by Alex Beer
The woman hesitated for a moment, squinted her eyes, and then stepped aside to let them in. “Around the corner to the left.”
Emmerich followed her directions, grabbed a stinking bin full of cigarette ash and broken glass, and carried it out. Winter did the same.
“Christ, Hilde, what’s with the wine?” yelled a man. “The guests are complaining.”
“Go ahead. We can handle this.”
Emmerich waited until the woman had disappeared, dumped the contents of the bin against the exterior wall of the building, then put it back in its place inside. Then he and Winter slipped into the bar.
They were immediately enveloped in a warm cloud of perfume and the haze of countless cigarettes. The buzz and hum of voices filled the room; a woman dressed completely in lace belted out a popular song accompanied by a man on piano.
Die Männer sind alle Verbrecher,
ihr Herz ist ein finsteres Loch,
hat tausend verschied’ne Gemächer,
aber lieb, aber lieb sind sie doch.
Men are all criminals,
their hearts a dark hole,
with a thousand different loyalties,
but they’re lovable, lovable all the same.
The place was decorated in Secession style. It had a timber ceiling, and marble tables, Thonet chairs and plush red sofas sat all around the room, over which hung little dim lamps.
The guests, predominantly men with fat wallets, were dressed in the latest fashions and smoking cigarillos. They talked animatedly.
“We could have just shown our badges,” said Winter.
“We could have. But sometimes it’s better to stay anonymous—you’ll learn that, too.” He marched to the bar, took off his cap, and waved over a barman. “I’m looking for Harri.”
“Who?” The barman, whose nametag identified him as Franz, gestured to a few guests calling for schnapps that he’d be right with them.
“Harald Zeiner. He’s supposed to be working here.”
Franz’s brow furrowed. “There’s no Zeiner or Harald on the staff.” He paused for a second and then winked. “At least not on the official staff.”
“Perhaps we’re in the wrong place . . . ” Winter looked questioningly at his boss.
“I don’t believe so.” Emmerich thanked the barman and turned to his underling, who was now looking at the scene around them with big eyes. “You have any money with you? I bequeathed all of mine to the brothers in misery back on Blattgasse.”
Winter reached into his pocket and pulled out a few crowns. Emmerich took them out of his hand and ordered two beers.
“Thanks, keep the change,” he said when the desired items appeared.
“We’re not allowed to drink on the job.” Winter stared at the tankard Emmerich was holding out to him.
“Cheers,” Emmerich said, taking a big sip. Boy, did that taste good. It was the little things that made life worth living.
Winter didn’t seem to be enjoying the moment quite as much. With his head hanging and his arms pressed to his sides he seemed more like a wet poodle than a young police inspector who’d just put an exciting day behind him.
“What’s wrong?”
“We smell.” Winter motioned to two women in expensive evening gowns and fur stoles who had just slipped past them, looked at them for a moment, and then quickly turned away. “And it’s so elegant and classy here.”
Emmerich laughed and gulped down the rest of his beer. “I’ll show you how elegant and classy this dump is.” He went over to a narrow door with etched glass and opened it.
Winter stared at his boss and at the still full beer in his own hand. Had somebody put something in the boss’s drink?
“It’s a broom closet,” he said. It was maybe four square meters and full of cleaning equipment.
Emmerich pulled Winter into the little room, closed the door behind him and knocked three times against the back wall.
“What are we doing in here?”
Before Emmerich could answer, a small slat opened through which a pair of watery blue eyes appeared. A moment later the wall opened as if by some ghostly hand to reveal another dimly lit room that was divided into small booths. Giggling, groans, and the squeaking of bedsprings left no doubt as to what was happening here. Lebenslust, in order to forget the gray squalor for a few sweet moments.
“What delight can I offer the esteemed gentlemen?” A blond dandy with slicked-back hair, a handlebar mustache, and exaggerated gestures raised his right eyebrow and looked the two of them over.
“We’ve heard such good things about Harald Zeiner that we thought we’d drop by.”
“Harri!” The well-groomed man smiled and rubbed his hands. “Unfortunately the Styrian stallion is busy at the moment. Might I recommend someone else?”
Emmerich waved his hand. “We’ll wait.”
“Certainly.” The dandy sauntered over to a booth and stole a glance inside. “It won’t be more than a few seconds,” he said when he returned. He pulled out a large wallet. “A lively three-way in booth number three. Unfortunately I need to take payment in advance.” He named an exorbitant sum.
“That’s not necessary.” Emmerich walked right past him. “We don’t have any explicit services in mind and it won’t take long.”
Surprisingly, the man did not try to stop them, and instead went back to his spot by the secret door.
Emmerich pulled aside the heavy red curtain that shielded the occupants of booth three from curious glances. A fat man with a sweaty, flushed face was standing in the middle of the small space buttoning his pants while another sat behind him on a narrow bed counting a stack of banknotes.
Emmerich cleared his throat. “Harald Zeiner? I need to talk to you.”
The man on the bed stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Who’s this guy?” The fat guy fiddled frantically with his belt. “Is he from the vice squad?” He stumbled out in a panic, which nobody could blame him for, since “crimes against nature” were punishable by a jail sentence of one to five years.
Emmerich didn’t even look at him. “It’s about Dietrich Jost,” he said to Zeiner.
“What about him?” asked the man, completely shocked.
“He’s dead.”
“Dead? That can’t be . . . ”
Winter tapped Emmerich on the back. “Boss,” he whispered.
“Just a second . . . ” Emmerich brushed him off and turned his attention back to Zeiner. “He shot himself. At least that’s what it looks like at first glance.”
“Shot himself?” Zeiner shook his head in disbelief. “But . . . but he was in no condition to handle a weapon . . . ”
Emmerich felt a more forceful smack on his shoulder. “In a second,” he repeated angrily, but this time it wasn’t Winter; it was the brawny bouncer. He put Emmerich in a headlock and dragged him into another booth.
“You always run into people a second time,” he hissed in Emmerich’s ear. “Who knew it would be so soon?”
The dandy was waiting for them. “You didn’t really think you could walk in here and act like you run the place, did you? Because I run the place.” He pulled out his wallet again. “Now you’re going to pay.”
“I’ve got nothing.” Emmerich grinned. He wondered where Winter was. “I don’t have so much as a heller.”
“Then you’ll pay in another currency.” The man hauled off and punched Emmerich right in the face.
He spat blood and tried to extricate himself from the hold, but it was as if he were in a stockade. The greasy man gave Emmerich a left hook. He was just winding up to kick him between the legs when a dull thud rung out. In the next instant the bouncer loosened his grip and then fell groaning to the floor.
Emmerich wanted to make use of his regained freedom to repay the dandy for his punches, but then there was a cli
nk, and when he looked up Winter was standing there with just the handle of his beer tankard in his hand. The two other men were now both lying unconscious on the floor.
“I hid behind the curtain. I didn’t know what I should—” Winter explained.
“Well done.” Emmerich patted him on the shoulder and stepped over the puddle that had formed on the floor. “Shame about the beer though.” He pulled the curtain closed and went back to booth number three.
It was empty.
Zeiner had disappeared into thin air, and there was nothing else for Emmerich to do except to issue a description of the escapee and then call it a night.
Arriving home, he closed the door quietly behind him, took off his jacket and cap, and crept into the kitchen. He poured himself a schnapps. Hopping down from the wall had been a silly and stupid thing to do. His leg still hurt, and he hoped the alcohol could numb the pain enough for him to fall asleep.
He leaned against the stove, which, surprisingly, was still warm, and closed his eyes. It was nice to have a proper home.
With his salary and the money Luise was able to make working at home they were able to afford this two-room apartment with a little kitchen. They’d been living here together for a year. Their home was modestly furnished, but they enjoyed the luxury of having it all to themselves. They weren’t forced to take in subletters or boarders, and they shared the bathroom on the hall with just one other person, old Frau Ganglberger, rather than an entire floor of people.
The idea of having his own family had always been an abstract fantasy for Emmerich, but then he’d met Luise and discovered a whole new side of himself. He’d found himself to be a devoted husband and caring father despite the fact that he’d never liked children and had shunned the mysteries of love up to that point.
Thinking of the children, it occurred to him how quiet it was. No coughing and no crying disturbing the nighttime silence. He peeked into the bedroom where Emil, Ida, and little Paul were sleeping peacefully next to each other in the big bed.
“There you are.” Luise came out of the living room and nuzzled his back.
“Were you able to find cough syrup?”
“Cough syrup and pork belly. I rendered it and made schmalz. Ate it with acorn bread. There’s some left over if you’re hungry.”
He wanted to kiss her but stopped himself when he saw that her face was paler and more worried looking than usual. “What’s going on?”
She took the glass of schnapps from him, took a big slug, and crossed herself. “I have a bad feeling,” she said. “That something’s going to happen.”
“Come on.” He took her hands in his and held them tightly. “You’re just tired and overworked. Go to sleep, I’ll be right in.”
She went over to the stove and put glowing coals into a heavy clothes iron. “Something’s going to happen,” she repeated, spread the ironing cloth out on the dining table and took a threadbare shirt from a basket of freshly washed clothes. “Back when Xaver died, when the war made me a widow and the kids orphans, I had the same feeling back then.”
Then Luise said nothing more, she just silently ironed.
5.
Harald Zeiner wandered aimlessly in the night trying to get his thoughts together.
When the police inspector had told him that his friend had shot himself, he’d been shocked at first, then confused about the circumstances, and finally pieced together a ghastly puzzle. Murder. Everything suddenly made sense: Jost’s unexpected optimism, his constant yammering about Brazil . . .
But since his evening meal just now, Zeiner was no longer so sure about his hypothesis. Was his suspicion that Jost had been murdered just a figment of his imagination? Or had he been taken in like a stupid chick by the assurances and pretty words of a cold-blooded murderer?
What was true and what was a lie? He of all people should have been able to see through it since he made his money fooling other people.
He lit a cigarette, crossed Nußdorfer Lände, and climbed down the sloped, brush-covered bank of the Danube canal, known colloquially as the Vienna Arm. There he stared at the dark water slowly flowing toward Port Albern, where it would join the Danube and then flow on toward the Black Sea.
Maybe Jost really had committed suicide, he thought. The thought had crossed his own mind many times, and he’d gone through the various methods in his head. Jumping into water had never been an option. At least not the Danube. That river would carry him east, where he had served—and he never wanted to go back there again. Neither alive nor dead.
He looked up at the stars. How indifferent they were. Some thought they guided mankind’s fate, but in reality they couldn’t care less.
“Enough whining,” he admonished himself. Moaning wasn’t going to make things better, and it wasn’t going to bring Jost back to life either.
Zeiner inhaled so deeply on the last of his cigarette that the ember nearly burnt his finger, then flicked the butt into the water.
All of a sudden he heard a rustling behind him. Before he could turn around there was a cracking sound and a dull pain went through his skull. He wanted to scream and to defend himself, but his body refused to listen. He slowly tipped forward and a moment later was swallowed by wet cold.
He floated eastward for a few meters with his face up. The last thing he saw before the dark flood engulfed him was the stars in the firmament looking down on him utterly impassively.
6.
Emmerich was tired. It hadn’t been the children keeping him up the previous night but the aching in his leg and Luise, who had puttered around anxiously until the morning hours. He would give a kingdom for a proper cup of coffee right now.
Instead he took a gulp of cold tea and choked down a dry piece of bread. Then he headed for the commissariat.
“Morning.” He yawned, pushed back a strand of his brown hair, and rubbed his stubble. Hörl was finishing the night shift. “Anything new?”
“We just got word. A guy fitting Zeiner’s description was just fished out of the Danube.”
“Dead or alive?”
“Dead, of course. In these temperatures you freeze as fast as you drown.”
“Damn it,” said Emmerich. “Any details?”
“Whether he froze or drowned?”
“No, you clown. Where did he fall in? Where was he pulled out? Accidental or suspicious? Is the body clearly identifiable?”
“Here’s the report. Same size, same facial description, same clothing as in the description. I don’t know anything more than that.” Hörl handed the report to Emmerich along with Zeiner’s file from the criminal registry in which he was listed for gross indecency and theft. “I’ll send somebody over to have a look at the body. I hope it wasn’t murder, otherwise we’ll have to pass the case to Leib und Leben.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Emmerich rolled up the papers and shoved them into the inside pocket of his jacket. He saw any chance to distinguish himself to the elite division as an opportunity. “You find anything on Dietrich Jost?”
Hörl shook his head. “Seems to have been clean. Either that or he never got caught.”
“A very good morning, gentlemen.”
Winter, fresh as spring, entered the station house and earned a grunt from Hörl and a roll of the eyes from Emmerich for his abundance of energy.
“We found Zeiner.”
“That was fast. Shall we question him right away?”
“Good luck.” Hörl clapped Winter on the shoulder as he put on his jacket.
“What does that mean?” said Winter, turning to Emmerich.
He just shook his head, handed him the report that Hörl had given him, and pointed to the door.
“Where are we going?”
“To the turnips.”
Winter had figured out that it was better not to ask his boss too many questions, and followed him silently to t
he Vienna Arm.
There, despite the early hour, brisk activity prevailed. Barges filled to the brim with white turnips sat anchored at the port. Turnips were a sought-after commodity, since they kept well and could be eaten all winter long. Little surprise then that there was already a huge swarm of stalwart housewives aggressively haggling over the prices while a horde of children circled the boats and carts like vultures waiting for a chance to pilfer the coveted goods.
“Piss off, you scallywag,” sneered one merchant as he smacked a filthy little chap on the head. “The bastards,” he said, turning to Emmerich, who had come up beside him. “They make off with anything that’s not nailed down. If you don’t pay attention they’ll steal the bread right out of your mouth.”
Emmerich nodded. Hunger was harder to bear for children than for adults. “A body was supposed to have been dragged out of the water here. You know anything about it?”
The merchant sighed. “I only saw it from a distance. Terrible thing. You should ask the dockworkers over there. They fished him out.” In that brief moment of inattention, a throng of children had snuck up again. “Gang of thieves,” grumbled the man, kicking the nearest one in the butt. “No five-finger discount here!”
Emmerich winked at the children and approached a few men who were penny-bowling. They’d propped a narrow board up on a rock to create a bowling alley. They were taking turns rolling heller coins down the incline, hoping to get them as close as possible to a stick stuck upright in the ground. Whoever was closest won all the coins.
“Morning, gentlemen,” Emmerich interrupted the game. “I was told you made a rather macabre catch this morning.”
“You can say that again,” said one of the workers, a stocky man with a nose covered with red veins.
“Wasn’t the type of catch you’d want to eat,” said another, who had a pockmarked face.
Emmerich looked around. “Where’d you take the body?”
“Over there in the bushes. We covered him with branches and told the children scary stories so they’d stop poking him with sticks.”
