Vienna Blood Read online

  “Extraordinary,” said Rheinhardt. “Quite extraordinary.”

  “It must have been a madman,” cried the director. “A lunatic escaped from Am Steinhof.”

  The soil around the water's edge was light brown and stained with dark splashes of ophidian ichor.

  “Is it a python?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “Good heavens, no,” said the director. Hildegard is—was—an anaconda, a water boa.”

  “Nonvenomous?”

  “Quite so. Eunectes murinus is a constrictor. In the wild, murinus lies submerged underwater and grabs prey as it arrives to drink.”

  “Then it kills by asphyxiation?”

  “Yes, or by drowning. The jaws are very strong. It can hold a large animal down with relative ease.”

  “How large?”

  “An adult deer would not escape those jaws. Large anacondas like Hildegard have even been known to kill big cats—like jaguars.”

  “What about human beings?”

  “Some attacks have been confirmed, but it is an exceedingly rare occurrence.”

  Rheinhardt contemplated the snake's enormous size. He only just stopped himself from uttering What a monster! fearing that he would hurt the director's feelings.

  “How long is Hildegard?”

  “Nearly thirty feet. Pythons grow longer, though they are not so heavy.”

  “Even if one knew that anacondas rarely attack human beings, entering her domain would still have been a daunting prospect.”

  “Quite so,” said the director yet again. “But the villain would never have been in any real danger. This pit has been Hildegard's home for more than twenty years. She is—” The director corrected himself. “She was accustomed to human company—which almost always signified the arrival of food. In spite of appearances, she was a very docile creature.”

  Rheinhardt scratched his head.

  “Herr Pfundtner, have any of the keepers reported seeing anything irregular—a patron acting suspiciously, or showing excessive interest in Hildegard?”

  “No. Besides, Hildegard had so many devoted admirers that it would be difficult to say.”

  “What about persons who might bear the zoo itself some grudge? Do you know of any?”

  “Inspector, we are the most well-loved institution in Vienna.”

  “Indeed, but I was thinking that perhaps you might have dismissed a keeper, who—”

  “No!” interrupted the director. “No one has been dismissed. And relations between the board of governors and the keepers have always been excellent. You mark my words, Inspector,” said Pfundtner, pointing his finger at the mutilated anaconda. “This abomination is the work of a madman!”

  “You may well be right, Herr Director,” said Rheinhardt, taking his notebook from his pocket. As he did so, the door to the snake-pit opened and Walter Gundlach appeared.

  “Inspector—your assistant is here.”

  Rheinhardt called out, “All right—I'm on my way.” Then, turning to Pfundtner, he added more softly, “Remember, Herr Director, tread only on the stones.” Then he dropped his empty notebook back inside his coat pocket.

  The two men made their way back up the slope, occasionally stretching out their arms to keep their balance. When they reached the door, the director politely allowed Rheinhardt to go through first. The doctor was still standing next to his seated patient. Walter Gundlach gestured Rheinhardt toward the hallway, where young Haussmann, the inspector's assistant, was waiting. He looked flushed and was breathing heavily as though he had been running. Without saying a word, Rheinhardt joined his junior, and they walked along the corridor until they could speak without being overheard.

  “Please accept my apologies, sir. There was a—”

  Rheinhardt did not want to hear any excuses. Haussmann was only a little late. Rheinhardt was disinclined to reprimand his assistant and so cut his apology off with a question: “Do you know what's happened here?”

  “No, sir. I left the security office as soon as I learned of your whereabouts.”

  Haussmann took out his notebook and waited for the inspector to speak. His pencil hovered over the blank paper. Rheinhardt's baggy eyes suddenly sparkled with a playful light.

  “The victim is a thirty-foot female—approximately five hundred fifty pounds. She is known only as Hildegard and is said to be a personal favorite of the emperor.”

  The young man stopped writing and looked up at his superior.

  “You are joking, sir?”

  “It's a snake, Haussmann—a snake!”

  “A snake?”

  “An anaconda, to be precise. Death was probably instantaneous after decapitation. Subsequently the intruder mutilated his victim by cutting off her tail. He gained entry into the snake-pit after knocking out one of the keepers, Herr Arnoldt. He's the poor fellow with the head bandage. Get a police photographer down here at once and prepare a floor plan. Take impressions of the director's shoes and those worn by the two keepers—Herr Arnoldt and Herr Gundlach—then see if you can get a cast of any prints in the snake-pit. Herr Arnoldt has lost his memory, but the doctor says that there's a fair chance it will return. I'll try interviewing him in a couple of hours: he might have more to say by then.”

  The assistant looked up from his notebook. “This is all very unusual, sir.”

  “Haussmann, you have a gift for understatement.”

  Rheinhardt turned and began walking toward the exit.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Haussmann?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To inspect the perimeter fence for damage.” Rheinhardt paused for a moment and then added, “Oh yes, and see if you can find a murder weapon. If it's here, it'll be easy to find. Something large, I suspect—an axe or some sort of sword.”

  After the stifling heat of the reptile house, the fresh morning air was a delight.

  3

  THE DINING ROOM WAS large and grandly decorated. An ornate chandelier hung from a high ceiling, and one of the walls was dominated by an intricately carved Biedermeier chest. It was a massive piece of furniture that stood almost as high as the cornicing. Liebermann—a man whose aesthetic preferences were decidedly modern—found its involutions too fussy and its stolid virtues dull. On the opposite wall was a large canvas by a popular landscape artist depicting trees and a distant horizon of snowcapped peaks. It was blandly titled Vienna Wood.

  Since his engagement to Clara, Liebermann had found himself eating with the Weiss family at least once a week. Whenever he chose to visit Clara, Jacob or Esther (Clara's parents) would invariably insist that he stay for supper. Dining with the Weisses was not as exacting as dining with his own family—which was always a somewhat tense affair—but it represented, nevertheless, an obligation that was beginning to pall. In addition to Clara and her parents, several other members of the Weiss family were present: Clara's adolescent sister, Rachel, her older brother, Konrad, and his wife, Bettina. Konrad and Bettina's two infant sons—Leo and Emil—were asleep in a bedroom upstairs.

  The company had just finished the main course, which consisted of boiled beef with green vegetables, and the servants were clearing the plates.

  Clara was in full spate.

  “You will never guess who I saw yesterday—Fräulein Stahl. Outside Lobmeyr's. I haven't seen her for ages—apparently she went to Franzenbad this year, although she didn't have a single good thing to say about the place.”

  “Where did she stay?” asked Esther.

  “The Hotel Holzer. She said that the people there were very stuck-up.”

  “Yes, I'd only go to Meran now,” Jacob proclaimed. Turning to Liebermann, he spoke more softly. “We went there in the summer, of course.” Then, addressing the table at large, he added, “A much nicer atmosphere. I don't know why we've never been before. The grapes were particularly good.”

  “Fräulein Stahl said the water in Franzenbad tasted disgusting,” said Clara. “Even so, she was made to drink buckets of the stuff because her doct
or—what's his name—Rozenblit—thinks she has a weak liver and he believes the waters of Franzenbad are particularly good for such complaints. Do you know him, Max? Rozenblit?”

  “No,” said Liebermann. “I'm afraid I don't.”

  “Max,” said Clara, a trace of exasperation creeping into her voice. “You never know any of the society doctors!”

  “He will,” said Jacob, smiling. “Given time—won't you, my boy?”

  Liebermann smiled patiently at his host. “Perhaps, Herr Weiss.”

  “Rozenblit advised Fräulein Stahl to consult the doctors at Franzenbad,” continued Clara, “who prescribed a special diet of cabbage and dumplings, and she had a mineral bath every day. But she said the evenings were very boring. The main street had one hotel after another and the whole place was lifeless after eight o'clock.”

  The conversation stopped as the cook arrived with a monumental emperor's pancake. Soft lumps of fragrant batter had been piled high to form a massive yellow pyramid, the slopes of which were sprinkled with generous snowdrifts of castor sugar. A kitchen maid followed, carrying two bowls: one filled with a thick maroon plum stew and the other with a spiraling conch shell of stiff whipped cream. Jacob complimented the cook, a sentiment that was echoed around the table.

  When the conversation started again, Bettina inquired if Fräulein Stahl was still being courted by Herr Bernhardt, the famous entrepreneur, and slowly, talk flowed from incipient romances, through society engagements, to the forthcoming wedding of the couple present.

  “Have you decided where the ceremony will take place?” asked Bettina.

  “The Stadttempel,” said Clara.

  “How wonderful,” Bettina exclaimed, “I love the Stadttempel— the ceiling … with its gold stars.”

  “Very romantic—and we're having the dress made by Bertha Fürst,” said Esther.

  “Clara,” said Bettina, “you'll look stunning.”

  “And me …,” said Rachel. “I'm going to have one made too.”

  “Well,” said Jacob, “we'll see—”

  “But you promised, Father!” said Rachel, her face beginning to color.

  “I promised you a new dress. I didn't promise you a Bertha Fürst dress.”

  “Oh, Father,” said Clara, appealing to him with wide eyes. “Rachel must look her best on the day too.”

  Jacob groaned.

  “Oh, very well then—a Bertha Fürst.” He leaned toward Liebermann and said under his breath, “See what I have to put up with.”

  Rachel clapped her hands together and her face radiated joy. “Thank you, Father,” she cried. Then, getting up, she ran around the table and threw her arms around Jacob's neck, kissing his cheek.

  “Enough now,” he said, theatrically shaking her off in mock high dudgeon.

  Rachel skipped back to her chair.

  “You won't regret it, Father,” said Clara, more seriously. “She'll look like a princess—won't you, Rachel?”

  Rachel nodded and slipped a fork full of whipped cream into her mouth.

  Further discussion of the wedding was continued after coffee had been served. Herr Weiss was quick to declare, “Gentlemen, perhaps we should retire to the smoking room?”

  When Liebermann stood, Clara looked up at him, took his hand, and pressed it to her shoulder. It was a small gesture, but one that was full of affection. Her eyes glittered in the candlelight and her lips parted a little, showing a row of straight white teeth. Unusually, Clara had let her hair down. It was dark and undulated in glossy waves around her face. Liebermann's fingers lingered in her gentle grip as he left the table.

  In the smoking room, Jacob Weiss distributed cigars and brandy. He stood by the stately gray-marble fireplace, an arm resting on the mantelpiece. Occasionally he would flick the ash from his cigar into the fire's flames. The two younger men occupied deep leather armchairs, facing each other across a Persian rug.

  They discussed politics for a while: the appalling cant to be found in the columns of the Deutsches Volksblatt, the mayor's vanity, and how the deep cultural divisions in the empire seemed to be getting worse rather than better.

  “I heard a good joke the other day,” said Jacob. “You know that the parliament building has chariots on the roof—and they all point in different directions. Well, some wag I was talking to said that they are becoming increasingly recognized as a very good symbol. Everyone inside the parliament building wants to go a different way. And, you know, it's true—things are falling apart. I don't know what's going to happen.”

  “People have been saying much the same thing for years, Father,” said Konrad. “And nothing changes.”

  “Ah, but things do change. And not always for the better.”

  “You worry too much.” Konrad stubbed out his cigar and consulted his pocket watch. “Excuse me. If you don't mind, I think I should check the children.”

  “And you say it's me who worries too much?”

  Konrad smiled at his father and left the room.

  “Another cigar, Max?” Jacob offered.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Then another brandy, surely.”

  Jacob moved away from the fireplace, filled Liebermann's glass, and sat down in Konrad's vacant chair.

  “I saw your father the other day,” said Jacob. “We met for coffee at the Imperial.”

  “Oh?”

  “We had a long talk.” Jacob exhaled a stream of blue smoke. “He wants you to take over his business one day. You know that, don't you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you're not keen.”

  “No. Unfortunately, I have no interest in textiles or the retail industry. I intend to remain in medicine.”

  Jacob pulled at his chin. “He seems to think that you'll find it difficult—financially, that is. After you're married, I mean.”

  Liebermann sighed.

  “Herr Weiss, it's true, my position at the hospital is a very junior one at present. However, one day I hope to gain an academic position at the university, and I am confident that I will be able to build up a large practice.”

  Jacob laughed. “God only knows there are enough mad people in Vienna to keep a man in your profession busy.”

  “My father is always—” Liebermann was about to say something indelicate but he changed his mind. “I fear that in some ways I may have disappointed him.”

  “Who? Mendel? No, he's very proud of you, very proud. It's just … he wants you and your family, God willing, to be safe.” Jacob rapped his knuckles on the chair arm to underscore the virtues of security. “Our generation is less …” He searched for the right words. “Less at ease than yours—less confident that we can rely on the world to treat us kindly, or fairly.” Liebermann shifted uneasily at Jacob's use of the word “us.” “That's all it is. No, my boy, he is very proud of you—and so are we.”

  Whereas Liebermann's father, Mendel, wore a long beard, giving him the appearance of a hierophant, Jacob sported only a small curled mustache. His hair had receded a little, revealing a high forehead, and a pair of small oval-lensed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose. He could still be described as a handsome man.

  “You know, Max,” Jacob continued, “we've never had a professional in the family before.” Again, he drew on the cigar and exhaled a nimbus of smoke. “I had hoped that Konrad might be a doctor or lawyer, but, to be honest, I don't think he's got the brains. That's why he ended up with me, in the same business. There it is, none of us are satisfied with what we get—isn't that always the way?” He smiled benignly and took a sip of his brandy. “The thing is, Max, I wanted you to know that I understand how important medicine is to you. And after you and Clara are married … should you experience any problems—financial problems—you can always come to me if you require help. I'd much rather see my daughter married to a

  distinguished university professor than to a fellow tradesman, if you

  know what I mean.”

  “Herr Weiss, that's very kind of you, but—”


  Jacob Weiss held up his hand—an abrupt and decisive salute.

  “Please don't mention our little discussion to Mendel, or to Clara

  for that matter. This is just between me and you.”

  4

  THE DESK WAS COVERED WITH papers and official forms. On one side sat Rheinhardt and, on the other, Haussmann. Although it was only early in the afternoon, the light was already failing.

  “You couldn't get a cast?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Strange. … The soil was quite soft.”

  “He obviously trod on the stones, sir.”

  “But when he was arranging the snake's body parts, he must have stood in the soil at the water's edge.”

  Rheinhardt examined a close-up photograph of the dead anaconda.

  “The only impressions I found were those of the director and the two keepers; however, these marks here …” Haussmann pointed to a curving ridge close to the snake's head. “They suggest that the perpetrator may have tampered with the soil.”

  “He erased his tracks?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rheinhardt turned one of the sharp points of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “Which, if true, implies that our villain is familiar with our new detection methods.”

  Haussmann nodded.

  The ensuing silence became prolonged as the two men puzzled over the evidence.

  “Sir?”

  Rheinhardt looked up.

  “Did Herr Arnoldt's memory return?”

  “No. I interviewed him at the zoo and paid him a visit yesterday evening, but he had nothing new to add. The doctor still thinks there's a possibility something might surface, given time. But I'm not optimistic.”