Vienna Blood (42 page)

Liebermann walked ahead, his shoes making a hollow noise against
the floorboards. The sound suddenly changed as something began to crunch underfoot.

“Oskar …”

Rheinhardt lowered the flashlight to reveal a mass of glittering fragments. Liebermann crouched down. Reaching out, he touched one of the bright points of light.

“Glass.”

As Liebermann stood up, he accidentally kicked something hard. It rolled across the floor, making a curiously loud rumble, which for a brief moment rose to a higher pitch.

Flash—fade—darkness. Flash—fade—darkness.

The sound had been made by an empty bottle that had come to rest against one of the legs of an easel. Liebermann picked it up and read the label. “Vodka,” he muttered. His attention was then drawn to what was left of the painting. Red strips of canvas hung in tatters from the frame.

“It's been cut to pieces,” he whispered.

“Why would he do that?”

“Because of his reviews. Did you read any of them?”

“Yes, a few. They were all terrible. Rather unfair, I thought—he's not
that
bad.”

“He got drunk to deaden his pain, threw a glass against the wall in a rage, and then, overcome with despair, destroyed his latest work. I wonder what it was.”

Rheinhardt opened the battered chest and directed the flashlight's beam inside.

Flash—fade—darkness. Flash—fade—darkness.

Some dirty smocks, a plaster-cast torso, and a few exhibition posters.

“Well, we won't get a conviction on the basis of what's in here.”

Rheinhardt lowered the lid of the chest and stopped working the bar of his flashlight. The room dissolved into dark nothingness. Outside, the gentle music of trickling water could still be heard—and in the distance the clop of hooves and the jangling of a carriage horse's harness.

The inspector sighed. “You were certain that we would find evidence.” The young doctor was silent. “Well,” Rheinhardt continued, at last unable to disguise his irritation, “where is it?”

“Did you notice the sound that the bottle made as it rolled across the floor?” The change in pitch?”

“No.”

“We analysts always listen very carefully. You'll find what you're looking for over there somewhere.”

Rheinhardt slid the bridging switch forward, illuminating his companion. The young doctor's arm was outstretched, his index finger pointing at the floor space between the table and chest.

“Under the boards?” said Rheinhardt.

“Yes,” came the blunt reply.

The inspector got down on all fours and began to crawl along a single floorboard. He held the flashlight very close to the ground.

“What on earth are you doing, Oskar?”

It occurred to Rheinhardt that he might use this opportunity to give the young doctor a taste of his own enigmatic medicine so he remained silent.

“Oskar?” Liebermann persisted. “What are you doing?”

When Rheinhardt was satisfied that he had made his point—and that the young doctor had registered the purpose of his unusual taciturnity—he deigned to answer.

“It would take too much time to raise all the boards,” he began, “so I'm looking for signs of recent disturbance. When a floor is first constructed, the nails holding the planks to the crossbeams are driven
in as far as possible—it is impossible to get them out without damaging the surrounding wood. If there are no such signs, then it is pointless proceeding.”

Rheinhardt crawled backward and forward across the floor, his knees protesting with percussive
cracks
and
snaps.
Eventually he cried out, “Aha! Here we are—damage! Come over here, Max, take a look.” Liebermann went over to his friend and observed splintering and bruising of the wood around some of the nail heads. “And this board here,” Rheinhardt continued, rocking a plank from side to side, “is quite loose.”

“I suppose this means that you will have to come back to conduct an official search in the morning?”

“Not at all.”

“But we don't have the means to take up these boards.”

“Oh yes, we do.”

Rheinhardt sat back on his haunches and produced a pair of pliers from a pocket of his baggy coat.

“Good God, Oskar, what else are you carrying in there?”

“In addition to my revolver and skeleton keys, I have a notebook, a pencil, a penknife, another smaller pair of pliers, tweezers, a magnifying glass, handcuffs, and some gusseted envelopes. One must always be prepared, Max. Here—you take the flashlight.”

Rheinhardt then set about extracting nails. He did so with the systematic, grim determination of a skilled dentist.

Squeeze, twist, pull. Squeeze, twist, pull.

When he had completed drawing the nails from the first plank, he used his penknife to lift it from the underlying crossbeam. Liebermann directed a burst of light into the hole. “I think there's something there,” he gasped.

Rheinhardt lay flat on his stomach and thrust his arm into the opening. As he felt around, the expression on his face changed from
determined concentration to a curious mixture of surprise and triumph.

“God in heaven!” he cried. “It feels like … I can hardly believe it … a cello case!” His tactile exploration became more frantic. “Yes, yes—a cello case!”

Rheinhardt withdrew his arm and grabbed his pliers. “Come, let us continue.”

The inspector returned to his task with renewed gusto, wresting each nail free with a single powerful wrench. Beads of perspiration began to appear on his forehead. Soon the second plank had been removed, and the flashlight revealed a telling curve of scuffed leather. Its undulating form clearly followed the waist and belly of the instrument inside.

As Rheinhardt began work on the third plank, he found that the pulsing beam had wandered away from the nail head.

“Max!” said Rheinhardt. “More to the right!”

But the young doctor did not respond. Instead, he raised the flashlight and aimed it at the doorway. Time seemed to dilate. He slid the bar forward, but its progress was strangely delayed. Light oozed out like viscid liquid. It rolled across the room with the sluggish momentum of spilled honey.

Flash—fade—darkness.

The figure of the artist lingered in his memory like the patterns that appear after staring at the sun. What he saw had the quality of a theatrical illusion. A stocky man with widely spaced eyes, dressed casually. Olbricht did not appear frightened. Indeed, he seemed to be quite calm.

When Liebermann delivered the next pulse of light, the doorway was empty and the air was vibrating with the sound of Olbricht's running footsteps.

75

L
IEBERMANN LEAPED TO HIS
feet and ran for the door. From the landing he directed the flashlight's beam down the stairs and saw Olbricht veer to the right. Without pausing to consider the wisdom of his actions, Liebermann threw himself into the darkness, using the wall as his guide. His descent was unsteady, and on the final step he stumbled. He was able to regain his balance as he burst through the open door.

Liebermann stopped and peered into the shadowy depths of the cul-de-sac. The single gas lamp sputtered. Could he see something moving? No more than a shimmer—a certain hint of instability in the fabric of the night?

He continued his pursuit, running across the damp cobbles. As he penetrated the pitchy shadows, he became aware that he was approaching a high wall, a daunting structure that linked the last houses in the cul-de-sac and effectively closed the street off. There was no sign of Olbricht, yet it was obvious that the artist, however agile, could not have scaled the precipitous wall. Liebermann leaned forward, rested his hands on his thighs, and attempted to catch his breath. As he did so he became conscious of Rheinhardt's approach.

The inspector ran right up to the wall, stopped, and looked around in all directions.

“Where is he?” Rheinhardt placed his palms against the brickwork
and pressed, as though expecting to find a secret egress. “How on earth did he escape?”

“I don't know.”

“Are you sure he came this way?”

“I couldn't see
very
clearly, but yes.”

Rheinhardt took a step backward. “Perhaps he went into one of the other houses?”

“No—he was heading in this direction.”

“But he can't have just vanished!”

Rheinhardt turned on his heels. He looked distraught, desperate. His breathing was labored. In an uncharacteristic display of frustration he discharged a fusillade of curses and slapped his hand against a round advertisement pillar. It resonated like a gong—a deep thrumming made complex with internal beats. But as the reverberations faded, the pillar began to emit another sound, a metallic creaking. The two men stood aghast as a steel door slowly swung open on rusting hinges.

The inspector's response was surprisingly quick. In an instant his revolver was in his hand. He approached the door cautiously and gestured to Liebermann that he would need light. The young doctor followed. They made brief eye contact before Liebermann squeezed the bridging switch.

Flash—fade—darkness.

The light revealed a shabby corroded interior—but no Olbricht.

Liebermann stepped into the metal column and found that he was standing at the top of a spiral staircase that sank deep into the ground.

“He must have gone down there,” Liebermann whispered. “Where do you think it leads?”

“The sewers.”

“It's so dark. … How could he find his way?”

“I very much doubt that he discovered this by chance. He must be familiar with it.”

Liebermann began his descent. Rheinhardt followed close behind, his pistol arm stretched out over the young doctor's shoulder. As they circled downward, the flashlight illuminated a thick canopy of cobwebs: not the usual network of gossamer threads but great rolls of densely matted spiders’ silk. It felt like being in a tent; however, secreted in the pleats and folds of this white-yellow fabric were hundreds of brown multilegged creatures—fat arachnid bodies, bloated with eggs, trembling in the miasma that rose from the depths. Liebermann shuddered as something dropped from above, hitting the iron handrail with an inordinately loud impact. As they continued their descent, the infested canopy gradually dropped lower until it was necessary for the two men to bow their heads and hunch their shoulders.

When they reached the bottom of the spiral staircase, the cobwebs suddenly vanished. But Liebermann, suffering from the illusion that his skin was crawling with spiders, felt compelled to beat at his clothes with his hands with considerable force.

Rheinhardt raised a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

They were in a narrow corridor with an arched ceiling. The inspector tilted his head to one side. Almost at the limits of audibility, there was a faint sound, more a disturbance in the air than something that could be heard. Yet its regularity suggested a resolute step, receding into the distance.

“Come,” said Rheinhardt. “We can still catch him.”

It was impossible to determine the length of the corridor. The flashlight pushed the darkness back only by a few yards. They found themselves walking for some time. Deprived of any distinctive features whereby they could judge distance, it seemed to them that they were
making no progress but simply treading the same strip of gravelly ground. As they proceeded, Liebermann thought that the walls appeared to be drawing closer together. He sensed the oppressive weight of the saturated clay above his head. The atmosphere was cold, dank, and claustrophobic. He felt a rush of anxiety rising from the center of his being. It swept away his powers of reason, and his mind became occupied by a fear of being trapped beneath the earth—buried alive.

Oblivion, the taste of soil in his mouth, suffocation.

Liebermann forced himself to continue, willing first one leaden leg to move forward, then the other, until the corridor mercifully disgorged him into a wide tunnel. He leaned back against a wall and sighed with relief.

“Are you all right?” Rheinhardt asked.

“Yes,” Liebermann replied. “It's nothing—a little nausea, that's all.”

The flashlight's illumination was reflected back by a slow-moving black canal. Its greasy, sluggish flow prompted Liebermann to recall the rivers of the underworld: Acheron, the river of woe; Cocytus, the river of lamentation; Styx, the river of hate. He hoped that he had not been visited by a predictive vision of his own death, that he would not soon see a ferryman's lamp approaching or hear the gentle lapping of a bow wave.

“Which way shall we go?” Liebermann asked, dismissing the dreadful image from his mind.

Rheinhardt shrugged.

“He's right-handed?” Liebermann asked.

“Yes—according to Professor Mathias's autopsy report.”

“In which case, all things being equal, right-handed people tend to favor turning to the right. Well, at least that is what I once read in a textbook of neurophysiology.”

“Then let us hope that its author was correct.”

Liebermann stood up straight and turned to the right, following a path that ran parallel with the subterranean canal. The stench of ordure became more intense—a malodorous reek that made every intake of breath a trial, and each shallow gasp a triumph of reflex over revulsion.

Their progress acquired an unwelcome accompaniment: the skittering of claws and a restless commentary of chirrups and squeals. Something large and sleek ran from a fading pulse of light and plopped into the water.

“Was that a rat?”

“I fear so.”

“But it was enormous.”

Concentric ripples identified the point where the creature had taken its plunge.

Rheinhardt touched Liebermann's shoulder and gave him a gentle push.

Only a short distance ahead, the flashlight's beam revealed a large iron door. Rheinhardt raised a finger to his lips. Liebermann positioned himself so that when the door was pulled open he would be able to direct the flashlight at whatever awaited them on the other side. Rheinhardt stood close by, his revolver raised. The inspector signaled, and Liebermann wrenched the door open. It emitted a torturous, metallic scream.