Vienna Blood (19 page)

Haussmann turned the pen in his hand, unsure of how to respond to a penitent superior (inspectors at the security office were not renowned for treating their assistants with anything more than the minimum amount of respect).

“I trust the meeting with Zahradnik went well, sir?”

Rheinhardt took off his coat. “It seems that Herr Vanek was threatened by a gentleman who did not think Vienna should extend a warm welcome to Czechs. Moreover, the gentleman in question wore
good clothes.
And that, in essence, is all that I have learned.”

“Not very productive, then, sir?”

Rheinhardt hung his hat and coat on the stand. “No, although the beer was excellent. How about you? How did you fare with Herr
Arnoldt?” The assistant detective offered Rheinhardt the completed statement. The inspector shook his head. “Just summarize, Haussmann—the key points will suffice.”

Haussmann placed the statement neatly on top of a folder marked
Hildegard.

“Very good, sir,” said Haussmann. “First: it would seem that Herr Arnoldt's memory has returned. Second: he can now remember that the assailant who struck him from behind approached with a quick step and was whistling a tune.”

Rheinhardt leaned back, resting his rear on the edge of his desk. “And?”

Haussmann looked at the statement again, hoping that something might have escaped his attention. “No. That's it, I'm afraid. There is no third point—or any other material point to follow, sir.”

Rheinhardt twirled his mustache. “Why on earth did he think that was so important?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“Did he recognize the tune?”

“No, sir, but he could remember it—in fact, he insisted on singing it to me. It
did
sound quite familiar.”

“How did it go?”

“What—you want
me
to sing it, sir?”

“Yes.”

“I'm afraid that I don't have much of a voice, sir.”

“It doesn't matter, Haussmann. You're not auditioning as a principal at the Court Opera!”

The assistant detective coughed, and produced—in the thinnest tenor imaginable—a melody that leaped and jerked between at least three keys.

“No, no, no. That isn't how you do it!” Rheinhardt went over to Haussmann, letting his hands fall on the young man's shoulders. He
gave them a little shake. “Relax. Now breathe deeply.” The inspector demonstrated. “And let your whole body resonate. Like this.” He produced an ascending scale of one octave. “Now
you
try.”

Haussmann, wholly mortified but constitutionally unable to disobey his chief, produced a weak and tonally insecure imitation. At which point the door opened, revealing the stocky figure of Commissioner Brügel. He fumed silently for a few seconds, his complexion darkening through several shades of purple before he erupted. His opprobrium fell on the unfortunate inspector like scalding volcanic ash.

“Rheinhardt! In the last month this city of ours has been visited by the worst carnage in living memory. I had assumed that you would be applying yourself tirelessly to the task of bringing the maniac responsible for the Spittelberg and Ruprechtskirche murders to book. Now—if I am not very much mistaken—you seem to be giving your assistant a singing lesson. Would you care to explain yourself?”

33

O
N HIS ROUTE HOME
it was Haussmann's luck—or misfortune, depending on his state of mind—to pass a number of beer cellars. He had been looking forward to a Budweiser and had felt cheated when the opportunity was denied him because of Herr Arnoldt's inconvenient arrival. Having been so far frustrated, the prospect of a restorative draft seemed particularly appealing. By the time Haussmann reached Mariahilf, he had persuaded himself that it would do no harm—indeed, it might even do him some good—to stop off at a little place he knew on Stumpergasse. So it was that, shortly after eight o'clock, he found himself sitting next to a large open fire, nursing a tankard of Zwickel beer. It was just what he needed: smooth, full-bodied, and slightly cloudy.

As he relaxed, he mulled over the day's events. The business with Commissioner Brügel had been most embarrassing; still, Rheinhardt had explained the purpose of their vocal gymnastics with remarkable forbearance. When Brügel finally departed, the old curmudgeon had been appeased—but he'd still been unimpressed by Rheinhardt's conduct. The commissioner was a difficult, irascible man, and Haussmann was glad that he did not have to report to him directly. In due course, though, if he were promoted, he too would have to lock horns with Brügel. Consideration of this likelihood prompted the assistant detective to drain his tankard.
He gestured to the landlord (by tilting an invisible drinking vessel in the air) that another Zwickel would be most welcome.

Haussmann allowed his thoughts about work to subside and began to take note of his surroundings. The relatively confined space of the cellar vibrated with conversation. Most of the tables were occupied and the atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke. The patrons were male and working-class: the sole exception being three students from the university who were seated in a shadowy nook under a bricked arch. They were clothed in the blue of the Alemania dueling fraternity.

It was not uncommon to see young men of their type wearing bandages. Indeed, among the fraternities the medical dressing was proudly displayed as a badge of honor. A strip of lint was often visible on the left cheek—where a right-handed opponent could more readily land his blow. One of these Alemanians, however, had had his head completely wrapped up in bandages—save for a narrow “window” created for his spectacles. He had obviously been involved in a particularly violent exchange. His jaw was drawn tight above and below the mouth. Haussmann understood that this was to prevent the inadvertent ripping of cuts while eating. Even so, this Alemanian's predicament did not prevent all forms of consumption. A small hole had been made in the bandages, through which he was able to imbibe by using a straw. A Viennese student could survive without food— but not without beer.

The landlord arrived with Haussmann's second Zwickel. He banged the tankard on the table, allowing a fair amount of beer to splash over the sides.

“There you go,” he roared in rough-edged rural German. “Get that down you.” His big red face lowered. “You won't find a better Zwickel anywhere—not nowhere!”

Haussmann noticed that a pamphlet had been discarded close to the tankard. As a river of beer began to run down a wide groove in the tabletop, he moved the pamphlet aside to ensure that the paper would not get wet. As he did so, something printed on the front page caught his attention.

Before the landlord could leave his table, Haussmann grabbed the man's arm.

“What?” The landlord was evidently surprised by the strength of the slight young man's grip.

“This pamphlet. Who left it here?”

“I don't know.”

“Who was sitting at this table—before me?”

The landlord thought for a moment. “Now you're asking. No … no, I can't remember.”

“Was it someone who comes here regularly?”

“S'pose it could have been. I tell you what, my friend: how about letting go of my arm?” Haussmann had been unaware that he was still restraining the landlord. He nodded and pulled his hand away.

“That's better,” said the landlord, smiling broadly. “Ain't it?” He was obviously used to pacifying drunks.

“What did they look like?” Haussmann asked.

The landlord shrugged. “I told you, I can't remember. Why do you want to know, anyway? People leave stuff like that in here all the time—political types. It's all nonsense. I wouldn't bother with it if I were you.”

Haussmann picked up the pamphlet and stared at the front page. The crooked cross was identical to the one that he had seen painted on the wall in Madam Borek's brothel.

34

T
HE STREETCAR WAS APPROACHING
through hazy darkness.

Like all of the new streetcars circling the Ringstrasse, it had no obvious source of power. The emperor had objected to the installation of overhead cables on the Ringstrasse because he believed that they would mar its beauty. But Liebermann, like many of his contemporaries, was fully cognizant of the real reason for the royal edict. Old Franz Josef (ever suspicious of scientific advances) had become obsessed by the idea that an electric cable might fall on his carriage, causing him a serious (if not fatal) injury.

Neurotic,
thought Liebermann.
Quite neurotic.

As the streetcar rolled to a halt, Liebermann peered through the steamed-up windows and saw that all the seats were taken; however, standing room was available on the back platform. As Liebermann took his place, the bell rang out and the streetcar jolted forward: this sudden precipitate motion made a young woman standing in front of him lose her footing. She stumbled but prevented herself from falling by allowing her open palms to land squarely on Liebermann's chest. The doctor found himself looking down at a pretty, open face—and into a pair of peculiarly arresting green eyes.

“I'm so sorry,” the woman apologized in a husky contralto. “I couldn't stop myself.”

Although her accent betrayed humble origins, Liebermann observed that her gloves were rather expensive: red doeskin and the
wrists were trimmed with sable. The rest of her clothes were plain but tasteful: a long dark coat, French-style ankle boots, and a wide-brimmed hat with no decoration—not even a ribbon. She was not perplexed by her predicament and seemed in no hurry to extricate herself. Liebermann, assuming that she was waiting for some gallant gesture, gently lifted her hands from his body.

“Thank you,” she said, righting herself and smiling. “You're very kind.”

“Not at all,” said Liebermann. Then, looking over his shoulder, he raised his voice and added, “Perhaps, fräulein, one of the gentlemen inside would be willing to offer you his seat.”

“No!” the woman protested. “No. I'm very happy to stand here.”

“As you wish,” said Liebermann.

The conductor jostled onto the back platform, took a few fares— including Liebermann's—and returned to his post. As Liebermann was pocketing his ticket, he recognized the same pleasant contralto. “You're a doctor, aren't you?”

The young woman was smiling at him again.

“Yes,” said Liebermann. “How did you know?”

“The way you're dressed.”

She reached out and touched his sleeve.

Liebermann looked down at his astrakhan coat and could detect nothing in its appearance that declared his profession. Perhaps she was teasing him? Before he could formulate a playful riposte, the woman had introduced herself.

“My name is Ida Kainz.”

“Ah,” said Liebermann. “Kainz. Like the actor?”

“What actor?

“Josef Kainz.”

She shook her head and pursed her lips. “I don't go to the theater
much.” She pulled a pathetic face that recalled the pitiful melancholy of a disappointed child. “I have no one to take me.”

The streetcar stopped and more people climbed on, forcing Ida Kainz to renew her intimacy with Liebermann's chest. She did not appear distressed by her situation, and Liebermann once more found himself looking down into her eyes, which had narrowed slightly. Her perfume was sweet—like apple blossom.

“My father is a postal employee,” she said in an airy voice, as if she were picking up the thread of a prior interrupted conversation. “We live in the tenth district: three of us. Father, mother, and myself. I have a sister, but she is married.” Then she boldly took Liebermann's hand and squeezed his fingers. “You need new gloves, Herr Doctor … ?”

The bell sounded and the streetcar rolled on.

“Liebermann.”

“A nice name, Liebermann. Yes, you definitely need new gloves, Herr Doctor Liebermann. And I think …” Her smile widened to reveal her teeth. “I could help you there.”

She produced a small business card and handed it to Liebermann. It showed the address of a glove shop on Wahringerstrasse. “Kleinmann's. Währingerstrasse 24. That's where I work. You should pay me a visit. Just ask for Ida.”

They were passing the Court Theater. All of its windows were aglow with a welcoming yellow light.

“I suppose you go there often,” the shopgirl continued.

“When I can—although my preferences are musical.”

She nodded and assumed an ambiguous expression. “A doctor should have better gloves.”

The streetcar was approaching Liebermann's stop. He signaled his imminent departure with a bow, and the young woman responded by extending her hand. He pressed the red doeskin to his lips.

“Good evening, Fräulein Kainz.”

Although he had intended to perform this small courtesy in a perfunctory manner, the kiss that he delivered was lingering.

Liebermann got off the streetcar but did not walk away. Ida Kainz was staring back at him, a neutral expression on her face. The streetcar bell sounded, and her figure began to recede. As she faded into the smoky gloom, he saw her gloved hand rise—a conspicuous spot of carmine in an otherwise colorless world.

Liebermann looked at the card.

Kleinmann's.

Währingerstrasse 24.

He lifted the card to his nose. It, too, smelled of apple blossom.

A doctor should have better gloves.

Liebermann sighed heavily. Life was already becoming far too complicated. He allowed the card to slip from his fingers.

35

D
IRECTOR
M
AHLER'S
L
IEDER
EINES
fahrenden gesellen—The Song of a Wayfarer
—was better known as a concert work for full orchestra. But the piano arrangement, stripped of distracting colors and effects, revealed a musical essence of extraordinary power and intensity.

Such is the greatness of “German” music,
thought Liebermann
. So poignant, so stirring, so effortlessly superior!

Rheinhardt was in excellent voice. The apex of every phrase seemed to weaken, yield, and sink beneath an excess of sentiment.