in a circular pool of blood.

  “How is he?” asked the director, nodding toward the injured keeper.

  “Much better,” said the doctor, resting a hand on his patient's shoulder. “A little concussion—but that's to be expected. A few days’ bed rest and he'll be in fine fettle.”

  Rheinhardt stepped into the room. “May I ask Herr Arnoldt some questions?”

  “Of course,” replied the doctor. “But I'm not sure he'll be able to tell you very much. He's suffering from retrograde amnesia.”

  “Which means?”

  “Memory loss,” the doctor explained. “Most people lose some memory after a head injury—usually the memory of events leading up to the point where they lost consciousness.”

  “But how much?”

  “It varies, but Herr Arnoldt can't remember much more than getting up this morning and eating his breakfast.”

  “Is that so?” asked Rheinhardt, directing his question at the keeper.

  Herr Arnoldt attempted to stand.

  “No, Herr Arnoldt,” said the doctor, applying a gentle pressure to the keeper's shoulder. “Please remain seated.”

  Herr Arnoldt dropped back into the chair and looked up at Rheinhardt.

  “I can remember getting up this morning … eating some eggs and pickled cucumber.”

  “And anything else?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “No. … The next thing I remember is waking up here … on the floor. And Walter … Walter helping me.”

  “Walter?”

  “That's me,” said the keeper outside. “Walter Gundlach. I was on my way to the hyena enclosure when I noticed the door at the back had been left open. It's usually locked, so I stuck my head in to take a look. Herr Arnoldt was lying on the floor.”

  “Where?”

  “Half his body was where you're standing, the other half sticking out into the hallway.”

  “There's no blood on the floor,” said Rheinhardt. “Has someone cleaned it up?”

  “There was no blood,” said the doctor. “There were no lacerations. It seems that Herr Arnoldt was struck on the back of the head with considerable force—but not with a weapon.”

  “Then with what?”

  “A clenched fist … the forearm, perhaps.” The doctor pointed at his patient's neck. “The cervical area is tender and badly bruised.”

  “You didn't notice anything else?” Rheinhardt asked Gundlach. “Anything unusual?”

  The keeper shook his head.

  “No. … I made sure that Herr Arnoldt was comfortable and then I called the director.”

  Rheinhardt turned to face the doctor again.

  “Is Herr Arnoldt's memory loss permanent?”

  “It's difficult to say. Some people recover their memories—others don't. We'll just have to wait and see.”

  “But what is the likelihood?” asked Rheinhardt insistently.

  The doctor looked down at Herr Arnoldt, narrowed his eyes, and pressed his lips together.

  “There is a fair chance,” said the doctor.

  Like most medical men, he seemed reluctant to give a definite answer.

  Rheinhardt surveyed the circle of faces surrounding him: the doctor, the director, the unfortunate Herr Arnoldt, and his gangly colleague who was looking in from the corridor. They all seemed to be expecting him to say something important. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Rheinhardt said: “Where is the …” He found himself unable to articulate the word “body” and hesitated as he searched for a more appropriate alternative. “Herr Pfundtner, where are the remains?” It seemed a reasonable compromise, neither too anthropomorphic nor too disrespectful.

  The director gestured toward a second door, next to the heap of furry carcasses.

  Rheinhardt turned the handle and pushed it open. The air that escaped was laden with a strange pungent odor. He stepped over the threshold and examined his surroundings. He had stumbled into a primeval world. The pit resembled a large bowl, one with earthen sides that were scattered with rocks and tropical vegetation. A single stunted tree leaned its crooked trunk out over the depression, which was filled with dark stagnant water. Colonies of algae floated on the surface, creating an emerald archipelago. On the other side of the pit was a featur
eless wall, over which members of the public might peer.

  Rheinhardt could hear the director standing behind him, breathing heavily.

  “Who has been in here this morning?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “Myself,” said Pfundtner, “and Herr Gundlach.”

  “What about you, Doctor?” Rheinhardt called back. “Have you taken a look in here.”

  “No, Inspector,” said the doctor. “I've been rather preoccupied with the health of my patient.” He sounded irritated.

  Rheinhardt looked back at the director. “Where do we go?”

  “Over there,” said Pfundtner, pointing.

  “Please follow me very closely, Herr Pfundtner. Try to tread on the rocks rather than the soil.”

  “Why?”

  “Footprints.”

  Rheinhardt negotiated the shallow slope, using the rocks like stepping stones. He felt them sink a little under his weight, making his progress unsteady. The pit was horribly humid, and beads of sweat had begun to trickle down his cheek. As he rounded a large sandy boulder, he caught sight of the animal. Even though he knew what to expect, he found himself surprised by the bizarre spectacle.

  The snake was enormous—a mythical beast, a sea serpent or basilisk. But its dimensions were exaggerated still further by the odd way in which the creature had been mutilated.

  “Hildegard,” said the director.

  Rheinhardt thought that he detected a slight catch in the director's voice. He did not find it difficult to sympathize with his companion.

  The snake had been cut into three sections: head, trunk, and tail. These body parts were ordered correctly, perfectly aligned, and separated by gaps of approximately one yard—they had been arranged in a curve that followed the arc of the water's edge. The effect was striking and curiously aesthetic. Taken together, the three segments were longer than a streetcar. The central section had a diameter wide enough to accommodate a small child.

  When the two men had completed their descent, Rheinhardt clambered onto a large rock near the snake's head. Hildegard's eyes and nostrils were set high up on her flat pointed skull, and a delicate forked tongue protruded from between powerful jaws that had been propped open with a small stone. The device seemed to serve no purpose other than artistic effect. Her skin was green—the same shade as the water—and mottled with black egg-shaped patches. Rheinhardt was fascinated by the textured surface, each scale a tiny blister of jet or obsidian. The snake's innards were revealed in vivid cross section where the central segment had been cleanly sliced.