Vienna Blood (20 page)

“O Augen, blau, warum habt ihr mich angeblickt?”

O blue eyes, why did you look at me?

“Nun hab ich ewig Leid und Grämen.”

Now pain and grief are with me forever.

The rejected wayfarer bids farewell to his distant sweetheart, and in the dark of night sets out across a desolate heath, his mind filled with the tormenting memory of falling linden blossoms. …

Liebermann found that the words had produced in his mind an image, not of Clara (whose eyes were brown), not of Ida Kainz (whose eyes were green), but of Miss Lydgate. This ephemeral portrait, fleetingly sketched and vaporous, aroused in him a complex set of emotions: desire, shame, and a pang of something that came close to physical pain. Liebermann bowed his head and, without looking at the notation, allowed his long fingers to search out the final, inconsolable
bars. These were feelings with which Liebermann was not ordinarily familiar; however, their occurrence was becoming increasingly commonplace.

When the music-making was over, the young doctor and his guest retired to the smoking room. They sat in their customary places and enjoyed a preliminary cigar with some pale Hennessy cognac. Liebermann swirled the liquid in his glass and savored the subtle, penetrating aroma. Then, leaning to one side, he made a languid gesture in the direction of Rheinhardt's case.

“Photographs?”

“Yes,” replied the inspector. “The Ruprechtskirche murder.”

“I read the report in the
Neue Freie Presse.
”

“Not very informative, I'm afraid,” said Rheinhardt, lifting the case onto his knees. He released the hasps and removed a bundle of photographs. “The victim's name was Evzen Vanek. He'd been in Vienna only a few months but he managed to find himself a stall in the meat market where he sold chickens.”

Rheinhardt handed the photographs over to his friend. The first showed Vanek's body sprawled out on a cobbled street—a long shot with the Ruprechtskirche in the background, its steeple covered in snow.

“He was something of a loner,” Rheinhardt continued, “but he was known to a few of his countrymen at the Budweiser beer parlor. I met with one of them last week—a chap called Zahradnik. He wasn't able to tell me much. Well … apart from one thing.”

“Which was?”

“Vanek had been harassed by someone who didn't like Czechs.”

“What kind of harassment?”

“Taunts, jibes. He was accused of pricing his birds too high. And then told to go back to his own country.”

“Not so remarkable.”

“Indeed. Although, I must confess that I had no idea that anti-Czech feeling was so strong in some quarters.”

“Was Vanek politically active?”

Rheinhardt shook his head. “I doubt it. He had to streetcar out to a supplier in Ottakring to collect his chickens every day. He wouldn't have had much time for politics.”

Liebermann examined the next image: a close-up of Vanek's chest wound. Rheinhardt returned to his exposition. “He was stabbed through the heart. Professor Mathias said that the fatal blow was delivered by someone using a sabre.” The young doctor's head jerked up, light flashing off his spectacles. “Yes,” continued Rheinhardt, reading his friend's mind. “Of the same type used to kill Madam Borek—and the two fräuleins, Draczynski and Glomb. Now, take a look at the final photograph.”

Liebermann did as he was instructed. “A padlock?”

“Professor Mathias noticed some abnormalities: some bruising, a swollen Adam's apple. His attention was drawn to Vanek's throat.”

“And he found this?”

“Yes. It had been pushed down Vanek's esophagus and had to be pulled out with forceps.”

“That wasn't mentioned in the
Neue Freie Presse
article.”

“No, the censor finds such details … distasteful. The lock is manufactured by a company called Sicherheit. They have a large factory in Landstrasse. Unfortunately, they supply half the empire— so we have no idea where this particular lock was purchased.”

Liebermann slumped down in his chair, his chin finding support on his clenched fist. “Was anything else concealed in the body? The key, perhaps?”

“No.”

“Mathias searched?”

“Yes.” Rheinhardt's shoulders shivered as a memory of the mortuary cold returned to tickle his upper vertebrae.

“The concealment of a closed padlock in the throat,” said Liebermann, “suggests that the perpetrator wanted to emphasize that the victim had been silenced. Now, if Herr Vanek had been a celebrated orator, then such a gesture would make sense. But clearly he was nothing of the sort.”

The young doctor stared into the flames of the fire. His right eyebrow lifted, suggesting that his train of thought had continued beyond the point where he had stopped speaking.

“I have something else to show you,” said Rheinhardt. “Take a look at this.” Liebermann turned. It was a pamphlet, of a type usually produced by small political presses. The paper was coarse and the print left dark smudges on Liebermann's fingers.

Gothic lettering proclaimed
: On the secret of the Runes—a preliminary communication by Guido von List.

Beneath this announcement were two concentric circles. The inner ring enclosed a crooked cross, and the gap between the inner and outer rings was filled with primitive angular characters. They looked as if they had been scratched into the bark of a tree with a fork.

“The swastika,” said Liebermann.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That's what it's called—the crooked cross. It's an Indo-European symbol representing goodness and health. Professor Freud looked it up for me in a volume of Sanskrit.” Liebermann waved the pamphlet. “Where did you get this?”

“It was left at a table in a beer cellar. Haussmann found it.”

“Where?”

“Mariahilf—it's near where he lives.”

Liebermann flicked a few pages and began reading:
“The runes were
more than letters are today, more even than mere syllables or word signs—that is, they were holy signs or magical characters. They were, in a certain way of thinking, something similar to the spirit sigils of later times, which played a conspicuous role in the notorious hellish conjuration of Dr. Johann Faust …”
Liebermann's upper lip curled. “It's nonsense, Oskar. Gibberish.”

“Not quite. It purports to be a treatise on the origins of the German language. The author, Guido List—”

“
Von
List,” Liebermann said, correcting Rheinhardt and tapping the author's poorly defined ink-splotched name.

Rheinhardt shook his head. “He is a writer who, to our knowledge, has only ever been known as Guido List. It must be a typographic error.”

“Or he has decided to ennoble himself!”

“Well, now you say that—it wouldn't surprise me. He's obviously a rather grandiose fellow. Although much of the pamphlet is concerned with the mystical significance of runes, he chooses to end his exegesis with a peculiar and rather disturbing polemic. He condemns and vilifies a number of institutions and groups: the Catholic Church, enemy nomads—by which I think he means Jews— the internationals (I'm not sure who he means there), and the Freemasons. He is particularly scornful about the Masons.”

“What is it about these groups that he objects to?”

“I really don't know, Max. None of it is very coherent. … He was originally a journalist. His articles appeared in the
Neue Deutsche Alpenzeitung
and the
Deutsche Zeitung.
But now he's most famous for being the author of a historical novel called
Carnuntum
—have you heard of it?”

“No.”

“Very popular a few years back. It was about a Germanic tribe who won a victory over the Romans in AD 375.”

The clock struck ten and the two friends waited until the last chime had faded before continuing their conversation.

“You think there's a connection, then?” asked Liebermann. “Between this writer and the Spittelberg murders?”

“When Haussmann showed me the crooked cross—I beg your pardon, what did you say it was called?”

“The swastika.”

“When Haussmann showed me the swastika, I imagined that there must be. But now, if the symbol is a Sanskrit character, as you say it is, then I'm not so sure. Perhaps we should be looking for an Indian gentleman.”

“Does List mention the swastika in this pamphlet?”

“Yes, he does. But he refers to it as the
fyrfos,
the hooked cross, or the eighteenth rune.”

Liebermann offered his friend another cigar.

“Thank you,” said Rheinhardt. He passed the corona under his nose and nodded with approval.

“Where was List on the day of the Spittelberg atrocity?”

“When we interviewed him, he said that he was at home—with his wife.”

“Do you believe him?”

Rheinhardt cut his cigar. “It's irrelevant—he didn't do it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He's blind, Max—and has been for several months. He had some cataracts surgically removed and he is still wearing the bandages. If there
is
a connection between List and the murders, then it must be indirect.”

Rheinhardt lit his cigar and produced two perfect rings of smoke.

“So where does all this lead us?” asked Liebermann, sounding mildly irritated. “The women in the Spittelberg brothel—with the exception of the girl Ludka—and Evzen Vanek were all killed with a sabre. The Spittelberg murders and the Ruprechtskirche murder are also linked by oddities: a Sanskrit character signifying goodness and
health—and a padlock that was used, perhaps, to signify that the victim will no longer speak. Neither seem to be very meaningful.” Liebermann viewed the flames through his cognac. His glass appeared to be filled with a magically lucent elixir. “It occurred to me,” he continued, “that the swastika, being a symbol representing health, might have some medical significance. I was reminded of your observations concerning the Whitechapel murders.”

“Indeed, the London Ripper may well have been a doctor. But if
our
perpetrator had wanted to let us know that he was a medical man, why daub an obscure Sanskrit character on the wall?”

“To give us a problem to solve—to show us that he is more knowledgeable than we are.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Arrogance?”

Rheinhardt sighed.

“I agree,” continued Liebermann. “None of this is terribly coherent; still, the unusual choice of murder weapon is promising. A sabre is large and difficult to conceal.”

“Unless you already happen to be wearing one as part of your uniform.”

“But why would a military man who hated women then choose an impoverished male Czech stallholder as his next victim? And what are we to make of this?” Liebermann lifted the pamphlet and waved it in the air. “Is the fiend a student of the early Germanic alphabet—and if so, what in God's name are we supposed to make of that?”

Liebermann sipped his cognac and turned to looked at Rheinhardt. The policeman shrugged, and the young doctor, normally full of ideas and interpretations, was worryingly silent.

36

L
IEUTENANT
R
UPRECHT
H
EFNER
, his seconds, Renz and Trapp, and the regimental doctor all stepped down from the carriage. One of the horses snorted violently, expelling two jets of steam from its quivering nostrils. Another carriage had preceded them and was already parked on the verge. It was finished in black lacquer, and would scarcely have been out of place beneath the dome of the Hofburg Palace.

“Lemberg,” said Trapp.

The observation did not merit a response from his companions.

Above the eastern horizon of the Vienna Woods a strip of pellucid sky had begun to brighten. Within the pale band a pink halo of luminescence surrounded an unusually radiant point of light. The doctor paused, considered the nature of the object, and concluded that this lovely sentinel was in fact the planet Venus.

“Come, Herr Doctor,” Renz called back. “Now is not the time for stargazing.”

The doctor, somewhat embarrassed, nodded and hurried along. He touched his cap as he passed the other carriage, and the driver, perched on his high box, returned the greeting by raising his whip in a silent salute.

Hefner had taken the lead and was searching among some gorse bushes by the roadside. He waved, clutching in his hand something he had found. It was a tattered red handkerchief. The others followed. They descended a steep track that was slippery with scree and ice.
Their path took them through woods and for a few minutes they could see nothing but a corridor of black spruces and an arch of sky above their heads. Hefner crushed a cone beneath his boot. It broke with a pleasing crunch.

Eventually the track led them to the floor of a narrow valley. A nearby brook had been reduced to a trickle but its noise was surprisingly loud.

Halfway across the “field of honor” stood the
unparteiische.
He wore a tall silk stovepipe hat and a dark frock coat. Tucked under his right arm was a mahogany case. Beyond the
unparteiische,
standing next to a solitary beech tree, was Hefner's opponent, Lemberg.

Hefner and the regimental doctor held back, while Renz and Trapp continued walking. Lemberg's seconds, when they saw the two Uhlans approaching, also came forward. The four men struggled toward one another, their feet dragging in the snow. They converged in front of the man in the stovepipe hat, where they halted and bowed. After exchanging some preliminary remarks, they turned to address the
unparteiische,
who opened the mahogany case and offered them a view of its contents. Renz and his opposite number (who Hefner assumed must be Glöckner) each removed a pistol and examined it closely, testing its aim and mechanism. Then they swapped guns and repeated the inspection. The loading of each weapon was undertaken jointly. When both seconds were satisfied, the pistols were returned to the
unparteiische.

Meanwhile Trapp and Riehl, Lemberg's other second, had made their way onto the “field” and, from a starting position that required both men to stand back-to-back, were now measuring out an agreed distance in precise synchronized steps. Trapp's voice could be heard counting out paces: “Five, six, seven …” Both men were carrying something bulky in their arms.