Vienna Blood (9 page)

“What's this?” asked Aschenbrandt, emerging from a fog of self-satisfaction.

“The district chairman has been pestering the mayor for a Mozart memorial to be erected just outside this building.”

“Might I ask,” said Olbricht, “the name of the artist who was awarded the commission … in the end?”

Hannisch looked into Olbricht's widely spaced eyes. There was something quite pitiful about his attempt to feign indifference.

“I'm really not sure, my dear fellow,” Hannisch replied.

A servant approached and refilled their glasses, while another offered more pieces of crystallized fruit. Hannisch picked up two cubes and immediately pressed one between his lips.

“What will it look like? This memorial?” asked Aschenbrandt.

“Mmm …” Hannisch seemed to be distracted by the taste of the sweetmeat—he was clearly engaged in the important task of determining its flavor. “I beg your pardon?”

“What form will the memorial take?” said Aschenbrandt, a hint of tetchiness creeping into his voice. “What will it be?”

Hannisch swallowed.

“Well, as far as I know, it will be a fountain, decorated with bronzes that represent a scene from
The Magic Flute.
”

“Mozart! Mozart!” Aschenbrandt growled. “Why not Beethoven? Or Richard Wagner, for heaven's sake! We already have a Mozart monument!”

“I couldn't agree more,” said Olbricht. “And why have they chosen to commemorate the most ridiculous of his operas?”

“It is little more than an entertainment for children …,” continued Aschenbrandt.

“Yes, yes—he is a superficial composer in many respects,” Hannisch continued. “However, he is becoming increasingly popular.”

“Well,” Aschenbrandt interjected, “I blame Mahler. He's always scheduling Mozart. In fact, a new production of
The Magic Flute
is planned for this season.”

The three men looked glum at the prospect.

“The sooner we're rid of him the better,” muttered Olbricht.

Hannisch bit into the second cube of fruit. “They say it is a Masonic opera—
The Magic Flute
—full of their secrets.”

“Quite so,” said Aschenbrandt. “Mozart is supposed to have raised the ire of his Masonic brothers by incorporating many of their treasured symbols in the text and set. It was regarded as a betrayal of trust, and could have cost him his life.”

“Mmm …” Hannisch's reply was delayed by a protracted episode of mastication. “Mozart may have fallen foul of his fellow Masons on account of his indiscretion, but surely it was the composer's intention to
celebrate
their doctrine in
The Magic Flute
?”

Before Aschenbrandt could answer, Olbricht muttered, “He's probably one of them.”

Hannisch and Aschenbrandt turned to look at their companion.

“The district chairman,” Olbricht continued. “He's probably one of them—a Mason. And Director Mahler, too.”

“Well,” said Aschenbrandt. “That wouldn't surprise me in the least.”

11

B
EFORE LEAVING HIS OFFICE
the previous evening, Rheinhardt had received a visit from Commissioner Brügel's adjutant. The self-important underling had handed him an envelope and proclaimed, “The commissioner will see you tomorrow morning.” It was not necessary to reinforce Brügel's summons with a command (Rheinhardt knew better than to neglect a communication from the commissioner), but the adjutant was typical of that class of men who, when given a modicum of authority, never fail to abuse it. Although the note was rendered in an ornate Gothic script, it had the modern virtue of brevity, having been composed in the unmannered style of a telegram:
Spittelberg. Progress report. My office. Seven o'clock tomorrow morning. Brügel.

Rheinhardt sat patiently while the commissioner examined photographs of the Spittelberg massacre. Brügel didn't look horrified, or stunned—merely irritated. Occasionally he grunted in a curmudgeonly fashion. A considerable period of time elapsed before he finally raised his blockish head and asked, “What did the soldiers say?”

“I beg your pardon?” Rheinhardt responded.

“The soldiers!” barked Brügel. “Lipoš´ak, Alderhorst, Hefner …”

“You are referring to the promissory notes?”

“Of course.”

“I haven't discovered their whereabouts yet.”

“Why? Is there a problem? Is their posting classified?”

“No, sir …” Rheinhardt's collar suddenly felt tight. “I have not, as yet, had an opportunity to visit the barracks. I intend to—”

“Rheinhardt,” Brügel interrupted, “today is Friday. This atrocity took place on Tuesday. What on earth have you been doing?”

“With respect, sir, if I might explain …” Rheinhardt took a deep breath. “Professor Mathias was indisposed on Tuesday. He suffers from a respiratory illness and the cold weather affects his lungs. The good professor—although an inspired pathologist—works slowly, and it was not until late Wednesday evening that the fourth autopsy was completed. On Thursday I worked on my preliminary report, and later in the day I consulted Herr Doctor Liebermann. I have arranged to visit the barracks this morning.”

Brügel did not look impressed. “You didn't have to wait for the autopsy results. You could have contacted the military police straight away.”

“Indeed, but—”

Brügel slapped his hand on the desk.

“Spare me your excuses, Rheinhardt!” The commissioner grumbled something under his breath and began to fulminate again. “Two days, Rheinhardt. You have wasted two days. The brothel is a short walk from the barracks, three of the women were clearly killed with swords, and in Madam Borek's bureau you found the names of eight soldiers who owed her money. Isn't it obvious what you should have done?”

Rheinhardt, not wishing to lock horns with the commissioner, conceded the point. “Yes, sir. It is obvious. It was a mistake to wait for the autopsy results.”

In fact, Rheinhardt thought nothing of the sort. He always preferred to initiate an investigation after consulting Professor Mathias. Moreover, he was well aware that had he not completed a preliminary report by Thursday afternoon, the commissioner would
have been equally disgruntled. Even so, he was sufficiently acquainted with Brügel's explosive temper to forgo the modest and perilous pleasure of drawing such arguments to the commissioner's attention.

Brügel opened a buff file and removed the floor plan of Madam Borek's brothel. He unfolded the stiff paper and smoothed it out on his desktop, tutting over some minor aspect of its detail. Then, examining Rheinhardt's preliminary report, he proceeded to question the detective minutely. Brügel's inquisition was not intellectually demanding, but his relentless, bludgeoning style of inquiry made Rheinhardt's head throb.

There was a moment of reprieve when the adjutant arrived with the commissioner's tea. Rheinhardt ruefully observed that the beverage was accompanied by a small pile of
Manner Schnitten—
wafers filled with hazelnut cream—a new type of biscuit for which the inspector had developed a particular fondness. The commissioner managed to consume all of them without showing any signs of enjoyment, a fact, thought Rheinhardt, that revealed even more about Brügel's deficiencies as a human being than did his habitual rudeness.

The commissioner sipped his tea and dabbed his muttonchop whiskers with a napkin.

“Nothing in your report about Liebermann,” he grumbled.

Rheinhardt explained that this was because he had only consulted the young psychiatrist after submitting the preliminary report. He set about summarizing—as best as he could—his friend's psychological portrait of the perpetrator. But before he had finished, Brügel was impatiently waving his hand in the air. “Yes, yes, I see what he's getting at. But it's all speculation—isn't it?”

Because Rheinhardt was tired, he soon found himself halfway through a sentence the aim of which was to remind Brügel that Liebermann's psychological insights had been of considerable use to the security office on more than one occasion in the past. However,
recognizing his error by the minatory ascent of Brügel's left eyebrow, he allowed his explanation to dissolve into an incoherent burble.

“Remember, Rheinhardt,” said Brügel sagely, “there is no substitute for good, solid police work. Look for clues. Interview suspects. And never neglect your paperwork.”

The inspector thanked the commissioner for his sensible advice.

“Now,” said Brügel in a more friendly tone. “Let's get this investigation under way!” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together as though enthused by a prospect of punishing manual labor.

“Yes, sir,” said Rheinhardt, rising up from his chair.

He executed a curt bow and marched toward the door.

“Rheinhardt?”

“Sir?”

“One of His Majesty's aides called yesterday. He wanted to know if there was any news concerning that curious incident at the zoo. That business with the snake?”

“Hildegard.”

“Yes. I was led to understand that the animal was a personal favorite of the emperor's.”

Rheinhardt swallowed. “I'm sorry, sir. But what with the Spittelberg incident … I have not had the time to …” He shook his head and made an appeasing gesture with his hands.

The commissioner sighed. He seemed disinclined to chastise Rheinhardt a second time. Rheinhardt imagined that this was probably due to fatigue rather than sympathy.

“So be it,” said the commissioner. “I will inform the palace that the investigation is progressing, but that no new facts have come to our attention.”

“Indeed, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Rheinhardt closed his hand around the door handle and silently gave thanks for his deliverance.

12

T
HE MAID ADDRESSED
B
ETTINA
in a hushed voice. “It's Herr Fränkel. He won't go without seeing you. He said that he has some very important documents for Herr Weiss.”

Bettina rolled her eyes, glanced up at the ceiling, and addressed Liebermann and Clara.

“One of Konrad's business associates, Moritz Fränkel. I don't know what's wrong with him. He insists on delivering contracts in person and won't leave anything with our servants. He's always worried about things getting lost or stolen. I'm sure it's an illness. Perhaps you should see him as a patient, Max?”

Liebermann shook his head. “I think not.”

Rising, Bettina touched her little son's nose. “Leo, Mutti's going outside. Be good for Uncle Max and Auntie Clara.” She then glided toward the door, veering sideways to avoid baby Emil's head. “This shouldn't take too long,” she added, glancing back at her guests.

As soon as the door had closed behind Bettina, Clara looked from Leo to Emil and back again. Her face was shining with joy and mischievous excitement. She seemed to be in a quandary, unsure of which nephew to play with first. Gleefully casting the customs of gentility aside, she jumped up from her seat, lowered herself to the floor, and began crawling on all fours toward Emil.

“I'm coming to get you,” she announced, extending the syllables
and dropping her voice an octave to achieve a hint of menace. “I'm coming.”

Leo, who was seated on a high wooden chair, was so impressed by the irregularity of his aunt's behavior that he could not stop himself from emitting a high-pitched squeal. The toddler was dressed rather formally in a red-striped coat with gold buttons, a velvet hat, and a diminutive bow tie. Clara looked up. “That's it, Leo, warn your little brother. … I'm coming, I'm coming.”

Liebermann was humbled by Clara's insouciance, her natural capacity to derive intense joy from such innocent pleasures. She was a woman with many faults—she could be superficial, preoccupied by social trivia, and prone to worthless gossip—but emotional dishonesty was not one of them. Her love was simple and direct, free of unnecessary cerebral complications.

“I'm coming to eat you up,” Clara panted.

As Liebermann looked on, tender feelings gave way to desire. The sway of Clara's hips, the pointed heels of her leather boots, and the glimpse of a silk undergarment soon destroyed the fragile purity of his reverie.

“Max?”

“Yes?” He shifted uncomfortably.

“Quick. Get me the Perzy.”

“The what?”

Clara turned. “The snow globe! It's on the mantelpiece. Next to your elbow.”

Liebermann picked up what appeared to be a crystal ball mounted on a black gypsum base. Inside the globe was a minute replica of the Riesenrad—the giant Ferris wheel on the Prater.

“This?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Shake it and you'll see.”

He did so. Suddenly the enclosed world was animated by a violent snowstorm—thousands of white flakes whirled around within a cyclone of invisible turbulence.

“Ha!” cried Liebermann. “Ingenious.”

“Haven't you seen one before?”

“No.”

“You must start taking an interest in the
real
world, Max! They've become very fashionable. Herr Perzy started making them a few years ago. He has a shop in Hernals.”

Liebermann handed Clara the globe. She shook it and placed it in front of Emil's face. The infant was lying on his stomach, the upper half of his body raised on thick, stocky arms, the extremities of which were lost in a pillow. He was wearing a long white lacy smock and little woollen shoes. His enormous round head bobbed up and down, supported precariously by a thin neck.

“Look, Emil. Snow!”

The infant continued to survey his surroundings in an unfocused state of wonderment and confusion. Then, suddenly catching sight of the glittering ball, his mouth opened, allowing a thin but unbroken line of dribble to fall slowly to the floor, where it fed an expanding pool of transparent saliva.

“Oh, good heavens!”

Clara handed the snow globe back to Liebermann, produced a handkerchief from nowhere with the dexterity of a stage magician, wiped Emil's mouth, mopped the floor, and scooped the child up in her arms. Liebermann found the artless ease with which she dealt with the predicament curiously affecting.

Liebermann bent his knees and squatted down beside her.

Clara's eyes were closed, and her lips were pressed up against Emil's
plump red cheek. The child gurgled and produced the immature throaty music of infant laughter. Liebermann had never seen Clara looking so content, calm, or beautiful. When she opened her eyes, something passed between them. Unspoken, but powerful: the promise of intimacy and children of their own.