Vienna Secrets lp-4 Page 5

  The priest had pronounced “his own” with sufficient emphasis to make his point.

  “With the greatest respect, I am a doctor. And I must decide what is correct in that capacity alone-and no other. My single concern is for my patient’s welfare. It was not my intention to question your religious authority, the sanctity of your beliefs, or your good intentions.”

  “But that is exactly what you are doing, Herr Doctor. Baron von Kortig is a Catholic. I am a priest. In the same way that you have obligations, so have I! Do you really expect me to let the baron die in a state of sin? Please… you have already said that we have little time. Please, Herr Doctor, would you stand aside?”

  “I am sorry, but I can’t let you go through. I have been charged with certain responsibilities and I must honor them.” The priest moved forward, and Liebermann stretched his arm across the doorway. “I’m sorry.”

  The priest looked from the nurse to the aspirant.

  “Please, you must help me. We cannot let this godless-” He stopped himself from using the word “Jew” and began again. “Please, I beg you. The fate of a man’s soul is at stake.”

  Edlinger stood up.

  “Father Benedikt has a point, Herr Doctor. What I mean to say is, if the baron were lucid, able to know his own mind, he might actually want absolution. Who are we, as medical men, to deny him a religious sacrament?”

  “It was not my impression that the baron led a very spiritual existence.”

  “All the more reason to let me through!” said the priest angrily.

  “Nurse Heuber,” said Liebermann calmly, “could you please go and make sure that Baron von Kortig is comfortable?”

  He lowered his arm, and the nurse passed through. As he did so, he maintained eye contact with the priest.

  “Herr Doctor,” said the priest, “how do you think the baron’s family will react when they hear that their son was denied absolution at the time of his death?”

  Liebermann sighed. “Once again, I must remind you that my responsibilities differ from yours. I am sorry that you have had a wasted journey. Edlinger will escort you to the foyer.”

  Liebermann could hear the nurse’s footsteps returning-and knew immediately that the baron was dead.

  The priest was an intelligent man. He too recognized the significance of her swift return. Turning, he took his cape from the stand and said, “I can see myself out, thank you.”

  For a moment he stopped in the doorway.

  “Liebermann… That is your name?”

  “Yes.”

  The priest nodded and left, his flapping cape creating a gust of chill air that lifted some of the loose papers on the table.

  8

  The golden horned sphere on top of the plague column was struck by sunlight, and a flare of white radiance ignited beneath the Virgin’s feet. Two stone figures, casually perched on the Maria Treue Kirche facade, legs dangling into space, looked curiously unimpressed by the spectacle. Their raised hands directed the eye toward the ornate clock face instead of the Virgin, suggesting that the passage of time was a matter of much greater significance than divine pyrotechnics.

  Rheinhardt circumnavigated the plague column and placed himself just inside one of the two doorways that flanked the central and much larger entrance to the church.

  A woman, with a small child in tow, crossed the concourse and laid a wreath by the lamppost beneath which the mutilated remains of Brother Stanislav had been discovered. Others had already paid their respects. The ground was covered with floral tributes that formed a makeshift garden, the colors of which blazed in the brilliant light. The woman urged her son to say a prayer, but he was too young to understand the purpose of his mother’s manipulations-the joining of his hands, the closing of his eyes, and the guiding of his tiny fingers to the four points of the cross. His mother let him go, and he walked back to the plague column, where he peered through the railings at the assembly of saints, angels, knights, and cherubs. A carriage came rattling down the road, and the boy turned, emitting a gurgle of pleasure at the sight of two piebald horses.

  His mother bowed her head, closed her eyes, and her lips moved silently as she recited a Hail Mary. The central door of the church opened and two monks emerged from the darkness. They were both middle-aged but differed greatly in build: the first was tall, pale, and emaciated, while the second was short, ruddy, and plump.

  The woman opened her eyes. They were bright with tears.

  The two monks halted.

  “Romy, come over here-at once.” The little boy ran to his mother, but on arrival hid behind her skirts, clutching the coarse material in his hands. “Don’t be shy, Romy. Say good morning to the holy fathers.”

  The boy peeped out from his hiding place, but said nothing. The short monk rested his hands on the projecting shelf of his stomach and smiled indulgently.

  “I brought a wreath,” said the woman.

  “Thank you,” said the short monk.

  “He was so kind, so caring. I don’t know what I would have done without his help. After my husband died, I had no one.” She wiped the tears from her face as soon as they appeared. “He was a saint.”

  “Pray for him,” said the short monk.

  “Yes, pray for him,” repeated his lean companion. “It is what Brother Stanislav would have wanted, and it is all that we poor sinners can do now.”

  The woman reached for her son’s hand and began walking back to the road. When she was out of earshot, the short monk exclaimed, “A saint!”

  “Indeed!” said the tall monk, raising his gaze irreverently to the heavens.

  They stepped over the wreath and made their way toward the nearest school entrance.

  Rheinhardt emerged from his hiding place.

  “One moment, please.” The two monks turned around abruptly. Rheinhardt showed his identification. “Security office. Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”

  The two monks looked at each other.

  “And you are?” the shorter one inquired.

  “Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt.”

  “I am sorry, Inspector,” the short monk continued, “but the children are waiting. We have classes to teach.”

  “Then perhaps I could arrange to speak with you some other time-when it is more convenient?”

  The short monk wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.

  “Brother Stanislav,” said the tall monk hesitantly, “had a reputation for saintliness; however, those who knew him well-”

  “Lupercus!” the short monk interrupted. Again, the two Piarists looked at each other, saying nothing, but obviously engaged in a silent battle of wills. Eventually the shorter monk conceded defeat. He bit his lower lip, and his shiny cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red. “I must go.” Marching briskly toward the school, he departed without bothering to excuse his rudeness.

  “Brother Lupercus?” Rheinhardt prompted. “You were saying?”

  The tall monk surveyed the empty concourse.

  “If you want to know what Brother Stanislav was really like, read the articles he wrote for Das Vaterland.” Rheinhardt detected a slight foreign accent in the monk’s speech.

  “Vaterland? What’s that?”

  “A Catholic newspaper.” The school entrance on the opposite side of the concourse opened, and the monk froze. He held his breath until a small boy emerged. “I can say no more,” he added with decisive finality. “Good morning, Inspector.” He turned his back on Rheinhardt and loped across the cobbles, his loose sandals slapping against the soles of his feet.

  “Vaterland,” Rheinhardt muttered. He took out his notebook and wrote the name down in a quick but barely legible scrawl.

  Two women, each with small children, had left the road and were coming in his direction. Both of them were carrying wreaths.

  9

  “I cannot thank you enough,” said Rabbi Seligman to Professor Priel.

  “Well, it isn’t me you should be thanking.”
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  “Yes, I know that it is Herr Rothenstein’s money, and I am indeed grateful for his generosity, but it was you who acted as our advocate.”

  “Please,” said the professor, indicating with a gesture that he would not tolerate another word of praise. “The Alois Gasse Temple has a unique charm of its own, and its ark is a treasure. As soon as I saw it, I knew that it was worth preserving. ‘The Rothenstein Judaica Fund,’ I said to myself. It is regrettable that such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship had been allowed to fall into disrepair. I think we caught the rot just in time.”

  “My predecessor, I understand, was not a worldly man. Isn’t that so, Kusiel?” The rabbi glanced at the shammos-the old caretaker.

  “Whenever anything went wrong, Rabbi Tunkel just said ‘Leave it.’ He seemed to think that God would intervene and sort things out. Even the roof.”

  “And as we know only too well,” said Professor Priel, “God is distinctly inclined to help those who help themselves.” The rabbi laughed-falsely-as, in truth, he did not agree with this facile sentiment. “Which reminds me,” said the professor. “You mentioned some damp, Rabbi?”

  “Indeed, but really, Professor Priel, you have done quite enough.”

  “It costs me nothing to ask. And there are other funds that might be appropriate.”

  “Thank you,” said Rabbi Seligman. “You are too kind.”

  The professor finished his tea and replaced the cup in its saucer. “Well,” he said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together vigorously, “shall we go and see the finished product?”

  “Of course-if you wish.”

  “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “You will excuse me a moment,” said the rabbi. “I must get my hat and coat.”

  He rose from his seat and left the room, calling out to his wife.

  Professor Priel looked at the caretaker and smiled. This small token of goodwill was not returned. The caretaker looked troubled.

  “Is anything the matter?” asked Professor Priel.

  “No,” said the caretaker. “Nothing is the matter.”

  “Good,” said Professor Priel.

  10

  Councillor Schmidt and his nephew were sitting in a coffeehouse, attacking their zwiebelrostbraten as if they had not eaten for more than a week. The slices of beef were piled high with crispy fried onion rings and garnished with cucumber. Schmidt felt his stomach pressing against his vest and reached down to undo one of the buttons. A mound of flesh-covered in the tight whiteness of his shirt-bulged out of the gap. He was a big man, prone to putting on weight easily, and he thought, rather ruefully, that it was preferable for a political leader to look lean and athletic rather than heavy and bovine. Burke Faust had been a sportsman in his youth, and he still looked trim! Schmidt considered forgoing the pleasure of a second course, but his resolve evaporated when he placed a piece of meat into his mouth and it melted like butter, releasing with its disintegration a bouquet of savory flavors.

  Fabian had been talking incessantly-a constant, tumbling flow of gossip, tittle-tattle, and trivia. He spoke of his visits to the Knobloch household, where he had made the acquaintance of Fraulein Carla, who was very pretty and an accomplished pianist; of his friend Dreher, who had come into a fortune and was about to embark on a world tour; and of the new beer cellar in the fifth district, where he had seen a man give a rousing speech about workers’ rights, which he had agreed with entirely, but which had produced a lot of heckling before a fight broke out and he’d been obliged to punch someone in the face to shut him up.

  When Fabian was in full spate, Schmidt was content to listen, and say very little. Occasionally he would grunt or look up from his meal. However, that was usually the extent of his involvement. He wasn’t particularly interested. But he didn’t object to Fabian’s talk. Indeed, he found his nephew’s nonsense quite comforting, like familiar music played softly in the background, and once in a while Fabian said things that allowed Schmidt to gauge opinion among his nephew’s peers-the all-important youth of Vienna. Many of Fabian’s friends were disaffected, and Schmidt could see why. What kind of future could they hope for? Too many people, too few jobs, and an unremitting stream of parasites coming in from the east. As soon as people really grasped the gravity of the situation, they would be moved to take action-of that he was sure. It was just a question of giving them something on which to focus their minds.

  Schmidt was suddenly aware of a certain accord between his private thoughts and his nephew’s chatter. Fabian was reaching the end of a story, and Schmidt sensed that he had missed something that might be important.

  “What did you say?”

  “He stopped him… stopped him from giving the last rites.”

  “Did I hear you mention von Kortig?”

  “Yes, it was the young Baron von Kortig who was denied.”

  “And where did this happen?”

  “The General Hospital.”

  Schmidt’s mastication slowed. “How do you know about this?”

  “Edlinger!” Fabian realized that his uncle had not been listening. He pulled a petulant face and sighed. “My friend Edlinger. We play cards together with Neuner and Fink. He’s a character, Edlinger, always getting himself into scrapes. He’s the one who insulted Eisler’s wife and got challenged to a duel.”

  “And where did Edlinger hear this?”

  “He was there when it happened! He’s an aspirant. He was covering for one of his colleagues. Platen, I think. He’d gotten some tickets for the opera and wanted to take a friend.”

  Fabian winked.

  “And the priest?” said Schmidt. “Do you know the priest’s name?”

  Fabian shrugged.

  “Could you find out?” Schmidt pressed.

  “Why do you want to know the priest’s name, Uncle Julius?”

  “Never you mind. Could you find out?” he repeated.

  “Well, I can ask Edlinger, if you like.”

  “I would like that very much. When will you be seeing Edlinger again?”

  “Tomorrow, actually.”

  “Good,” said Schmidt. “Now, isn’t this zwiebelrostbraten splendid?”

  Schmidt allowed another piece of meat to flake into nothingness. It was like manna, and he permitted himself an inner self-congratulatory smile.

  11

  “DisgracefuL,” said detective inspector Alfred Hohenwart, tossing the folded copy of Vaterland onto his desk. He was a stout man with short gray hair and a square mustache that occupied only the space between the bottom of his nose and his upper lip. He was an experienced officer, and one whom Rheinhardt respected.

  “I can only assume,” said Rheinhardt, “that the censor does not make a habit of reading through Catholic newspapers-otherwise it would never have been published.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “My informant was one of Stanislav’s confreres, another Piarist called Brother Lupercus.”

  “So it would seem that Brother Stanislav wasn’t as popular as the abbot wanted you to believe.”

  “The abbot was a kindly old man, and, for what it’s worth, I judged him to be a decent fellow. He probably wasn’t aware of Stanislav’s hateful essays.”

  “Or he was deliberately withholding information to protect the reputation of his community.”

  Rheinhardt shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  “Stanislav,” Hohenwart continued, thinking hard. “Stanislav. I seem to recall…” His sentence trailed off before he suddenly said, “Excuse me a moment.” Hohenwart rose from his desk and vanished into an adjoining room. Sounds issued from beyond the half-open door-noises of rummaging, papers being flicked through, and a private grumbling commentary. In due course, Hohenwart produced a triumphal “Eureka!” and emerged holding a large cardboard file. A paper label had been gummed to the spine, on which was written Christian Nationalist Alliance.

  “Do you remember Robak? Koell was the investigating officer.”

  “Yes,” said Rheinhardt
. “The Jewish boy…”

  “Found beaten and stabbed to death on the Prater. He was discovered after a rally. A rally held in Leopoldstadt and organized by the Christian Nationalist Alliance.”

  “Who are they?”

  “A fringe political group. They’re an odd coalition of Catholics, pan-German sympathizers, and extreme conservatives. In reality, the various factions of the alliance don’t have very much in common. What holds them together is anti-Semitism.” Hohenwart opened the file and laid it in front of Rheinhardt. “Stanislav! I thought the name was familiar. Brother Stanislav was one of the speakers at the Leopoldstadt rally. The local Jews were offended by his immoderate views. They protested, a fight broke out, and the constables from Grosse Sperlgasse had to be called. No one was seriously hurt-but Robak’s body was found later.”

  “Did you interview Stanislav?” Rheinhardt asked.

  “No. We were too busy helping Koell trace alliance members. I’d already collated this file on them, which contains several names and addresses. Needless to say, the murder investigation took priority. We didn’t have time to pursue the lesser infringement of religious agitation, and the troublesome monk was quite forgotten.”

  12

  Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl were seated in the parlor of the Katzer residence in Neutorgasse. It was a pleasant room with landscape paintings on the walls and old-fashioned furniture. Opposite Anna and Olga sat Gabriel Kusevitsky and his older brother, Asher. Although Asher shared his brother’s diminutive physique, he was generally judged to be the better-looking of the pair. The prescription for his lenses was not so strong, and his beard had been finely groomed to conceal his receding chin. In Asher, Gabriel’s weak, neurasthenic appearance was transformed into something more appealing: artistic sensitivity, the romantic glamour of the consumptive-and the small dueling scar on his right cheek advertised that he was not without courage. He also affected a more bohemian style of dress, which was only fitting for a playwright.