Vienna Blood (11 page)

16

R
HEINHARDT 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 glasses 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.”

The old man shrugged. “She's simple.”

“Do you know where I can find Herr Krull?”

The old man returned a vacant expression.

“My friend,” said Rheinhardt, trying to keep calm. “It is extremely important that I find this man. Do you know where he lives?”

“Go to the inn and ask the landlord. Herr Jutzet—he knows where everybody lives.”

17

T
HE STAIRCASE WAS MADE
of rough-hewn stone squeezed between two high windowless walls. As it went up, the stairs became both narrower and more uneven. At the very top was an alcove, which contained a plaster cast of Christ on the cross. The scene was bathed in a sickly yellow light that pulsed out of a faulty gas lamp. To reach the first step it was necessary to step across a pool of frozen water, which had collected in a depression where some paving stones were missing.

Rheinhardt tested the ice with his shoe, and watched a dendritic pattern grow from the point of impact. He applied more pressure. The liquid that welled up between the cracks was more like oil than water.

“Are we going up, sir?” asked Haussmann.

“I suppose this must be the address.”

Herr Jutzet—a big-bellied, red-cheeked publican—had been most obliging.

Yes, I know Herr Krull. A loner, with a gammy leg. Owes me four krone. Here's his address—I'll write it down for you. You see him, you tell him I want my money. Four krone. And if he doesn't pay soon, I'll be around to collect it myself.

The two detectives began their ascent. On either side, large nails had been driven into the walls, and from these a gallery of grim detritus hung: a cracked old mirror, some lengths of string, and an assortment of dirty rags.

Almost immediately, Rheinhardt slipped. It was difficult to find
reasonable purchase on the raked stairs. He reached out and touched the wall to steady himself.

“Are you all right, sir?” asked Haussmann.

“Yes, thank you,” Rheinhardt replied—but he was not altogether confident that they would reach their destination without sustaining serious injuries. They progressed slowly, pausing on each step before attempting the next. Finally they reached the top, where they both stopped to inspect the crucifix, which was housed in an ambry and protected by an iron grill. The effigy itself was chipped and faded; however, it looked as if Christ's crown of thorns and the spear wound in his side had been recently retouched with generous amounts of red paint. A number of candle stubs lay at the foot of the cross, and Christ's legs had been blackened with soot. Red and white wax had spilled over the lip of the ambry and congealed in runnels that had stuck to the plaster.

“It's rather ugly, isn't it?” said Rheinhardt.

“Yes,” Haussmann replied. “And this is a horrible place.”

The younger man's shoulder shook with an involuntary shiver.

“What's that?” Rheinhardt lowered his head and peered into the aumbry. The light was extremely poor, but he could see something small and pale inside. He searched his pocket for a box of Vestas and lit a match. In the flare the object became more visible.

“Do you see it?” Rheinhardt was whispering now.

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll light another match. See if you can get the thing out.”

In the phosphorescent glare Haussmann thrust his long fingers through the grill and caught the object with a scissoring movement. He slowly dragged it out, and lifted it up. The fitful gaslight provided just enough illumination.

“My God,” said Rheinhardt.

“It looks like …” Haussmann did not finish his sentence.

“It's a bone.”

The younger man shuddered again. “Human?”

“It could be.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

Haussmann lowered his voice again, so much so that Rheinhardt needed to lean closer in order to hear him. “Do you think it is wise for us to be here like this—just the two of us? We haven't notified the security office of our whereabouts. If Krull is responsible for the terrible things we saw …”

Rheinhardt took the bone from his colleague and turned it between his thumb and forefinger. He slid it into his coat pocket. When he withdrew his hand, he was holding a revolver.

“I would not place your life in danger, Haussmann,” he said firmly. Then, putting the revolver back into his pocket, he placed a hand on his companion's shoulder. “Come, Haussmann. We have work to do.”

The two men walked into the shadows and found a door. Rheinhardt felt for a knocker but could not find one. Instead, he clenched his fist and hammered against one of the panels. They waited.

“Who is it?” came a muffled voice.

“Police. Open the door,” said Rheinhardt.

There were a number of sounds. Bolts being drawn back, chains rattling, and a key turning. Finally the door was unlocked. Rheinhardt could not see the features of the man who'd opened it. The only significant source of light was coming from a paraffin lamp behind him.

“Herr Krull?”

“Yes.”

“Detective Inspector Rheinhardt—and my assistant, Haussmann. May we come in?”

The man's head moved quickly, looking at Rheinhardt first, then at Haussmann, then back again to Rheinhardt.

“You're not wearing uniforms. How do I know whether you're with the police or not? You could be anybody.” Krull's accent was rough and hard-edged. There was no music in his German, which was spoken largely from the back of the throat. He could have been hawking rather than speaking.

Rheinhardt sighed and took out some identification documents. Krull examined them for a few seconds and nodded.

“Very well, then—come in. You can't be too careful here, believe me.”

Krull ushered them in. The room was little more than a hovel. A table, a chair, and a small stove. On the table was a large leather-bound volume—it looked like a Bible. Through an adjoining door could be seen a shadowy bedroom: a pallet lay on the floor and there was an oversize wardrobe. The air was fetid. Rheinhardt noticed a figurine of the Virgin Mary in the recess of a tiny square window. Krull limped to the chair and sat down.

“What is the matter with your leg?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Clubfoot,” said Krull.

“Is it painful?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Can be,” said Krull.

Rheinhardt took a step forward and made sure that there was nothing that Krull might use as a weapon in easy reach.

“So what's this about, eh?” Krull demanded.

Observing the irate little man, Rheinhardt could not determine whether it was more appropriate to feel disgust or pity. Among the variety of human types, Krull was a most unfortunate specimen. A criminologist sympathetic to Galton and Lombroso's ideas would immediately identify Krull as a murderer. His features were entirely atavistic: low forehead, ears like jug handles, and a bony ridge over the orbits of his sunken eyes. A flat nose and prognathous jaw completed the simian ensemble.

“We are conducting a murder investigation, Herr Krull.”

“I don't know anything about any murders.” He shook his head.

“Perhaps not, but I believe that you may be able to help us with our inquiries.”

“Believe what you like—but I know nothing.”

Haussmann slipped discreetly behind Krull's chair; however, he was not sufficiently discreet to escape Krull's notice. The little man glanced over his shoulder, and looked anxiously back at Rheinhardt.

“What are you dong here? What do you want with me?”

“Herr Krull—I am sure you are aware of the recent atrocity that took place in Spittelberg.”

“I keep myself to myself.”

“Well, not entirely. I understand that you are well acquainted with Herr Jutzet.”

Haussmann had discovered another religious image and he held it up briefly behind Krull's back. It was a small woodcut of Saint Francis of Assisi offering his benediction.

Krull's jaw seemed to project out even farther.

“Herr Jutzet sent you?”

“It was he who gave us your address. Incidentally, the good landlord is also somewhat anxious that you should pay him a visit in order to abrogate your pecuniary embarrassment.”

“What?”

“The matter of your debt, Herr Krull. The sum of four krone was mentioned.”

“Three krone. He's added another krone as interest. The man's worse than a Jew. He probably
is
a Jew.”