The Second Rider

by Alex Beer

  “Look at the name on that report,” Wiesegger interrupted.

  Emmerich did as he was told, and smiled. “Harald Zeiner.”

  “He and the unidentified dead man ate the same thing before their deaths. The contents of their stomachs were in different stages of digestion, but the composition was the same. I’d guess schnitzel with potato salad and Kaiserschmarrn.”

  “Colored with Dottofix?”

  “Dottofix, Dottox, Eggfix or whatever the name. But definitely an egg substitute.”

  “The men ate dinner together, which suggests there was a connection between them. Which in turn could mean—”

  “—That my suicide theory may not be entirely correct.”

  Wiesegger’s discomfort about revising his opinion was obvious to see. Suddenly he no longer seemed so smug; he was just a nice young man who’d made an unfortunate misjudgment.

  “There’s no shame in that.” Emmerich was in a generous mood. “There was no evidence to support my theory, after all. I just had a gut feeling. Something you develop over the years. Comes with experience.”

  The medical examiner smiled. “I’ll send you a copy,” he said and turned back to the dismembered woman. “Cigarette roller, eh . . . ” he mumbled.

  Emmerich said goodbye and went out to where Winter, blanched chalky white, was waiting for him.

  “I’m so embarrassed. I was completely overwhelmed. It won’t happen again.” He wiped his mouth. “How was it with Wiesegger? What did he say?”

  Emmerich summarized the conversation and told him about the enlightening analysis. “And speaking of stomach contents, it seems as if yours might need to be refilled. Let’s see if we can coax a little more out of the waitress at Poldi Tant.”

  Winter wasn’t sure whether his boss meant food or information. “I’ll never be able to eat apricot jam again,” he lamented as they left the medical examiner’s behind and headed toward Nußdorf.

  “No great loss,” Emmerich answered. “Plum jelly is much better anyway.”

  Poldi Tant was packed once again today. Despite the poverty and food shortages, there were apparently still people in the city who could afford to spend their days in cafés or pubs.

  The lines of the song, He is happiest, who forgets, that which cannot be changed, shot through Emmerich’s head. This could easily be accomplished with the help of beer and wine. And heroin. Whenever he slurped down one of the wonder pills the hours that followed were completely pain-free. He felt strong and healthy. The medicine really earned its heroic name.

  “Now that it’s clear it was murder, we can turn the case over to Leib und Leben,” observed Winter.

  Emmerich had to concede that he was right. “Trust is good, verification is better,” he quoted Sister Erzsebet from the orphanage. “We don’t want to leave ourselves open to looking silly in front of Horvat and his men.”

  Truth be told, it was about more than that to him. Much more. Not just that he didn’t want to make a fool of himself—he wanted to make a name for himself. He wanted to solve the case and in so doing prove his skills so as to make the impossible happen—earning a spot in the best police division in the country despite his war wound.

  Winter seemed to accept the pretext. “Whoa, steamy,” he said as they entered the pub.

  The air was so thick that you could cut it. It smelled like a mix of soup, pipe smoke, and alcohol. Laughing, chitchat, and the obligatory Schrammel music filled the room, and soon the buxom waitress came tromping toward them. Like the previous time, her cheeks were red and she had on a green dirndl.

  “So, the gentlemen from the food safety division.” She put her hands on her hips and glared at them so ferociously that Winter moved behind Emmerich. “Another complaint? Want to try something else? What’ll be today? Goulasch? Boiled beef? Or maybe blood sausage and roast potatoes?”

  “Do you have any fried chicken?” asked Emmerich.

  “Got nothing.” She stuck out her chin aggressively. “Hygiene laws, my ass. Sponging my food and wasting my time.”

  “Where’d you get that idea?” asked Emmerich when he’d found his voice again.

  I went to the Margareten commissariat. Looked at the mug shots. Just like you told me to. Your colleague laughed out loud when I asked about the hygiene code you cited.”

  Emmerich wanted to smack himself. He’d completely forgotten that he’d told her to report to the station house. “You didn’t recognize anyone from the pictures?” he tried to distract her.

  “Of course not. There probably wasn’t even a crime.”

  Emmerich wanted to contradict her, but was interrupted by a fat bald man. “Stop flirting, Fini, and bring me another glass of wine,” he bellowed.

  “I have to get back to work, and you lot can kindly piss off or I’ll charge you for the other day’s schnitzel.” She hurried off to the bar and pulled out a magnum bottle of wine from behind it. “What do you want?” she asked gruffly when Emmerich followed her. “Can’t you see I have work to do? Upstanding people have to pay for their food by working for a living.”

  “I’m sorry about the schnitzel.” Emmerich put on a penitent face. “But in all truth this isn’t about a hygiene code violation, it’s about murder, and we need your help. Two of the three men who were here that night are dead. The third is either the murderer or the next victim. Either way I need to find him.”

  The waitress put down the oversized green bottle and narrowed her eyes. “You’re not lying?”

  “What would I stand to gain by lying to you?”

  This seemed to make sense to her. “But how am I supposed to help? I already told you that I don’t know anything.”

  “People often know more than they realize. Is there someplace we can talk?”

  She thought for a second. “Wait in the kitchen,” she said, pouring the glass of wine. “I’ll check on the customers really quickly, then I’ll be there.”

  “Employees only!” yelled the sweating cook, red-faced from the heat, when Emmerich and Winter stepped into the kitchen. He was stirring a large soup pot, which brought back bad memories for Winter.

  “It’s alright, Sepp. They’re with me.” The waitress came in behind them and motioned to a small table at the back of the room, next to the trash cans. “I don’t have long. When the cat is away . . . you know how it is. So?” She looked at them quizzically.

  “Try to think back to that night,” Emmerich suggested. “Probably best if you close your eyes and concentrate.”

  “You trying to hypnotize me? Like the Indians?”

  “Just do what he says, Fini, and then get out of here,” the cook called as he tossed some nondescript herbs into the soup. “You have to look after the customers.”

  “Fine, but god help me if anyone laughs.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “And? Anything?” asked Emmerich.

  “Everything’s black.”

  “Think of the table. Think of the men. It was late, there probably weren’t many other people still here.”

  “I remember I was worried about being able to go home. They didn’t look like they were concerned about closing time.”

  “In your line of work, you always have to remember what people order. Your ability to remember things must be fantastic,” Emmerich spurred her on. “Think. What did the third man look like? Anything unusual about him?”

  “He sat with his back to the room. I only saw him from the front briefly, as he was walking out. Big and broad-shouldered, he was. An attractive man. He looked a little like Emil Jannings . . . ” She smiled fawningly. “Only he was older,” she continued. “Hard to describe.”

  “But you would recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Pretty sure. He definitely wasn’t among the mug shots.”

  “Concentrate again, Fini,” Emmerich urged her. He needed more. More
information, more details, more clues. “Did you happen to hear what the men were talking about? Can you remember any snippets of conversation? You can solve a horrible crime and maybe even save someone’s life.”

  The red of her cheeks was darkening to purple, and she fanned herself with her hand.

  “Fini, the customers!” yelled the cook.

  “Quiet, Sepp. I’ve got a responsibility here.” She closed her eyes again and lowered her head. “It was about money.” She rubbed her nose and furrowed her brow. “Hmm . . . ” She looked up again. “Emigrating!” she yelled so loudly and suddenly that Winter jumped up and knocked into one of the trash cans, and its top fell to the tiled floor with a clang. “They were talking about fleeing the country, and about the war.”

  “Fini! The customers!” The cook looked at them. The fact that he had traded his soup ladle for a fileting knife did nothing to lessen the tension.

  “That’s it. Can’t think of anything else.”

  Emmerich thanked her. Money, emigrating, war. These were topics half the country were discussing daily. Nothing he could hang an investigation on.

  Leaving the kitchen, his gaze fell on the contents of the trash can. “What is that?” he asked, fishing out a hoof.

  “What’s left of a calf, for veal schnitzel.”

  “Sure was a big calf. And one that wore horseshoes.” He pointed to the row of small holes lining the edges of the hoof.

  “First the hygiene police, then murder inspectors, and now veterinarians. You should really decide on one at some point.” Fini smoothed out her apron and hurried out into the main room.

  “Was that really an old nag the other day?” asked Winter once they were outside.

  “Tasted good to me. I’ve certainly had worse.”

  Winter wanted to ask what that might have been but stopped himself, looking across the street. “Am I imagining it, or are we being followed?” he whispered.

  “Today’s not the first day, and there’ve been several of them.”

  18.

  You coming to the Apollo tonight, Emmerich?” asked Hörl, who was standing in front of the commissariat with a few other colleagues, rolling a cigarette. “There’s boxing. Afterwards we’ll have a look into Ronacher. A certain Claire Bauroff is dancing there.” He winked conspiratorially. “Dancing naked, that is.”

  The other men laughed, and Winter blushed.

  “Bauroff came to entertain the troops at the front. Everyone’s already seen her endowments.” Emmerich snatched the finished cigarette out of Hörl’s hand and tucked it behind his own ear.

  “What about you, kid? It’s virgin territory for you, eh?” Hörl, who was apparently on the day shift today, wouldn’t be dissuaded.

  Winter felt uncomfortable. “I don’t know. I’ve got a lot to do.” He hurried into the commissariat.

  Emmerich followed him. Inside he lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. “Don’t let them get under your skin,” he said. “Bauroff’s chest isn’t worth it anyway. We’re better off taking care of important things.”

  Tap, tap, tap. Winter was already at his clunky, black typewriter. The sound that the type bar made when it hit the ink ribbon reminded Emmerich of the irritating clack of the combat boots that he fortunately no longer had to wear. Tap, tap, tap.

  “I’ve already got the most important material down,” Winter announced calmly without responding to Emmerich’s words.

  Emmerich stood behind his assistant and began to dictate the report for Sander.

  “The correlation between the stomach contents, as documented by Medical Examiner Wiesegger, allows us to conclude that the two victims were together in the public house Poldi Tant—”

  “Wait. Not so fast.” Winter shoved the heavy rubber roll that the paper was wrapped around to the right until it clicked into place with a ping, then let his fingers hover above the keyboard again like hungry birds.

  “That’s the colon . . . ” Emmerich pressed the key, causing another tap. “Isn’t that quicker? Wasting time like this drives me nuts.” He hated desk work, and tapped on the back of Winter’s chair.

  “Emmerich!” cried Hörl across the room. “District Inspector Sander wants to know what the story is with the smugglers.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll take care of it.”

  Emmerich went over to the window and looked out. He’d put the smugglers completely out of his mind. He had to show results. And he couldn’t just make up some half-baked theory.

  “How should I continue?” asked Winter.

  “Come up with something, you were there.” Emmerich was fed up with paperwork. He put on his jacket. “I need to take care of a few things. Be back soon.”

  Tap, tap, tap he heard until he left the building—at that speed Winter would spend the rest of eternity sitting at the typewriter.

  The autumn sun was low in the sky and its rays were anemic. Emmerich held his face to the light anyway, trying to warm himself. He buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket, ambled along Margaretenstraße toward the city center, and quietly whistled. He is happiest, who forgets, that which cannot be changed.

  Just before Pressgasse he sped up, turned right, and then quickly hid in the nearest building entryway. Sure enough, a few seconds later a shadow rushed past him and then stopped in the middle of the block, apparently unsure which way to go.

  “Looking for me?” Emmerich asked the scrawny fellow as he looked around frantically.

  “Me? You? Why would I be?” the man answered, walking away with exaggerated calm.

  “Your shadowing skills leave something to be desired,” hissed Emmerich as he followed him. “Next time just introduce yourself and then walk with me. That would at least be polite.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The gaunt man blushed and walked faster.

  “Not good at lying, either. I’ll have to let Kolja know.”

  The man stopped, drooped his head, and mumbled something incomprehensible into his beard.

  “Tell Kolja I need to talk to him. It’s important. I’ll wait at Schwarzenberg Platz for him. In front of the Hochstrahl fountain. Now.” Emmerich folded his arms and the man scratched his head nervously. “I don’t have all day. If you go quickly, maybe I’ll forget about telling Kolja how badly you’re doing your job.”

  This seemed to light a fire under the man, and he nodded. “Schwarzenberg Platz. Hochstrahl fountain. Now,” he repeated and then hurried off.

  “You should take a lesson from your colleague. You could learn a lot from him,” Emmerich called after him.

  Kolja’s henchman stopped and turned toward him. “From who?” he asked, looking genuinely confused.

  “The other guy you have tailing me. He’s worlds better. I almost didn’t notice he was following me.”

  “What?” The man frowned and shook his head. “There’s only me,” he said, then ran off.

  While Emmerich walked past the Technical College and St. Charles Church on his way to Schwarzenbergplatz, his shadow’s words went through his head. There’s only me. He was sure there was a second. He hadn’t seen him yet, but he had a sixth sense for such things. Maybe Kolja hadn’t told them about each other? Or was he being watched by someone else who didn’t have anything to do with the smugglers? And if so, who? And why?

  At the fountain, he sat down on the low wall that skirted it, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. These were turbulent times he’d found himself in. The steady splashing of the water calmed his soul, and he absentmindedly ran his hand through one of the three hundred and sixty-five little fountains that ringed the enclosure. They symbolized the days of the year. Panta rhei—all flows, a wise man once said. If only it would flow a little slower.

  A heavy passing cart shook the ground, and Emmerich looked at his feet. Somewhere beneath them was the Fortress. He might even be sitting directly above
it, separated from Kolja and his henchmen by only a few meters of concrete and dirt.

  “Hey, you! Emmerich . . . ” His shadow was suddenly standing next to him.

  “Where’s Kolja?”

  “He’s waiting for you at Café Central. You’re supposed to go there.”

  Emmerich took his hand out of the fountain, shook off the water, and snorted. What was Kolja up to? Ordering him around like an errand boy. And of all places the Café Central, such an over-the-top establishment. He was tempted to refuse, but he had to swallow his pride. He needed something from Kolja, after all. Not the other way around.

  Central was housed in a former bank and bourse building which had functioned chiefly to represent the Empire in a blaze of glory. Evidently neither the guests nor the staff of the café wished to acknowledge that the Imperial and Royal monarchy had recently fallen, because they celebrated its splendor as if nothing had happened.

  In earlier times the intellectual elite had gathered here, but these days it was first and foremost the aristocrats of the finance world, high-ranking officials, and rich merchants bustling among marble-faced columns, golden English wallpaper, and monumental murals. And Kolja.

  The smuggler was enthroned at the best table in the house, reading the paper in the middle of the ballroom-like space. He was wearing elegant clothes and putting on such a show of sophisticated manners that it seemed as if he’d always been a member of this select company. Either he’d succeeded in leaving his past behind, or he was a master of deception. Probably the latter.

  “August, my friend,” he called, gesturing welcomingly to the chair opposite him.

  “Here, with the snobs? Really, Vanja? Who are you trying to impress?” Emmerich sat down and surveyed the fine china on the table.

  “Nobody. I don’t need to.” Kolja waved over the waiter. “Two coffees and two apple strudels, please.”

  “I can order for myself if I want something,” Emmerich hissed, but Kolja just ignored him.

  With a nod of the head he made clear to the waiter that the order still stood. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked now, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin and smiling.