Vienna Blood (35 page)

Rheinhardt's pace quickened.

One of the monks looked up, made the sign of the cross, and stood to greet the inspector. As he approached, he rolled back his hood. His hair had receded, but as if to compensate he had grown a large snowy beard and mustache.

Rheinhardt bowed. “I am Inspector Rheinhardt—from the security office.”

“God bless you, my son. Thank you for coming so swiftly. My name is Brother Ignaz.”

Even though the light was poor, Rheinhardt could see that the Capuchin's eyes looked raw and bloodshot. He had clearly been crying.

“I am so sorry …” Rheinhardt's sentence trailed off. His instinct was to console, but he wondered whether he could really offer the holy man anything that the man's spiritual convictions had not already provided. “Have any of my colleagues arrived yet?”

“No, my son—only the two constables.”

“Father, I am obliged to examine the body. And very soon there will be others here … my assistant, the photographer.”

Brother Ignaz nodded. “Of course.”

He shuffled over to the other monks, who had not broken their intense, hushed chanting, and whispered something that Rheinhardt could not hear. The two monks made the sign of the cross, rose, and, taking one of the candles, silently retreated into the shadows. Brother Ignaz beckoned to Rheinhardt.

“Have you touched the body?”

“Why, yes—does that matter?”

Rheinhardt sighed. “No—it doesn't matter.”

The dead monk's limbs had been arranged so that his feet were together and his arms crossed on his chest. Rheinhardt crouched down and brought the candle closer to the corpse's face. It was wrinkled, bearded, and the eyes were closed. The flagstones on the left side of the body were covered in blood.

Rheinhardt tugged at the loose sleeves of the man's robe and uncrossed the arms. He then traced a slow circle with the flame and observed—consistent with his expectations—that the coarse brown fabric had been slashed with a sharp blade. Between the precise straight edges of the material the man's blood had coagulated.

“Who is he?”

“Brother Francis.”

“What happened?”

“We had come to the church to pray. He had excused himself and said that he was going down to the crypt. He had been asked to recite a special prayer at the tomb of the Empress Maria Theresa, by a …” Brother Ignaz hesitated, before adding, sotto voce, “By a royal personage. It was getting late and I decided to come down to the crypt myself.
Francis has been unwell—I was concerned for his health. As I came down the aisle, I saw something on the floor. At first, I thought he had simply collapsed. I ran and …” The monk shook his head.

“What is it?”

“I think—I can't be sure …”

“What?”

“I think I heard someone—somebody running up the stairs. Francis was lying facedown … and there was so much blood. I rolled him over and tried to revive him—but, of course, there was nothing I could do. In due course I returned to the church, where I found two young brothers—Casimir and Ivo. I dispatched the younger, Ivo, to the Schottenring police station. Casimir and I returned to Francis, in order to pray.” The old Capuchin shook his head. “We have been visited by an unspeakable evil. Who would do such a thing? On sacred soil, in this most holy place. It is an abomination!”

Rheinhardt lowered the candle again and inspected Francis's wizened features.

The dead man's eyelids trembled for a moment, and then—quite suddenly—flicked open. A gout of black blood oozed from his mouth as his chest convulsed.

Rheinhardt gasped, drew back, and allowed his candle to drop to the floor.

“Blessed Jesus,” cried Brother Ignaz. “He is still alive. It is a miracle.”

Suppressing an instinctive wave of horror and fear, Rheinhardt placed a hand on the old man's blood-soaked chest. There was a slight, barely perceptible movement.

“He
is
alive.”

“A miracle, Inspector
. Benedictus Dominus Deus.
A miracle.”

Brother Francis wheezed and his lips quivered. He seemed to be attempting speech.

“Brother Francis—my name is Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt. I am from the Viennese security office. Can you hear me?”

He grabbed the monk's cold, papery hand.

“Can you hear me, Brother Francis?”

There was no response. But the monk's lips continued to quiver— and his whistling respiration acquired a marked rhythmic quality.

“Who did this to you? Who attacked you?”

Rheinhardt pressed his ear against the monk's thin blue lips.

A liquid rattle increased in volume, followed by a whisper—an inflected expulsion of air that suggested a syllable or two with form and meaning.

“Brother Francis?”

A final crepitating sigh …

Rheinhardt pulled back, just in time to see the old man's eyes closing.

He knew that this time Brother Francis really was dead—as dead as the Habsburg emperors and empresses in their caskets of bronze. Yet he dutifully removed the hand mirror from his inside pocket and held it beneath the old monk's nose. There was no condensation. Rheinhardt looked up at Brother Ignaz and shook his head.

“Did he say anything?”

“Yes, he did.”

“What, my son? What did he say?”

Rheinhardt's face shadowed with uncertainty.

“I asked him who did this.” Rheinhardt was speaking more to himself than his companion. “And he replied—well—at least, I believe I heard him reply—‘a cellist.’ ”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A cellist,” Rheinhardt repeated.

From the entrance came the sound of footsteps and voices. The others had arrived.

60

J
ACOB
W
EISS STOOD AND
welcomed Liebermann into his office.

“Max, what an unexpected surprise—please, come in. This is Herr Pfeffer, my accountant.” He gestured toward a plump man in a gray suit who leaped to his feet with freakish agility. “Emmanuel, this is Max. Clara's Max.”

“Herr Doctor Liebermann,” chirped the accountant. “I have heard so much about you. It is a great pleasure to meet you.” He executed a low, almost comic bow.

“Perhaps we could finish this business some other time?” asked Jacob.

“Of course, of course,” Herr Pfeffer replied, scooping up a pile of densely annotated papers in both hands. Liebermann held the door open to facilitate his exit. Pausing momentarily on the threshold, Herr Pfeffer caught Liebermann's gaze and whispered, “Oh, and congratulations.”

This innocent felicitation could not have been more inopportune. Liebermann felt as though a dagger had been plunged into his chest. He returned a tepid smile and closed the door, silencing the heavy metallic clatter of a typewriter.

“Come now, do take a seat,” said Jacob, proffering a wooden chair. “How are you? Busy as usual, I suppose.” He sat down behind his desk, linked his fingers, and leaned forward. Behind the oval windows of his spectacles Jacob's eyes sparkled. Liebermann squirmed in the heat of the man's benevolent scrutiny.

“Herr Weiss …” Liebermann had rehearsed the speech he had intended to deliver for days. Even as he had climbed the stairs leading to Herr Weiss's office, the words he had chosen felt trustworthy, solid, dependable. But now they had become fluid and vaporous, impossible to discipline.

“Max—what is it?” For the first time, Jacob's bluff bonhomie faltered.

“Herr Weiss … I have come here today to discuss a delicate matter.”

The older man's expression suddenly lightened. “Ah yes, I see. The loan is it? You need a little something earlier than expected?” Herr Weiss anticipated an interruption. “Please, you owe me no explanation. I am delighted that you have decided to accept my offer.”

The encounter was becoming intolerable.

“Herr Weiss.” The name sounded like an entreaty.

“We want you to stay in medicine,” Jacob continued. “It's your calling. And it won't be
that
long, surely, before you become a … what do you call it? A
privatdozent
?” Jacob waited to be corrected but Liebermann remained silent. “And then your circumstances will be very different. The Viennese love a specialist.”

“Herr Weiss, I do not require financial assistance.”

Jacob drew back slightly, puzzled.

“Oh …”

Liebermann looked directly into Jacob's eyes. He could think of no way to soften the blow. Indeed, to preface his news with qualifications and apologies seemed unconscionable. It would prolong the ordeal. He was not only thinking of himself but of Jacob too. Liebermann took a deep breath and said, with remarkable evenness of tone:

“Herr Weiss, I cannot marry Clara.”

In spite of the importance of this declaration it seemed to have little effect on Jacob, whose expression remained simply perplexed.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I cannot marry your daughter.”

“What do you mean?” Jacob's head tilted to one side. “I don't understand.”

Liebermann looked away and registered some of the items in the room: a pen in its stand, a rubber stamp, a calendar hanging on the wall.

“My feelings for Clara have changed.”

Jacob floundered, struggling to make sense of the young man's curious confession. “Changed? What do you mean, ‘changed’?”

“I am fond of her—very fond of her. But I am not sure that I love her.”

“Max …”

“I do not expect you to forgive me. I am guilty of a terrible misjudgment: a terrible misjudgment that will cause you, your family, and, most regrettably of all, Clara much pain. My behavior is unpardonable.” Fragments of the rehearsed speech began to insinuate themselves into his sentences. “At the time of our engagement I believed that my feelings for Clara were sincere. However, over the last few months I have come to doubt the authenticity of my affection. I am aware that I can never make amends for my inexcusable folly, and no apology—however heartfelt—will compensate for the disappointment and sadness I shall have caused.”

The ensuing silence opened up like a chasm—a rift that carried the two men farther and farther apart. Jacob pushed a clenched fist against his mouth and rearranged a few objects on his desk with a series of abrupt and ultimately purposeless movements. When the brief flurry of activity abated, he broke the silence with a harsh accusation.

“Have you become involved with another woman? Is that it?”

A suspicious pause delayed Liebermann's denial.

“No, Herr Weiss, there is no one else. I have always been faithful to Clara.”

Weiss shook his head, attempting to assume—somewhat unsuccessfully—a conciliatory tone.

“Max … all men doubt. I remember when—”

Liebermann cut in: “Herr Weiss, I promise you that I have given this matter the deepest and most thorough consideration.” He knew that this interruption might sound peremptory but he was anxious to spare Jacob from further disappointment. Any attempt that Herr Weiss might make to persuade him to reconsider would inevitably raise false hopes and end in frustration.

“Have you told your father of your decision?”

“No.”

“Your mother?”

“No.”

“They will be very upset.”

“I know.”

Jacob paused, and tapped his index fingers together.

“Max, if you were wrong about your feelings before, how do you know you're right about them now?” Jacob sighed—a long, protracted exhalation. “Perhaps you have been working too hard? Perhaps you have made yourself unwell? Get away for a short period—go for a walking holiday. Southern Italy. What do you think? I'll pay …”

“I am sorry, Herr Weiss.” Liebermann shook his head.

Life had no spiritual purpose for Liebermann. His values were pragmatic, his philosophical outlook informed by simple medical virtues: helping others, the unquestionable good of alleviating pain. Now that he found himself to be the cause of suffering, something trembled at the core of his being. Something essential began to crack and splinter. He was suddenly overcome by a powerful need to exonerate himself.

“Herr Weiss … I have proved myself to be utterly undeserving of your respect and kindness. But please permit me to express a single
hope pertaining to our future relations. When your anger—which is both inevitable and justified—subsides, I earnestly desire that you will appreciate that I have tried my very hardest to act in good faith. To marry Clara without truly loving her would be tantamount to betrayal. Even I—now a deplorable wretch in your eyes—cannot bring myself to deceive such a sweet-natured creature.”

Jacob allowed his head to drop into his hands. “Dear God … poor Clara.”

“I will arrange to meet her this afternoon.”

Jacob's body jerked upright. “What?”

“I will arrange to meet her this afternoon. I must explain—”

“Are you
insane
?” Jacob interrupted. “You will
not
see Clara this afternoon, Max. I forbid you!”

“But I must. It is my responsibility—a responsibility that I do not intend to shirk. I will not compound dishonor with cowardice.”

Herr Weiss's lips twisted to form an ugly smile. The acidity of what followed was not unexpected. “You have already shown yourself to be a coward, Max. In my day, a man honored his commitments— whatever the cost!”

61

“W
HERE IS
D
OCTOR
L
IEBERMANN?
”

Rheinhardt looked at the Englishwoman and shrugged. “I have been trying to contact the good doctor since this morning—without success. I can only assume that he is indisposed.”

Miss Lydgate nodded curtly. “Am I to understand that you wish me to make another microscopic analysis?”

“Indeed. There has been another murder—a Capuchin monk, can you believe, whose body was discovered last night in the crypt of the Kapuzinerkirche. We collected various samples of dust from the floor, and I was wondering whether you could make a comparison with the slides that you prepared earlier this month.”

Rheinhardt gestured toward a wooden box. It had a label gummed to the lid on which was written:

Ra'ad. 7 November 1902. Samples from scarf.

Prepared by Miss Lydgate 10 November 1902—Schottenring Laboratory.