by F. R. Tallis
“Oh.” The porter sounded a little surprised. “Good night, sir. See you again soon.”
“I very much doubt that,” said Seeliger as he walked away.
Seeliger retraced his steps along the promenade but stopped when he reached a bandstand. He climbed the steps and stood beneath the canopy, looking across the valley at the beautiful fir-covered incline, silvered by moonlit snow. He took a few more steps and grabbed the railing in order to steady himself. He felt quite faint.
THIRTEEN
Rheinhardt and Haussmann were proceeding down a wide, cobbled street, their strides coinciding to produce an insistent, regular beat. A young man wearing a hat with a low brim—hands in his pockets—was loitering in a doorway and looking distinctly untrustworthy. He turned his back to them as they passed. The facades of the houses on either side were pocked where circles of plaster had fallen away and the air smelled of sewage. Ahead, an ordinary whitewashed building had been aggrandized by a turret surmounted by an onion-shaped dome—it introduced a hint of exoticism into an otherwise bleak purview. Turning onto a narrow side street the two men arrived outside a small eighteenth-century house that was streaked with grime. Above the lintel a weatherworn relief of a female figure, possibly a saint, was surrounded by a wreath of flowers. Rheinhardt struck the door with his fist. When no one answered he produced a bunch of skeleton keys and by a process of trial and error eventually found one that engaged the bolt.
The two men entered. On the ground floor they found a single room. There were no rugs covering the floorboards and the wallpaper was peeling in several places; a scratched table and two rustic chairs were positioned by the window. Muted light filtered through net curtains and fell on a moldy half-loaf of bread and cheese.
“How long do you think they’ve been there?” Haussmann asked.
“Long enough,” Rheinhardt replied. “Let’s take a look upstairs.”
As soon as they entered the bedroom the inspector and his assistant wrinkled their noses. A chamber pot—which could be seen under the bed—was full of stale urine and the smell it produced was sharp and caustic. Some clothes had been draped over a rack and an oil lamp hung from a hook that had been screwed into the ceiling. Leaning up against the wall, behind the stove, was a short riding crop.
Rheinhardt lifted a pair of trousers off the rack and started to search the pockets. After removing a grubby handkerchief, he found a folded menu from a beer cellar called The Golden Bears. A list of mostly Czech beverages was followed by descriptions of three simple dishes: liver dumplings, pork with red cabbage, sausages and sauerkraut. Only one meal was available on particular days of the week—and no food was available on Mondays.
“The Golden Bears,” said Rheinhardt, raising the menu. “Do you know it?”
“No,” said Haussmann. On the back of the menu someone had written a name and address: Clement, Tempelgasse 14—Leopoldstadt. “This is interesting . . .”
Rheinhardt looked across the room toward his assistant, who was kneeling by the bed. “What’s interesting?”
Haussmann raised his hand, showing his superior a roll of banknotes. “A lot of money . . .”
“Yes,” Rheinhardt agreed, “especially for someone with only two pairs of trousers.”
FOURTEEN
Razumovsky had supplied the maid who worked at the Palais Khevenhüller with a rather feeble pretext for wanting to know the pianist’s name; however, the poor girl wasn’t very intelligent and she was far too deferential to question the motives of a gentleman. When he paid her for her trouble she was overwhelmed with gratitude—he suspected that after his departure she might even have shed a few tears.
Twenty-four hours later, Razumovsky knew everything he needed to know about Frimunt Curtius and it was all extraordinarily auspicious. Razumovsky didn’t believe in fate, but if there was such a thing then the presiding Personifications had apparently decided to work decisively in his favor. Curtius was perfect. A talented interpreter of Galant keyboard works, but one who had never been championed by an influential critic; an unattractive man—quite portly—with a double chin, receding hair, and a swollen, varicose nose; a bitter man, acutely conscious of the fact that his musical accomplishments had never been formally recognized. He still performed regularly, even so, his recitals were poorly attended and his main source of income was teaching. Every day, he was obliged to spend several hours seated beside the languid, perfumed daughters of court officials, listening to poorly executed scales and arpeggios. The invitation to play at the Palais Khevenhüller had been issued by the father of one of these fragrant, juvenile graces. Curtius was also a lonely man, an aging bachelor who—because of awkwardness in the company of women—had become a habitué of a shabby-genteel brothel close to the Nordbahnhof.
Razumovsky had been waiting outside this brothel for just over three hours and it was past two o’clock in the morning when Curtius finally emerged. The pianist had been drinking heavily and was unsteady on his feet.
“Is it you?” said Razumovsky, pointing his cane and stepping forward. “Yes, it is you. Good evening, Herr Curtius.”
The pianist moved his head backward and forward because his eyes alone were unable to establish a satisfactory focal length.
“Who are you?” Curtius squinted.
“An admirer,” Razumovsky replied. “I simply adore your C.P.E. Bach. Your sonatas are the gold standard, the pinnacle—such elegance, such lightness, such delicacy.”
Curtius straightened his back. “Are you a critic?”
“No,” Razumovsky shook his head. “Philistines—every one of them—what do they know, eh?”
“Not very much,” Curtius agreed.
“Are you walking this way—toward the canal?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I am.”
“Please, permit me to accompany you.”
The two men strolled down the street and Razumovsky was delighted to discover how easy it was to engage and manipulate his companion. Curtius was soon railing against the Viennese musical establishment and enumerating petty slights and discourtesies on his fingers. Spittle flew from his mouth as he articulated splenetic insults.
As they crossed the Franzensbrücke, Razumovsky began to slow his pace, and when he reached the middle of the bridge he stopped and leaned over the railing. Curtius—as if under the control of some strange, sympathetic power—did exactly the same. They contemplated the shimmering, reflected disc of the moon, which broke up and reassembled when a breeze momentarily agitated the surface of the black water. On either side of the canal, the buildings were high, with large sloping roofs. The sound of a night cargo train rattled into silence.
“You know,” said Razumovsky, “your life . . . it doesn’t have to be this way.”
“What?” Curtius asked.
“You could make a new start—among like-minded people who would welcome you into their society. Like a brother.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re suggesting.”
“Introductions could be made—very easily, in fact. You would soon become acquainted with a wide circle of charming women—cultured, intelligent—with modern attitudes; women who do not share the Viennese obsession with superficial appearances, who value inner beauty, nobility, and truth. Berne. That’s the place for a man like you.”
“Are you Swiss?”
Razumovsky laughed. “No, I’m not Swiss.”
Curtius turned to look at his companion properly for the first time and registered his diabolical aspect: the intensity of his gaze, the sharp, groomed point of his beard. A sudden chill reminded Curtius of his childhood and Živka, his old nanny, who came from Visĕgrad and who used to tell him stories, one of which was about a man who had met the devil on a bridge and wagered his soul during a game of cards.
“Are you about to make me some sort of proposal?” asked Curtius.
Razumovsky’s head rotated slowly and he smiled. “What a perceptive fellow you are.”
FIFTEEN
&nb
sp; Rheinhardt handed Clement Kruckel the menu he had found in the murdered man’s bedroom. Herr Kruckel—an elderly journalist—turned the card over and grunted his assent. “This is my handwriting. I wrote my name and address down for a gentleman called Tab—an Italian. I’d just met him.”
Kruckel was in his late sixties. His forehead was abnormally high and there was something peculiarly distinct about the lines and planes of his face that created an effect similar to lithographic portraiture.
“Do you know his full name?”
“Yes. Angelo. Angelo Callari, but he preferred to be called Tab.” Kruckel passed the menu back to Rheinhardt. “He’s been in Vienna for about a month or so, I believe.”
The tabletop between the two men was covered with books, pens, and sheets of paper. Kruckel was sitting behind the keyboard of a large Adler typewriter, the shiny black casing of which was gilded with a symbolic eagle.
“Why did you give him your address?”
“So he could contact me—of course.”
“You formed a friendship?”
“He was interested in joining my educational society. We print pamphlets, organize lectures, disseminate information; he came to a discussion group, held here, in this very room—just after Christmas.”
“Does your society have a name?”
“Yes. Fraternitas. We encourage friendship between nations and encourage politicians to ensure that better provision is made for the poor. Tab hasn’t got into trouble, has he?”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“A couple of weeks ago, in The Golden Bears.”
Rheinhardt made some notes. “What did Signor Callari do for a living?”
“I think he mentioned having been employed as a servant—but that was back in Italy.”
“Did he intend to stay in Vienna?”
“I have no idea.”
“Was he looking for work?”
“I don’t know. Look, what did he do? If he’s in trouble then I’d like to help him—if I can.”
A moment of silence preceded Rheinhardt’s response: “On Monday the eleventh of January, the body of a man was discovered in the abandoned Gallus and Sons piano factory in Favoriten.”
“Yes,” said the journalist, nodding. “I read about it in the newspapers.”
“I think there’s a very good chance that the dead man was Signor Callari.”
Kruckel’s fingers spread over the typewriter keys. He tapped one of them a few times and said, “I see . . . you want me to identify the body?”
Rheinhardt shook his head. “The man’s face was badly disfigured with acid.” Kruckel nodded—very slowly—and appeared to sink into a state of thoughtful self-absorption. “Did Signor Callari ever give you any reason to suspect that he might be evading enemies?”
“No.”
“He was never nervous, jittery—prone to looking over his shoulder?”
“Quite the contrary, he was always very composed and collected.”
“We found a large sum of money under his mattress.”
For the first time the journalist looked surprised. “Do you think he stole it?”
“Possibly.”
Rheinhardt continued asking Kruckel questions; however, the old journalist’s answers weren’t very illuminating. Eventually, Kruckel started showing small signs of impatience and irritation. Rheinhardt made a final entry in his notebook and rose to leave. At that point, instead of voicing the usual perfunctory courtesies, Kruckel rifled through the clutter on the tabletop—lifting books and pushing papers aside—until he found a pamphlet which he handed to Rheinhardt.
A crude illustration showed a laborer with rolled up shirtsleeves climbing toward a beacon on a hill. Below this there was a caption: “Nothing to lose—everything to gain—Fraternitas.”
“Read it,” said Kruckel. “We haven’t admitted any policemen into our circle. Well, not yet, anyway. You might see some merit in our cause.” Rheinhardt felt a little awkward. He was familiar with the fanaticism of pamphleteers and supposed that he wouldn’t have much in common with the members of Fraternitas. Instinctively, he wanted to hand the pamphlet back to Kruckel but resisted the urge—not wishing to offend the old man. “How much do they pay you?” Kruckel continued. “I daresay it’s nowhere near enough—not when one considers what’s expected of a man like you. How many times have you risked your life in the line of duty, eh? Quite a few, I imagine.”
Rheinhardt slipped the pamphlet into the inside pocket of his coat. “Thank you.”
Kruckel stood up. “Who benefits most from law and order? Your family, your friends? Or them?” The old journalist’s eyes were suddenly bright with iconoclastic fire. “Comfortable and secure in their palaces—the people on top, the people who have always been on top.”
Rheinhardt sighed. “You know, Herr Kruckel, that sort of talk could very easily get you into trouble.”
SIXTEEN
As Vala Feist walked through the long dark tunnel, she reflected on some of the academic performance grades she had entered in the little red class book. She had written “insufficient” beside at least ten names. Had she been too strict? A mental picture formed in her mind: gas jets flickering, children, sitting on benches, looking up at her, expectant, some even fearful. She demanded a great deal from her pupils, not because she was a martinet, but rather, because she feared that they would miss an opportunity for betterment. The acquisition of good reading and writing skills—combined with a sound grasp of basic mathematical principles—was probably the only means by which any of them would be able to escape lifelong poverty.
A man without shoes was sitting with his back against the wall. He opened his eyes and stared at her. Even in his drunken state, he was sufficiently aware to appreciate the peculiarity of what he was seeing: a somewhat prim, spinsterish woman wearing a high-necked blouse and a bonnet decorated with artificial flowers, holding a paraffin lamp high above her head. In her other hand she clutched the straps of a bulging hemp shopping bag.
“Good evening,” Vala said as she passed.
The man was too shocked to reply.
Vala reached the end of the tunnel and turned onto a gravel path that followed the course of one of the broader sewage channels. It was wide enough to accommodate a canal boat. The stench didn’t bother her. She had been exploring the sewers beneath Vienna for many years and had become quite inured to the smell. Some of the waterways were said to date back to Roman times.
She had witnessed many strange things on her forays into this vast, benighted labyrinth: a caravan of men and women splashing across an underground stream, each carrying a paper lantern; a small, dying alligator—its jaws snapping feebly in a culvert; a blind hurdy-gurdy player being led on a leash by a gypsy dwarf. On St. Erminold’s feast day she had encountered two well-dressed gentlemen, a journalist, Herr Kläger, and a photographer, Herr Draw, on a balcony above a cataract of reeking effluent. These explorers were accompanied by a shifty individual—armed with brass knuckles—who they had employed as a guide. Their intention, so they said, was to document the wretched lives of the thousands of unfortunates who colonized the sewers every winter. Herr Kläger had offered to escort Vala back to the surface and she had had enormous trouble getting him to accept that she didn’t require his or his henchman’s assistance.
Turning right again, Vala entered a vaulted passage. The walls were damp and puddles had collected on the ground. She arrived at a rusty iron door which she struck with a balled fist. When it creaked open she stepped into a crowded, smoky chamber in which fifteen or so people huddled around a makeshift brazier. They were like a tribe of troglodytes and greeted her in an unintelligible Slav dialect that suggested some remote, rural provenance—possibly Carpathian Ruthenia. All of the women were wearing head scarfs and baggy brown coats. One of them was surrounded by a circle of small children and had a baby attached to an exposed breast.
A man resembling a shepherd in an operetta stood up and approached Vala. He only spo
ke a few words of German: “Lady—good lady—thank you, thank you.” She handed the man her bag and he distributed the contents: pickled fish, black bread, and some vanillekipferl biscuits. The starving men and women ate like animals, fast and furtive, as if their ration might be snatched away by a stealthy scavenger. Vala was invited to sit on an overturned crate and the “shepherd” produced a bottle. He dribbled a small amount of brown liquid into a cracked cup. Vala didn’t want to injure the man’s pride so she accepted his hospitality and took a sip. It was a strong, herbal liquor, not unpleasant, but sufficiently alien to confuse the palate. The aftertaste was peppery and hot. An old woman began to sing in a low, coarse voice. It was an exotic melody that occasionally incorporated the augmented interval of a harmonic scale. Was it a lament or a lullaby for the children? The old woman’s hard, fixed expression gave no indication.
When the song was finished, Vala recovered her bag and mimed her readiness to leave. The “shepherd” opened the door for her, bowed his head, and repeated, “Good lady—thank you—thank you.” When he looked up the lower rims of his eyes had become glimmering crescents: tears of gratitude were imminent.
“I’ll come again. Tomorrow, if I can.” She said this knowing that he wouldn’t understand.
Some of the others raised their arms and uttered what must have been good wishes in their mother tongue. The old woman sketched a benediction in the air.
Vala hurried back along the tunnel. Behind her, the squealing of hinges preceded a sonorous clang.
She reached the broad sewage channel. Her footsteps produced an echo, but after a minute or so, the regularity of the double beat was complicated by a cross rhythm. Vala stopped abruptly and heard the unmistakable crunch of gravel beneath the sole of a shoe—an echo—then nothing but water droplets landing in a puddle. Someone was following her. She turned and called out: “Who’s there?” The acoustic properties of the vault encouraged several iterations of the question.
