Vienna Secrets (12 page)

27

T
HE ADJUTANT ENTERED
S
CHMIDT’S
office.

“Councillor.” He bowed and clicked his heels. “Hofrat Holzknecht would like to see you at once.”

Schmidt looked up from his papers.

“I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

“I believe Hofrat Holzknecht wishes to see you this instant, Councillor.”

Schmidt reprimanded himself for his ill-considered response. A politician wishing to ascend the internal hierarchy of the town hall should not keep a person like Holzknecht waiting.

“Of course,” said Schmidt. “Forgive me. I was preoccupied with this new housing bill.”

He tidied his papers, stood, and followed the adjutant out onto the landing. As they made their way toward Holzknecht’s domain on the second floor, Schmidt wondered why he had been so peremptorily summoned. It crossed his mind that he might have been a little careless lately. Perhaps one of his associates had been indiscreet? It would be most inopportune if some of his business dealings came to light at this particular point in time. He was having so many brilliant ideas. He was a man at the height of his powers! It would be tragic—not just for him but for all of Vienna—if he were unable to oversee his various schemes and bring them to a satisfactory conclusion.

They arrived at Holzknecht’s bureau, which occupied a whole suite. The adjutant led Schmidt through two small antechambers to Holzknecht, who was seated behind a desk beneath a portrait of the emperor and several photographs of the mayor performing civic duties.

“Councillor Schmidt,” announced the adjutant.

“Ah, there you are, Schmidt.” Holzknecht did not stand. “Have you heard?” Before Schmidt could answer, the Hofrat dismissed his adjutant by glancing at the door.

Schmidt took a seat in front of Holzknecht’s desk.

“About Eberle’s proposal for the new housing bill?”

“No, no, no… about your colleague Councillor Faust!”

“Faust?”

“Yes, Faust. He’s been murdered.”

“What?”

“I know. I could hardly believe it myself.”

Schmidt did not react. He sat perfectly still, as if stunned. Finally he asked, “When did it happen?”

“On Saturday morning. He was decapitated—like that monk, Stanislav. It’s extraordinary. And what a coincidence! Remember we were all together when your nephew found the article in the newspaper. Who would have thought… poor Faust… that he would be the next victim? It’s chilling, isn’t it?”

“Do the police have”—Schmidt did not want to betray his excitement and made an effort to keep his voice steady—“any idea who is responsible for these atrocities?”

“No.”

“Was he robbed?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then why was he murdered?”

“God knows!”

“Decapitation…,” said Schmidt pensively. “It must have been the same person.”

“Or persons… This morning I spoke to the security office commissioner on the telephone. The state censor intervened with respect to the reports of Brother Stanislav’s murder. The monk’s head was in fact
torn
from his body. The same thing…” The old man balked at the thought. “The same thing happened to poor Faust. It would take more than one man to perform such a heinous deed.”

“What a terrible way to die.”

“Indeed. Let us pray that he was oblivious when the time came.”

Schmidt crossed his legs and let his fingers interlock.

“It seems almost ritualistic, don’t you think?”

Holzknecht was too distressed to detect Schmidt’s meaning, and the councillor thought it prudent not to press the point. He would have many other opportunities in due course. The two men spoke for a while until the conversation became nothing more than disconnected statements of horror and disbelief. Eventually Schmidt said, “You must excuse me. There is some work I must complete for the mayor’s transport committee by this evening.”

Holzknecht rose from his desk and accompanied Schmidt to the door. Before opening it, he said, “Of course, this means that you now have a very good chance of being appointed to the mayor’s special advisory panel.”

“With respect, Hofrat Holzknecht,” said Schmidt, “I cannot think of such things at present.”

“Forgive me…,” said the old man. “You were close colleagues, and no doubt close friends. However, I just wanted you to know that I’ve always regarded you as a man of talent, Schmidt. Perhaps your time has come.”

The councillor assumed a rueful expression and walked through the two antechambers with his head lowered. When he reached the corridor, he was smiling.

28

T
HE CHANCELLOR’S EXPRESSION WAS
serious, and his eyes glinted coldly behind his spectacles.

“Herr Doctor, I regret to say that the matter of young Baron von Kortig’s death and your obstruction of Father Benedikt has come to the attention of a journalist.”

Liebermann raised his eyebrows. “May I ask, sir, how it was that a journalist came to be so well informed?”

“I have no idea; however, it should not surprise us to learn that journalists are always trying to find things out. That is, after all, what they do.”

“With respect, Professor Gandler, I have never known such a relatively minor matter to attract the interest of the press before.”

“I can assure you, Herr Doctor, that matters of faith are never minor.” The chancellor’s expression became even more grave. After what seemed like an exceptionally long pause he continued, “I am obliged to ask you a sensitive question, Herr Doctor. When we last spoke, did you omit any important detail from your account of what happened that night?”

Liebermann wondered what the chancellor might be alluding to.

“I don’t think so. The baron was dying. Father Benedikt wanted to give him the last rites, and I explained that I did not think this was in the patient’s interests. The priest objected… he asked my name, and he left. That, essentially, is all there is to tell.”

“Unfortunately, Herr Doctor, the journalist has written a rather different story. An allegation is made, concerning the employment of force.”

Liebermann was speechless. He touched his chest, as if to say,
By me?
The chancellor confirmed this with a solemn nod.

“Oh, that is utterly absurd!” Liebermann cried. “I have never heard anything so ridiculous…. Besides, there were witnesses present.”

“Indeed.” The word was not encouraging, quite the opposite. “Think back, Herr Doctor,” continued Professor Gandler. “When the priest tried to enter the ward, what did you do?”

“I told him he couldn’t go through.”

“Yes, but what did you actually do?”

“I may have…” Liebermann lowered his voice. “I may have put my arm across the doorway.”

“In other words, you forcibly barred his admittance.”

Liebermann raised his hands in frustration. “Well, you could say that. But it would be a gross misrepresentation of the facts.”

“Would it really?”

“Yes. To say that I forcibly barred his admittance makes it sound like some kind of assault took place. I merely rested my hand against the doorjamb.”

Professor Gandler scowled and repositioned some papers on his desk. “Had you apologized to the committee when I advised you to, Herr Doctor, this problem might have been swiftly and quietly resolved. Instead, you chose to disregard my advice. This article will attract unwanted publicity, the kind that could potentially damage our fine reputation.” The chancellor tapped his fingers on the surface of his desk. “A written apology might still stop things from going any further…”

Liebermann shook his head. “I’m sorry, Professor Gandler…”

“Once again, I would urge you to reconsider. This situation could easily escalate, and if it does, you will be sorry.”

Liebermann ignored the chancellor’s thinly disguised threat.

“Where did this article appear, Professor Gandler?”

The chancellor opened his drawer and pulled out a folded newspaper. He tossed it across the desk, and it landed so that the masthead was exposed. It read:
Das Vaterland
. At once Liebermann understood what was really going on. He looked up at the chancellor, and for a moment was consoled by a glimmer of sympathy.

29

T
HE TWO MEN HAD
finished their music-making and taken their customary places in Liebermann’s smoking room. Somewhat unusually, though, it was Rheinhardt who spoke first. “You seem a little preoccupied, Max.”

“Yes,” Liebermann replied. “I do have a lot on my mind. Something happened at the hospital a few weeks ago that has had unforeseen consequences, and I now find myself in an invidious position.”

He told his friend about the death of the young Baron von Kortig, his—Liebermann’s—alleged forceful obstruction of Father Benedikt, and of his unhappy interviews with the chancellor. Throughout, Rheinhardt’s solicitous expression was constant. Occasionally he muttered “outrageous,” “appalling,” or “intolerable.” When Liebermann had finished, the detective inspector blew out a great cloud of cigar smoke and asked, “What do you think will happen?”

“I have no idea. But I simply refuse to make an apology. This would be tantamount to an admission of improper behavior.”

“Indeed. As far as I can see, you acted irreproachably—thinking first and foremost of your patient. The old baron should have been grateful that his son’s dying moments were spent in the care of such a scrupulous physician.” Rheinhardt sipped his brandy and added, “Who do you think contacted the journalist?”

“I don’t know. It could have been anyone: Father Benedikt, the old Baron von Kortig, one of the committee members… even the nurse or the aspirant.”

“Someone is clearly trying to turn an inconsequential incident into a scandal—and, sadly, their motivation is all too transparent.”

“Yes. I tried to resist the obvious conclusion, but the article in
Das Vaterland
soon brought an end to my doubts. The author repeatedly stressed that fewer and fewer doctors in Vienna understand the importance of the
Christian
sacraments.”

They spoke for a little while longer about Liebermann’s situation, until the young doctor seemed suddenly to grow impatient and tire of the subject. He made a gesture with his hand as if to brush the matter away. After a short pause, Liebermann said in a more animated voice, “I stopped for coffee at the Café Museum this afternoon and saw the late editions.”

Rheinhardt nodded his head solemnly.

“Burke Faust,” Liebermann added.

“Councillor
Burke Faust,” said Rheinhardt, emphasizing the man’s title. “His remains were discovered next to the plague column by the church of Maria Geburt in Hietzing. Death was caused by decapitation, and the method employed was exactly the same as before. His head had been
torn
from his body. He was dressed in the kind of clothes a gentleman usually wears in his study: a smoking jacket, loose trousers, and a pair of slippers. It was obvious that he hadn’t been walking the streets dressed like that. He must have been knocked unconscious before being transported to the plague column. Professor Mathias found evidence of a blow delivered to the back of the head, and later we learned that his Hietzing villa had been broken into.”

“Did you find any signs of a struggle?”

“No.”

“The obituaries in the late editions suggested that he was a rising star at the town hall.”

“He certainly was. In fact, he was the prime candidate for a plum job in the mayor’s office. Some believed he might, in due course, have been selected as a future mayoral candidate. As you would expect, Faust’s political instincts were not dissimilar to Lueger’s, although Faust was thought by many to be more extreme.”

“As exemplified by his recent article in which he referred to Jews as a plague.”

“Good heavens,” said Rheinhardt. “Have you read it?”

“No,” said Liebermann.

“Then how—”

“I assumed, under the circumstances, that such an article
must
exist.”

Rheinhardt frowned and continued, “When we were interviewing Faust’s colleagues at the town hall, one of them mentioned that the councillor had written a piece for
Die Reichpost
, and that it had impressed the mayor. It’s full of the usual rhetoric but is distinguished by Faust’s espousal of a carefully constructed three-phase plan for eliminating Jews entirely from public life
—and
the professions.”

“And who did he think the good people of Vienna would consult when they became ill?”

“Faust was exercised largely by the problem of how elimination of the Jews from the professions might be accomplished, rather than by its actual consequences.”

Liebermann poured more brandy and stared into the fire.

“Was he married?”

“No. He lived alone.”

“What about his staff?”

“They live in an apartment building near the train station. He would have had no one to call upon for assistance when he was attacked.”

Liebermann turned his brandy and contemplated the flames through the repeated motif of the cut glass.

“Apart from the obvious commonality of the plague columns, were there any other similarities between our two murder scenes?”

“Yes,” said Rheinhardt, extending the syllable and sounding somewhat hesitant. “Once again there was a great deal of mud in the vicinity of the body, and once again it seemed to have been purposely put there rather than dislodged from a vehicle. There were no tracks, other than those on the main road.”

“Did you have the mud analyzed?”

“I did, and it proved to be entirely unremarkable. You might collect it anywhere on the banks of the Danube or up in the woods.” Rheinhardt twisted one of the horns of his mustache, and added, “Oh, I almost forgot to say, there was another similarity. Maria Geburt, like Maria Treue Kirche, has a school close by.”

Liebermann continued to turn his glass, seemingly entranced by the patterns of light.

“Who discovered the body?”

“A hapless fellow called Octavian Quint. He’d lost all of his money playing cards and had been ejected from the table. On his way home he went to relieve himself behind the church and fell asleep in a doorway. He claims to have been awakened by a noise that he described as a whirring, clicking sound… like a
giant insect.”

The young doctor stopped looking into his brandy glass, and his head slowly rotated to reveal, degree by degree, an expression of such profound skepticism that it might just as easily have been provoked by an insult.

“A giant insect?”

“That’s what he said,” Rheinhardt replied gruffly. “And whatever it was, I’m sure it frightened him.”

“Had the man been drinking?”

“Almost certainly.”

Liebermann gestured as if to say,
Well, there you are, then
.

“How many plague columns are there in Vienna?” asked Liebermann.

“The Graben, Saint Ulrich’s, the Rochuskapelle Pensingerstrasse—a considerable number.”

“Too many to be kept under observation?”

“The Karlskirche, Dornbach.” Rheinhardt was raising his fingers. “Yes, far too many.”

“What about if you restricted observation to those plague columns close to schools?”

“That is a possibility.”

The young doctor took another cigar, lit it, and sank back into his chair. In only a few seconds he had produced a dense, fragrant haze. He was evidently deep in thought. Rheinhardt made a fanciful connection between the smoke and his friend’s intense mental activity, imagining the billowing clouds to be the product of an overheated brain. A log on the fire hissed, crackled, and threw up a fountain of sparks. The pyrotechnics roused Liebermann, who pulled himself up to speak.

“These two murders,” he began, “are characterized by peculiarities that indicate the workings of an idiosyncratic but
purposeful
mind. There is a scheme here, obviously: two rabid anti-Semites who have recently likened Jews to a scourge are found dead, justly punished for their invective.” The young doctor grinned, to show that the sentiment was not his own. “Found dead at the foot of the Treue Kirche and Maria Geburt plague columns. They have been decapitated, a method of execution that is associated with the demise of kings. Thus, we are to understand that men of influence, the
heads
of religious and civic life, are being warned against the promulgation of hateful ideologies. The proximity of the schools reinforces this message. Prejudice can easily be transmitted from generation to generation—thus those who occupy positions of power are doubly cautioned against the abuse of authority. So far the symbolism presents us with few interpretative difficulties; however, there are other features that remain utterly incomprehensible. Why were the victims decapitated in such an impractical way? And what does the mud represent? Filth, excrement, moral turpitude? To these questions I have no ready answer.”

Liebermann stubbed out his cigar and immediately lit another. Rheinhardt patiently waited for his friend to continue.

“Earlier, I said that the peculiarities of these murders indicate the workings of an idiosyncratic mind: obsessionality, symbolism, the construction of dramatic tableaux. These are all ‘signatures’ that we have learned to associate with a particular kind of criminal, the lone fanatic whose delusional system, unchallenged, thrives in isolation, its internal structure becoming increasingly intricate and mythic, and promoting in the process a form of messianic narcissism. Nevertheless, these murders could not have been perpetrated by one man alone.”

“Professor Mathias was of the opinion that it would require the efforts of at least two exceptionally strong men to remove a human head by ripping it from the body in this way.”

“Indeed. Now, it is commonplace for individuals to become delusional, and delusional beliefs might easily guide a campaign of retributive violence. But what we seem to have here is a delusional individual who has persuaded others of the legitimacy of his vision.”

“Ahh…,” said Rheinhardt, suddenly sitting up straight and waving his index finger in the air. “I believe you have said something there that might prove to be very significant.”

“Oh?”

“Clearly, the perpetrators of these two murders are Jews.” Rheinhardt paused to allow Liebermann to disagree. The young doctor said nothing. “And you will remember that on a previous occasion you suggested that the hereditary leaders of the Hasidim often wield great power over their people, and that their sects are relatively self-contained.”

Liebermann thought for a moment. Suddenly he smiled and said, “So I did!”

“Well, then, it seems to me that you have already proposed an ideal environment in which the phenomenon you seek to explain might occur. If my memory serves me correctly, you said that a rebbe might claim to receive instructions from God, and that his devotees—in the absence of any other counsel—would very likely obey his orders without question.”

“Yes,” said Liebermann, impressed by his own perspicacity. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“There is a rebbe among the Hasidim of Leopoldstadt called Barash, who is said to have predicted the death of Brother Stanislav.”

“Did he prophesy that the monk was going to be decapitated?”

“We’re not sure. One of his sect became involved in a religious argument and was overheard making the claim.”

“Where did this happen?”

“In a coffeehouse. Zuckers. I wonder, would you be willing to interview Barash, Max?”

“Of course. But if we are correct, and it transpires that these murders are the work of a Jewish cabal, can you imagine how the Christian Socials and the clerics will react! Think of the political capital they made out of that miserable wretch Hilsner!” Liebermann flicked his glass, and the crystal emitted a soft chime. “Which makes me wonder… what if? What if these murders are not what they appear to be? What if they are a means of turning public opinion against an all too obviously guilty party?”

Rheinhardt poured himself another large brandy.

In his mind, he saw an angry horde crossing the Danube canal and marching into Leopoldstadt. He saw men in caftans being dragged from their houses, and he saw blood on the cobbled streets. He tried to think of something else, but the images were vivid and persistent.