Vienna Blood (41 page)

The accountancy clerk disengaged from his thoughts and his brow relaxed. “His face, I suppose.”

“What about it?”

“Well … This may seem uncharitable, and I recognize that I am far from perfect myself, but this poor chap—why, he looked like a frog!”

At that precise moment someone rapped on the door.

“Come in,” Liebermann called out.

Kanner's head appeared around the door frame. “Max?”

Liebermann rose and went over to his friend. “What is it?”

Kanner lowered his voice. “A young man from the security office has just arrived—by the name of Haussmann? He says it's a matter of some urgency. Something about having found
Salieri
? One of your Italian patients, perhaps?”

72

I
N THE CENTER OF
the room was a small circular table—around which three chairs were arranged. One of them was occupied by Lieutenant Ruprecht Hefner. His legs were wide apart and his head was thrown back. His right hand looked as though it had been thrust into his mouth. On closer inspection it was possible to detect the dull metallic barrel of a small pistol, as well as burn marks and blisters. A large pool of blood had collected behind the chair, its still surface broken by lumpy gray nuggets of brain tissue. Remarkably, Hefner's uniform was in pristine condition: the blue was unstained and the brass buttons were as bright as marigolds.

Liebermann stepped closer and squatted down. A ragged hole had been blasted through the back of Hefner's skull, out of which droplets of fluid were still falling at irregular intervals.

“He was discovered earlier this morning by his batman,” said Rheinhardt. “He lost an American duel.”

“How do you know that?”

Rheinhardt offered Liebermann a sheet of paper. “His suicide note.”

Liebermann took the paper and began to read:

I, Lieutenant Ruprecht Georg Hefner, being of sound mind, depart from this life a man of honor …

Liebermann scanned the introductory paragraphs.

My sabre I leave to Lieutenant Trapp and my pistols to Lieutenant Renz …

My horse Geronimo I leave to the regimental doctor—who has been of considerable assistance on many occasions. …

Further on, there were references to some outstanding gambling debts that Hefner regretted he would not be able to pay.

Rheinhardt pointed to a passage lower down on the page. “Look at this.”

Liebermann continued reading:

It is all over. The sun is setting on our people and there are too few good men willing to speak out. A lone voice here, a lone voice there: but it is not enough. The cowards in the parliament building and the town hall do nothing. Our glorious city has become infested. I did what I could. But Vienna cannot be saved. …

A malicious diatribe followed, denouncing the enemies of the German people: the Jews, the Slavs, the Catholic Church—the southern races.

“There you are!” exclaimed Rheinhardt. “It must be him. It's as good as a confession!”

Liebermann turned the paper over. Nothing was written on the other side.

“We know that he frequented Madam Borek's brothel,” Rheinhardt continued, excitement widening his eyes. “He was a member of the Eddic Literary Association and a member of the Richard Wagner Association. He carried a sabre and wished to save Vienna from all those peoples and institutions despised by Guido List. It must be him. He
must
be Salieri!”

“No, Oskar,” said Liebermann. “I'm afraid you're mistaken.”

Rheinhardt snatched Hefner's note from Liebermann's hand and read out aloud, “
Our glorious city has become infested. I did what I could.”

The sentence hung in the air between them.

“He means dueling, Oskar—that is all. He obviously took great pleasure in provoking those whom he counted as enemies: Jews, Czechs, Hungarians … people like Freddi Lemberg.”

Rheinhardt sighed, suddenly deflated. “But the evidence, Max. … Madam Borek's, the sabre.”

“Salieri would not have been able to resist mentioning
The Magic Flute.
”

“He is a member of the Richard Wagner Association.”

“And then there are Miss Lydgate's findings.”

“She must have made a mistake.”

“As I have said before, I very much doubt it.”

Rheinhardt suddenly turned on his friend. He could not keep the irritation from his voice. “Max, how can you be so sure!”

Liebermann smiled and clapped his hands on Rheinhardt's shoulders.

“I can be sure, Oskar, because tonight you and I will be paying Salieri a house call.”

73

C
OUNT
Z
ÁBORSZKY LOOKED ACROSS
the low Turkish table at Otto Braun. He sucked the mouthpiece of his hookah and blew out a cloud of pungent smoke. The candle flickered in the draft created by his opiated exhalation.

“So,” he said. “The fool is dead?”

“Yes,” Braun replied. “It was reported in the late edition of the papers.”

The count's lips parted, and he showed his sharp teeth. Braun took it to be a smile.

“You Germans …”

Braun tutted. “He was Austrian. Born in Vienna.”

The count dismissed Braun's remark with a sneer and a languid gesture.

“…with your ridiculous code of honor.”

The sound of a squeaking mattress came from above. A repeated, querulous rhythm. The count's eyes flashed toward the ceiling. “Have you tried the new girl yet? The Galician?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“I don't have any money.” Braun spoke these words deliberately.

The count slid his hand into his pocket, took out a small leather purse, and tossed it onto the table. The younger man picked it up, weighed it in his hand, and put it into his pocket.

The squeaking stopped.

“How did you do it?” asked the count.

“It's easy. … I used to do something very similar in my magic show at the Blue Danube Theatre. A little routine built around a wager in which I always won. A quick swap—it was nothing.”

“Yes. But how?”

Braun shook his head. “That would be telling.” Then, assuming a mock-dignified pose, he added, “No honorable magician would break the code.”

The count sucked gently on his hookah and allowed himself a gravelly dry laugh. “Very good, Braun. Very good.”

A door opened and closed upstairs. The sound of footsteps on the landing, and boots making unsteady progress down the stairs. A cavalryman appeared out of the darkness.

“Good evening,” said the count. “I wonder whether you would care to join us for a game of cards.”

The Uhlan's cap was perched at an acute angle. “I am duty bound to warn you—I have a formidable reputation.”

“I'm sure you do,” said the count. “Please …” He gestured toward the seat next to Braun. The magician produced a deck of cards, which he dropped next to the candle. “What shall it be?” he asked, throwing a wicked glance in the count's direction.

Part Four

74

T
HE COBBLED STREET ROSE
up, leading to a short, elevated cul-de-sac. It was a dark place, illuminated by a solitary gas lamp, and somewhat desolate. All the squat two-story buildings had been converted for commercial use, and their occupants had long since concluded their business for the day. Large wooden signs identified the premises of a wheelwright, a blacksmith, and a carpenter. The cul-de-sac was overlooked by the fenestrated eminence of a tall apartment block. Lights shone from a few of the higher windows, suggesting that not all of the residents were asleep.

Earlier that evening the warm, dry föhn wind had descended from the mountains, melting all the snow and ice in a matter of hours. The air was filled with the sound of trickling and dripping as rivulets of running water sought out drains. This freakish meteorological phenomenon could raise the temperature by more than twenty degrees Réaumur.

Liebermann opened his coat and loosened his necktie. “It's associated with insanity, you know.”

“What? The föhn?” Rheinhardt responded.

“Yes. Ask any hospital psychiatrist. The patients get restless and there are always more admissions.”

“How does it have its effect?”

“We have absolutely no idea.” The young doctor sighed. “It's not a good omen.”

“I thought you didn't believe in omens.”

“Salieri is disturbed enough as it is—without the föhn making his mental state worse. Did you bring your revolver?”

“Of course,” said Rheinhardt.

They were concealed in a deep doorway. Rheinhardt leaned out and looked up at a row of blank, black windows.

“Still nothing. … He's not in.” Rheinhardt puffed out his cheeks. “You do realize, Max, that if you're wrong about this—and if we get caught—then I will be severely reprimanded by Commissioner Brügel.” The young doctor gazed out across the damp cobbles. “And to be frank,” Rheinhardt continued, “you haven't been very forthcoming about your method of deduction.”

“I will provide you with a full explanation in due course.”

Rheinhardt twisted the points of his mustache. “He isn't a librarian.”

“I know.”

“You and Miss Lydgate can't
both
be right.”

Liebermann shrugged.

The inspector tutted but did not press his friend. He was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, being familiar with the young doctor's habit of appearing at his most enigmatic when his deductions were correct.
Be that as it may,
Rheinhardt reflected,
his mannerisms can be most irritating.

“It may be possible to enter and leave the property without damaging anything,” said Rheinhardt. “In which case, no one need ever know we've been there. On the other hand, if we discover anything incriminating, I shall have to wait here in order to make an arrest. You must not feel obliged to stay. Indeed, it would be better, perhaps, if you went to get help.”

“And leave you to face the monster alone? That is out of the question.”

Rheinhardt smiled. “You wait here. Call out if you see him coming.” He then crossed the street and began inspecting a plain wooden door. Liebermann could see that his friend was busying himself with the lock, which rather surprised him. To his knowledge, the inspector had no special understanding of lock mechanisms. But after a few minutes Rheinhardt beckoned, scooping the air in wide arcs with his hand. Liebermann crept out from his hiding place and hurried across. As he arrived, Rheinhardt turned the door handle and pushed it open.

“How did you do that?” asked Liebermann, thoroughly impressed.

Rheinhardt held up a bunch of curious-looking rods with spindly protrusions.

“Skeleton keys,” said Rheinhardt. “They don't always work—but this time we were lucky.”

He produced an object that Liebermann had never seen before: a short cylinder, not unlike a telescope, encircled by several silver hoops.

“What on earth is that?”

“A flashlight.”

“A what?”

“It's from America. Watch. I slide this bridge switch …” Rheinhardt pushed a raised metal bar forward with his thumb and a pulse of light illuminated the hallway. It lasted for a few moments before fading.

“Remarkable,” exclaimed Liebermann. “A portable electric lightbulb!”

“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. “It'll revolutionize police work: the incendiary risk associated with conducting nighttime investigations is now a thing of the past!”

They closed the door behind them and ascended steep stairs that led to a small landing. To one side was a small, sparsely furnished room containing a camp bed, stove, wardrobe, and bookcase.

“In here,” said Rheinhardt.

They entered the room and began a systematic search, starting with the wardrobe. It contained nothing exceptional and smelled strongly of mothballs. Under the bed they found a half-full chamber pot. The bookcase was filled with predictable titles
: Carnuntum, Deutsch-mythologische Landschaftsbilder, Der Unbesiegbare, Pipara,
and other volumes by Guido List. There were also works by the Englishman, Houston Stewart Chamberlain: a biography of Richard Wagner and his famous history,
Die Grundlagen des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts.

Their investigation was slow, its pace dependent on the brief periodic illumination of the flashlight. After a time, though, both men fell into the rhythm dictated by the device's limitations. It became almost hypnotic.

Flash—fade—darkness. Flash—fade—darkness.

Move—stop, move—stop.

Liebermann glanced anxiously through the open door. “Come on,” he said. “There's nothing in here. We must hurry.”

“Well, there's not much in there, either,” Rheinhardt answered, directing a burst of luminescence across the landing.

“Oh, there will be—I can assure you.”

Rheinhardt recognized a new note of confidence in Liebermann's voice.

“You've seen something, haven't you?”

“Later, Oskar,” Liebermann hissed.

Rheinhardt silently endured another wave of irritation.

The two men cautiously entered the studio.

It was much the same as Rheinhardt remembered: a battered chest, a small table, wooden frames, and a full-length mirror against the wall. The only significant difference was the absence of paintings.