Vienna Blood (24 page)

“He had sufficient time to conceal that padlock. If he'd really wanted to castrate the Czech, he could have done so.”

“None of the victims have so far been natives of Vienna.”

“That is true, Oskar. But if xenophobia was the perpetrator's guiding principle, he could have killed any number of foreigners more conveniently—and at less risk of discovery—by operating in the purlieus of the city: Favoriten, Landstrasse, Simmering. And why would a xenophobe choose to sexually mutilate his victims? Cutting their throats would have been quite sufficient for his purposes. I agree, Oskar, that there must be a scheme—a design behind his actions, some kind of logic, however obscure. But I am at a loss as to what that might be.”

41

A
SCHENBRANDT HAD BEEN COMPOSING
at the piano all day. He had been working on
Carnuntum
—more specifically, on an orchestral interlude that was provisionally titled
The Eve of War.
It was programmatic—like the overture—and evoked the approach of a great storm with timpani rolls and angry bursts of double bass and cello. He wondered whether the score needed the additional depth of a Wagner tuba—but was undecided.

The interlude was a dark, brooding piece that had required careful attention to detail. The triumphal theme that appeared at the end of the overture and signified the Quadi's victory was reprised, note values extended, and in the relative minor key. At first there was just a stygian plainchant in the bassoons, but then it was transposed several octaves higher and rendered with exquisite tenderness by a
solo cor anglais.
The interlude ended with a trumpet call that represented the sound of a cock crowing. Dawn was breaking—a Homeric “rosy-fingered” dawn. In the next scene the leader of the Quadi would rally his troops and sing an aria that would swell the chest of any good, honest German.

The day has arrived,
Our day of destiny.
Let us be victorious
Or die a hero's death.

“In days to come
Around the hearthstone
Children will beg to hear the tale
Of brave ancestors who dared to challenge
The might of Rome.

“Blood and thunder,
Blood and thunder.
Salvation and victory.
Fields incarnadine.
Wotan—let this sacred day be ours.”

Aschenbrandt was exhausted. He left the piano and collapsed on an armchair, closing his eyes. Yet he could not rest. The themes of his opera kept on returning—like reminiscences. Rising, he removed his cello from its case, scraped the bow over a cube of rosin, and placed Bach's first
Cello Suite
on the music stand. Aschenbrandt was not an accomplished cellist but he was proficient enough to render a tolerable performance of some of the Bach suites. Although his pitch was sometimes suspect, he could easily produce a big, expressive sound.

He began the
G Major Prelude.

His head cleared immediately. It was like standing in a shaft of sunlight.

Bach had created music without melody.

Out of texture, structure, and flowing rhythm the listener was carried through cycles of tension and resolution. But when Aschenbrandt allowed the last note to die, the silence was not complete. The leader of the Quadi was singing the last verse of his aria—a resonant bass:

Blood and Thunder, Blood and Thunder.

It was a good melody.

If he didn't commit it to paper now, he might forget—and it would be lost forever. Reluctantly, Aschenbrandt laid the cello aside, went to the piano, and began to write the melody down: D, G, B-flat, A. Dotted crotchet, quaver, crotchet, minim.

His muse was heartless, but he had a duty to obey her.

Whatever was demanded, he
must
find the strength.

42

“I
WOULD LIKE TO
see Inspector Rheinhardt,” said Amelia Lydgate.

“Is he expecting you?” asked the duty officer.

Amelia handed him the letter. It read:

Dear Miss Lydgate,

Because of the intemperate weather our technical staff at the Schottenring laboratory have been laid low with various forms of winter infirmity. It was subsequently suggested by our mutual friend Herr Doctor Liebermann that you might be invited—once again—to assist us with our work. I understand that your academic commitments are considerable, and I therefore respect your proper right to refuse us. However, if, dear lady, you are disposed to make us the gift of yet one more hour of your valuable time, the Viennese security office will be most grateful.

With kindest regards,

Sincerely,

Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt

The officer smiled at Amelia and escorted her to the laboratory, where she found Rheinhardt and Liebermann waiting.

The two men bowed as she entered.

“Inspector Rheinhardt, Doctor Liebermann.”

She looked at each man in turn as she said their names: her
detached delivery made the greeting sound more like an act of identification.

“Miss Lydgate,” said Rheinhardt, “thank you so much for coming.” “It is my pleasure, Inspector,” said the Englishwoman. Then, obviating any opportunities for small talk, she added, “How can I assist?”

“Indeed!” said Rheinhardt, as if some unreasonable third party had been attempting to stop them. “On Friday evening there was a murder in the fourth district. A gentleman of African origin, in the employ of an archaeologist of some renown—Professor Hayek. Outside the house we found this scarf.” The inspector picked up a paper bag, removed the seal, and showed Miss Lydgate the contents. “It is one of a batch sold at a gentlemen's outfitters situated just behind the Opera House. The shop assistants have been unable to help us with our inquiries. Many scarves have been purchased since the cold spell began and they simply cannot remember anything useful concerning specific customers. Now, it may be that this item of clothing was lost by someone who had nothing at all to do with the murder. However, if it did belong to the villain, then a microscopic analysis might yield some clues to his identity.”

“You have established that it does not belong to the professor.” “We have indeed.” Then, changing the tone of his voice, Rheinhardt added, “The only member of our technical staff to have been spared a debilitating cold seems to be your old acquaintance in the cage over there.” Rheinhardt gestured toward the brown rabbit, whose twitching nose was pressed between the bars. Rheinhardt had expected the Englishwoman to show some small sign of pleasure but she merely glanced at the animal, nodded curtly (as if to suggest that things were in order), and returned her attention to Rheinhardt. The inspector felt somewhat foolish, coughed into his hand, and
continued, “We at the security office have benefited from your forensic skills in the past. Would you be prepared to undertake a microscopic examination of our evidence and write a short report?”

Without hesitation the Englishwoman responded, “With pleasure, Inspector.”

She turned to hang her hat on the stand and began to shrug off her coat. Liebermann stepped forward to assist.

“Thank you, Doctor Liebermann.”

Leaning closer, Liebermann said in a somewhat confidential tone, “Are you well, Miss Lydgate?”

“Very well, thank you.”

Their hands touched as her arm came out of the sleeve.

“I beg your pardon,” said Liebermann. But she didn't seem to have noticed and threw him a fleeting, puzzled look. Before he could respond, she was walking toward the very large microscope that occupied one of the benches. She examined the equipment at her disposal and then turned toward Rheinhardt.

“Inspector,” she said, addressing him. “Would you be so kind as to seal the bag?” He did as he was told. “Now shake the bag and beat the sides.”

Rheinhardt gave the bag a vigorous shake, his jowls wobbling with the effort. He then struck the side of the bag several times with his open palm.

“No,” said Amelia. “That is not sufficient. I would like you to continue beating the bag for some time—and with greater violence.”

Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows. “How much violence, exactly?”

“Considerable violence.”

“As you wish,” said Rheinhardt. He drew his big hand back and repeatedly slapped the bag. The noise was loud and precluded conversation. While Rheinhardt was thus occupied, Amelia washed her
hands and began to lay out several rows of glass slides. She found a bottle marked
gum arabic
and spread the contents lightly on each glass oblong.

After a significant amount of time had passed, Rheinhardt's brow began to bead with sweat. He stopped to catch his breath and during the pause Liebermann stepped forward.

“Oskar, I am perfectly happy to relieve you if—”

“That won't be necessary, Doctor Liebermann,” interrupted Miss Lydgate. “I am confident that a good quantity of dust has been dislodged from the fibers.”

Amelia took the bag from Rheinhardt, removed the seal, and carefully lifted the scarf, shaking it a little before she extracted it completely. She then tipped the bag over her slides and gently tapped its base. Nothing appeared to fall out. Discarding the bag, Amelia selected another bottle and a pipette, sniffed the bottle's contents, and placed a small droplet on each slide. When this operation was completed, she opened a box of square cover slips and carefully placed one on each of her specimens.

Amelia lifted the first slide, inserted it into the microscope's stage, and leaned over the eyepiece. She then changed the objective lenses. She worked silently and swiftly, examining each slide at different levels of magnification. Some of the slides she placed to the right, others to the left. When she had finished, she raised her head from the microscope and faced Liebermann and Rheinhardt.

“Very interesting,” she said. A vertical crease had appeared on her forehead.

“Miss Lydgate?” asked Rheinhardt tentatively.

“The scarf held mostly paper fibers,” she said.

“From Inspector Rheinhardt's bag?” asked Liebermann.

“Well, yes, Doctor Liebermann; however, the slides show
numerous
types
of fiber—indicating different methods of production, and different ages.”

“Which suggests?” Liebermann prompted.

Amelia raised a finger to her bottom lip and appeared to be lost in thought.

“Miss Lydgate,” Rheinhardt tried again.

“Oh yes … forgive me.” The Englishwoman roused from her reverie. “There were also traces of cloth, tiny crystals of a substance that I suspect is glue, and minute particles of leather. Some of the latter were very old indeed.”

“I see,” said Rheinhardt. “Most, erm, puzzling.”

He twisted one tip of his mustache.

“Not
that
puzzling, Inspector!”

“I don't understand,” Rheinhardt said. “Are you saying, Miss Lydgate, that these particular substances are significant?”

“If the scarf belonged to the murderer—then yes.”

“In what way?” said Rheinhardt, feigning nonchalance.

“They reveal his profession.”

“They do?”

“Yes. He is the proprietor of an antiquarian bookshop—or he is a librarian.”

43

T
HERE WERE SEVEN OF
them in the carriage.

Liebermann, Jacob Weiss, and his wife, Esther, were on one side; Clara, Konrad, Bettina, and Rachel on the other.

The carriage's interior was sumptuously appointed: ornate moldings, deep carpet, pleated-satin headrests, two carved mirrors, fawn trimmings (with matching silk lace), French door handles, and— most unusually—an electric bell to capture the driver's attention. The exterior was even more impressive: olive-green panels, thick rubber tires, wide fenders, and two massive silver-plated headlamps.

“This is such a beautiful carriage,” said Clara, stroking the shiny green leather. “Now, wasn't it the right thing to do—wasn't I right, Father? We couldn't have arrived in our old trap, we just couldn't have.”

Jacob Weiss looked over his spectacles at his daughter.

“Yes, my dear,” he said indulgently. “You
were
right. And this
is
a splendid carriage. An electric bell! Who would have thought it? I am sorely tempted to press it again.”

“No,” said Esther. “You've already troubled the driver twice for no good reason—a third time will be inexcusable.”

Jacob Weiss shrugged, and patted his wife's hand.

“Will the emperor be there?” asked Rachel.

“No,” said Clara.

“You don't know. He might be,” said Weiss.

Clara ignored her father and continued to instruct her younger sister. “There will, however, be many other important people: politicians, diplomats, the Rothschilds, the Wittgensteins—”

“The Lembergs,” added Bettina.

“I don't think so, not this evening,” said Clara.

“Why?” Bettina asked.

“Haven't you heard?” Clara said. “They say that young Lemberg was killed in a shooting accident last week. But everyone knows that it was really a duel.”

“How terrible,” said Bettina.

“I don't know what's wrong with young men these days,” said Jacob. “What possesses them? Such a waste, such a pointless waste.”

“Anyway,” continued Clara, “there will be many important people at the opera—which is why we must look our very best.” Then, turning toward Liebermann, she added, “Oh, I almost forgot—I saw Frau Trenker yesterday, and she is still suffering from very bad headaches. Her doctor said she should wrap her head in a cold wet towel for an hour a day, but it isn't doing very much. I said I would ask you for some advice.”

“Tell her to take aspirin,” said Liebermann.

“Aspirin?” repeated Jacob Weiss. “It works?”

“Yes,” said Liebermann.

The carriage began to slow down, and joined a short line just outside the Opera House. Eventually, the vehicle passed through the archway under the grand balcony and came to a halt. The driver knocked the handle of his whip, discreetly, on his box.