Vienna Blood (18 page)

Freud shook his head again

“He simply replaced one addiction with another. In three months he had spent eighteen hundred marks—a full gram a day! A hundred times more than the recommended dose! He became delirious, suffered from hallucinations, and became suicidal. He could not sleep, and occupied himself through the long and painful hours of every night making a study of Sanskrit. I don't know why, but he made me promise that I would never betray his secret passion. I suppose this was just paranoia—another side effect of my wonderful treatment! Before he died, he suggested that I take this book, so that others would not know of his activities. Well, what does it matter now? I'm sure he would forgive me this small betrayal of his confidence.”

The professor's head was bowed. He stroked the book again, and attempted to press the split spine together.

“You were only trying to help your friend,” said Liebermann.

Freud lifted his head. “But I made him worse.”

“You were acting in good faith. In reality, isn't that all that can be asked of any doctor?”

Freud smiled weakly. “Yes, I suppose you are right.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, I did not mean to—”

Liebermann raised his hand, halting the apology.

Freud nodded. It was a simple, almost imperceptible movement but it expressed a great deal. Respect for his young colleague, the acceptance of good counsel, and the need for all people—even the father of psychoanalysis—to beware the subtle snare of self-indulgent guilt.

The professor opened the book and flicked through the thin discolored pages. Many of them were inscribed with comments and marks made by his old comrade. Occasionally, Freud stopped to read an inscription before continuing his search. Reading these notes seemed to raise his spirits. Once or twice the professor even laughed— caught up, perhaps, in some happy memory of his friend.

“There it is!” cried Freud. He immediately held the book up for Liebermann to see. “Now, where is your drawing?” Freud put the book down next to Liebermann's sketch. “Very similar—but not quite the same. Look, notice how your figure is arranged to the right, whereas this is arranged to the left. It is a symbol known as …” Freud peered more closely at the minutely printed text. “The swastika.”

“The swastika?” Liebermann repeated the word, savoring the novel, alien syllables.

“Yes,” continued Freud. “From the Sanskrit
su,
meaning ‘well,’ and
asti,
meaning ‘to be.’ The literal translations are ‘good luck,’ ‘well-being,’ or … ‘it is good.’ ” He scanned the text. “The symbol first appeared in the Vedas—the holy text of Hinduism. I suppose it is the Asiatic equivalent of our own medical standard—the snakes and rod of Aesculapius. You discovered this symbol in some ancient medical work?”

“Indeed. I am researching an essay on the history of symbols associated with health and healing.”

Freud looked mildly surprised.

“Really? I wasn't aware that you were particularly interested in such things.”

Liebermann did not hear the professor's comment. He was remembering a fragment of conversation. Something that Rheinhardt had said about the notorious Whitechapel murders.

The identity of the Ripper was never discovered, but I can remember some commentators proposing that his victims had died at the hands of a surgeon.

“I must say,” Freud persisted, “you surprise me. I am usually a very perceptive judge of character—yet I had no idea that you were a budding historian!”

31

R
HEINHARDT OPENED THE DRAWER
of his desk and slid the unfinished report inside. It landed on a pile of official forms, most of which were only half-completed.

I'll attend to it when I get back.

The thought lacked conviction. So much so that Rheinhardt was obliged to castigate himself:
You really must!

He pushed the drawer to, took out his watch from the tight fob pocket of his vest, and gasped.

“Haussmann!” he called out to his assistant. “We'd better get going. Otherwise we'll be late.”

Reluctant witnesses rarely waited long.

The younger man, who had been earnestly copying the contents of his notebook into a bulky dossier, obediently rose from his seat. At that moment, there was a knock on the door, and another young officer— distinctly ursine in appearance—lumbered into the room.

“Sir,” he addressed Rheinhardt. “A man from the zoo—outside. Says he's got to see you straight away.”

“A man from the zoo?” Rheinhardt repeated.

“Zookeeper. Herr Arnoldt.”

Rheinhardt, still thinking about his backlog of unfinished paperwork and the meeting for which he would very soon be late, did not properly register the young officer's announcement. The inspector's expression changed from perplexity through vacancy to puzzlement.

“Herr Arnoldt,” said Haussmann helpfully. “The one who looked after the snake—Hildegard.”

“Ah yes,” said Rheinhardt. “
That
Herr Arnoldt—whatever can he want?”

The young officer at the door decided that a little detail might encourage the inspector to be more decisive.

“Very anxious to see you he is, sir—very anxious.”

Rheinhardt grimaced. “I can't see him now. Tell him to come back later. Or, even better, tell him to come back tomorrow.”

The young officer was suddenly jostled out of the way and the door was flung open. Herr Arnoldt stumbled into the office. He was obviously in a state of great excitement. His hair was disheveled and his arms were raised, jerking in the air as if they were in the control of a crazed puppeteer.

“Inspector, Inspector,” said the frantic zookeeper. “Thank God you're here! Something remarkable has happened. My memory has returned. I would like to make another statement.”

The ursine officer lifted a large paw and made a sign, communicating that he was very willing to remove the zookeeper if his superior so wished. But Rheinhardt shook his head and said calmly, “Thank you, that will be all.” The young man looked disappointed as he closed the door.

“Herr Arnoldt,” said Rheinhardt. “Perhaps you could return tomorrow. I am due to interview a gentleman in connection with a murder investigation. We have arranged to meet in twenty minutes. I really cannot delay.”

“Murder investigation!” cried Herr Arnoldt. “What about Hildegard? Wasn't
she
murdered?”

Rheinhardt winced. “Yes, of course she was; however, I am afraid—”

“The emperor's favorite, she was!”

An image flashed into Rheinhardt's mind: Commissioner Brügel, leaning across his desk and scowling.
It is my grave duty to inform you of a complaint, delivered to the security office this morning by one of His Majesty's personal aides, concerning …

“Very well, Herr Arnoldt,” said Rheinhardt. “Please sit down. You have already met my assistant.” He nodded toward Haussmann. “He is a capable fellow and will take down every word you say. On my return, I will have sufficient time to give your statement the careful attention that it deserves. If there are any issues arising that require further clarification, I will contact you via Herr Pfundtner at the zoo. Good morning.”

Rheinhardt bowed and, before the zookeeper could object, opened the door and left.

Haussmann, somewhat bemused, repeated the inspector's invitation for Herr Arnoldt to sit.

The zookeeper pulled a chair right up to the desk and leaned forward.

“It's remarkable. My memory, it came back.”

“Just one moment,” said Haussmann, adjusting his chair and removing a blank form from one of the drawers. “I'm sorry—please continue.” He showed that he was ready to write by raising his pen.

“My memory,” said Herr Arnoldt breathlessly. “You remember that I'd lost it, after that scoundrel thumped me on the head. I couldn't remember anything … just having my breakfast in the morning. Well, slowly, things began to come back, all in the correct order. First there was breakfast, but then I recovered a memory of catching the omnibus. Then—after a while—I remembered getting off the omnibus and walking past the palace. Nothing more came back for a while, until about an hour ago. It was like … it was like … the sun rising. In a single instant, everything I had lost was restored.” Herr Arnoldt grinned broadly. “I can remember entering the zoo, unlocking the door to the
snake-pit. I can remember preparing Hildegard's food—the carcasses, on the slab in front of me. …”

Haussmann's scratching pen came to a halt. He lifted his head.

“A little slower, please, Herr Arnoldt?”

“Of course,” said the zookeeper. He took a deep breath, composed himself, and continued his narrative. “The carcasses—they were on the slab in front of me. I know it was that
particular
morning—and not another morning—because one of the dead mice had a distinctive pelt—white, with an orange spot. And it was then … then that I heard footsteps. I assumed it was one of the other keepers. You see, they weren't stealthy footsteps, not like you'd expect from someone who intended to creep up behind you and do you some mischief. No, they weren't like that at all. This fellow had a brisk step. Like a march. One two—one two. And not only that, he was whistling … he was whistling this tune.”

Suddenly, Herr Arnoldt burst into song. “Pa, pa, pom, pom, ta-ta-ta-ta, pom, pom pom …”

He completed two phrases and stared, eyes wide open and shining rather too brightly, at the assistant detective. Haussmann began to wonder whether Herr Arnoldt's injury had affected more than just his memory.

Haussmann was not a very musical young man but he judged the tune to be vaguely familiar. It was quite well known, but not as famous as a work by Strauss or Lanner. He wrote “pa, pa, pom” down on the form and then crossed it out, resolving the problematic transcription with a simple worded description:
Herr Arnoldt sings a melody.
This sentence seemed too brief and after a further moment of reflection Haussmann amended his note, adding (
Jolly
).

“Well,” said Herr Arnoldt. “What do you think of that?”

Haussmann was not overly impressed by this new intelligence; however, the zookeeper's expression was expectant and Haussmann
had learned, by observing his mentor, the value of a diplomatic response.

“Very interesting,” said the assistant detective. “Very interesting indeed.”

The zookeeper smiled, and sat back in his chair. He was obviously relieved.

32

T
HEY WERE SITTING IN
the Budweiser beer parlor—a favorite haunt of homesick Czechs. Jiri Zahradnik was nervous. He sat hunched over his tankard, stealing quick glances to the left and right.

“What's the matter?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Nothing.”

“You think that the person who killed your friend will come after you—if you're seen talking to me?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

Rheinhardt shrugged and took out his notebook.

“Please, Inspector,” said Zahradnik. “Not in here.”

“Very well.” Rheinhardt slipped the notebook back into his coat pocket and sipped his drink. “I am a great fan of your Czech beers— Budweiser particularly.”

Zahradnik ignored the inspector's small talk.

“Forgive me, Inspector, but I mean to be brief. Before Evzen was murdered, he said that someone had been bothering him at the market. This man, he was always questioning Evzen's prices. He called Evzen a swindler and a thief. Of course, Evzen wasn't charging any more for his birds than the next man. But this—”

“Just one moment,” Rheinhardt interrupted. “What did he look like? Did Evzen say?”

“He wore good clothes.”

“That isn't terribly helpful.”

“And he was a German.”

“How do you mean? A German?”

“Like you.”

“A German speaker, you mean?”

“Like I said—a German.”

Rheinhardt did not insist on qualifying the terms of their discussion.

“Go on.”

The Czech was distracted by the arrival of three musicians: a clarinettist, an accordion player, and a man struggling with a double bass. They were soon joined by an attractive young woman in a rustic dress who was carrying a tambourine. There was a smattering of applause, an inebriated cheer, and one or two gentlemen called out in Czech.

“Hej Slovani …
Where is my home? …
Hej Slovani.”

Rheinhardt assumed that they were making requests. The clarinettist caught Zahradnik's eye and smiled.

“You know him?” asked Rheinhardt.

“An acquaintance. That's all. Sometimes we play
mariás
together.”

“What?”

“The card game!”

“Did he know Evzen too?”

“Maybe—I don't know.”

The woman with the tambourine counted out a four-beat introduction and the band started up. The double bass thumped out a simple two-note figure over which the other musicians played intricate ornaments. The woman raised the tambourine high above her head and shook it violently. Then, waving the ample folds of her dress with her free hand, she opened her mouth and produced a gloriously raw sound, untrained but powerful. Some men at the bar began cheering. It was obvious to Rheinhardt that the musicians had chosen to begin with a patriotic crowd-pleaser.

Zahradnik jerked his head around, almost like a tic, and continued his account: “So this German, he started to threaten Evzen. Told him to go back home—and said that if he
didn't
go back home, he'd be sorry.”

“Why didn't Evzen call the police?”

“The police! Why would Germans want to help him?”

“Because this is Vienna—and the
Germans
who live here have a very different attitude from those whom you may have encountered in Bohemia.”

Zahradnik smiled and pointed toward a boarded-up shattered window.

“Not that different, Inspector.”

When Rheinhardt returned to the security office, Haussmann was still at his desk. Thankfully, there was no sign of the agitated zookeeper.

“Ah, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, warming at the sight of his junior attending to the kind of paperwork that he himself so assiduously avoided. “I do apologize for my precipitate departure.”