Vienna Blood (30 page)

“Are you well?”

“Yes, of course,” said the librarian, his face flushing slightly. “Very well. I am simply excited by the prospect …”

The venerable walked over to the desk and laid a hand on the librarian's shoulder. “It is wonderful news. But now we have much work to do: such an auspicious occasion must be celebrated with a unique rite. I have some small modifications in mind. … Tell me, brother, where can I find the rituals of the Grand Lodge of the Sun?”

53

M
AXIMILANPLATZ WAS A CONVENIENT
place for them to meet, being equidistant from the Schottenring police station and the General Hospital. Liebermann was sitting on a bench, watching Rheinhardt— who was in the process of buying a large bag of roasted pumpkin seeds from a street vendor. The coals in the vendor's brazier glowed brightly and the air was filled with a sweet smell—like caramelized sugar. Beyond the pumpkin-seed stall stood the gray stone edifice of the Votivkirche, its twin Gothic spires thrusting up energetically into the clear blue sky.

The small park in which Liebermann sat was surrounded by a wide road around which a merry-go-round of red and white streetcars circulated, seemingly in perpetual motion. This fine spectacle was accompanied by the ringing of bells.

Rheinhardt returned, carrying a paper bag that had become mottled with oil. Liebermann extended his cupped hands and the inspector obligingly filled them with a pile of hot green seeds. They emitted a smoky fragrance that combined the scent of burning wood with honey and spices. Liebermann's stomach tightened and grumbled.

“I've been to see Herr Arnoldt,” said Rheinhardt.

“Who?”

“Hildegard's keeper—at the zoo.” Liebermann nodded, and tipped some of the seeds into his mouth. “It was Salieri,” Rheinhardt added, bluntly.

“You're sure?”

“Herr Arnoldt paid us a visit about three weeks ago, claiming to have recovered his memory—you will recall that the poor fellow had lost consciousness after being struck on the head. It appears that the man who knocked him out had been whistling a tune. Unfortunately, it was young Haussmann who took Herr Arnoldt's statement.”

“I had formed the impression that you thought quite highly of Haussmann?”

“Oh, I do. He's very competent. It was just unfortunate on this occasion because, unbeknownst to me, Haussmann is tone-deaf. As a result I couldn't get him to reproduce Herr Arnoldt's melody.” Rheinhardt sampled some pumpkin seeds, and nodded approvingly. “What with the Spittelberg, Ruprechtskirche, and Wieden murders, establishing the musical tastes of Herr Arnoldt's assailant was not my uppermost priority and I decided to let the matter rest. However, after our meeting in Café Mozart, I realized that I had—once again, perhaps—overlooked an important detail. The following afternoon I journeyed out to Schönbrunn. Herr Arnoldt was most helpful and sang me what he was able to remember of his assailant's ditty. Herr Arnoldt doesn't have a terribly strong voice, but the melody he produced sounded very much like this.” Without pause, Rheinhardt began to softly sing: “
Der Vogelfänger bin ich ja …”

“
‘The Bird Catcher's Song!’ ” exclaimed Liebermann.

“Indeed. Thus, we can now be quite certain that it was Salieri who disposed of Hildegard!”

A little boy dressed in a hussar's uniform, with a buckled-on sabre and a pistol in his belt, marched by. He saluted Rheinhardt, who adopted a deadly serious expression and returned the gesture. The diminutive hussar was followed by a pretty nursemaid who was carrying a much smaller child in the crook of her elbow—she smiled
at the two gentlemen as she passed. Liebermann felt an unwelcome tug of carnal attraction.

“We know that, in all probability, Salieri will kill again,” continued Rheinhardt. “And we know that his next victim will also correspond with a character in Mozart's singspiel. But which one, Max? If we knew that, then we might have some chance—albeit small—of preventing yet another atrocity.”

Liebermann shook his head. “Salieri might contrive to organize his program of murder according to any number of principles,” said Liebermann. “But he is certainly not following any of the obvious ones: for example, the disposal of characters according to the order in which they appear in the opera, or the elimination of minor roles before major ones. This suggests two possibilities. One, Salieri is conducting his campaign according to a scheme that is simply too eccentric for us to comprehend. It exists—yet we cannot see it. Or, two, there is no scheme other than that of which we are already aware. That is to say, Salieri's choice of victim is guided by the dramatis persona of
The Magic Flute,
but there are no further consistencies to discover. If so, we have absolutely no way of predicting where he will strike next. Salieri will be operating opportunistically. When he encounters an individual who—in his mind—represents Tamino, Sarastro, the Speaker of the Temple, or any of the other remaining characters in the cast, his murderous instincts will be aroused and he will begin to plot their slaughter.” On this grim note, Liebermann raised his hand and poured the remaining pumpkin seeds into his open mouth. Then, after some vigorous chewing, he added, “Now, Oskar … you really must tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“About the significant breakthrough. That is the purpose of our meeting here today. Is it not? I am expected back at the hospital within the hour, and would therefore urge you to divulge this important information without further delay.”

“Ha!” said Rheinhardt. “You've done it again! How on earth did you know that?”

“We are meeting on Sunday to practice Dvořák's
Gypsy Songs.
It is our custom to discuss cases after our musical activities have been brought to a satisfactory conclusion. You obviously couldn't wait until then. Clearly, you mean to tell me something important.”

Rheinhardt chuckled and shook the paper bag. “More pumpkin seeds, Herr Doctor?”

“No, thank you.”

“You're quite right. There has been a significant discovery.” Rheinhardt leaned closer to his friend. “Since finding Guido List's pamphlet, young Haussmann has been keeping a close eye on the great man's apartment. List and his wife—an actress called Anna Wittek— have received numerous guests. All of them share List's obsession with Germanic folk traditions and culture. One of them—Baron Gustav von Triebenbach, a well-known patron of the arts—is president of an organization called the Eddic Literary Association.” Rheinhardt removed a pamphlet from his coat pocket and handed it to his friend. “This is an example of their work. It is very similar in content to List's
preliminary communication.
We find references to the skaldic tradition, Norse legends, the religions of the Aryo-Germanic peoples … and again, just as with List, a conclusion in which various groups and institutions are denounced.”

“The enemy nomads?”

“I'm afraid so—as well as the Jesuits, the Freemasons, Slavs, supporters of women's suffrage, Secessionists, and anarchists.”

“What's this?”

Liebermann pointed to the symbol on the front page. It looked like three sticks arranged in the form of a lopsided arch.

“Ur—a letter of the runic alphabet. It is referred to in List's pamphlet.”

“Does it have any special meaning?”

“It is supposed to represent the primordial—primal light or primal fire. List suggests that it has healing powers and that doctors should employ it as a kind of charm.” Unable to contain his disgust, Liebermann made a loud plosive sound. He brushed a stray pumpkin seed from his coat. “But what's really interesting about all this,” Rheinhardt continued, “is where the Eddic Literary Association meets. …”

He paused, theatrically delaying the moment of revelation.

“Mozartgasse,” said Liebermann—a flat, preemptive interjection.

Rheinhardt's lower jaw dropped open like a mechanical toy. “Sometimes, Max, you can be so
very
irritating.”

“Was I right?”

“Yes.”

“Given our previous conversation, it couldn't really be anywhere else.”

Rheinhardt shook his head, a little peeved at the ruination of his dramatic coup, and continued doggedly, “The Eddic Literary Association was approved by the commissioner of associations some eight years ago. By law, all societies are obliged to provide the commissioner's office with a list of members. The Eddic Literary Association has forty-three full members and ten associates.”

The inspector produced a sheet of paper on which two columns of names—one short, one long—had been neatly copied out. Two names in the long column had been underlined:
Hefner
and
Aschenbrandt.
Below the second name, Liebermann's attention was captured by another name with which he was very familiar.

“Professor Erich Foch.”

“Do you know him?”

“I know
of
him—he lectures at the university. Professor Foch is a surgeon and a very disagreeable individual. In fact, he recently tried to
expel Miss Lydgate from one of his classes. He believes that women are inferior to men and therefore should not be allowed to study medicine.”

“We have always thought that Salieri might be a doctor. And all these runes and symbols …” Rheinhardt gestured toward the pamphlet. “They
do
seem to be associated with the craft of healing.”

“It seems inconceivable, though,” said Liebermann, “that a man in Professor Foch's position should be capable of such appalling inhumanity. Having strong views on the education of women is one thing—but murder? Brutal, mindless murder?”

“May I remind you again of the London Ripper—he too was supposed to be a surgeon.”

“But it was never proved, Oskar. Was it?”

The inspector shrugged.

Liebermann returned his attention to the list of society members.

“Lieutenant Ruprecht Hefner?”

“An Uhlan with the eighteenth. I've already interviewed him—I did so a few days after the Spittelberg murders. His name was found on a promissory note in Madam Borek's brothel. He had an alibi— provided by his batman—which of course means nothing. It is extremely interesting that we should encounter his name again.”

“What was he like?”

“Young, handsome, and insufferably arrogant. Even though he professed to have developed a certain fondness for the Galician girl, Ludka, he was completely unmoved by her terrible fate. He struck me as a man who was deficient in natural feelings.”

Rheinhardt's modest reference to psychological abnormality was enough to arouse the young doctor's interest. Liebermann sat up and turned to face his friend.

“What else do you know about him?”

“We made further inquiries and learned that Lieutenant Hefner has a reputation for being something of a ladies’ man and that his romantic involvements usually end in scandal. He is also rumored to be an inveterate duelist.”

“So, we have an arrogant, narcissistic man, who is motivated by the pursuit of sensual pleasure. He does not develop sincere attachments, he exploits women, and he is content to risk his life repeatedly on the field of honor. He subscribes to a supremacist doctrine, which identifies certain institutions and groups as ‘enemies.’ Moreover, he is a soldier and can carry a sabre with him at all times without arousing the slightest suspicion. Do you think, perhaps, that I should interview Lieutenant Hefner?”

“No.”

Liebermann raised his eyebrows. “No?”

“Sadly,” said Rheinhardt, “the army are not very cooperative. They seem to consider any investigation conducted by an outsider as an outrage—a personal affront to the emperor. It was difficult enough for me, a detective inspector, to secure an audience with His Majesty's precious Uhlans, so the chances of you, a humble hospital doctor, being granted the same privilege are vanishingly small. Besides, there's someone else I want you to interview.”

Liebermann glanced down at his list. “Hermann Aschenbrandt?”

“Indeed. Herr Aschenbrandt is a musician—a composer, in fact. He has had a number of chamber works performed, most of which have been very well-received.”

“Did he write
The Invincible
quintet?”

“Yes, that's one of his works.”

“I saw it performed at the Tonkünstlerverein.”

“And?”

Liebermann revolved his hand in the air. “It went on rather.
Creeping chromaticism that slid around to no great purpose. The string writing was very accomplished—technically perfect, in fact. But it was all rather soulless and unoriginal—tepid Wagner.”

“Well, he's writing an opera now—
Carnuntum.
”

“Based on List's book?”

“Indeed.”

“I assume that you have identified Aschenbrandt as a suspect on account of his being a musician. Thus we might reasonably assume that he is conversant with the operas of Mozart.”

Rheinhardt smiled. “Herr Aschenbrandt knows the operas of Mozart very well, particularly
The Magic Flute,
of which he has a very definite opinion. So much so that he was minded to write a letter to the
Zeitung
lambasting Director Mahler for championing such an inane, nonsensical work.”

“He doesn't like Mozart?” exclaimed Liebermann—as if to hold such an opinion merited public execution.

“He doesn't merely
dislike
Mozart,” said Rheinhardt. “He
hates
him!”

54

“M
Y NAME IS
D
OCTOR
M
AX
Liebermann. I have been issued with a special commission by the security office to conduct an interview with Herr Aschenbrandt.”

The sound of a piano could be heard: turgid rumblings in the lower octaves followed by descending chromatic thirds.

“Do you have an appointment?” asked the maid.

“No.”

“Herr Aschenbrandt does not like to be disturbed.”

“Indeed,” said Liebermann. “But this is a police matter.”

The maid knocked timidly on a single-paneled door at the end of the hallway—but the grumbling piano continued. After a second, louder knock, the music stopped and a muffled “Enter” could be heard. The maid turned the handle and went in. As the door opened, the pianist shouted, “What is it now, Elga?”