by Frank Tallis
The old man shrugged. “She's simple.”
“Do you know where I can find Herr Krull?”
The old man returned a vacant expression.
“My friend,” said Rheinhardt, trying to keep calm. “It is extremely important that I find this man. Do you know where he lives?”
“Go to the inn and ask the landlord. Herr Jutzet-he knows where everybody lives.”
17
THE STAIRCASE WAS MADE of rough-hewn stone squeezed between two high windowless walls. As it went up, the stairs became both narrower and more uneven. At the very top was an alcove, which contained a plaster cast of Christ on the cross. The scene was bathed in a sickly yellow light that pulsed out of a faulty gas lamp. To reach the first step it was necessary to step across a pool of frozen water, which had collected in a depression where some paving stones were missing.
Rheinhardt tested the ice with his shoe, and watched a dendritic pattern grow from the point of impact. He applied more pressure. The liquid that welled up between the cracks was more like oil than water.
“Are we going up, sir?” asked Haussmann.
“I suppose this must be the address.”
Herr Jutzet-a big-bellied, red-cheeked publican-had been most obliging.
Yes, I know Herr Krull. A loner, with a gammy leg. Owes me four krone. Here's his address-I'll write it down for you. You see him, you tell him I want my money. Four krone. And if he doesn't pay soon, I'll be around to collect it myself.
The two detectives began their ascent. On either side, large nails had been driven into the walls, and from these a gallery of grim detritus hung: a cracked old mirror, some lengths of string, and an assortment of dirty rags.
Almost immediately, Rheinhardt slipped. It was difficult to find reasonable purchase on the raked stairs. He reached out and touched the wall to steady himself.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked Haussmann.
“Yes, thank you,” Rheinhardt replied-but he was not altogether confident that they would reach their destination without sustaining serious injuries. They progressed slowly, pausing on each step before attempting the next. Finally they reached the top, where they both stopped to inspect the crucifix, which was housed in an ambry and protected by an iron grill. The effigy itself was chipped and faded; however, it looked as if Christ's crown of thorns and the spear wound in his side had been recently retouched with generous amounts of red paint. A number of candle stubs lay at the foot of the cross, and Christ's legs had been blackened with soot. Red and white wax had spilled over the lip of the ambry and congealed in runnels that had stuck to the plaster.
“It's rather ugly, isn't it?” said Rheinhardt.
“Yes,” Haussmann replied. “And this is a horrible place.”
The younger man's shoulder shook with an involuntary shiver.
“What's that?” Rheinhardt lowered his head and peered into the aumbry. The light was extremely poor, but he could see something small and pale inside. He searched his pocket for a box of Vestas and lit a match. In the flare the object became more visible.
“Do you see it?” Rheinhardt was whispering now.
“Yes, sir.”
“I'll light another match. See if you can get the thing out.”
In the phosphorescent glare Haussmann thrust his long fingers through the grill and caught the object with a scissoring movement. He slowly dragged it out, and lifted it up. The fitful gaslight provided just enough illumination.
“My God,” said Rheinhardt.
“It looks like…” Haussmann did not finish his sentence.
“It's a bone.”
The younger man shuddered again. “Human?”
“It could be.”
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
Haussmann lowered his voice again, so much so that Rheinhardt needed to lean closer in order to hear him. “Do you think it is wise for us to be here like this-just the two of us? We haven't notified the security office of our whereabouts. If Krull is responsible for the terrible things we saw…”
Rheinhardt took the bone from his colleague and turned it between his thumb and forefinger. He slid it into his coat pocket. When he withdrew his hand, he was holding a revolver.
“I would not place your life in danger, Haussmann,” he said firmly. Then, putting the revolver back into his pocket, he placed a hand on his companion's shoulder. “Come, Haussmann. We have work to do.”
The two men walked into the shadows and found a door. Rheinhardt felt for a knocker but could not find one. Instead, he clenched his fist and hammered against one of the panels. They waited.
“Who is it?” came a muffled voice.
“Police. Open the door,” said Rheinhardt.
There were a number of sounds. Bolts being drawn back, chains rattling, and a key turning. Finally the door was unlocked. Rheinhardt could not see the features of the man who'd opened it. The only significant source of light was coming from a paraffin lamp behind him.
“Herr Krull?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Inspector Rheinhardt-and my assistant, Haussmann. May we come in?”
The man's head moved quickly, looking at Rheinhardt first, then at Haussmann, then back again to Rheinhardt.
“You're not wearing uniforms. How do I know whether you're with the police or not? You could be anybody.” Krull's accent was rough and hard-edged. There was no music in his German, which was spoken largely from the back of the throat. He could have been hawking rather than speaking.
Rheinhardt sighed and took out some identification documents. Krull examined them for a few seconds and nodded.
“Very well, then-come in. You can't be too careful here, believe me.”
Krull ushered them in. The room was little more than a hovel. A table, a chair, and a small stove. On the table was a large leather-bound volume-it looked like a Bible. Through an adjoining door could be seen a shadowy bedroom: a pallet lay on the floor and there was an oversize wardrobe. The air was fetid. Rheinhardt noticed a figurine of the Virgin Mary in the recess of a tiny square window. Krull limped to the chair and sat down.
“What is the matter with your leg?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Clubfoot,” said Krull.
“Is it painful?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Can be,” said Krull.
Rheinhardt took a step forward and made sure that there was nothing that Krull might use as a weapon in easy reach.
“So what's this about, eh?” Krull demanded.
Observing the irate little man, Rheinhardt could not determine whether it was more appropriate to feel disgust or pity. Among the variety of human types, Krull was a most unfortunate specimen. A criminologist sympathetic to Galton and Lombroso's ideas would immediately identify Krull as a murderer. His features were entirely atavistic: low forehead, ears like jug handles, and a bony ridge over the orbits of his sunken eyes. A flat nose and prognathous jaw completed the simian ensemble.
“We are conducting a murder investigation, Herr Krull.”
“I don't know anything about any murders.” He shook his head.
“Perhaps not, but I believe that you may be able to help us with our inquiries.”
“Believe what you like-but I know nothing.”
Haussmann slipped discreetly behind Krull's chair; however, he was not sufficiently discreet to escape Krull's notice. The little man glanced over his shoulder, and looked anxiously back at Rheinhardt.
“What are you dong here? What do you want with me?”
“Herr Krull-I am sure you are aware of the recent atrocity that took place in Spittelberg.”
“I keep myself to myself.”
“Well, not entirely. I understand that you are well acquainted with Herr Jutzet.”
Haussmann had discovered another religious image and he held it up briefly behind Krull's back. It was a small woodcut of Saint Francis of Assisi offering his benediction.
Krull's jaw seemed to project out even farther.
“
Herr Jutzet sent you?”
“It was he who gave us your address. Incidentally, the good landlord is also somewhat anxious that you should pay him a visit in order to abrogate your pecuniary embarrassment.”
“What?”
“The matter of your debt, Herr Krull. The sum of four krone was mentioned.”
“Three krone. He's added another krone as interest. The man's worse than a Jew. He probably is a Jew.”
Rheinhardt looked over Krull's shoulder. Haussmann had stepped backward into the bedroom.
“Herr Krull,” Rheinhardt continued. “Earlier today I spoke to a gentleman of your acquaintance, a certain Herr Chalupnik.”
“Who?”
“Herr Chalupnik. An old gentleman. He often waits for his daughter under the statue of Saint Joseph.”
Krull sniffed. “I don't know his name. I presume you mean the old Czech.”
“Yes. Big hat, long beard-walks with a stick. You do know him.”
“I wouldn't pay much attention to what he says.”
“Why not?”
“He's senile.”
“He might be old, and his memory might be failing, but you, Herr Krull, seem to have made quite an impression on him.”
Haussmann opened the door of the wardrobe. He had tried to do it quietly, but the door emitted a loud creak.
Krull turned around abruptly.
“What are you doing? Get away from there. Get away from there at once.”
The grotesque little man raised himself up and started for the bedroom.
“Herr Krull,” Rheinhardt called. “Please remain seated.”
Krull ignored the inspector and rushed toward the younger detective; however, by the time Krull reached Haussmann, a bundle of clothes had already tumbled out of the wardrobe and now lay on the floor. Even in the half-light, stains were clearly visible.
“Sir…,” Haussmann called.
“You don't understand,” said Krull. “You're making a mistake. You're making a big mistake.”
Rheinhardt entered the bedroom and hunkered down next to the stinking pile of clothes. He lifted a shirt. The material was stiff and gritty with crystals of dried coagulated blood.
18
KRULL HAD BEEN ESCORTED from his cell by two constables who now stood guard outside the specially prepared room. On arrival, Liebermann had instructed Krull to lie down on the divan. The little man immediately protested.
“Herr Krull,” said Rheinhardt, “judges are not kindly disposed toward defendants who have failed to cooperate with the police. This is something you might care to consider before making a stand.”
Krull swore under his breath and gracelessly mounted the divan. His apelike features were not matched by any simian agility.
Liebermann drew up a chair and placed it at the head of the divan-out of Krull's sight. Krull jerked his head back.
“Please, Herr Krull,” said Liebermann. “Do not attempt to look at me. I want you to look straight ahead, or close your eyes-whatever you find more comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” Krull repeated. “You must be a comedian, Herr Doctor.”
Liebermann crossed his legs, placed his elbow on the chair arm, and allowed his head to rest against his right hand. He began by taking a history-just as he might with a patient being admitted to the hospital.
Krull had been born and raised in the country, but had come to Vienna to seek his fortune. Like many before him, he had soon discovered that the great city distributed its bounty capriciously. Not everyone found employment and amassed wealth. Krull spent his first winter in a charitable shelter, and the next three years in a men's hostel in Brigittenau. His companions were mostly laborers and handymen. Like him, the majority of them came from lower Austria, but Krull was also compelled to share a dormitory with several “lying Croats,” “greedy Hungarians,” and the odd “filthy Russian.” He moved first to Landstrasse and then to Ottakring, before eventually securing the comparative luxury of his dismal apartment on the edges of Spittelberg. During his many years of abject poverty, he had come under the influence of a Catholic priest called Father Anselm, who had become his spiritual mentor.
“You should find him!” Krull cried. “He'd speak up for me. He'd tell you what a big mistake you've made!”
Liebermann's index finger stirred. He tapped his temple three times and asked, “Why did you visit Madam Borek's brothel, Herr Krull?”
The little man grumbled something inaudible and finally replied, “I never visited Madam Borek's brothel.”
“You were seen outside on several occasions. What were you doing?”
Krull rolled his head back. “Why must I lie here like this-are you going to do something to me?”
“No,” said Liebermann patiently. “Now, could you please answer my question? What were you doing?”
“I wanted to see the girl,” snapped Krull.
“Which one?”
“The young one, Ludka.”
“Why did you want to see her?”
Krull squeezed his thick lower lip. Dark crescents showed where dirt had collected beneath his nails.
“I wanted to talk to her.” Liebermann allowed the subsequent pause to lengthen. “I wanted to save her.”
The young doctor raised his eyebrows and glanced at Rheinhardt.
“Save her?” Liebermann repeated.
“Yes, from a life of sin.”
“I see,” said Liebermann. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Did you ever speak to Ludka?”
“Only once.”
“When was that?”
“The first time I saw her: the first time we met. About a month ago-it was by the fountain.”
“And what did you say to her?”
“I had a cold and was sneezing. She gave me her handkerchief. I asked her where she lived and she pointed down the street. I knew the house… That's to say, I knew what sort of house it was. I promised to return the handkerchief. Thing is, her German wasn't very good-I'm not sure she understood what I was saying.”
“And did you keep your promise? Did you return her handkerchief?”
“No, I didn't get the chance to.”
“Where is the handkerchief now?”
Krull appeared to tap his heart-a gesture which Liebermann took to mean that the handkerchief was in one of Krull's pockets.
“May I see it?”
The little man slid his right hand under the left lapel of his jacket and pulled out a small square of white cotton. It was embroidered around the edges with a tiny motif of linked roses.
“Thank you,” said Liebermann.
Krull held the handkerchief up to his nose, sampled its fragrance, and stuffed it back into his jacket pocket.
“I went to the house,” Krull continued. “I don't deny it. I used to stand outside for hours, waiting for her to come out-which was how I got talking to that old gossip Chalupnik.”
“Why didn't you knock on the door?”
“I don't know… embarrassment… shame. I ended up in the inn more often than not, warming myself up with one too many slivovitzes.”
“Are you saying that you never saw her again after that first meeting?”
“No. I did see her again, but only once more. Chalupnik was there. She came out with a cavalryman. Blond tall chap-I suppose you'd call him handsome. They were laughing… I think he was drunk. I felt… I don't know… churned up inside. I turned my back on them and spoke to the old man. She didn't see me.”
“Herr Krull, were you in love with Ludka?”
“Don't be ridiculous! I felt sorry for her. I wanted to help her get out of that place. Those soldiers… I've heard what they get up to. If the emperor knew the truth, eh?”
Liebermann produced a small white object, which he proceeded to hold above Krull's head.
“Do you recognize this, Herr Krull?”
“No.”
“The third metacarpal, I believe-probably belonging to a woman aged around nineteen or twenty years.”
&
nbsp; “Meta what? What are you talking about?”
“It's a woman's finger, Herr Krull. And do you know where it was found? In the recess just outside your apartment-among the votive candles.”
“People are always throwing things in there. It probably belongs to the medical student downstairs…”
Liebermann removed the bone from Krull's line of vision.
“Herr Krull, why were the clothes in your wardrobe covered in blood?”
“You know why-I've told the inspector.”
“Yes, but I want you to tell me.”
“My clothes were covered in blood because I work in an abattoir. It's pig's blood.”
“Do you normally leave bloody clothes in your wardrobe?”
“Yes. There's nowhere else to put them. If I don't get to the bathhouse, then my clothes don't get washed.”
19
THE SMALL COFFEEHOUSE near the Anatomical Institute was a short walk from the Schottenring police station. Liebermann found himself once more by the window seat, observing the passing traffic. Across the table, Rheinhardt was admiring the involuted structure that occupied his plate. It was a generous portion of tiroler strauben-crisp, freshly fried curls of pancake mixture, flavored with schnapps and sprinkled with sugar. Rheinhardt sliced off a coil of the light brown confection with his fork and lifted it to his mouth.
“Oh yes,” he said, chewing vigorously. “Very good indeed-just like I had in the Tyrol last summer.”
Liebermann sipped his schwarzer and drummed a five-finger exercise on the edge of the table.
“Well?” said Rheinhardt, finally.
“I'm thinking,” said Liebermann.
“My dear fellow,” said Rheinhardt, “I had already guessed that you weren't counting streetcars. Perhaps you would be so kind as to share your thoughts?”
Liebermann sighed and looked toward his friend. “I am deeply troubled by Herr Krull's appearance.”
“Indeed. When I saw him for the first time, I thought to myself, Here is a face that proves Lombroso's theories. I know you do not hold with Lombroso, Max, but the man looks like-forgive my incivility- an ape. I once saw an illustration showing an artist's impression of the creature from which Homo sapiens is said to have evolved. It could have been Krull's brother.”
