Vienna Blood lp-2 Read online

  Miss Lydgate sits in the laboratory of the Schottenring police station; but it is also the Grand Hotel in Baden. She is looking through a microscope. She makes a note and removes the glass slide, but when she offers it to him, he discovers that she has something else in her hand. It is an oversize fig. The fruit is round, purple, and the skin has a powdery bloom. It has been cut, from top to bottom, and the red pulp glistens within. He scoops the fleshy interior out with his finger, and lifts it to his mouth-at which point there is a tremendous crash of thunder, and he is overwhelmed by intense fear.

  Liebermann opened his eyes.

  Tachycardia.

  His heart was beating, fast and furious in his ears.

  There was someone pounding at his front door.

  He glanced at his watch. It was quarter to one in the morning.

  Liebermann stood and limped to the door, his limbs resisting their rude awakening.

  In the hall he called out, “Just a moment. I'm coming.”

  When he opened the door, he discovered Haussmann standing outside.

  The two men looked at each other for a moment, and Liebermann, immediately grasping the significance of the other man's presence, said, “Another one-already?”

  “Yes, Herr Doctor. I am sorry to disturb you at this late hour, but Inspector Rheinhardt respectfully requests your assistance.”

  The carriage rattled to a halt outside a large bow-fronted villa in Wieden. Two other carriages were already parked nearby. Liebermann surmised that one of them had only recently arrived-the horse's flanks were still steaming. Stepping out of the vehicle, Liebermann raised the collar of his astrakhan coat against a bitter wind. Black clouds raced across the face of a brilliant moon.

  Liebermann followed Haussmann to the front door of the villa. The assistant detective gripped the large black knocker, which had been cast in the unusual shape of a scarab beetle, and tapped out a rhythm that reminded Liebermann of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Dit-dit-dit Dah. They stamped the snow off their shoes and were admitted by a uniformed police constable.

  “This way, Herr Doctor,” said Haussmann.

  Liebermann felt odd. It was as though he were gliding down the hallway, his buoyancy assisted by the thickness of a deep oriental carpet. When they reached an open door, Haussmann turned to look at his companion. The assistant detective's expression was pained, as though he wished to spare Liebermann the coming trial but was powerless to grant the necessary reprieve.

  They crossed the threshold, entering a generously proportioned reception room. It reminded Liebermann of Professor Freud's study. The walls were decorated with pictures of Egyptian monuments- pyramids, Sphinxes, and obelisks-and the mantelpiece was crowded with figurines: the familiar parade of animals, falcon-headed deities, and hierophants.

  Rheinhardt was standing behind the police photographer, who was making a minor adjustment to the height of his tripod. When the operation was completed, the photographer disappeared beneath a dark cloth and signaled to his assistant. The boy lit a strip of magnesium ribbon and a violent incandescence illuminated the object of their attention.

  In the center of the room was a massive circular table. Spread-eagled across its surface was the body of a man, whose skin was the color of a brauner coffee. Liebermann had seen pictures of black men in books, and had even seen one or two real black men on the Prater. This man, however, looked rather different. He had long curly hair and his features were sharper, his lips and nose being not so full and wide. His head was thrown back, exposing a deep cut that had opened the trachea and severed both carotid arteries and jugular veins. In the magnesium glare the gaping wound looked as bright and moist as the flesh of a watermelon. His arms were outstretched, hanging lifelessly over the edge of the table. He was wearing a loose, collarless cotton shirt (that might once have been white but that now was drenched in blood) and a small embroidered vest. His trousers were loose, like pantaloons, and were made of cotton.

  Where his legs met, the material had been torn away, and a ragged, pulpy cavity occupied the place where his manhood should have been. In a dark pool of blackening blood on the floor, an assembly of fleshy parts revealed the magnitude of the perpetrator's malevolence and perversity.

  Rheinhardt walked over to welcome his friend, but when they shook hands, all that he could utter was, “I'm sorry.” He rested a hand on Liebermann's shoulder and guided him into the hallway, calling back as he did so, “Haussmann-the floor plan, if you will.”

  The two men retired to an adjacent room, smaller than the first though more comfortably furnished. They sat down on a large, low sofa.

  “The same monster-undoubtedly,” said Rheinhardt. “There are no obvious oddities like the Sanskrit symbol, but he may have tampered with the body again-which will, of course, be for Professor Mathias to discover. But we did find this outside.” Liebermann was still so overwhelmed by the crime scene that he had not noticed that his friend was holding a large paper bag. Rheinhardt tilted it toward Liebermann. Inside was a bundle of green and yellow material. “It's a gentleman's scarf. Notice, there are no bloodstains. It was either dropped by someone else entirely, or the perpetrator must have changed his clothes before leaving.”

  “Who is the victim?” asked Liebermann.

  “We don't know-that's why I needed you here.”

  “Oskar, I'm a psychiatrist. I can't commune with the dead!”

  “You won't have to-well, not exactly. The murder was reported by a businessman from Trieste-Signore Borsari. He arrived on the late train just after eleven. As he was passing this building, the front door was flung open and he was confronted with the sight of an elderly gentleman in an evening suit, who pleaded with him for help. When the Italian saw the body, he was understandably fearful and made a swift exit. As luck would have it, he bumped into a constable from the local police station and the crime was registered at the security office by twenty past eleven. We have been able to establish-from papers found on the premises-that the old gentleman who hailed Borsari was Professor Moritz Hayek, an archaeologist of some repute. But we don't have a clue who that unfortunate next door is.”

  “Where is Professor Hayek now?”

  “In a bedroom upstairs.”

  “Then why don't you ask him?”

  “I have.”

  “And…”

  “He doesn't reply.”

  “What, he refuses to speak?”

  “No, Max. He can't speak.”

  40

  PROFESSOR HAYEK'S BEDROOM WAS a shadowy cavern, the air of which was tainted with a pungent, musky fragrance. Like all olfactory sensations it provoked and teased memory. Liebermann had certainly smelled it before, but it was a few seconds before he remembered where-a rather sordid club in Leopoldstadt that he had once frequented as a medical student. The source of the smell was hashish.

  On a bedside cabinet a single candle burned with a steady yellow flame. It illuminated the figure of a man in full evening dress, seated on the mattress. Professor Hayek had distinctive features. His skin was brown and leathery, with deep vertical creases scoring his cheeks, but his beard and mustache were short, neatly trimmed, and pure white. The professor's hair was white too, but it was also comically horripi-lated. There were frequent convulsive tic-like movements of his face and the muscles of his neck. His eyes were open, green like emeralds, and staring blankly into his lap, where his fingers coiled around one another with the slow sinewy movements of a nest of serpents.

  Liebermann pulled up a chair and sat down directly in front of the aged archaeologist.

  “Professor Hayek?”

  There was no response.

  “Can you hear me?”

  Liebermann passed his hands in front of the professor's eyes. Hayek did not blink.

  “What's wrong with him, Max?”

  Rheinhardt was standing patiently by the door.

  “Severe trauma can sometimes produce a dissociative hypnoid state-a narrowing of consciousness. He has also developed a tic affecting
the right sternocleidomastoid.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He's in shock, Oskar.”

  “Indeed… But can you do anything to help him?”

  The young doctor passed his hands in front of the patient's eyes again.

  “I don't know-but I'm perfectly willing to try.”

  With that, Liebermann stood up and eased the professor's coat and jacket from his shoulders. Then he unbuttoned the professor's vest. With great care, he loosened the old man's necktie and removed the stiff collar. Taking the candle from the bedside cabinet, he returned to his seat in front of the professor and swung the flame from side to side over the old man's lap. The solitary miniature beacon flared with each oscillation.

  “Watch the flame, Professor,” said Liebermann. “Watch it carefully. Concentrate on the light. See how it dances. See how it burns. How beautiful it is-see how the flame conceals patterns. The more closely you attend, the more obvious they become.”

  Liebermann continued talking in this manner, gently but insistently, and as he did so the professor's head began to dip and swing with a distinct pendular motion. The young doctor lifted the candle, and the professor's head began to rise so that he could follow it with his stare. Rheinhardt was reminded of an Indian snake charmer coaxing a cobra out of a basket.

  “Observe the flame,” continued Liebermann. “Its light is now very strong, and your eyes are tired. Your eyelids are becoming heavier… heavier and heavier… and soon you will fall into a deep, comfortable sleep. A special sleep, in which you will still be able to hear my voice and answer my questions.”

  The professor's eyelids began to flicker.

  “It is almost impossible to keep your eyes open. On the count of three you will close your eyes, on the count of three you will sleep. One… two…” Liebermann threw a quick triumphant glance at Rheinhardt. “Three.”

  The professor's eyelids fell.

  “Can you hear me, Professor Hayek?”

  “Yes,” came the reply. A dry, parched voice.

  “I must ask you some questions. And you must reply with absolute honesty. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Liebermann leaned back in his chair. “Where have you been this evening, Professor?”

  “I went to the opera.”

  “On your own?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it a pleasant evening?”

  “Delightful.”

  “And what did you do after the performance?”

  “I had coffee at the Imperial-as is my custom-before returning home.”

  A muscle on the professor's neck stood out and he grimaced.

  “No harm can come to you now,” said Liebermann encouragingly.

  “I knocked on the door,” the professor continued. “Expecting Ra'ad to answer.”

  “Ra'ad?”

  “My servant.”

  “The black man?”

  “Yes. I took out my key and entered the house. The door of the reception room was open. I called out, ‘Ra'ad, where are you, my boy?’ But there was no reply. There was a strange smell in the air… I knew that something was wrong. I stepped into the reception room and saw…” Again the professor's face and neck went into a rigid spasm.

  “No harm can come to you, Professor,” Liebermann said emphatically.

  “Ra'ad… My beautiful boy… dead. Murdered.” The register of the professor's grating voice changed, becoming more animated. “His lustrous hair, his smooth soft skin… How could anyone perform such an act of wickedness on such a perfect, noble creature?”

  Rheinhardt shifted from one foot to the other, somewhat embarrassed by the professor's eulogy.

  “What did you do? When you saw Ra'ad's body?”

  “I was overcome with terror… panic… I ran into the street and pleaded with a gentleman for help. He came into the house, saw poor Ra'ad, and ran out… And then… And then…”

  “Yes, Professor?”

  “Nothing. Nothing but darkness.”

  “Where does Ra'ad come from, Professor?”

  “He is a Nubian. He has been my servant-and my companion- for some five years. I found him in Kerma when I was supervising an excavation. The great cemetery… a complex of tunnels and tumuli full of remarkable treasures. Ra'ad was one of our guides.”

  The tic returned and a tensed network of facial muscles appeared. The old man looked as if he were in pain.

  Liebermann leaned forward and placed the palm of his hand on Hayek's cheek.

  “The muscles are becoming loose… looser, looser. Feel the heat on the side of your face-a gently penetrating heat, like that of the sun. It warms and soothes-the tension melts away. There is no tension in your face, no tension in your neck…” When Liebermann removed his hand, the thick raised cords of muscle had vanished. “It is time for you to rest, Professor.”

  The young doctor bent down and removed the professor's shoes. He then lifted Hayek's legs onto the bed, rotating the professor's body in the process. He then touched the man's forehead and commanded, “Lie back.”

  The old man's head went down slowly, landing comfortably on a pillow.

  “You must sleep now,” said Liebermann. “A deep restorative sleep-it will be peaceful-calm-tranquil-and undisturbed. When you wake, you will remember all that has happened to you this evening-but these memories will not overwhelm, frighten, or confuse you. Now sleep… Sleep, Professor.”

  The professor's breathing became shallow and stertorous. Liebermann signed to Rheinhardt that they should leave.

  Outside, on the landing, Rheinhardt offered Liebermann a cigar.

  “He should be all right,” said Liebermann. “I was only using the simple suggestion method employed by Charcot and Janet, but it can be effective if the dissociative process is interrupted early. Make sure that one of your men is here in the morning, to assist him when he wakes.”

  “Of course,” said Rheinhardt, striking a Vesta. As the match flared, both men became aware of a massive sarcophagus propped up against the wall. “Well, Max,” continued Rheinhardt, lighting Liebermann's cigar. “A madam, three prostitutes, a Czech poultry seller, and a Nubian servant. How are they connected?”

  “I don't know,” said Liebermann. “It is incomprehensible.”

  Rheinhardt lit his own cigar and blew a cloud of smoke toward the sarcophagus. “There must be some link, some relation. Is it possible for a mind to rebel so violently against reason?”

  “The fact that two of the prostitutes-it might have been three if he had had the opportunity-and the man downstairs were sexually mutilated must be of some significance. But then why did the perpetrator fail to inflict the same kind of injury on the Czech?”

  “Perhaps he was interrupted again.”

  “He had sufficient time to conceal that padlock. If he'd really wanted to castrate the Czech, he could have done so.”

  “None of the victims have so far been natives of Vienna.”

  “That is true, Oskar. But if xenophobia was the perpetrator's guiding principle, he could have killed any number of foreigners more conveniently-and at less risk of discovery-by operating in the purlieus of the city: Favoriten, Landstrasse, Simmering. And why would a xenophobe choose to sexually mutilate his victims? Cutting their throats would have been quite sufficient for his purposes. I agree, Oskar, that there must be a scheme-a design behind his actions, some kind of logic, however obscure. But I am at a loss as to what that might be.”

  41

  ASCHENBRANDT HAD BEEN COMPOSING at the piano all day. He had been working on Carnuntum-more specifically, on an orchestral interlude that was provisionally titled The Eve of War. It was programmatic-like the overture-and evoked the approach of a great storm with timpani rolls and angry bursts of double bass and cello. He wondered whether the score needed the additional depth of a Wagner tuba-but was undecided.

  The interlude was a dark, brooding piece that had required careful attention to detail. The triumphal theme that appeared at the end of th
e overture and signified the Quadi's victory was reprised, note values extended, and in the relative minor key. At first there was just a stygian plainchant in the bassoons, but then it was transposed several octaves higher and rendered with exquisite tenderness by a solo cor anglais. The interlude ended with a trumpet call that represented the sound of a cock crowing. Dawn was breaking-a Homeric “rosy-fingered” dawn. In the next scene the leader of the Quadi would rally his troops and sing an aria that would swell the chest of any good, honest German. The day has arrived,

  Our day of destiny.

  Let us be victorious

  Or die a hero's death. “In days to come

  Around the hearthstone

  Children will beg to hear the tale

  Of brave ancestors who dared to challenge

  The might of Rome. “Blood and thunder,

  Blood and thunder.

  Salvation and victory.

  Fields incarnadine.

  Wotan-let this sacred day be ours.”

  Aschenbrandt was exhausted. He left the piano and collapsed on an armchair, closing his eyes. Yet he could not rest. The themes of his opera kept on returning-like reminiscences. Rising, he removed his cello from its case, scraped the bow over a cube of rosin, and placed Bach's first Cello Suite on the music stand. Aschenbrandt was not an accomplished cellist but he was proficient enough to render a tolerable performance of some of the Bach suites. Although his pitch was sometimes suspect, he could easily produce a big, expressive sound.

  He began the G Major Prelude.

  His head cleared immediately. It was like standing in a shaft of sunlight.

  Bach had created music without melody.

  Out of texture, structure, and flowing rhythm the listener was carried through cycles of tension and resolution. But when Aschenbrandt allowed the last note to die, the silence was not complete. The leader of the Quadi was singing the last verse of his aria-a resonant bass:

  Blood and Thunder, Blood and Thunder.

  It was a good melody.

  If he didn't commit it to paper now, he might forget-and it would be lost forever. Reluctantly, Aschenbrandt laid the cello aside, went to the piano, and began to write the melody down: D, G, B-flat, A. Dotted crotchet, quaver, crotchet, minim.