Vienna Blood lp-2 Page 8

  “You overheard something?”

  “Yes.”

  The colonel didn't care to elaborate. He remained perfectly still, his eyebrows bristling.

  “The women,” continued Rheinhardt, “were horribly abused- their genitals had been mutilated, their throats cut. The incisions were deep. It is possible that some of these injuries were inflicted with”-he glanced down at the colonel's weapon-”a sabre.”

  Kabok's crude rustic features remained fixed. His face reminded Rheinhardt of a potato that he had once used to amuse his daughters. After a long silence, the colonel said bluntly, “You wanted my assistance.”

  Rheinhardt handed him a sheet of paper. On it were written the names of several military personnel.

  “All these men were patrons of the Spittelberg establishment.”

  “Where did you get these names?” barked the colonel.

  “They were found on promissory notes in the madam's bureau. Do you know any of them?”

  “Yes. Lieutenant Lipos?ak, Lieutenant Hefner…” Kabok's eyes moved from side to side. “Renz and Witold.”

  “I must speak to them.”

  For the first time Kabok moved. He lumbered over to the twin prints of the emperor and the late empress, his spurs producing a dead jangling in the closed space. With his eyes fixed on the image of the imperial commander-in-chief, he said, “In this world, Inspector, nothing is more important to me than the uhlans, and nothing more sacred than regimental honor. I know these men…” He flapped the sheet of paper in his hand. “No one knows them better. You will not find a spot of rust on their swords, a button badly polished, or a single scuff mark on their boots. They are a credit to His Majesty, a credit to the empire. None of them would ever disgrace the regiment. If-as you imply-the abomination you described was perpetrated by one of my men, then I would have failed His Majesty. I would take that pistol from the wall and blow out my brains.”

  Rheinhardt shifted uncomfortably.

  The colonel looked up. His cheeks had reddened slightly, and a vein on his temple had started to throb.

  “I will arrange for you to meet these men. But believe me, Inspector, you are wasting your time.”

  14

  RHEINHARDT WAS ESCORTED TO a room located in an outbuilding some distance from the barracks. On the wall hung the obligatory image of Emperor Franz Josef; however, the old print was not a good likeness and the paper was mildewed around the edges. A small stove heated the room, but it was miserably inadequate. Rheinhardt's fingertips were almost numb. He had finished interviewing Lieutenant Harry Lipos?ak (a polite but somewhat taciturn Hungarian) and was now in the process of interrogating Lieutenant Ruprecht Hefner.

  Slim, handsome, pale, with blond curls peeping out from under his peaked cap and with a downy, carefully combed mustache, Hefner was the kind of young officer whom Rheinhardt would have expected to encounter on the pages of a romantic novel. His uniform was, as Colonel Kabok had promised, immaculate. The blue of his tunic and breeches was as vivid as a summer sky. His buttons glowed with a lustrous aura, and his fine leather top boots produced a satisfying creak every time he moved. A gold-yellow tassle hung from the pommel of his sabre. The other lieutenant, Lipos?ak, had also sported a pristine uniform, but there was something about Hefner's posture, the straightness of his back, the projection of his chin, the relaxed attitude of his shoulders, that gave him a definite sartorial advantage.

  “Where were you on Tuesday morning?” Rheinhardt asked.

  “In bed. I wasn't very well.” Hefner's voice was clear and steady, but he spoke with a certain languor. He seemed to be affecting a world-weariness that would have been more appropriate in a man twice his age.

  “What was wrong with you?”

  “I don't know-I was just sick.”

  “Did anyone see you on Tuesday morning?”

  “Yerik, my batman.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn't you call the regimental doctor?”

  “I did, later in the day.”

  “And what did the doctor say was wrong?”

  “He said I had an inflammation of the gut.”

  “Which was caused by?”

  “I have no idea, Inspector. I'm not a doctor.”

  Rheinhardt produced a sheet of paper, which he shunted across the table.

  “Do you recognize this?”

  “Yes,” said Hefner, calmly. “It is a promissory note, signed by myself. I owed Madam Borek ten kronen.”

  “How often did you visit Madam Borek's establishment?”

  “Quite often.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn't it obvious, Inspector?” Hefner's bloodless lips curved slightly. He seemed mildly amused.

  “There are many brothels in Spittelberg, Lieutenant. Why Madam Borek's?”

  “I was rather fond of one of the girls. She was new there…”

  “What was her name? This new girl?”

  “Lucca? Something like that.”

  “Ludka?”

  “Yes, that's it, Ludka. Very pretty…” Hefner smiled again. “And very compliant-if you follow my meaning.”

  He lifted his chin a fraction higher in order to clear his stiff high collar. The material was decorated with two gold embroidered stars.

  “Madam Borek's establishment did not possess a government trade license,” said Rheinhardt.

  “Why should that be of any concern to me?”

  “The establishment was illegal.”

  Hefner shrugged. “I did not break the law.”

  “State-registered prostitutes receive a medical examination twice a week. What precautionary measures do you think Madam Borek took?”

  Hefner's lip curled again. “There are always risks, Inspector, wherever one goes in pursuit of pleasure. I am sure that a man of your”-Hefner looked Rheinhardt up and down-”experience appreciates that fact.”

  It was an insolent remark, which Rheinhardt did not wish to acknowledge with a response. Instead, he jotted down a few lines in his notebook. When he looked up again, a supercilious smirk was still hovering around Hefner's lips.

  “Did Madam Borek have any enemies?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Did you ever hear of anyone being violent with the women at Madam Borek's?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever see anyone there who behaved oddly? Anyone you suspected of being mentally unbalanced?”

  Hefner laughed. “Inspector, when I visited Madam Borek's establishment, the behavior of the other patrons was the least of my concerns. Besides, I hardly ever saw them.”

  “Did you see Lieutenant Lipos?ak at Madam Borek's?”

  “No.”

  “What about Renz and Witold?”

  “I saw Renz there once… a few weeks ago.”

  “Do you know who Captain Alderhorst is?”

  “I've never heard of him.”

  “Private Friedel?”

  “Who?”

  “Friedel.”

  “I've never heard of him, either.”

  Rheinhardt looked toward the window. The day was overcast and the clouds radiated a putrid gray-green light.

  “Lieutenant Hefner,” said Rheinhardt, “Ludka-the Galician girl you claim to have been fond of-Madam Borek, and two other women, Frauleins Draczynski and Glomb, were subjected to the most appalling violence.”

  “I know.”

  “Yet you do not seem”-Rheinhardt searched for a diplomatic phrase-”moved by their fate.”

  “Inspector,” said Hefner, “I am an officer of the eighteenth. What do you want me to do? Weep like my grandmother? Bang my fist on the table and rail against heaven?” Hefner crossed his legs slowly and his spurs rattled. “I am a representative of His Majesty's army. A cavalryman. I wear this uniform with pride. We have a reputation to consider. I will not disgrace the regiment with some unseemly display of emotional incontinence. If you want to see that, go and interview an Italian corporal!”

&
nbsp; 15

  LIEBERMANN LOOKED UP AND into the dome. Sixteen cherubs danced above eight circular windows, and the whole edifice was supported on gilded archways.

  He adored the Natural History Museum. It was a place in which one could marvel at the diversity of life and contemplate the extraordinary power of science to unlock the secrets of the universe. Charles Darwin had dispensed with a Creator and replaced Him with a simple principle: natural selection. In his masterpiece The Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or, The Preservation of Favored Races in the Struggle for Life, the great biologist had succeeded in describing the evolutionary process in a single, simple sentence: “Multiply, vary, let the strongest live and the weakest die.” It was at the same time terrifying and beautiful, and it explained everything: eyes, ears, birds, and desire-nothing was beyond the reach of Darwin's awesome theory.

  “Where are we going now?” asked Clara.

  “To see our relatives.”

  “Did you invite them?”

  “No-they're already here.”

  “What!” Clara was quite obviously miffed.

  The couple entered an immense hall filled with glass display cases, all of which were occupied by stuffed animals. Liebermann gestured toward one in which a troop of gorillas-a male, a female, and two young-languished beneath a scrawny tree.

  Clara poked a finger into Liebermann's ribs and cried, “Max!”

  “Well,” said Liebermann, “strictly speaking we are related.”

  “You may be…”

  “Indeed, I am perfectly happy to concede that the Liebermann bloodline carries with it certain characteristics that are decidedly pongid. Look at that male-he looks a little like my father, don't you think?”

  Clara stepped closer to the glass, and immediately her expression brightened with an astonished smile. It was true. The gorilla did look a little like Max's father. There was something about the creature's heavy brow and rigid jaw that reminded her-albeit only vaguely- of Mendel Liebermann's disapproving mien.

  “Max…,” Clara said, raising a hand to her mouth, at once both shocked and amused. “You shouldn't be so disrespectful… but”-she began to giggle-”it is an uncanny resemblance.”

  “There you are, then. Indisputable proof of Mr. Darwin's hypothesis.”

  Clara's expression changed. Her lips pressed together and she began to pout.

  “What is it?” asked Liebermann, stepping forward and letting her lean back into his chest. There were no other visitors present- but Liebermann nevertheless kept a judicious eye on the doorway. A public display of intimacy would not be countenanced in a royal museum.

  “Do you really believe it, Max? That we have-what is the word… evolved, yes? That we have evolved from apes?”

  “Well,” Liebermann replied, “I certainly don't believe that Adam and Eve begat the human race after being banished from the Garden of Eden.”

  Clara looked up. Her red lips were too inviting to resist, and Liebermann stole a quick, dry kiss.

  “But apes…,” she said softly.

  Liebermann kissed her again, on the cheek this time. Clara did not respond, and her expression became increasingly fixed in an attitude of seriousness. She seemed inordinately discomfited by the idea.

  “Maxim…,” she began hesitantly.

  “Yes?”

  “If we evolved from apes… could we not-one day-become apes again?”

  “There are a number of scientists and doctors who fear such a thing. They have suggested that civilized societies must be vigilant for signs of what they call degeneration. These include unrefined physical features and certain mental traits. But such a descent into chaos would take many generations. Thousands or perhaps even millions of years…”

  Clara's mood lifted in an instant. It was as though her moment of dejection had never been. Her lips parted and she produced a brilliant flashing smile.

  “Let's go into town, Max. Mother said that the jeweler's on Karntner Strasse has some garnet earrings in the window-just come in from Prague.” She pulled away. “I think they will go well with my new crepe-de-chine dress: you know the one, I wore it at the Weigels’ party? It cost one hundred florins-you must remember it.”

  16

  RHEINHARDT HAD FINISHED CONDUCTING his interviews. He was bid an indifferent farewell by Colonel Kabok, and given explicit directions to expedite his departure. He wended his way through the assorted collection of outbuildings and soon found himself trudging along the edge of a frozen parade ground. He followed a low perimeter wall of dirty sludge and ice that had been shoveled aside earlier in the day.

  A regiment of uhlans seemed to be practicing a complex drill that required considerable skill and concentration. Each horse's head was inclined at an identical angle, and all the riders were pointing their swords upward. An officer, seated on a beautiful chestnut gelding, was obviously displeased with one of his command and cantered up to the unfortunate miscreant. He opened his mouth and bellowed a torrent of foul invective. In response, the rider seemed to make a few small adjustments, but Rheinhardt was unable to detect just how his comportment had improved. To his untutored eye, horse and rider looked just the same. The officer, however, appeared to have been appeased, and he withdrew from the squadron column.

  Rheinhardt walked under an arch above which projected two sculpted horses’ heads; on closer inspection, he saw that the smaller of the pair represented the living horse, while the larger one depicted its protective headgear or armor.

  It had not been a particularly productive morning. All the cavalrymen had been subtly uncooperative, and Rheinhardt was left with the impression that, simply by making routine inquiries, he was-in their eyes-questioning the integrity of His Majesty's army, and therefore, by implication, conducting an unpatriotic investigation. Perhaps it was this feeling of having accomplished so little that urged Rheinhardt to walk quickly past the welcoming steamy windows of several coffeehouses, with their blue uncovered gas jets flickering inside, to head off in the direction of Spittelberg. He was not sure what he hoped to achieve by making this detour, but he was of the opinion that action-any action, in fact-would remedy the sense of frustration that had been building up inside him since his first encounter with Colonel Kabok.

  Rheinhardt raised the collar of his coat and made his way through a series of backstreets that led to his destination. Entering Spittelberg, he found that he had to take more care on the slippery cobbles. Although it was relatively early in the afternoon, the light was already beginning to fail. A woman, her head wrapped up in a voluminous scarf, was slowly ascending the narrow road. She was clutching a wicker basket, the contents of which were covered by a grubby napkin. Behind her a little boy followed, dragging a toy sword made from two pieces of wood joined by a rusty nail. Rheinhardt winked, but the diminutive soldier was too cold to respond.

  As Rheinhardt neared Madam Borek's, he spied a figure who looked familiar: an old man, bent over his stick, wearing a broad Bohemian hat. It was the same old-timer who had been waiting outside Madam Borek's when the inspector had first arrived with Haussmann. Rheinhardt waved, and the old man responded by lifting his hat.

  “So,” said Rheinhardt. “You are still waiting here.” The old man worked his jaw and smacked his lips. He looked at his interlocutor with a quizzical expression. “We've met before,” Rheinhardt added.

  “Yes,” said the old man. “You're the policeman who told me to move along. You told me to go home and light a fire.”

  “That's right. And today is another bitterly cold day. Why, my friend, are you standing here again? You'll get pneumonia!”

  “I'm waiting for my daughter,” the old man replied. “Sometimes, when she's late, I get worried. I come here, and stand under Saint Joseph.” He pointed up at the little statue with its aureole of metal strips. “From here I can see her coming around the corner.” The old man gestured up the street.

  “What does she do? Your daughter?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “She sells g
lasses of pickled gherkin juice to schoolboys at the bread market. She's a bit simple.” A gust of wind whipped up a cloud of powdered snow, which made the old man close his eyes. When he opened them again, they were moist and glistening. “Have you caught him yet?” he croaked.

  “Caught who?”

  “Krull-the man who killed them… Frau Borek and the three girls.” The old man pointed his stick toward the abandoned brothel.

  “What did you say?

  “Krull. Have you caught him yet?”

  “Who is Krull?

  “The man who killed them all.”

  “Why do you say that? Why do you think that this Herr Krull is responsible for their murder?”

  “He was always loitering aaround here.”

  “Outside Madam Borek's?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Waiting.”

  “Waiting for who?”

  “One of the girls-he used to go on about how beautiful she was, and that he wanted to give her something… I don't know.”

  “Did you ever see her, this girl?”

  “Yes. The small one. Like a child, she was.”

  “And what did Krull do? Did he enter the house with her?”

  “No. He never went in. Just used to wait outside. He was biding his time, waiting for the right moment.”

  Rheinhardt took out his notebook and began to write. “What does he look like?”

  “Well, he's short. Not much taller than me.”

  “What color is his hair?”

  “I don't know-he always wears a hat.”

  “And how old is he?”

  “Twenty, thirty…” The old man pulled at his beard. “Forty… perhaps.”

  Rheinhardt sighed. “Young or old?”

  “Young-but then, everyone seems young to me. Oh yes, and he has a limp.”

  “Why didn't you tell me any of this before?”

  “I didn't know they were dead. You never told me. My daughter told me.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Rheinhardt apologetically. “However, once you suspected Herr Krull, you should have got your daughter to contact the police.”