by Frank Tallis
Rheinhardt dropped the bag of pumpkin seeds onto his lap. A few spilled across the path.
“Mud?”
“Yes.”
Rheinhardt’s eyebrows rose, and his mouth contracted into a tight circle.
“I am not suggesting,” Liebermann continued, “that a golem created in Alois Gasse killed Stanislav and Faust. But this is clearly what we-or at least those who are familiar with the legends of the Prague ghetto-are being invited to believe. A kabbalist’s lair containing barrels of mud… mud strewn around the bodies of anti-Semites… These similarities cannot be coincidental. Moreover, the golem legend also explains one of the most puzzling features of the Josefstadt and Hietzing murders: Why did the perpetrators choose such an inconvenient method of decapitation? Well, now we have a very plausible hypothesis. The heads of the victims were torn from their bodies to suggest the exercise of supernatural strength.”
“Extraordinary,” said Rheinhardt.
“The legends of the Prague ghetto are not well known beyond the city, but they are told by Hasidim everywhere. Subsequently I suspect that they are the only inhabitants of Vienna who would appreciate the significance of the Alois Gasse lair, the mud, and the brutal decapitations.”
“What are we to conclude, then? That Barash killed Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust?”
Liebermann looked up at the Votivkirche spires.
“Barash’s sect is not the only one to be found in Leopoldstadt. And if he is guilty, I wonder why he chose to implicate himself further by demonstrating that he was in possession of relevant knowledge. The golem legend does make the murders more intelligible.”
“You have already questioned his sanity,” said Rheinhardt bluntly. “Perhaps he was just behaving irrationally; however, his familiarity with the golem legend doesn’t necessarily implicate him further. If, as you say, the golem is a staple of the Hasidic storytelling tradition, then Barash would have, quite naturally, connected the murders of Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust with Rabbi Loew’s monster. He was simply pointing this out to you, albeit in an oblique way.”
Liebermann shook his head. “Barash told me to go to Prague before the discovery of the Alois Gasse lair. And none of the newspaper reports have, to my knowledge, said anything about the mud discovered close to the bodies. In addition, Barash was quite definite when he said that if I visited the Jewish ghetto in Prague I would better understand the nature of the murders.”
“All right, then. For the sake of argument let us entertain the notion that Barash is guilty. What is his purpose?”
“To foment some kind of religious revival, perhaps? I believe that Hasidism, and particularly Lurianic Hasidism, is a messianic belief system.”
“And are you still of the opinion,” Rheinhardt continued, “that the decapitations were a joint enterprise, requiring the combined effort of more than one man?”
“Barash is a big fellow, but I cannot believe that he is strong enough to make short work of tearing a man’s head off.”
“Then we must assume that he was assisted by his disciples.”
Rheinhardt detected a pumpkin seed nestling in the folds of his trousers and promptly put it into his mouth.
“I am reminded,” said Liebermann, “of the condition known as ‘folie a deux.’ The term is employed to describe the curious phenomenon of two individuals sharing the same-usually paranoid-delusion. Although contagious insanity, as it was once called, typically affects two people, it can extend from the original pair to three, four, or even five persons. The infectious delusion tends to arise in a man of strong character, and is subsequently imposed on weaker and more impressionable associates. Thus, it is also sometimes designated folie imposee.”
“Perhaps you should interview Barash again?”
“Yes, I think that is a good idea.”
The organ-grinder’s monkey scampered across the grass and began to make a meal of Rheinhardt’s spilled pumpkin seeds.
“This is a grave business,” said Rheinhardt. “We must now suppose that the perpetrators, even if they are not Barash and his disciples, are more than likely to be Hasidic Jews.”
“You are worried about how the Christian Socials will respond?”
Rheinhardt nodded.
“Saladin!” It was the organ-grinder, chasing his pet. “Saladin!”
The man came toward them, the lacquered box swinging from the straps around his neck.
“Saladin, you scoundrel! Leave the gentlemen alone.”
The monkey scooped up the last of the pumpkin seeds and ran back to his master.
That evening, Liebermann played a selection of Chopin Studies, including the testing Number Twelve in C minor. He was pleased with his performance, particularly the ease with which his left hand now provided the thunderous accompaniment to the dramatic chords in the right. The Klammer Method was yielding quite exceptional results. Closing the volume, he discovered beneath it a copy of the Opus 45 C sharp minor Prelude. He had intended to stop practicing, but the prospect of Chopin’s enigmatic masterpiece prevented him from leaving the music room. Liebermann placed his hands on the keyboard and produced a sequence of descending harmonies that found a melancholy resting place in the resonant lower octaves of the Bosendorfer. A bel canto melody gradually emerged, but in due course surrendered its authority to an arpeggiated bass.
Liebermann began thinking about Prague-not the Jewish cemetery, the Old-New Synagogue, Rabbi Loew, or the golem, but instead his hotel room-and the pretty prostitute, Anezka.
What I did was shameful.
The arpeggiated bass executed a series of dreamy, remote modulations.
And such folly…
That he, a doctor, should have taken such a risk. It was a depressing thought, but now, for all he knew, he might be destined to suffer the same fate as the young Baron von Kortig.
Alexander!
He felt angry at his libertine uncle. But his ire could not be sustained. How could he blame Alexander? His uncle had only meant to cheer him up. It was his own fault, and his fault alone.
Liebermann came to the cadenza, and the sense of key dissolved in a cascade of tritones. This untethering of tonality reflected Liebermann’s mental state. He felt emotionally lost, without direction.
The bel canto melody returned, and the prelude coasted to its sombre close. For a few moments, Liebermann remained still, his head bowed, listening to the fading notes. Then he closed the lid, and retired to his bedroom.
After his ablutions, he changed into his nightshirt and tried to go to sleep. The attempt was futile, as his memory kept on tormenting him with spectral impressions of accommodating flesh, black eyes, and red lips.
It must have been past two in the morning when the telephone rang.
“Max?”
“Oskar?”
“There’s been another murder.”
“A decapitation?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Saint Ulrich’s-Spittelberg.”
“Do you want me to-”
“Come. Yes, if you don’t mind. I’ll send a police vehicle.”
“Who is it? Do you know?”
Rheinhardt paused before giving his answer. “A man named Jeheil Sachs.”
“Jeheil Sachs…”
“Yes. A Jew. Now, I wonder where that leaves us?”
Part Four
The Vienna Golden
56
Liebermann and Rheinhardt stood beside the headless body. The dead man was obviously impoverished. Liebermann noticed that the leather sole of one of his shoes was worn through and the cuffs of his coat were frayed. Scattered around the corpse were clods of mud, plainly visible in the yellow light that fell from a gas lamp mounted on the church wall.
The two men were situated in a narrow alley that followed the east-facing side of the Ulrichskirche. The featureless stucco of the nave ascended toward a ribbon of starry sky. On the other side of the alley was a large and uninspiring building with regularly s
paced windows, all of them black and lifeless. The effect was claustrophobic. Liebermann felt hemmed in.
Rivulets of blood flowed between the cobbles. They formed an inverted delta, the apex of which marked the convergence of the glistening streams. The victim’s head lay beyond, having been encouraged to roll some distance from the body by the alley’s incline.
Close by, the police photographer and his assistant were setting up their equipment.
Liebermann crouched down to examine what remained of the dead man’s neck.
“I can’t see very much,” he muttered.
Rheinhardt produced a flashlight. Pushing the metal bar forward, he released a pulse of illumination that revealed the lurid interior of the stump: fractured bone, muscle tissue, and pale vessels hanging loosely in space. The ferrous smell of fresh blood was almost overwhelming.
“Again,” said the young doctor.
The inspector obliged, and another pulse of light coaxed the nightmarish vision back again. It seemed to emerge slowly out of the darkness, a macabre blossoming like the unfolding petals of a strange carnal flower.
“Just like the others,” said Liebermann. “The cervical structures have been identically displaced.”
“Now,” said Rheinhardt, “look at this.”
The beam of light played on the slick cobblestones. Something glinted, and Liebermann leaned closer. It was a Star of David on a chain.
Standing up, Liebermann surveyed his surroundings. His expression changed suddenly from mild disgust to perplexity.
“What is it?” Rheinhardt inquired.
“There’s no plague column.”
“Yes, there is. You approached the Ulrichskirche from Neustiftgasse. There’s a plague column up there.” Rheinhardt jerked his thumb back. “At the back of the church.”
“I’d like to take a look.”
“Of course.”
Leaving Rheinhardt to speak with the photographer, Liebermann soon found himself standing on a wide, empty thoroughfare. Across the road were tall five-story apartment blocks. Several of the upper windows were illuminated: together with a well-placed street lamp they provided Liebermann with enough light to make his inspection.
The plague column, a vertical scrum of saints and putti, was situated directly behind the church. It was much more like the famous plague column on the Graben than the one he had seen outside the Maria Treu Kirche, being vaguely organic-like the twisted bole of a tree-and designed to convey an impression of frenetic activity. Approximately halfway up, a figure projecting out of the tumbling horde was made even more conspicuous by a radiant sun. At the summit, Liebermann saw a Christlike figure clutching a massive golden cross, and another bearded ancient holding a golden orb. They were separated by an eagle that seemed to hover between them with no obvious means of support.
On either side of the monument were statues of saints, their names engraved in the stone pedestals on which they stood. Saint Barbara, represented like an operatic diva, threw her head back and clasped a chalice to her breast. Her robes had fallen off her shoulder to reveal an impressively lithe figure. She looked commandingly beautiful, and her dishabille imbued her with a subtle erotic charm. Saint Rosalia struck a more modest pose, the copious folds of her abundant gown gathered in one hand, a personification of maidenly virtues.
Rheinhardt appeared from behind the church and joined Liebermann by the column. He offered his friend a Trabuco cheroot, which the young doctor accepted.
“Do you know anything about these saints?” Liebermann asked.
“Saint Barbara was a renowned beauty and, I believe, is the patron saint of artillerymen. As for Saint Rosalia”-Rheinhardt lit Liebermann’s cigar, then his own-“I’m afraid my memory fails me. Although she may have halted a plague once, which is probably why she is here.”
Liebermann nodded and exhaled a stream of smoke.
“How did you discover the victim’s identity?”
“He was carrying some papers. In fact, he lives just around the corner. I’ll be going to take a look at his house once we’ve finished here. Would you care to join me?”
“I can’t,” said Liebermann, shaking his head. “Patients.”
“Of course.”
“Who found the body?”
“A fellow called Bietak, a hotel porter. He was on his way home after work.”
“Did he see anything unusual? Hear anything?”
“No.”
Rheinhardt stepped off the pavement and looked up and down the silent street.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked. “I thought the golem was supposed to protect Jews.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Liebermann, his voice strained by disbelief. “It doesn’t make any sense at all!”
57
Rheinhardt knocked at the door. There was no response.
He observed across the street a plump red face looking out of one of the windows. The pressure of the woman’s nose on the glass had turned it upward, revealing two circular nostrils. Seen through the frost of her condensed breath, she appeared distinctly porcine. She did not avert her gaze when detected but continued to watch with a fixed stare.
Rheinhardt indicated that he wished to speak with her. She blinked at him and then withdrew behind the drapes; however, she did not come to the door immediately.
Because it was still early, Rheinhardt assumed that the plump woman was making herself presentable, if such a thing were possible. He then chastised himself for entertaining this uncharitable thought. After all, his own figure left much to be desired. In due course there was the sound of a metal bolt being drawn, and the door creaked open.
The woman stood squarely, in an attitude of defiance, with ruddy arms folded across a bust of considerable bulk.
“Yes?”
“Good morning. My name is Rheinhardt. Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt.” He produced his identification. The woman squinted, her eyes shrinking in the morning light. “May I ask you a few questions?”
“Questions? What questions?”
“Well, perhaps we could start with your name?”
“Tilde Warmisch.”
“Very good. Now, Frau Warmisch, that house over there.” Rheinhardt pointed at the filthy exterior opposite. “Do you know who lives there?”
“Yes. Herr Sachs.”
“Jeheil Sachs?”
“I don’t know about his first name. I just know him as Sachs, the Jew.”
“When was the last time you saw Herr Sachs?”
“Does he owe money? That wouldn’t surprise me. Let me think.” Frau Warmisch sucked on her lower lip. “Yesterday… at about six o’clock.”
“What does Herr Sachs do?”
“Do you mean work?”
“Yes. His occupation.”
Frau Warmisch sneered. “He doesn’t do anything. He lives off women.”
“He lives off women?” Rheinhardt repeated.
“This is Spittelberg, Inspector. You know what goes on here.”
“He’s a procurer?”
“Call it what you like.” The woman made a snorting sound-as evocative of the farmyard as her round face-in lieu of laughter. “Pretty girls, some of them, and his own kind too. Yes, always his own kind. What’s he done wrong?”
“Would I be correct in surmising that you are not overly fond of Herr Sachs?”
“Yes, you would be. He isn’t much liked around here.”
“Why?”
“He’s ill-mannered. Rude, dirty, and he…” Frau Warmisch trailed off.
“Yes? What were you going to say?”
“You won’t tell him I told you?”
“That, I can promise you with complete confidence.”
“He mistreats his women,” she went on. “In the summer, with the windows open, you can hear everything. But the noise the last one made was terrible.” She shook her head, and the wattle of flesh that hung beneath her neck swung like a pendulum. “I almost called the police myself. And I haven’t seen her since
. Did the ladies send you?”
“What ladies?”
“The two smart young ladies.”
“No. They didn’t. To whom are you referring?”
“They came to see Sachs about a week ago. They were accusing him of something. I think it must have been to do with the last one-you know, his doxy, his girl. They said that they’d got a doctor’s report, and that justice would be done. One of them was furious-banged on his door and shouted about coming back.”
“Had you ever seen them before?”
“No. We don’t get their sort in Spittelberg, Inspector.”
“Could you describe them to me?”
“Well-to-do, smart. One had black hair, the other brown. Their dresses were made of silk. Quite pretty…”
“How tall were they?”
“Not very. They were quite small, really-smaller than me.”
“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. He cringed internally, embarrassed by his careless use of language. Frau Warmisch, however, was not offended. “Any other details?” Rheinhardt asked, eager to move the conversation on.
“I think they were Jews too,” said Frau Warmisch. “They were telling him off for using Jewish women. They said something about how bad it was for him to be making money from his own people.”
Rheinhardt took out his notebook and made some jottings. When he was satisfied that he had learned all that he could, he thanked Frau Warmisch, bowed, and began to walk back toward the main road.
“Inspector?”
Rheinhardt turned.
“Don’t you want to know their names?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The names of the fine ladies.”
“You know them?”
“Yes. I heard them introduce themselves. Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl.”
Rheinhardt took out his notebook again and began writing.
“It’s a cold morning, Inspector,” the woman added. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in for a few minutes? Just to warm up.”
Rheinhardt detected a certain lascivious cast in Frau Warmisch’s expression. She was leaning against the doorjamb and had raised her gown a little to reveal a chunky, swollen ankle.
