Vienna Blood (10 page)

Liebermann swallowed, and felt an uncomfortable lump in his throat.

Clara reached out and touched Liebermann's face. The contact was as gentle as the brush of a falling leaf.

“What is it, Max?”

The door opened and they both turned toward the sound. It was Bettina. “What are you two doing on the floor? You're worse than the children—I can't leave you alone for two minutes!”

13

R
HEINHARDT FOLLOWED
C
OLONEL
P
ÁL
Kabok through the dimly lit corridor of the barracks building. Kabok was a short-legged stocky man with a heavy, ponderous gait. Unlocking one of many identical doors, the colonel gestured that Rheinhardt should enter.

“No one will disturb us here.”

Rheinhardt was surprised to find himself in the colonel's private room. It contained an iron camp bed, two colored prints—one of the emperor and the other of the late Empress Elisabeth—and a few poorly mounted photographs of regimental inspections and dinners. On the wall above the bed hung a pair of crossed swords and a finely decorated Turkish pistol. There was nothing else in the room: no wardrobe, no table, not even a chair. It was uncompromising in its austerity. The colonel turned to face Rheinhardt. He stood squarely, arms akimbo.

“Yes, Inspector?”

Rheinhardt had not expected to conduct his interview standing in the middle of a cold half-empty barracks room.

Outside, a bugle sounded, followed by the clatter of hooves. Rheinhardt suspected that the colonel was content to dispense with pleasantries.

“I am investigating the Spittelberg murders.”

The colonel's low oxlike brow creased.

“Murders? In Spittelberg?”

“Yes. You have perhaps read about them in the
Zeitung
?”

“The
Zeitung
? Inspector, I haven't read a newspaper in twenty years.”

“Oh …”

“Like His Majesty, the imperial commander-in-chief, I favor the military gazette. What isn't in the military gazette, I don't need to know.”

Unperturbed, Rheinhardt continued. “On Tuesday, four women were murdered in a Spittelberg brothel. A madam and three house girls believed to have recently come to Vienna from Galicia.”

The colonel rotated his bullet-shaped head on his thick bull neck. His rigid expression changed slightly. “Ah yes, the men were talking about this in the mess.”

“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 Lipoš´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

R
HEINHARDT 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 Lipoš´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, Lipoš´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 Lipoš´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, Fräuleins 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!”

15

L
IEBERMANN 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 Kärntner 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.”