Vienna Blood (26 page)

“It will be a fine work,” said Von Triebenbach, patting Aschenbrandt's back.

“With the exception of
The Wala's Awakening,
” said Anna, “to which I have a particular sentimental attachment, I would very probably count
Carnuntum
as my favorite among my husband's works.”

“It is a masterpiece,” agreed Aschenbrandt. “The greatest novel in the German language—and I am truly honored to have received the author's benison.” Then, raising his voice, Aschenbrandt added, “Thank you, sir. I will not disappoint you.”

“On the evidence of your overture,” said List, “I know that my favored child is in capable hands. I have every confidence in your gift.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Aschenbrandt again. “You are too kind.”

Olbricht reminded the baron of his presence by shifting in his seat. Von Triebenbach had promised Sophie von Rautenberg at the Wagner Association soirée that he would introduce the artist to Guido List.

“Herr Olbricht,” said Von Triebenbach, “is to have an exhibition in December featuring several oil paintings inspired by your work.”

“Is that so?” said List.

“Yes,” said Olbricht. “I am particularly proud of a canvas based on
Pipara.
”

“The Germanic Woman in the Purple of the Caesars,”
said Anna, completing the novel's full title.

“She is depicted on a balcony, surveying a mighty Roman army under her command,” said Olbricht.

“Perhaps,” said List, “when these wretched bandages are removed, my eyesight will be restored and I will have the opportunity to admire your … interpretation.”

“That would give me the greatest pleasure.”

List did not make any further inquiries about Olbricht's exhibition. Instead, he addressed Aschenbrandt again.

“Perhaps, Herr Aschenbrandt, you would like to attend one of our musical evenings. My dear Anna would love to hear the
Carnuntum
overture, I am sure.”

“But of course … and I have recently completed an orchestral interlude,
The Eve of War,
that I could arrange for piano. It employs the triumphal theme that appears at the end of the overture, but with values extended. It is a dark tenebrous piece, full of atmosphere … and it is followed by an aria, an exquisite battle hymn,
Blood and Thunder,
sung by the leader of the Quadi. With your permission, I could invite a tenor—a friend of mine, one Herr Hunger. Then you could hear the interlude and aria together.”

List and his wife agreed that this would be an excellent idea. A further attempt by Von Triebenbach to reintroduce the topic of Olbricht's exhibition failed abysmally. He consoled himself with the thought that at least he could tell the alluring Von Rautenberg widow that he had kept his word.

In due course the subject of Aschenbrandt's opera was exhausted, and the young composer tactfully invited List to finish the disquisition on the Aryan origins of classical civilization that he had started earlier, but had not—so far—had the opportunity to conclude.

List obliged, describing how the Aryans were forced to leave their boreal cities during the Ice Age, and how, by mixing with the inferior peoples of the south, they had seeded the civilizations of Greece and Rome. This led him, by an oblique argument, to an affirmation of the nationalist Pan-German agenda and a vitriolic condemnation of their enemies. After he had denounced the Church and the monarchy, he directed his diatribe at a third and no less reprehensible institution.

“We must not underestimate the Freemasons. They are a growing threat. They have played no small part in influencing world events in the past, and they will seek to do so again—with devastating consequences. We have grown complacent. Politicians have short memories. They may have forgotten about the Masonic uprising of 1766—but I, on the other hand, have not!”

“With respect,” said Von Triebenbach tentatively, “I am ashamed to admit that I too cannot recollect this … important historical event.”

“Seventeen sixty-six!” said List, thumping his free hand on the arm of his chair. “An uprising, planned to begin in Prague and intended to spread across the whole of Europe. The brotherhood would have seized power in every significant state. Fortunately, the secret police knew of their scheme and arrested the principal conspirators. But I tell you …” List touched his temple and shook his head. His expression
became pained, fearful, as though his shadowy world were being visited by horrible visions.

“My love …” Anna reached forward and stroked a furrow from his troubled brow.

“I tell you,” List continued. “It could happen again. I have heard that the Masons are fomenting dissent in Bohemia and Hungary … and no one is doing anything to stop them. Our politicians are feeble. Weak. Dullards! Unaware of the imminent danger.”

The room fell silent.

“We are in dire need of a hero,” said Von Triebenbach solemnly. “A youngblood—a new Siegfried.”

His hand found Aschenbrandt's shoulder and rested on it briefly.

It was a small gesture, but it did not escape Anna's notice. She smiled at the baron, then at the young composer.

Part Three

45

L
IEBERMANN RUSHED OUT OF
the Opera House and marched briskly to the rear of the building. To his left was the eastern extremity of the Hofburg Palace, the bastion of which was surmounted by an equestrian statue of Archduke Albrecht. In spite of the archduke's overbearing presence, the plaza in front of him was dominated by another figure: a white marble likeness of Mozart examining an open score on an ornate music stand. He was dressed in a long cape that tumbled artfully off his left shoulder, a short jacket, frilly cuffs, and tight breeches. Putti danced and cavorted around a substantial pedestal, which was decorated with discarded manuscripts, laurel wreaths, and a somewhat chaotic jumble of instruments. Next to this arresting monument was Liebermann's destination, the eponymous Café Mozart.

Once inside he was immediately blinded as his glasses steamed up. He removed them impatiently and approached one of the waiters.

“Good evening—could I use the telephone, please?”

The waiter bowed and escorted him to a private kiosk. Being somewhat preoccupied, Liebermann tipped the waiter an excessive amount. The waiter smiled obsequiously and opened the door with the florid flourish of a courtier. Once inside, Liebermann called Rheinhardt.

“Oskar—it's Max. I need to see you immediately.” His words were animated with a breathless urgency. “I know how he's doing it. I know how he's choosing his victims.”

The line crackled. Liebermann heard the sound of Rheinhardt's two daughters laughing in the background.

“Where are you?”

“Café Mozart.”

“Wait there. I'll be with you shortly.”

Liebermann replaced the receiver in its cradle and stepped out of the kiosk. Nearby, two rakish gentlemen in striped jackets were entertaining a loud lady friend. A dark green magnum bottle of champagne suggested that she had been plied with an injudicious, if not positively reckless, quantity of alcohol. Peering through thick, undulating curtains of cigar smoke, Liebermann tried to locate an empty table. None seemed to be available; however, he was soon rescued by the waiter, who—perhaps anticipating further tokens of gratitude—guided the young doctor to a vacant window seat.

Liebermann ordered a
schwarzer.

“And something to eat, sir?” The waiter offered him the menu. Liebermann gestured to indicate that he did not need to read it.

“Mozart torte,” he said decisively.

“An excellent choice, sir,” said the waiter, smiling and stepping backward, his head lowered between hunched shoulders.

The inebriated woman threw her head back and produced a shrill, abrasive laugh. Her hair had begun to unravel and loose dark strands tumbled wildly past her shoulders. The two rakes exchanged eager glances, their eyes alight with concupiscent interest. A group of portly burghers at an adjacent table shook their heads and scowled disapprovingly.

Liebermann's attention was recaptured by the waiter, who had returned with his coffee and cake. The Mozart torte was a colorful checkered arrangement of chocolate and pistachio sponge, on top of which was a marzipan coin bearing the profile of the great
composer. Liebermann took a mouthful, found it a little too sweet, and decided that the time might pass just as quickly with a cigar.

Some twenty minutes later Rheinhardt appeared at the door. He did not take his coat off and came directly to Liebermann's table.

“Well, Max,” said Rheinhardt. “This is most unexpected.”

Liebermann rose and they shook hands firmly.

“Please, sit.”

Before they had settled, the waiter seemed to materialize out of a vortex of cigar smoke.

“Another
schwarzer,
” said Liebermann. “And a
türkische
for my friend.”

“Strong—with extra sugar,” Rheinhardt added.

The waiter retreated into the yellow-brown fug.

“It's extraordinary,” Liebermann began. “He must be unique … peerless in the annals of abnormal psychology. We are dealing with a most remarkable individual. A mind of singular peculiarity.”

“Max,” said Rheinhardt, halting his friend with an expression that demanded moderation. “Slowly, please. And from the beginning.”

Liebermann nodded. “I am quite feverish with excitement.”

“And I do not doubt that you have good reason to be; however …”

“Yes, of course. Slowly, and from the beginning.” Liebermann sat back in his chair and loosened his necktie. “This evening I went to the opera.”

“It must have been uncommonly short.”

“I left early.”

“Was it that bad?”

“Not at all—Director Mahler's
Magic Flute.
”

“Then why—”

“Do you know it?”

“
The Magic Flute?
Not very well … I haven't seen it in years.”

“Nor have I.”

“Well?”

“The characters, Oskar—can you remember the characters?”

“There's a prince—Tamino … and a princess, Pamina. The Queen of the Night, who has that glorious aria—the famous one in which the melody hops about on the very highest notes.”

“Yes, the Queen of the Night! Now think, Oskar! Does
that
name—the Queen of the Night—not sound to you like a certain colloquialism?”

Rheinhardt twisted the right tip of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “Lady of the night?”

“Or, as the French would say,
fille de nuit.
Meaning what?”

“A prostitute, of course!”

“The Queen of the Night has three attendants—or serving women …”

The inspector's eyes widened until he began to resemble an exophthalmic patient whom Liebermann had examined earlier the same day.

“Good heavens,” Rheinhardt gasped. “Madam Borek and the three Galician girls.”

“Exactly! And then there is Papageno, the bird catcher. Who is punished for lying. Can you remember the punishment, Oskar?”

“Dear God! His mouth is sealed with a padlock!”

“Now think of the Wieden murder. The black man.”

“Why, he
must
correspond to the Moor.”

“Monostatos.”

Suddenly Rheinhardt's expression changed. It vacillated on some nameless cusp before collapsing into unequivocal despondency.

“Oh, no, no, no.” The inspector groaned as if in physical pain.

Liebermann was puzzled at his friend's unexpected response. “Oskar?”

Rheinhardt placed his head in his hands.

“What a fool I've been. What an absolute fool!”

Liebermann felt rather deflated by his friend's response. “It wasn't
that
obvious, Oskar. The recognition of these correspondences did require
some
imagination.”

“Forgive me, Max. I did not mean to belittle your achievement. But it really should have been obvious … to
me
!”

“Why? You are a policeman. Not a Mozart scholar.”

The waiter arrived with the coffees. The inspector lifted his head, tasted his
türkische,
and dropped two pieces of crystallized sugar into the cup. His melancholy sagging eyes looked close to tears.

“It begins with a snake, doesn't it?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Liebermann, somewhat confused.

“
The Magic Flute:
it begins with the slaying of a snake.”

“Yes.”

“Well, so did this series of murders.”

Liebermann slid the remains of his Mozart torte across the table toward the dejected inspector. On numerous occasions he had witnessed Rheinhardt's spirits rallying after a few mouthfuls of pastry. Almost unconsciously, Rheinhardt plunged the fork through the invitingly pliant sponge.

“Before the Spittelberg atrocity,” said Rheinhardt, “a giant anaconda was killed at the zoo.”

“Hildegard.”

“That's right—did you read about it?”

“Yes. I recall that the animal was supposed to be a favorite of the emperor's.”

“Indeed. I investigated the incident myself. It was a highly irregular crime, but in the light of subsequent events, it paled into insignificance. The Spittelberg murders occurred the following day … and I simply forgot about the emperor's prize snake. Even the life of the
most exalted royal animal should not be valued above the life of a human being—however wretched—and with that thought in mind I transferred all my attention from one case to the other. But now, of course, I can see the error of my ways. How stupid of me!”