Vienna Secrets lp-4

by Frank Tallis

“Inspector Rheinhardt. Security office. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Zucker nodded. “This way, please.”

  Rheinhardt followed him through the kitchen (in which a cook appeared to be tossing pancakes solely for the amusement of a prepubescent boy) and out into a little cobbled garden.

  “Take a seat, Inspector,” said Zucker, gesturing toward a bench. “It’s quiet out here. At least we’ll be able to hear ourselves speak. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? We have some delicious reis trauttmansdorff.”

  “That’s very kind of you to offer, Herr Zucker. But no, thank you.”

  The two men sat down on the bench.

  “What can I do for you, then?” said Zucker, taking a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches from his apron pocket.

  “I would like to ask you a few questions about some of your customers.” Zucker offered Rheinhardt a cigarette, which the inspector declined, before lighting one for himself. “I take it,” Rheinhardt continued, “that you are aware of what happened in Josefstadt last week.”

  “The murder?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well, of course. It’s been all over the papers. The customers don’t stop talking about it.”

  “One of your customers-a young Hasid, I believe-was overheard saying that his master, a preacher called Barash, had prophesied the monk’s death.”

  “Yes, that’s true. I was there at the time. But-with respect-you shouldn’t be taking very much notice of such things.”

  “Oh, why not?”

  “The Hasidim aren’t like the rest of us. They believe all sorts of nonsense. They interpret dreams, commune with the dead, and think that God reveals himself in magic numbers! And as for prophecies… Well, they’re always saying this thing or that thing is going to happen. They make so many predictions! I mean, it stands to reason they’ve got to be right about something-eventually! Coincidence, Inspector. That’s all it is. Coincidence.”

  “Did the young Hasid say specifically that the monk would be murdered?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Please, try to remember exactly what he said.”

  “Well, that’s not so easy. As usual, there was a lot of noise, and I was very busy.”

  “Was your daughter present?”

  “No. That’s why I was busy.”

  “Even so, perhaps you could try to remember what was said?”

  Zucker paused and thought for a moment.

  “They were arguing about religion. A young Hasid, and some workmen. They usually keep themselves to themselves, the Hasidim. But when they do get into arguments with my regulars”-Zucker pretended to cover his ears-“it’s worse than a yeshiva.”

  “A what?”

  “A school where they study holy books. There’s an old saying: two rabbis, three arguments. And you know, it’s not far wrong.”

  “You were saying…,” Rheinhardt prompted the proprietor. “About the young Hasid?”

  “Oh yes… Actually, I think the workmen were just teasing. But the Hasid was getting more and more agitated, and to prove some point he mentioned his leader’s prophecy. To be honest, I can’t remember very much more than that.” Zucker waved his cigarette in the air, creating a vortex of ash. “Now, are you sure I can’t interest you in my reis trauttmansdorff? I promise you, once you’ve tasted it, you’ll be back for more.”

  “You said that these Hasidim are always making prophecies. What other things have you heard?”

  Zucker grinned. “Everything from horse race winners to the coming of the Messiah! Now, for the last time, Inspector: my reis trauttmansdorff? Are you going to try it or not?”

  22

  Nagel’s general store was situated in a narrow alleyway that connected two roads on opposite sides of the old ghetto buildings. It was paved with yellowish flagstones-many of them cracked and loose-and the air was suffused with a pungent, penetrating dampness. The alley was so narrow, and so inauspiciously positioned, that it received direct sunlight only for a few hours a day in the summer months. For the rest of the year it existed in a perpetual twilight that intensified to become a precocious night by mid-afternoon. This gloom was relieved by a single naked gas jet, mounted on one of the walls.

  The general store was sandwiched between two other shops. A secondhand book dealer’s, occupied by an old man whose moldering stock added another harmonic of decay to the musty melange that tainted the air, and a cardboard vendor’s, run by a cadaverous Pole who spoke only Yiddish.

  In the window of the general store were various items intended to attract the attention of passersby. However, such light as there was passed through the grimy little panes of glass enfolded the goods in a greenish murk and made the boxes, candles, tins, string, and bottles look like the kind of detritus that collects on the bed of a slow-flowing river.

  Nahum sat behind the counter, toying with the weights and his scale. He was arranging the small weights on one side, to counterbalance a large weight on the other. The scale seesawed indecisively on its fulcrum-falling neither one way nor the other. Through the ceiling came the sound of Nahum’s father coughing, a horrible bark that crackled with phlegm the color of pus. Nahum knew this because he had inspected the contents of his father’s spittoon and noticed the change. The old man’s chest problem had obviously gotten much worse. They had scraped together a little money to pay for a doctor, but all he had said was that it would be better for Hayyim if they moved out of their rooms above the shop and away from the damp alleyway. But how were they going to do that?

  The stockroom-really a cupboard-was empty, and there were still some of the suppliers who hadn’t been paid. Nahum tapped the smaller weights, and watched them descend, slow to a halt, and rise up again. The shop had never made much of a profit, but now it was running at a loss.

  Rebbe Barash had promised change. He had held Hayyim’s hand and promised the old man that life would be better, very soon. But if things went on like this, it would be too late.

  From outside, Nahum recognized the heavy tread of hobnailed boots on the flagstones. The door flew open, and the little bell chimed. Two thickset men stepped into the shop. Their broad shoulders and lumpy features became all that Nahum could see. One had a distinctive scar that cut through his left eyebrow and continued as a white weal down his cheek. The other had the broken nose and grazed knuckles of a pugilist.

  “You came only last week,” said Nahum.

  “Open the cash box,” said the man with the scar.

  “But we’ve hardly sold anything…”

  The man swung his fist over the counter and knocked Nahum’s hat off.

  “Next time it’ll be your head.”

  Nahum, with trembling fingers, took the cash box from under the counter and, taking the key from his pocket, opened it up. Inside was change amounting to no more than three kronen.

  “Where’s the rest? I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.”

  “There isn’t any more!”

  The man grabbed Nahum by the collar and pulled him over the counter. He pressed his face up close.

  “Go and get it.”

  “There isn’t any more!”

  The man lifted Nahum off his feet and threw him against the shelves. A bottle fell off and smashed on the floor.

  “Nahum… Nahum?” It was the old man.

  Nahum looked up and shouted, “It’s all right, Father… It was nothing… an accident.”

  “Be careful, why don’t you?” the old man croaked.

  “I will, Father.”

  The two men looked at each other and smirked.

  “Please,” said Nahum, lowering his voice. “I beg you. He’s very ill.”

  The man with the scar scooped the coins out of the cash box and put them into his pocket.

  “Listen. You get us the rest of the money by next time, or we’ll give you a beating to remember. Do you understand?”

  They stormed out of the shop, accompanied by the innocent tinkling of the bell. Nahu
m collapsed onto his stool and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

  23

  Rheinhardt had been smoking cigars all the way from Josefstadt to Hietzing. As a result, when he opened the carriage door, he emerged from the confined space like Mephistopheles, surrounded by a roiling yellow cloud. He placed a foot on the step and jumped to the ground, his coat catching the air and rising up like a black wing. The young constable who greeted Rheinhardt was somewhat overawed by the inspector’s theatrical debouche. The constable was already in an excited state, and his nervous energy found easy expression in garrulous speech.

  “The man who found the body, sir-Herr Quint-he’s in the church with my colleague. He was walking home after spending an evening with friends-Well, that’s what he said, but I think it more likely that he’d been enjoying the company of a lady. He discovered the body and then ran over to the hotel.” The constable pointed across the road. “The night porter called the station. We’re in Dommayergasse-not far, just around the corner-and we got here within minutes. Would you like to see the body, sir? Horrible it is, horrible, the sort of thing that’ll give you nightmares-and so soon after the other one. A priest, wasn’t it? I never thought we’d see the likes of this up here, not in Hietzing. This way, sir, this way.”

  Rheinhardt grabbed the constable’s arm.

  “Just one moment.”

  The constable, sensing the detective inspector’s disapproval, froze. “Very good, sir.”

  Dawn was breaking, and a thin mist hung in the air. They were standing on a large cobbled concourse where several roads met. The buildings in the vicinity were rather grand. One had a double-domed turret, the smaller dome sitting on top of the larger, while another possessed a fine stone balcony. But the most commanding architectural landmark was a parish church-white, baroque, with a tall spire adorned with finials and crosses.

  “Maria Geburt?” Rheinhardt asked.

  “Yes,” said the constable. “The empress Maria Theresa used to attend services there.” He then pressed his lips together tightly to ensure that no further irrelevancies could escape.

  Above the large wooden door was a triple lancet window decorated with quatrefoil tracery. On either side, saintly figures stood on square columns beneath ornate canopies. Extending out from the side of the church was an aerial corridor linking the place of worship to a row of eighteenth-century buildings. It formed an arch over a passage through which similar houses could be seen. The terrace continued to where Rheinhardt was standing, but was interrupted by an entrance, above which was written Volksschule der Stadt Wien.

  Another school, thought Rheinhardt.

  “It’s by the side of the church, sir.”

  “What?”

  “The body.”

  “Yes, of course. You’d better show me.”

  They walked across the concourse, and the mutilated remains came into view.

  The victim was dressed in a smoking jacket, casual linen trousers, and a pair of slippers. He was wearing an expensive wristwatch, and on his right hand was a gold ring set with diamonds. A pool of blood had collected around his shoulders. Rheinhardt reconstructed events in his mind: the vessels severing, the hot fluid spurting out, the hiss and splash of grisly rain…

  “Where’s his head?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “Over there,” said the constable, holding a finger out but shying away in the opposite direction.

  Rheinhardt felt a tingling sensation rise up his spine, accompanied by a strong impression of deja vu. He was looking at a pillar of stone, on top of which was a figure of the Virgin, her head circled by a halo of stars. It was a plague column, though smaller than the one in front of the Maria Treue Kirche.

  “Next to the monument, sir,” the constable added.

  Rheinhardt pulled a box of cigars from his pocket and lit a slim panatela.

  “Wait here,” said Rheinhardt. He could see that the young man was not keen to join him. “If anyone comes along, don’t let them walk anywhere near the body. Make them walk on the other side of the road.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the constable, clicking his heels.

  A breeze corralled wispy threads of mist around the hem of the Virgin’s robe. She gazed expectantly up into the gray sky, her head tilted to one side. The effect was peculiarly dreamlike, and for a moment the detective inspector wondered whether he was still lying in his bed, and whether, in a few more seconds, he would wake up, throw his arms around his wife’s soft belly, and bury his nose in the sweet-smelling dishevelment of her hair. However, the scene did not dissolve and deliver him to his bed, but instead became more intense and more insistently real.

  The shadows at the foot of the monument seemed to shift with Rheinhardt’s approach, breaking up and coalescing into new forms. This process of clarification eventually revealed the dead man’s head. He was probably in his fifties, and his expression was strangely peaceful: eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Rheinhardt managed to block out the dreadful glistening interior of the man’s neck, the sickening flounce of stretched skin, but his stomach still contracted, and he had to fight the urge to retch. He puffed on his cigar to steady his nerves.

  The monument’s column twisted organically like a deformed tree, its trunk swelling and bulging with uneven excrescences. Cherub heads, with little wings sprouting out like oversize ears, adhered to the lumpy surface. They increased in number as the column spiraled upward, and at its summit the stone blistered with a chaotic outcrop of faces-some ecstatic, some anguished, others upside down. The entire edifice was supported by a cross-shaped pedestal, each arm of which was occupied by a large angel. Their expressions were inscrutable, having been worn down to vacant smoothness by the weather. One was kneeling in the throes of religious rapture-or grief-while another seemed to be flexing its wings, preparing to take off.

  Rheinhardt moved away from the plague column and dropped what was left of his cigar into a drain. He heard the sound of hooves and the jangling of a bridle. Looking up, he saw the glow of carriage lamps in the haze. The vehicle halted next to him, and his assistant, Haussmann, jumped out, landing with effortless grace and stirring something close to envy in the portly inspector.

  “What kept you?” said Rheinhardt.

  Haussmann’s brow wrinkled. “I came as soon I could, sir. The driver didn’t arrive until-”

  “Never mind,” said Rheinhardt, swatting the air.

  Haussmann glanced toward the church, where the constable stood by a conspicuous mound.

  “Is that the body, sir?”

  “Yes. You’ll find the head by the plague column.”

  “Like Josefstadt?”

  “Identical.”

  “Who is it, sir?”

  “I don’t know. He’s rich, though. He’s wearing some very expensive jewelry. I’m going to talk to the witness. Start with a plan of the location and instruct the photographer when he arrives.”

  Rheinhardt set off for the church but stopped when he felt the ground sucking at his feet. He looked down at his shoes and noticed that they were filthy. The cobbles were covered in mud. He squatted and tested its consistency, pressing his fingers into the mush. The clods were thick and sticky, like clay. He remembered doing the same thing outside the Maria Treue Kirche. Once again, there were no tracks to suggest that mud had fallen off the wheels of a carriage. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands clean.

  What could it mean? So much mud…

  His handkerchief now looked as if it had been smeared with excrement. He put it back into his pocket, guiltily, knowing that his wife would surely discover it in the laundry and scold him.

  “Haussmann?” he called out. “Be sure to get some samples of this mud.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rheinhardt stood up, privately lamenting the stiffness of his joints, and marched to the church door.

  The interior was gloomy, illuminated by a single tree of candles. Nevertheless, the light found the reflective surfaces of a fabulously ornate altar that wa
s decorated with gilded statues and flanked by marble columns. A man was sitting in one of the front pews, talking in a low voice to a constable. When Rheinhardt entered, they both stood up. The constable gripped the hilt of his sabre.

  “It’s all right, Constable. You won’t be needing that! I’m Detective Inspector Rheinhardt, from the security office.” He advanced, showing the policeman his identification. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to join your colleague outside while I interview Herr Quint.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I thought you-”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  The constable bade Herr Quint farewell and made his way down the aisle. The noise of the closing door resonated loudly in the empty church.

  “Please sit,” said Rheinhardt.

  Herr Quint was in his late thirties, but he looked much older. He was a rather shabby man, his hair mussed, his necktie loose, and his wing collars projecting at different angles. His frock coat was greasy, and when he sighed, the air became tainted with the smell of stale cigar smoke and alcohol.

  “Terrible, terrible,” Quint muttered. Then, as if responding to a challenge, he added, “I’m not leaving here until it is properly light outside. Whoever did it must be a madman-completely insane! None of us are safe!”

  He clasped his hands together, and his exaggerated expression reminded Rheinhardt of a melodramatic actor. The impression was reinforced by Quint’s accent, which was, unexpectedly, very refined.

  “You may stay here as long as you wish,” said Rheinhardt. “This is a church.”

  Quint muttered something to himself and finally responded, “Indeed. A church.”

  Rheinhardt took out his notebook.

  “Do you live in Hietzing, Herr Quint?”

  “I rent an apartment in the twelfth district. Langenfeldgasse.”

  “That is some distance. Almost Margareten.”

  “It’s not that far, Inspector…”

  “And the number?”

  “Forty-four.”

  “What were you doing in Hietzing?”

  “Seeing friends. Well, I say friends… associates, really.”