Vienna Blood (43 page)

Flash—fade—darkness.

The light caught the distinctive reflective surface of the human eye. But it was returned not from a single pair belonging to Olbricht but from many pairs, all of them wide open, the whites glinting with fear.

“God in heaven,” breathed Rheinhardt.

They found themselves looking into a square stone-walled
chamber. A motley collection of adults and young children were lying on the ground. Their clothes were little more than rags, and the acrid air smelled strongly of ammonia. Some of the children were not wearing shoes, and their pathetic little faces were striped with sooty smears. One of them began to cry.

Rheinhardt lowered his revolver.

A woman with long matted hair crawled forward, grabbed Rheinhardt's free hand, and kissed it. She was mumbling in a language that he could not understand. The relieved tone of her utterances suggested that she was thanking him, or God, for being merciful. Embarrassed, Rheinhardt took a few steps backward.

“Have any of you heard someone passing by … a few minutes ago, perhaps?”

None of the emaciated faces registered comprehension. They all looked blank: an old man with a long grizzled beard, a child with black

hair, a youth wearing a flat cap There were more than a dozen in

all, huddled together, trying to conserve their warmth. The old man coughed into his sleeve.

“Do any of you speak German?” Rheinhardt continued.

Nothing.

“Magyar … cestina?”

A
woman at the back of the chamber called out—a string of harsh, abrasive syllables.

“Where on earth are they from?” asked Liebermann.

“I haven't a clue,” Rheinhardt replied. “Come—we should keep going.” The inspector turned to leave but suddenly stopped. It was an abrupt movement, as though his coat had caught on something, jerking him backward. He searched his pockets and pulled out a handful of loose change. He offered it to the woman at his feet, who, instead of appearing grateful, glanced fearfully at her associates.

“Take it,” said Rheinhardt. “Please. I want nothing in return.”

He allowed the silver coins to fall into the folds of her tattered dress, and made a swift departure.

“Who are they?” Liebermann asked.

“Unlicensed immigrants,” Rheinhardt replied. “They come down here in the winter to keep warm and avoid deportation. It's said that there are thousands of them.”

“Thousands?”

“Yes, tens of thousands. The sewers are immense, with as many thoroughfares, byways, and rivers as the city on the surface. It is a city beneath the city. Another Vienna that few, thankfully, ever see.”

“This place is hell,” said Liebermann, shaking his head. “Hell.”

“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt.

“I never realized … I never realized that under our glorious concert halls, palaces, and ballrooms …”

“I know—it is truly scandalous.”

The two men resumed their pursuit, walking side by side in pensive silence. Liebermann found himself remembering his encounter with Miss Lydgate in the Natural History Museum and her description of the scientific romance that she had been reading. The author, H. G. Wells, had speculated about a future division of the human race, the poor being driven underground—and the eventual splitting of humanity into two different species. Liebermann had thought the idea absurd, yet now, having witnessed human beings living in such deplorable conditions, he was forced to reconsider his position.

“What's that?” Rheinhardt's question interrupted Liebermann's vatic ruminations. “Listen! It sounds like a waterfall.”

As they progressed, the splashing and roiling sounds of water grew louder.

They arrived at a low archway adjoining their path, through which they could see stone stairs descending to a lower level.

Liebermann worked the flashlight's bridging switch.

Flash—fade—darkness.

The stairs were steep and the walls were damp to the touch. As the two men descended, the crashing and swoosh of churning water increased in volume and Liebermann became aware of a curious phenomenon. The walls were gleaming. He had become so used to the unrelenting night of the underworld that he had failed to recognize the cause: a weak light, emanating from below.

They entered a large chamber that was lit by electric bulbs suspended on cables. A large pipe, big enough for a man to walk through, projected out from one of the walls. It was a conduit for a steady stream of brown glutinous liquid that tumbled into a fast-flowing river. The river itself entered through an arch on one side of the chamber and exited through an identical opening on the opposite side.

Liebermann peered into the rushing torrent and observed slicks of oily effluent, lumps of excrement, and suds of yellow foam. He gagged on the vile spindrift that moistened the air.

Halfway up the wall on the other side of the noxious river was an elevated iron walkway. Looking down at them from it was Olbricht.

Rheinhardt immediately raised his revolver and shouted over the turbulent waters.

“Do not move, Herr Olbricht, or I shall shoot. Stay exactly where you are.”

The artist's expression was calm and his posture relaxed. From his lofty vantage point he seemed to be studying them with an air of detached inquisitiveness, like an emperor observing his subjects with imperial disdain.

“He could be armed, Oskar,” said Liebermann.

“Herr Olbricht,” Rheinhardt shouted again. “Raise your hands slowly and place them on your head.”

The artist did as he was told. But as soon as he had completed this action the chamber filled with the sound of raucous laughter. Two sewerage workers, holding lamps, suddenly appeared behind Rheinhardt and Liebermann.

“What's goin’ on 'ere, then?”

Rheinhardt was distracted only for an instant. But it was enough for Olbricht. He recognized the opportunity—and bolted. Rheinhardt pulled the revolver's trigger, but it was too late. Olbricht had escaped through an entrance at the end of the walkway.

Rheinhardt turned on the sewerage workers, who drew back, fearful of the gunman.

“I am Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt of the Viennese security office. Where does that walkway lead?” He pointed his smoking revolver upward.

“Upper tunnels,” replied the larger of the two men.

“Do they rise to the surface?”

“Yeah, they do.”

“Where do they come out?”

“Postgasse, Fleischmarkt, Parkring … lots of places.” He spoke in a rough dialect that Rheinhardt could hardly follow.

“How long would it take us to get up there?” Rheinhardt waved his revolver at the elevated walkway.

“Up there?” The worker raised his chin and jutted out his lower lip. “About half an hour?” He looked at his smaller colleague, who nodded but didn't speak.

“You are sure?”

The worker consulted his colleague again, who nodded vigorously.

Rheinhardt turned his tired, world-weary eyes toward his friend.

“Well, Max,” he said, sighing, “For the time being, I think, we must concede defeat.”

76

D
AWN WAS BREAKING AS
Liebermann and Rheinhardt arrived back at the artist's studio. A thin light seeped through the windows, illuminating the disordered scene: the smashed glass, the shredded canvas, and, most noticeably, the hole in the floor. Outside, the sound of voices and hammering suggested that some of the businesses in the cul-de-sac were already opening.

Rheinhardt set to work again with his pliers and lifted another two planks, which permitted the removal of the cello case. It was old and battered, its brown leather scuffed and its hasps tarnished. Indeed, it looked so battered and worn that Liebermann suspected it must once have been owned by a professional concert performer.

They picked the case up and placed it on Olbricht's table. The two men glanced at each other, acknowledging the suspense of the moment. Then Rheinhardt tested the hasps.

“Not locked,” he whispered.

They clicked open, and he raised the lid.

The interior, lined with moth-eaten crushed velvet, was crammed full of old clothes. Rheinhardt began removing some of the items: a paint-stained smock, a grubby shirt, a light and heavily creased summer jacket.

Both men gasped.

Removal of the jacket had revealed an ornate sword hilt underneath it.

Liebermann reached into the case and, grasping the hilt, drew out
a fine military sabre. The curved edge glinted as he turned it in the morning light.

“Salieri's weapon, I believe,” said the young doctor.

Rheinhardt continued to remove articles of clothing from the case. When it was almost empty, he made a second discovery: a notebook bound in red cloth.

“Ah, yes,” said Liebermann knowingly.

Rheinhardt flicked through the pages. It was densely illustrated with pen-and-ink drawings. These were similar in nature to Olbricht's other works—warriors, maidens, and mythical beasts. In addition, there were quotes, copied out in bold Gothic script. Rheinhardt ran his finger along the page. “
What is good? All that heightens the feeling of power in man, the will to power, power itself. What is bad? All that is born of weakness. What is happiness? The feeling that power is growing, that resistance is overcome.
” A number of crude arcane sigils occupied the margin.

“What a dreadful sentiment,” said Liebermann.

“I wonder where it comes from?” Rheinhardt turned another page and his eyes widened.

Liebermann shifted position to get a better view.

The page was crammed with detail: curling vines, forest animals, the columns of a temple. At the top was a snake, its body divided into three parts. Below were listed all the characters of
The Magic Flute:
Tamino, Papageno, the Queen of the Night, the Speaker … Blotches of ink were splattered everywhere as though the artist had worked at speed, digging the nib of his pen into the paper.

“Look,” said Liebermann, “he has inscribed something beside some of the names.” He took out his spectacles and leaned forward to examine the minute writing.

“The Queen of the Night … the number seven … a runic symbol of some kind …”

“Thorr, I believe.” Rheinhardt pointed at what looked like an angular letter P.

“…and the numbers one, five, two, and eight.”

The inspector's finger dropped to another character. “Papageno— the bird catcher … the number twenty-seven, Thorr—and again one, five, two, and eight.”

“The final number sequence is constant—it is only the first number that changes.”

“But he uses another runic symbol after Monostatos and the Speaker of the Temple … and a third after Prince Tamino, and Sarastro. I can't remember what the first is called, but the second is featured in List's pamphlet: Ur—primal fire.”

“Oskar—I think these are dates. When did the Spittelberg murders take place?”

“The seventh of October.”

“And the Czech?”

“The twenty-seventh.”

“So here we have it: the seventh, and the twenty-seventh—he has simply substituted Thorr for October.”

“Why, yes! The professor's servant was murdered on the seventh of November—the rune changes to represent a different month! But why substitute 1528 for 1902?”

“I remember my father once told me that Minister Schönerer has devised his own calendar. His Pan-German followers count their years not after the birth of Christ but after the battle of Noreia—believed to have been the first Teutonic victory over Rome.”

“When was that?”

“I don't know—some time before the birth of Christ.”

“Well, Olbricht can't be using the Schönerian calendar—years would have to be added to 1902, not subtracted from it.”

“In which case, Olbricht has used a much later date. If we subtract
1528 from 1902, we get …” Liebermann paused to do the calculation. “A difference of 374 years.”

“Carnuntum!” Rheinhardt cried. “He has calculated his dates from the battle of Carnuntum! AD 374! Just what one would expect from a devotee of Guido List!”

Liebermann did not share Rheinhardt's happiness at breaking the code. Instead he remained silent, his expression deeply troubled.

“What is it?” asked Rheinhardt, concerned.

“If you are correct, then it would seem that Olbricht killed Papagena two weeks ago—a murder of which we know nothing—and intends to commit a double murder in a few days’ time: Prince Tamino, and Sarastro.” Liebermann tossed the sword back into the cello case and closed the lid. “Oskar, it has been an extraordinary night—and if I am unable to find a coffeehouse in the next half hour, I swear I shall expire.”

77

R
HEINHARDT HAD ORDERED TWO
pieces of poppy seed strudel, a
türkische
coffee, and a
schwarzer
for his friend. A waiter with thinning hair, a walrus mustache, and the grumpy manner of a privy counselor delivered their order promptly but with little ceremony.

While Liebermann gazed out of the window, Rheinhardt made light work of his breakfast. When Liebermann finally turned his head, he saw the inspector shamelessly staring at his own untouched pastry with intense interest. The older man's expression was difficult to describe, as it somehow managed to embody in equal measure yearning, whimsy, regret, and avarice.

Liebermann pushed his strudel across the table.

“Eat it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'll have a croissant later.”

Rheinhardt smiled and a certain tension in his attitude was relieved. He attacked his second breakfast with remarkable energy, creating an explosion of powdered sugar and papery caramel flakes as his fork plunged through the soft, yielding confection.

Raising his fork and waving it in a mock-minatory manner, he exclaimed, “Now! I want to know exactly how you discovered that it was Olbricht! No enigmatic statements, cryptic looks, or evasion! You will appreciate, I hope, that the rest of my morning will be spent writing a report for Commissioner Brügel.” Rheinhardt swallowed his
strudel. “So, if you would be so kind, Herr Doctor, I am eager to be enlightened.”

This was a conversational juncture that the two men had reached on several previous occasions, and Rheinhardt was not surprised to see his young friend assume an air of casual, languid disinterest. He picked some lint off his trousers, raised his coffee cup, inhaled the aroma, and in due course, with evident reluctance, confessed. “It was the pictures. The pictures we saw at his exhibition.”