Vienna Blood (3 page)

“No,” said Liebermann. “I'm afraid I don't.”

“Max,” said Clara, a trace of exasperation creeping into her voice. “You never know any of the society doctors!”

“He will,” said Jacob, smiling. “Given time—won't you, my boy?”

Liebermann smiled patiently at his host. “Perhaps, Herr Weiss.”

“Rozenblit advised Fräulein Stahl to consult the doctors at Franzenbad,” continued Clara, “who prescribed a special diet of cabbage and dumplings, and she had a mineral bath every day. But she said the evenings were very boring. The main street had one hotel after another and the whole place was lifeless after eight o'clock.”

The conversation stopped as the cook arrived with a monumental emperor's pancake. Soft lumps of fragrant batter had been piled high to form a massive yellow pyramid, the slopes of which were sprinkled
with generous snowdrifts of castor sugar. A kitchen maid followed, carrying two bowls: one filled with a thick maroon plum stew and the other with a spiraling conch shell of stiff whipped cream. Jacob complimented the cook, a sentiment that was echoed around the table.

When the conversation started again, Bettina inquired if Fräulein Stahl was still being courted by Herr Bernhardt, the famous entrepreneur, and slowly, talk flowed from incipient romances, through society engagements, to the forthcoming wedding of the couple present.

“Have you decided where the ceremony will take place?” asked Bettina.

“The Stadttempel,” said Clara.

“How wonderful,” Bettina exclaimed, “I love the Stadttempel— the ceiling … with its gold stars.”

“Very romantic—and we're having the dress made by Bertha Fürst,” said Esther.

“Clara,” said Bettina, “you'll look stunning.”

“And me …,” said Rachel. “I'm going to have one made too.”

“Well,” said Jacob, “we'll see—”

“But you promised, Father!” said Rachel, her face beginning to color.

“I promised you a new dress. I didn't promise you a Bertha Fürst dress.”

“Oh, Father,” said Clara, appealing to him with wide eyes. “Rachel must look her best on the day too.”

Jacob groaned.

“Oh, very well then—a Bertha Fürst.” He leaned toward Liebermann and said under his breath, “See what I have to put up with.”

Rachel clapped her hands together and her face radiated joy.
“Thank you, Father,” she cried. Then, getting up, she ran around the table and threw her arms around Jacob's neck, kissing his cheek.

“Enough now,” he said, theatrically shaking her off in mock high dudgeon.

Rachel skipped back to her chair.

“You won't regret it, Father,” said Clara, more seriously. “She'll look like a princess—won't you, Rachel?”

Rachel nodded and slipped a fork full of whipped cream into her mouth.

Further discussion of the wedding was continued after coffee had been served. Herr Weiss was quick to declare, “Gentlemen, perhaps we should retire to the smoking room?”

When Liebermann stood, Clara looked up at him, took his hand, and pressed it to her shoulder. It was a small gesture, but one that was full of affection. Her eyes glittered in the candlelight and her lips parted a little, showing a row of straight white teeth. Unusually, Clara had let her hair down. It was dark and undulated in glossy waves around her face. Liebermann's fingers lingered in her gentle grip as he left the table.

In the smoking room, Jacob Weiss distributed cigars and brandy. He stood by the stately gray-marble fireplace, an arm resting on the mantelpiece. Occasionally he would flick the ash from his cigar into the fire's flames. The two younger men occupied deep leather armchairs, facing each other across a Persian rug.

They discussed politics for a while: the appalling cant to be found in the columns of the
Deutsches Volksblatt,
the mayor's vanity, and how the deep cultural divisions in the empire seemed to be getting worse rather than better.

“I heard a good joke the other day,” said Jacob. “You know that the parliament building has chariots on the roof—and they all point in different directions. Well, some wag I was talking to said that they are
becoming increasingly recognized as a very good symbol. Everyone inside the parliament building wants to go a different way. And, you know, it's true—things are falling apart. I don't know what's going to happen.”

“People have been saying much the same thing for years, Father,” said Konrad. “And nothing changes.”

“Ah, but things
do
change. And not always for the better.”

“You worry too much.” Konrad stubbed out his cigar and consulted his pocket watch. “Excuse me. If you don't mind, I think I should check the children.”

“And you say it's me who worries too much?”

Konrad smiled at his father and left the room.

“Another cigar, Max?” Jacob offered.

“No, thank you.”

“Then another brandy, surely.”

Jacob moved away from the fireplace, filled Liebermann's glass, and sat down in Konrad's vacant chair.

“I saw your father the other day,” said Jacob. “We met for coffee at the Imperial.”

“Oh?”

“We had a long talk.” Jacob exhaled a stream of blue smoke. “He wants you to take over his business one day. You know that, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“But you're not keen.”

“No. Unfortunately, I have no interest in textiles or the retail industry. I intend to remain in medicine.”

Jacob pulled at his chin. “He seems to think that you'll find it difficult—financially, that is. After you're married, I mean.”

Liebermann sighed.

“Herr Weiss, it's true, my position at the hospital is a very junior
one at present. However, one day I hope to gain an academic position at the university, and I am confident that I will be able to build up a large practice.”

Jacob laughed. “God only knows there are enough mad people in Vienna to keep a man in your profession busy.”

“My father is always—” Liebermann was about to say something indelicate but he changed his mind. “I fear that in some ways I may have disappointed him.”

“Who? Mendel? No, he's very proud of you, very proud. It's just … he wants you and your family, God willing, to be safe.” Jacob rapped his knuckles on the chair arm to underscore the virtues of security. “Our generation is less …” He searched for the right words. “
Less at ease
than yours—less confident that we can rely on the world to treat us kindly, or fairly.” Liebermann shifted uneasily at Jacob's use of the word “us.” “That's all it is. No, my boy, he is very proud of you—and so are we.”

Whereas Liebermann's father, Mendel, wore a long beard, giving him the appearance of a hierophant, Jacob sported only a small curled mustache. His hair had receded a little, revealing a high forehead, and a pair of small oval-lensed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose. He could still be described as a handsome man.

“You know, Max,” Jacob continued, “we've never had a
professional
in the family before.” Again, he drew on the cigar and exhaled a nimbus of smoke. “I had hoped that Konrad might be a doctor or lawyer, but, to be honest, I don't think he's got the brains. That's why he ended up with me, in the same business. There it is, none of us are satisfied with what we get—isn't that always the way?” He smiled benignly and took a sip of his brandy. “The thing is, Max, I wanted you to know that I understand how important medicine is to you. And after you and Clara are married … should you experience any problems—financial problems—you can always come to me if you
require help. I'd much rather see my daughter married to a

distinguished university professor than to a fellow tradesman, if you

know what I mean.”

“Herr Weiss, that's very kind of you, but—”

Jacob Weiss held up his hand—an abrupt and decisive salute.

“Please don't mention our little discussion to Mendel, or to Clara

for that matter. This is just between me and you.”

4

T
HE DESK WAS COVERED WITH
papers and official forms. On one side sat Rheinhardt and, on the other, Haussmann. Although it was only early in the afternoon, the light was already failing.

“You couldn't get a cast?”

“No, sir.”

“Strange. … The soil was quite soft.”

“He obviously trod on the stones, sir.”

“But when he was arranging the snake's body parts, he must have stood in the soil at the water's edge.”

Rheinhardt examined a close-up photograph of the dead anaconda.

“The only impressions I found were those of the director and the two keepers; however, these marks here …” Haussmann pointed to a curving ridge close to the snake's head. “They suggest that the perpetrator may have tampered with the soil.”

“He erased his tracks?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rheinhardt turned one of the sharp points of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “Which, if true, implies that our villain is familiar with our new detection methods.”

Haussmann nodded.

The ensuing silence became prolonged as the two men puzzled over the evidence.

“Sir?”

Rheinhardt looked up.

“Did Herr Arnoldt's memory return?”

“No. I interviewed him at the zoo and paid him a visit yesterday evening, but he had nothing new to add. The doctor still thinks there's a possibility something might surface, given time. But I'm not optimistic.”

Icy flakes had begun to settle on the windowpanes.

“It's started snowing,” Haussmann said softly.

Rheinhardt turned and glanced at the taupe-and-ash sky before confirming Haussmann's observation with a staccato grunt. Conscious of the fact that he may have seemed less than fully attentive, the assistant detective asked his superior a question. “Do you think there was a motive, sir? Or is this just the handiwork of a madman?”

“The latter, I imagine.”

“Then perhaps we should consult your friend Doctor Liebermann?”

“Indeed. It's certainly odd enough to arouse his curiosity.”

Rheinhardt cleared a space on his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a form, which he placed in front of him. Smoothing the paper with the palm of his hand, he sighed and said, “Well, Haussmann, I now have the unenviable task of writing my preliminary report. You will excuse me.”

Haussmann stood. As he did so, the telephone rang. Rheinhardt answered and identified himself, but said little as the attenuated voice of the caller crackled in the earpiece. The inspector's expression changed from disgruntlement to concern, and then to shock.

“Good God!” he whispered.

Haussmann sat down again.

Rheinhardt reached for his pen and scrawled an address on the report sheet.

“I'll leave immediately,” he said, and replaced the phone's receiver.

He did not, however, get up. Instead, he stared at the address, his eyebrows knitting together.

“Sir?”

Rheinhardt stirred, and looked across the desk at his assistant.

“Haussmann, something terrible has happened in Spittelberg.” His voice was tight with suppressed emotion.

“A murder?”

“No,” said Rheinhardt. “A massacre.”

5

T
HE CARRIAGE CROSSED A STREETCAR
rail and veered off in the direction of Spittelberg. Rheinhardt and Haussmann were preoccupied with their private thoughts—neither of them had been very talkative.

Out of the window, Rheinhardt saw briefly the impressive neo-Renaissance edifice of the Justizpalast. He silently implored the gods of jurisprudence for assistance. A maniac capable of performing such appalling acts of violence must be stopped immediately.

The carriage turned sharply along a narrow cobbled street.

“Spittelberg,” said Haussmann.

The contrast with the palatial law courts, only a short distance away, could not have been more marked. Although the houses had a certain antique charm, they were mostly dilapidated after generations of neglect. The buildings were of uneven height and size and the stucco paintwork was faded. But vestigial streaks of pink, ocher, and blue betrayed a more colorful and prosperous history.

The carriage negotiated a tight corner and rattled down a gloomy alley that was hemmed in on both sides by ramshackle dwellings. Washing lines hung overhead like oversize threads of spider's silk. Rheinhardt imagined a giant arachnid, its legs folded around its fat abdomen, waiting to pounce. The carriage escaped the squalid street and entered a small square. On one side was an inn, and nearby was a corner of plain walls around which ran a continuous undecorated
metal balcony. In front of the inn was a melancholy fountain—a stunted black spire out of which feeble jets of water spurted into separate basins. The carriage turned again, but within moments the horses began to slow.

The driver had had no trouble identifying the detectives’ destination. It was a low two-story house, squashed between larger buildings and guarded by two constables. The men were blowing into their hands and stamping their feet on the ground, trying to stay warm. On the other side of the road, an elderly gentleman in a threadbare coat, scarf, and Bohemian hat had stopped to observe. He leaned on a knotted stick, his crooked back bent at a cruel angle. Apart from this solitary tatterdemalion, there were no other members of the general public present.

The carriage wheels ground to a halt.

Rheinhardt opened the vehicle's door, stepped down, and looked at the houses. The relics of more salubrious times were now clearly visible: relief cherub heads stared out blankly into space from below several window ledges. One building had a domed recess above the front door that was occupied by a figure of Saint Joseph, his aureole represented by radiating metal strips. A plump but weather-beaten infant Jesus was balanced in the crook of his left arm.

The snow was getting heavier: the air was growing dense with feathery flakes. A curious hush seemed to have fallen over Spittelberg, a magical stillness somehow enhanced by a vague impression of constant, mesmeric descent. The horse snorted and shook its bit. One of the constables advanced, his sabre dragging over the cobbles.

“Security office?”

“Yes. I am Detective Inspector Rheinhardt, and this is my assistant, Haussmann.” The constable bowed and clicked his heels. “I presume you and your colleague are from Neubaugasse?”