by Frank Tallis
“Burke Faust,” Liebermann added.
“Councillor Burke Faust,” said Rheinhardt, emphasizing the man’s title. “His remains were discovered next to the plague column by the church of Maria Geburt in Hietzing. Death was caused by decapitation, and the method employed was exactly the same as before. His head had been torn from his body. He was dressed in the kind of clothes a gentleman usually wears in his study: a smoking jacket, loose trousers, and a pair of slippers. It was obvious that he hadn’t been walking the streets dressed like that. He must have been knocked unconscious before being transported to the plague column. Professor Mathias found evidence of a blow delivered to the back of the head, and later we learned that his Hietzing villa had been broken into.”
“Did you find any signs of a struggle?”
“No.”
“The obituaries in the late editions suggested that he was a rising star at the town hall.”
“He certainly was. In fact, he was the prime candidate for a plum job in the mayor’s office. Some believed he might, in due course, have been selected as a future mayoral candidate. As you would expect, Faust’s political instincts were not dissimilar to Lueger’s, although Faust was thought by many to be more extreme.”
“As exemplified by his recent article in which he referred to Jews as a plague.”
“Good heavens,” said Rheinhardt. “Have you read it?”
“No,” said Liebermann.
“Then how—”
“I assumed, under the circumstances, that such an article must exist.”
Rheinhardt frowned and continued, “When we were interviewing Faust’s colleagues at the town hall, one of them mentioned that the councillor had written a piece for Die Reichpost, and that it had impressed the mayor. It’s full of the usual rhetoric but is distinguished by Faust’s espousal of a carefully constructed three-phase plan for eliminating Jews entirely from public life—and the professions.”
“And who did he think the good people of Vienna would consult when they became ill?”
“Faust was exercised largely by the problem of how elimination of the Jews from the professions might be accomplished, rather than by its actual consequences.”
Liebermann poured more brandy and stared into the fire.
“Was he married?”
“No. He lived alone.”
“What about his staff?”
“They live in an apartment building near the train station. He would have had no one to call upon for assistance when he was attacked.”
Liebermann turned his brandy and contemplated the flames through the repeated motif of the cut glass.
“Apart from the obvious commonality of the plague columns, were there any other similarities between our two murder scenes?”
“Yes,” said Rheinhardt, extending the syllable and sounding somewhat hesitant. “Once again there was a great deal of mud in the vicinity of the body, and once again it seemed to have been purposely put there rather than dislodged from a vehicle. There were no tracks, other than those on the main road.”
“Did you have the mud analyzed?”
“I did, and it proved to be entirely unremarkable. You might collect it anywhere on the banks of the Danube or up in the woods.” Rheinhardt twisted one of the horns of his mustache, and added, “Oh, I almost forgot to say, there was another similarity. Maria Geburt, like Maria Treue Kirche, has a school close by.”
Liebermann continued to turn his glass, seemingly entranced by the patterns of light.
“Who discovered the body?”
“A hapless fellow called Octavian Quint. He’d lost all of his money playing cards and had been ejected from the table. On his way home he went to relieve himself behind the church and fell asleep in a doorway. He claims to have been awakened by a noise that he described as a whirring, clicking sound… like a giant insect.”
The young doctor stopped looking into his brandy glass, and his head slowly rotated to reveal, degree by degree, an expression of such profound skepticism that it might just as easily have been provoked by an insult.
“A giant insect?”
“That’s what he said,” Rheinhardt replied gruffly. “And whatever it was, I’m sure it frightened him.”
“Had the man been drinking?”
“Almost certainly.”
Liebermann gestured as if to say, Well, there you are, then.
“How many plague columns are there in Vienna?” asked Liebermann.
“The Graben, Saint Ulrich’s, the Rochuskapelle Pensingerstrasse—a considerable number.”
“Too many to be kept under observation?”
“The Karlskirche, Dornbach.” Rheinhardt was raising his fingers. “Yes, far too many.”
“What about if you restricted observation to those plague columns close to schools?”
“That is a possibility.”
The young doctor took another cigar, lit it, and sank back into his chair. In only a few seconds he had produced a dense, fragrant haze. He was evidently deep in thought. Rheinhardt made a fanciful connection between the smoke and his friend’s intense mental activity, imagining the billowing clouds to be the product of an overheated brain. A log on the fire hissed, crackled, and threw up a fountain of sparks. The pyrotechnics roused Liebermann, who pulled himself up to speak.
“These two murders,” he began, “are characterized by peculiarities that indicate the workings of an idiosyncratic but purposeful mind. There is a scheme here, obviously: two rabid anti-Semites who have recently likened Jews to a scourge are found dead, justly punished for their invective.” The young doctor grinned, to show that the sentiment was not his own. “Found dead at the foot of the Treue Kirche and Maria Geburt plague columns. They have been decapitated, a method of execution that is associated with the demise of kings. Thus, we are to understand that men of influence, the heads of religious and civic life, are being warned against the promulgation of hateful ideologies. The proximity of the schools reinforces this message. Prejudice can easily be transmitted from generation to generation—thus those who occupy positions of power are doubly cautioned against the abuse of authority. So far the symbolism presents us with few interpretative difficulties; however, there are other features that remain utterly incomprehensible. Why were the victims decapitated in such an impractical way? And what does the mud represent? Filth, excrement, moral turpitude? To these questions I have no ready answer.”
Liebermann stubbed out his cigar and immediately lit another. Rheinhardt patiently waited for his friend to continue.
“Earlier, I said that the peculiarities of these murders indicate the workings of an idiosyncratic mind: obsessionality, symbolism, the construction of dramatic tableaux. These are all ‘signatures’ that we have learned to associate with a particular kind of criminal, the lone fanatic whose delusional system, unchallenged, thrives in isolation, its internal structure becoming increasingly intricate and mythic, and promoting in the process a form of messianic narcissism. Nevertheless, these murders could not have been perpetrated by one man alone.”
“Professor Mathias was of the opinion that it would require the efforts of at least two exceptionally strong men to remove a human head by ripping it from the body in this way.”
“Indeed. Now, it is commonplace for individuals to become delusional, and delusional beliefs might easily guide a campaign of retributive violence. But what we seem to have here is a delusional individual who has persuaded others of the legitimacy of his vision.”
“Ahh…,” said Rheinhardt, suddenly sitting up straight and waving his index finger in the air. “I believe you have said something there that might prove to be very significant.”
“Oh?”
“Clearly, the perpetrators of these two murders are Jews.” Rheinhardt paused to allow Liebermann to disagree. The young doctor said nothing. “And you will remember that on a previous occasion you suggested that the hereditary leaders of the Hasidim often wield great power over their people, and that their sects are relati
vely self-contained.”
Liebermann thought for a moment. Suddenly he smiled and said, “So I did!”
“Well, then, it seems to me that you have already proposed an ideal environment in which the phenomenon you seek to explain might occur. If my memory serves me correctly, you said that a rebbe might claim to receive instructions from God, and that his devotees—in the absence of any other counsel—would very likely obey his orders without question.”
“Yes,” said Liebermann, impressed by his own perspicacity. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“There is a rebbe among the Hasidim of Leopoldstadt called Barash, who is said to have predicted the death of Brother Stanislav.”
“Did he prophesy that the monk was going to be decapitated?”
“We’re not sure. One of his sect became involved in a religious argument and was overheard making the claim.”
“Where did this happen?”
“In a coffeehouse. Zuckers. I wonder, would you be willing to interview Barash, Max?”
“Of course. But if we are correct, and it transpires that these murders are the work of a Jewish cabal, can you imagine how the Christian Socials and the clerics will react! Think of the political capital they made out of that miserable wretch Hilsner!” Liebermann flicked his glass, and the crystal emitted a soft chime. “Which makes me wonder… what if? What if these murders are not what they appear to be? What if they are a means of turning public opinion against an all too obviously guilty party?”
Rheinhardt poured himself another large brandy.
In his mind, he saw an angry horde crossing the Danube canal and marching into Leopoldstadt. He saw men in caftans being dragged from their houses, and he saw blood on the cobbled streets. He tried to think of something else, but the images were vivid and persistent.
30
PROFESSOR PRIEL TROTTED DOWN the stairs of the university and paused on the pavement to extricate his watch from his vest pocket. He noted the time, and set off in a southerly direction. If he hurried, he would be able to deliver the envelope that he carried in his pocket to Frau Meyer and be back in good time to give his afternoon tutorial. The envelope contained a donation from the Rothenstein Education Fellowship, and its purpose was to provide Frau Meyer with sufficient funds to equip her new school on Alois Gasse with some basic classroom furniture. The donation would probably be reported in the newspapers, and once again the public would be informed of Rothenstein’s outstanding generosity. Priel, of course, would not be mentioned. He never was.
Another man might have felt envious or resentful, but Priel was remarkably sanguine concerning his situation. Indeed, he rather liked being an éminence grise: advising, making suggestions, his judgment trusted. He associated himself with the Talmudic legend of the lamed vavniks, the righteous men. Living in the world there are, at any given time, thirty-six righteous men whose good deeds stop the world from ending. They accomplish their work in secret and are never rewarded. When one dies, another is born. And so it goes on, from generation to generation, thirty-six anonymous Jews standing unthanked between civilization and ruin.
Priel thought about Frau Meyer. A widow, dedicated to improving the lot of the latest wave of immigrant children who had arrived in Leopoldstadt. He would give her the envelope, and she would smile, clasp his hand, and express profound gratitude. And he would then reply, as he always did, It isn’t me whom you should be thanking.
Rothenstein was always too busy hobnobbing with royalty to decide who should—or shouldn’t—be the recipient of his largesse. And Rothenstein’s wife, Priel’s sister, was completely self-obsessed. The fate of the poor meant nothing to her as compared with the unmitigated disaster of wearing the wrong kind of dress at a palace function. Priel’s two nieces and his nephew were equally indifferent. Brittle, shallow, and spoiled, their German was embarrassingly inflected to sound like the imperial dialect known as Schönbrunnerdeutsch. Over the years Priel had been given more and more responsibility for the distribution of Rothenstein’s bounty. Occasionally, when Priel presented Rothenstein with documents to sign, the great banker would ask a few bland questions. But if Priel attempted to give him a proper answer, Rothenstein would soon look bored and end the conversation by saying, “I’m sure everything is in order. I have every confidence in you, Josef.” Like the rest of his family, Rothenstein enjoyed the gala balls and the public recognition much more than the process of determining which causes were the most deserving.
Priel passed the town hall and glanced up at its Gothic façade: the huge central tower, the elevated loggia with its curved balconies and delicate tracery.
Thirty-six righteous men…
They wouldn’t be found in there. Of that he was quite certain.
Priel accelerated his sprightly step. He was looking forward to seeing Frau Meyer again. She was an intelligent woman who appreciated philosophy and good music. The last time they’d met she had asked him what he thought of Nietzsche’s The Case of Wagner. The discussion that followed had been most stimulating. Moreover, she had kept her figure.
Having warned his students and the Kusevitsky brothers that great thinkers should be wary of the snare of marriage, he reprimanded himself.
Hypocrite!
He might not be a righteous man, exactly, but he was nevertheless a man of honor. He had an example to set. And as much as he would enjoy the company of Frau Meyer at the opera, it was probably better that he continued to go alone. He would give her the envelope, have a cup of tea, and leave.
31
NAHUM NAGEL PLACED THE small weights on one side of his scale and a large weight on the other. The equipoise was so perfect that even his breath caused the left side to dip lower than the right. His friend Yudl Berger was sitting on the other side of the shop counter on a three-legged stool.
“My cousin knows about these things,” said Yudl, winding around his fingers the knotted tassles that hung from his waist. “And in his opinion Faust would have caused us a lot of grief, had he lived. He wanted to introduce special taxes and special police.”
Upstairs, Nahum’s father began coughing. It sounded like someone sawing wood, a horrible double rasp. Yudl glanced upward. “Has he seen a doctor?”
“Zingler came a few weeks ago. He said we should consider moving so as to get away from the damp.” Nahum made a hopeless gesture with his hands. “How could we possibly manage that?”
Yudl nodded sympathetically but returned to his original theme. “You know Pinhas the draper? He was delivering some curtains up to the big hotel in Hietzing, where the body was found. He actually saw it, by the plague column.” Yudl raised his eyebrows and in a melodramatic stage whisper added, “Mud everywhere.”
Nahum looked up from his weights. “You don’t really believe…”
“Doubrovsky knows the shoeblack who sits outside the theatre in Josefstadt. When the police were getting ready to leave, several of them walked up to have their shoes cleaned. The shoeblack said they were filthy. Covered in thick mud. Like clay. Josefstadt and Hietzing.” Nahum shook his head. He was evidently unconvinced.
“Our rebbe Barash says that things are going to change,” Yudl continued. “For the better.”
“Ach! He said the same thing to my father, and look at us!”
The look in Nahum’s eyes was desperate, his voice angry.
“He was right about the priest, wasn’t he?” Yudl responded, defending their spiritual master. “He said the priest would never make trouble here again—and he won’t, that’s for sure! And did you hear what he said to old man Robak? He promised him justice, vengeance. Two weeks before!”
The expression of sulky resentment on Nahum’s face was replaced by curiosity.
“Who told you that?”
“My wife. Old Robak’s eldest daughter is a friend of my wife’s aunt.”
Nahum tapped the pyramid of small weights on the scale. He wanted to believe, but his faith in the zaddik had been weakened. It was only a matter of time before the two men c
ame again, making impossible demands. He and his father were close to ruin.
“Mud,” he said pensively. “In both places?”
“Yes,” said Yudl. “It can mean only one thing.”
32
LIEBERMANN MADE HIS WAY to the old ghetto district and Rebbe Barash’s residence. He was received by a sullen maid who ushered him into a sparsely furnished parlor: two armchairs, a stove, and an old sideboard. The walls were a dreary buff color, as were the curtains and the faded rug. Indeed, the whole room seemed to have been drained of vitality: everything in it was of an anemic, indefinite hue.
The young doctor sat down and waited. Time passed, and he occupied himself by performing some of the Klammer Method exercises. First wrist rotations, and then, holding his hands out in front of his body, he repeatedly touched the proximal phalanx of his little fingers with the tips of his thumbs. This movement, Professor Klammer suggested, was invaluable for development of the abductor pollicis brevis, opponens pollicis, and flexor pollicis brevis muscles. Liebermann continued his regimen until he reached exercise eleven, at which point the door opened and the zaddik entered.
In his general appearance, Barash conformed to Liebermann’s expectations, a Hasidic jew with a shaven head, skullcap, coiled sideburns, and heavy frock coat. He was, however, astonishingly large, a man whose dimensions demanded nothing less than comparison with features of the natural world. He was positively mountainous, possessing broad, peaked shoulders, and a face that resembled a serendipitously anthropomorphic arrangement of rocks. His scowl was evocative of the darkness that precedes a thunderstorm.
Barash sat directly opposite Liebermann, resting his big sculpted hands on the arms of his chair.
“My name is Dr. Max Liebermann. I am an associate of Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt of the security office.” Liebermann produced his official papers, but the zaddik showed no interest. “You were informed in advance of my visit?”
