Vienna Blood lp-2 Page 14

  The professor assumed a transparently counterfeit expression of modesty and muttered, “Well, perhaps.”

  Liebermann stood and walked to the desk. “May I?” He gestured toward a fountain pen.

  Freud nodded and took a sheet of headed notepaper from his top drawer. Liebermann drew a simple cross and added ninety-degree “arms” at each extremity. When he had completed the drawing, he pushed it toward the professor, who considered the design for a few moments and exclaimed, “Yes, I have seen it before. It appears on certain Egyptian artifacts, but I believe it is more commonly associated with the Indian subcontinent.”

  “And what is it, exactly?”

  “I don't know. But I have in my possession a very informative volume on the Indo-European script that will probably tell us.” Freud rose and moved over to his bookcase. He ran a tobacco-stained index finger along a row of large volumes on the subject of archaeology. “Where is it, now? I'm sure it's here somewhere.” He reversed the movement. “Ah! Here we are-tucked away between Evans and Schliemann.” The book that he removed was small, thick, and somewhat battered. Its spine was broken and the cover boards flapped open like a double door.

  Freud's whole appearance suddenly changed. He emitted a heavy sigh and an invisible yoke settled onto his shoulders. He seemed to shrink in on himself.

  “Professor?” Liebermann inquired solicitously.

  The old man stroked the distressed binding of the book and shook his head. “This book-it belonged to a dear friend.” Freud pointed at a photographic portrait on the wall: a handsome young man, with dark hair and soft, shadowy eyes. “Fleischl-Marxow.”

  Liebermann had often wondered who the young man was and had assumed, wrongly, that he must be a distant relative.

  “We worked together in Brucke's laboratory at the Physiological Institute. He had a first-class mind-truly brilliant. We had such conversations: philosophy, art, science, and literature! We discussed everything. And he was such a generous soul… When I ran out of money (which was all too often in those days), Fleischl always came to the rescue. During the course of his laboratory work he contracted an infection, which necessitated the amputation of his right thumb. The operation wasn't a success. He subsequently suffered from neuromas and required more surgery. But it was no good-the pain got worse and worse. In the end it proved quite intolerable, and he became addicted to morphia.

  “At that time I was undertaking some research into the medicinal properties of cocaine, the alkaloid that Niemann isolated from the coca plant. I chanced upon a report in The Detroit Medical Gazette suggesting that addiction to morphia could be treated by substitution with cocaine-which was supposed to be less harmful. I was overjoyed. Can you imagine? What a discovery! I encouraged Fleischl to try this new treatment. And he did. Indeed, my friend clutched at the drug like a drowning man…”

  Freud shook his head again

  “He simply replaced one addiction with another. In three months he had spent eighteen hundred marks-a full gram a day! A hundred times more than the recommended dose! He became delirious, suffered from hallucinations, and became suicidal. He could not sleep, and occupied himself through the long and painful hours of every night making a study of Sanskrit. I don't know why, but he made me promise that I would never betray his secret passion. I suppose this was just paranoia-another side effect of my wonderful treatment! Before he died, he suggested that I take this book, so that others would not know of his activities. Well, what does it matter now? I'm sure he would forgive me this small betrayal of his confidence.”

  The professor's head was bowed. He stroked the book again, and attempted to press the split spine together.

  “You were only trying to help your friend,” said Liebermann.

  Freud lifted his head. “But I made him worse.”

  “You were acting in good faith. In reality, isn't that all that can be asked of any doctor?”

  Freud smiled weakly. “Yes, I suppose you are right.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, I did not mean to-”

  Liebermann raised his hand, halting the apology.

  Freud nodded. It was a simple, almost imperceptible movement but it expressed a great deal. Respect for his young colleague, the acceptance of good counsel, and the need for all people-even the father of psychoanalysis-to beware the subtle snare of self-indulgent guilt.

  The professor opened the book and flicked through the thin discolored pages. Many of them were inscribed with comments and marks made by his old comrade. Occasionally, Freud stopped to read an inscription before continuing his search. Reading these notes seemed to raise his spirits. Once or twice the professor even laughed- caught up, perhaps, in some happy memory of his friend.

  “There it is!” cried Freud. He immediately held the book up for Liebermann to see. “Now, where is your drawing?” Freud put the book down next to Liebermann's sketch. “Very similar-but not quite the same. Look, notice how your figure is arranged to the right, whereas this is arranged to the left. It is a symbol known as…” Freud peered more closely at the minutely printed text. “The swastika.”

  “The swastika?” Liebermann repeated the word, savoring the novel, alien syllables.

  “Yes,” continued Freud. “From the Sanskrit su, meaning ‘well,’ and asti, meaning ‘to be.’ The literal translations are ‘good luck,’ ‘well-being,’ or… ‘it is good.’ ” He scanned the text. “The symbol first appeared in the Vedas-the holy text of Hinduism. I suppose it is the Asiatic equivalent of our own medical standard-the snakes and rod of Aesculapius. You discovered this symbol in some ancient medical work?”

  “Indeed. I am researching an essay on the history of symbols associated with health and healing.”

  Freud looked mildly surprised.

  “Really? I wasn't aware that you were particularly interested in such things.”

  Liebermann did not hear the professor's comment. He was remembering a fragment of conversation. Something that Rheinhardt had said about the notorious Whitechapel murders.

  The identity of the Ripper was never discovered, but I can remember some commentators proposing that his victims had died at the hands of a surgeon.

  “I must say,” Freud persisted, “you surprise me. I am usually a very perceptive judge of character-yet I had no idea that you were a budding historian!”

  31

  RHEINHARDT OPENED THE DRAWER of his desk and slid the unfinished report inside. It landed on a pile of official forms, most of which were only half-completed.

  I'll attend to it when I get back.

  The thought lacked conviction. So much so that Rheinhardt was obliged to castigate himself: You really must!

  He pushed the drawer to, took out his watch from the tight fob pocket of his vest, and gasped.

  “Haussmann!” he called out to his assistant. “We'd better get going. Otherwise we'll be late.”

  Reluctant witnesses rarely waited long.

  The younger man, who had been earnestly copying the contents of his notebook into a bulky dossier, obediently rose from his seat. At that moment, there was a knock on the door, and another young officerdistinctly ursine in appearance-lumbered into the room.

  “Sir,” he addressed Rheinhardt. “A man from the zoo-outside. Says he's got to see you straight away.”

  “A man from the zoo?” Rheinhardt repeated.

  “Zookeeper. Herr Arnoldt.”

  Rheinhardt, still thinking about his backlog of unfinished paperwork and the meeting for which he would very soon be late, did not properly register the young officer's announcement. The inspector's expression changed from perplexity through vacancy to puzzlement.

  “Herr Arnoldt,” said Haussmann helpfully. “The one who looked after the snake-Hildegard.”

  “Ah yes,” said Rheinhardt. “That Herr Arnoldt-whatever can he want?”

  The young officer at the door decided that a little detail might encourage the inspector to be more decisive.

  “Very anxious to see you he is, sir-very anxious.”<
br />
  Rheinhardt grimaced. “I can't see him now. Tell him to come back later. Or, even better, tell him to come back tomorrow.”

  The young officer was suddenly jostled out of the way and the door was flung open. Herr Arnoldt stumbled into the office. He was obviously in a state of great excitement. His hair was disheveled and his arms were raised, jerking in the air as if they were in the control of a crazed puppeteer.

  “Inspector, Inspector,” said the frantic zookeeper. “Thank God you're here! Something remarkable has happened. My memory has returned. I would like to make another statement.”

  The ursine officer lifted a large paw and made a sign, communicating that he was very willing to remove the zookeeper if his superior so wished. But Rheinhardt shook his head and said calmly, “Thank you, that will be all.” The young man looked disappointed as he closed the door.

  “Herr Arnoldt,” said Rheinhardt. “Perhaps you could return tomorrow. I am due to interview a gentleman in connection with a murder investigation. We have arranged to meet in twenty minutes. I really cannot delay.”

  “Murder investigation!” cried Herr Arnoldt. “What about Hildegard? Wasn't she murdered?”

  Rheinhardt winced. “Yes, of course she was; however, I am afraid-”

  “The emperor's favorite, she was!”

  An image flashed into Rheinhardt's mind: Commissioner Brugel, leaning across his desk and scowling. It is my grave duty to inform you of a complaint, delivered to the security office this morning by one of His Majesty's personal aides, concerning…

  “Very well, Herr Arnoldt,” said Rheinhardt. “Please sit down. You have already met my assistant.” He nodded toward Haussmann. “He is a capable fellow and will take down every word you say. On my return, I will have sufficient time to give your statement the careful attention that it deserves. If there are any issues arising that require further clarification, I will contact you via Herr Pfundtner at the zoo. Good morning.”

  Rheinhardt bowed and, before the zookeeper could object, opened the door and left.

  Haussmann, somewhat bemused, repeated the inspector's invitation for Herr Arnoldt to sit.

  The zookeeper pulled a chair right up to the desk and leaned forward.

  “It's remarkable. My memory, it came back.”

  “Just one moment,” said Haussmann, adjusting his chair and removing a blank form from one of the drawers. “I'm sorry-please continue.” He showed that he was ready to write by raising his pen.

  “My memory,” said Herr Arnoldt breathlessly. “You remember that I'd lost it, after that scoundrel thumped me on the head. I couldn't remember anything… just having my breakfast in the morning. Well, slowly, things began to come back, all in the correct order. First there was breakfast, but then I recovered a memory of catching the omnibus. Then-after a while-I remembered getting off the omnibus and walking past the palace. Nothing more came back for a while, until about an hour ago. It was like… it was like… the sun rising. In a single instant, everything I had lost was restored.” Herr Arnoldt grinned broadly. “I can remember entering the zoo, unlocking the door to the snake-pit. I can remember preparing Hildegard's food-the carcasses, on the slab in front of me…”

  Haussmann's scratching pen came to a halt. He lifted his head.

  “A little slower, please, Herr Arnoldt?”

  “Of course,” said the zookeeper. He took a deep breath, composed himself, and continued his narrative. “The carcasses-they were on the slab in front of me. I know it was that particular morning-and not another morning-because one of the dead mice had a distinctive pelt-white, with an orange spot. And it was then… then that I heard footsteps. I assumed it was one of the other keepers. You see, they weren't stealthy footsteps, not like you'd expect from someone who intended to creep up behind you and do you some mischief. No, they weren't like that at all. This fellow had a brisk step. Like a march. One two-one two. And not only that, he was whistling… he was whistling this tune.”

  Suddenly, Herr Arnoldt burst into song. “Pa, pa, pom, pom, ta-ta-ta-ta, pom, pom pom…”

  He completed two phrases and stared, eyes wide open and shining rather too brightly, at the assistant detective. Haussmann began to wonder whether Herr Arnoldt's injury had affected more than just his memory.

  Haussmann was not a very musical young man but he judged the tune to be vaguely familiar. It was quite well known, but not as famous as a work by Strauss or Lanner. He wrote “pa, pa, pom” down on the form and then crossed it out, resolving the problematic transcription with a simple worded description: Herr Arnoldt sings a melody. This sentence seemed too brief and after a further moment of reflection Haussmann amended his note, adding (Jolly).

  “Well,” said Herr Arnoldt. “What do you think of that?”

  Haussmann was not overly impressed by this new intelligence; however, the zookeeper's expression was expectant and Haussmann had learned, by observing his mentor, the value of a diplomatic response.

  “Very interesting,” said the assistant detective. “Very interesting indeed.”

  The zookeeper smiled, and sat back in his chair. He was obviously relieved.

  32

  THEY WERE SITTING IN the Budweiser beer parlor-a favorite haunt of homesick Czechs. Jiri Zahradnik was nervous. He sat hunched over his tankard, stealing quick glances to the left and right.

  “What's the matter?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “Nothing.”

  “You think that the person who killed your friend will come after you-if you're seen talking to me?”

  “I don't know. Maybe.”

  Rheinhardt shrugged and took out his notebook.

  “Please, Inspector,” said Zahradnik. “Not in here.”

  “Very well.” Rheinhardt slipped the notebook back into his coat pocket and sipped his drink. “I am a great fan of your Czech beersBudweiser particularly.”

  Zahradnik ignored the inspector's small talk.

  “Forgive me, Inspector, but I mean to be brief. Before Evzen was murdered, he said that someone had been bothering him at the market. This man, he was always questioning Evzen's prices. He called Evzen a swindler and a thief. Of course, Evzen wasn't charging any more for his birds than the next man. But this-”

  “Just one moment,” Rheinhardt interrupted. “What did he look like? Did Evzen say?”

  “He wore good clothes.”

  “That isn't terribly helpful.”

  “And he was a German.”

  “How do you mean? A German?”

  “Like you.”

  “A German speaker, you mean?”

  “Like I said-a German.”

  Rheinhardt did not insist on qualifying the terms of their discussion.

  “Go on.”

  The Czech was distracted by the arrival of three musicians: a clarinettist, an accordion player, and a man struggling with a double bass. They were soon joined by an attractive young woman in a rustic dress who was carrying a tambourine. There was a smattering of applause, an inebriated cheer, and one or two gentlemen called out in Czech.

  “Hej Slovani… Where is my home?… Hej Slovani.”

  Rheinhardt assumed that they were making requests. The clarinettist caught Zahradnik's eye and smiled.

  “You know him?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “An acquaintance. That's all. Sometimes we play marias together.”

  “What?”

  “The card game!”

  “Did he know Evzen too?”

  “Maybe-I don't know.”

  The woman with the tambourine counted out a four-beat introduction and the band started up. The double bass thumped out a simple two-note figure over which the other musicians played intricate ornaments. The woman raised the tambourine high above her head and shook it violently. Then, waving the ample folds of her dress with her free hand, she opened her mouth and produced a gloriously raw sound, untrained but powerful. Some men at the bar began cheering. It was obvious to Rheinhardt that the musicians had chosen to begin with a patriotic crowd-
pleaser.

  Zahradnik jerked his head around, almost like a tic, and continued his account: “So this German, he started to threaten Evzen. Told him to go back home-and said that if he didn't go back home, he'd be sorry.”

  “Why didn't Evzen call the police?”

  “The police! Why would Germans want to help him?”

  “Because this is Vienna-and the Germans who live here have a very different attitude from those whom you may have encountered in Bohemia.”

  Zahradnik smiled and pointed toward a boarded-up shattered window.

  “Not that different, Inspector.”

  When Rheinhardt returned to the security office, Haussmann was still at his desk. Thankfully, there was no sign of the agitated zookeeper.

  “Ah, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, warming at the sight of his junior attending to the kind of paperwork that he himself so assiduously avoided. “I do apologize for my precipitate departure.”

  Haussmann turned the pen in his hand, unsure of how to respond to a penitent superior (inspectors at the security office were not renowned for treating their assistants with anything more than the minimum amount of respect).

  “I trust the meeting with Zahradnik went well, sir?”

  Rheinhardt took off his coat. “It seems that Herr Vanek was threatened by a gentleman who did not think Vienna should extend a warm welcome to Czechs. Moreover, the gentleman in question wore good clothes. And that, in essence, is all that I have learned.”

  “Not very productive, then, sir?”

  Rheinhardt hung his hat and coat on the stand. “No, although the beer was excellent. How about you? How did you fare with Herr Arnoldt?” The assistant detective offered Rheinhardt the completed statement. The inspector shook his head. “Just summarize, Haussmann-the key points will suffice.”

  Haussmann placed the statement neatly on top of a folder marked Hildegard.