by Frank Tallis
“Who, Lemberg?” asked Renz.
“No, Mahler, you fool!”
“So what's all this about Lemberg?”
“Yes, right. I ran into him after Act Two, and he was most disagreeable. Having been stirred by the drama, I was in no mood for his nonsense and our exchanges became somewhat heated. The outcome of which was that Lemberg demanded satisfaction. Of course, I said that I was happy to oblige. Tarnoploski was with him and begged us both to reconsider. But Lemberg had clearly made up his mind. What could I do?”
“You could have quoted the Waidhofen manifesto,” said Trapp. “A Jew is born without honor, and therefore is not entitled to demand satisfaction.”
Hefner dismissed Trapp's counsel with a disdainful wave of the hand. A gasp came from the billiard room, and Renz was momentarily distracted.
“Pay attention,” said Hefner, tapping the surface of the table. “I want you to go to Cafe Mozart.”
“What, now?” asked Renz.
“Yes, now,” said Hefner. “There you will find Lemberg's seconds.” Hefner produced a scrap of paper and read some names. “Fritz Glockner and Gerhard Riehl. I want you to accept whatever conditions they propose: sabres, pistols-it's all the same to me. He'll be incapable of handling either-although he's supposed to be a very good violinist, so I'm told.”
“But what was it all about? Your quarrel?” asked Trapp, pouring himself another schnapps.
“Oh, something… something I'm supposed to have done last summer.”
Hefner removed his cap and ran a hand through his thick blond hair. Mathilde noticed him from the other side of the room and waved. Hefner inclined his head and smiled graciously.
“Go on,” said Renz.
“He thinks I took advantage of his wife,” Hefner continued. “I was staying at Schloss von Triebenbach on the Kammersee, as a guest of the baron. The Lembergs had rented a villa just outside the village. His wife was convalescing from some kind of nervous illness…” For a moment Hefner played with the gold-yellow tassel hanging from his pommel. “She was often left on her own. Freddi and his friends used to take the steamer across the lake to Weyregg. I paid her my respects a few times, that's all…”
An ambiguous smile flitted across his handsome face.
There was a sudden round of applause from the billiard room. Cavalrymen were congratulating the regimental doctor, who had-to the ensign's dismay-secured another victory.
“I'd better have a word with him too,” said Hefner, gesturing toward the medical man. “I'll catch him now-while he's in a good mood. Then I'm off to bed, where I will no doubt dream of Mildenburg carrying me off to Valhalla!” Rising abruptly, he called out, “Doctor, Doctor! Well done! You are in danger of becoming a legend. Please, could I trouble you for a moment-in private?”
26
THE SCHOTTENRING POLICE LABORATORY was a spacious rectangular room with high leaded windows. Outside, the dense cloud cover had broken and the air was suffused with bright winter sunshine. Amelia Lydgate was standing by a long workbench, holding a test tube up to the light. Her hair had been pulled back and arranged in a large reticulated bun. Yet even this drastic measure could not diminish the reflective power of those densely compressed copper strands. A reddish spectrum revealed itself as she tilted her head.
She was wearing a plain white high-collared blouse and a long gray skirt that almost touched the floor. Liebermann allowed his gaze to drop down her spine and linger around her hips. A feeling of excitement flared in the pit of his stomach, followed by a hammer blow of shame. He looked away and found himself staring at the twitching nose of a plump brown rabbit.
“Well, Miss Lydgate?” asked Rheinhardt.
Amelia turned and stood facing the two men. As usual, her expression betrayed no sign of emotion.
“A precipitate has not formed.”
“Which means?” asked Rheinhardt.
“The blood on Krull's clothes is not human.”
Rheinhardt puffed his cheeks out and let the air escape slowly. “I see.”
A lengthy silence ensued and Liebermann laid a consoling hand on his friend's sleeve.
“Forgive me, Miss Lydgate,” Rheinhardt continued, “but are you absolutely sure?”
“I am quite sure, Inspector.”
“There is no chance that this test could produce an erroneous result?”
“No.”
Her perceptive gaze registered the detective's disappointment.
“Inspector, allow me to explain the procedure again.” Although Amelia Lydgate's manners were faultless, a hint of impatience had crept into her voice. “If human blood is injected into a live rabbit over a two-week period, then the rabbit's blood acquires a specific property: it will react with any human blood to form a precipitate. This is because these frequent injections of human blood have promoted a defensive response in the rabbit's blood. I have been injecting this rabbit”-she gestured toward the cage-”with samples of my own blood for several weeks, and the animal's blood is now an antiserum. It will recognize the unique proteins in human blood and react with them to form a precipitate.”
Amelia approached Rheinhardt and held the test tube up in front of his eyes. The contents appeared to glow in the bright light of the laboratory.
“It is clear, Inspector. If the blood on Krull's clothes had been human blood, the serum would have become cloudy. Professor Uhlenhuth's precipitin test may be simple, but it is entirely reliable.”
Rheinhardt nodded. “Thank you, Miss Lydgate, thank you. Once again, the security office is indebted to you.”
“My pleasure, Inspector Rheinhardt.”
The detective took a deep breath and walked over to the rabbit cage.
“Of course,” said Liebermann softly, “this doesn't mean that Krull is innocent.”
“No,” said Rheinhardt, “but the evidence is certainly stacking up in his favor. The medical student who lives below Krull has confessed to being a member of a fraternity whose initiation practices involve the theft of body parts from the morgue!”
“Explaining the presence of the metacarpal bone.”
“It would seem so.” The inspector leaned forward, poked a finger through the grill of the cage, and scratched the rabbit's furry head. “And it's a bad day for you too,” he said to the creature, in a somewhat distracted fashion.
“Oh?” exclaimed Amelia. “Why is that, Inspector?”
“Commissioner Brugel asked me to notify him when the test was completed. He fancied his cook could make this poor fellow into a fine stew.”
Amelia Lydgate's brow furrowed. “With respect, Inspector, I would ask that the commissioner reconsider his position. That rabbit is the only animal in Vienna whose blood serum reacts with human proteins. With regular injections he will continue to be reactive. You should retain him as an invaluable member of the scientific staff.”
Rheinhardt almost smiled, but recognized-just in time-that Miss Lydgate was deadly serious.
“Of course,” he said. “I will see if there is a relevant form. Perhaps I could register him as a junior technician.”
Amelia Lydgate's brow lost a furrow or two-as demonstrative a sign of satisfaction as could be expected, given the peculiarities of her temperament. Rheinhardt stole a quick glance in Liebermann's direction and rolled his eyes. The young doctor tried not to laugh, but found to his great embarrassment that his shoulders were shaking.
By early evening Rheinhardt had finished writing his report-to which he appended an official “registration” document. It identified Miss Lydgate's rabbit as a new member of the security-office staff, occupying the position of laboratory assistant. His little joke had proved prophetic. In Austria-Hungary, nothing was deemed so insignificant or inconsequential that it did not warrant recording, licensing, or an official stamp of some kind.
One day this empire will disappear under an avalanche of paperwork!
Rheinhardt stretched, yawned, rose from his desk, and switched off the light.
He was
feeling tired, and he decided to clear the fug from his head by walking home instead of taking a cab. The sky had remained cloudless all day, and now the temperature was plummeting. A sharp wind scoured his cheeks, but Rheinhardt was determined to persevere. He passed a streetcar stop, where several gentlemen were waiting in a line, and turned onto the concourse in front of the town hall. It was a broad, open space, divided by an avenue of gas lamps. The flames emitted a yellow sulfurous glow, which was sufficient to illuminate the town hall itself-Rheinhardt's favorite building in Vienna.
“Magical.” He spoke the word aloud, while slowing to admire the prospect.
It was like something out of a fairy story: a Gothic palace consisting of a massive central structure-as big as a cathedral-and five spires. The central spire rose much higher than its companions, and on its summit stood a statue of a medieval knight in full armor. He was barely visible on his lofty perch, but Rheinhardt could determine his shadowy presence against a background of glittering, spiteful stars. The overall impression of the building was one of great intricacy. One could see lanterns, finials, arched mullioned windows, buttresses, and several pitched roofs. It was a glorious sight-made even more glorious by a dressing of niveous garlands. Rheinhardt enjoyed having it all to himself.
He bid the knight good evening, walked around the town hall, and headed off into the backstreets of Josefstadt.
It had been a disappointing day.
If only that test had proved positive…
If only, if only…
When Rheinhardt arrived at his apartment building, he climbed the stone steps leading to the first floor. His heavy footfall announced his arrival. Before he reached the top of the stairs, the door of his apartment flew open, revealing his wife, Else.
“There you are!” she cried. “Where have you been?”
“At work,” said Rheinhardt.
“The security office called…”
“But I've only just left Schottenring!”
“They said you'd been gone for some time.”
“Well, that's true, I suppose. I decided to walk home.”
Else's expression vacillated between anger and relief.
“I was worried,” she said finally.
“Well, there was no need to be,” said Rheinhardt, ascending the last few stairs and planting a kiss on his wife's forehead. “What did they want?”
“You must go to the Ruprechtskirche.”
“Now?”
“Yes. There's been another murder.”
27
THE VENERABLE WAS SEATED on the master's chair, a beautiful throne of carved oak. It was thought to have been made in Scotland around 1690 and given as a gift to one of the earliest Viennese lodgesperhaps even Aux Trois Canons, the very first. He ran his fingers over the carved arm and traced the lines of a raised pentalpha, the Pythagorean symbol of perfection. The five-pointed star was held between twin compasses.
From his vantage, the venerable could look through the body of the Temple toward the entrance. Two great bronze doors were flanked by Corinthian pillars, denominated J and B for Jachin and Boaz-evoking the two columns built by Hiram at the gates of the Temple of Solomon. Above these was a relief equilateral triangle, from within which a single all-seeing eye coldly contemplated the empty pews. On the east wall a mural awaited completion. When finished, it would show the Ark of the Covenant, and Jacob's ladder ascending toward the Hebrew symbol Yod. There is no rush, he thought. We still have plenty of time to prepare…
The venerable raised himself from the chair and walked down the center aisle. Stopping to turn off the gas lamps, he slowly made his way toward the entrance. He pushed one of the bronze doors open and took one of two oil lamps that were hanging from hooks in the wall. The vestibule was relatively small, with two adjoining staircases: one ascending, the other descending. The venerable took the stairs going down-a tight spiral of stone wedges that sank deep into the earth. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he found himself in another antechamber, illuminated by light that was spilling from a half-open door.
“Ah, still here, brother?” the venerable called out.
“Yes,” came the reply. “Still here.”
The venerable pushed the door, which emitted a loud creaking. It opened by degrees to reveal a rectangular room, considerably smaller than the Temple. The walls were almost totally obscured by bookcases, although much of the shelving was unfilled. In the middle of the room were several crates. Two of them were empty and the third contained a collection of leather-bound volumes. A man-seated at a desk nearby-was leaning over and lifting books from the half-full crate, examining them, and carefully entering their details in a large register.
“All of them have arrived safely?” asked the venerable.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good.” The venerable looked down at his pocket watch. “It's getting late, brother. You should go home.”
The librarian lifted his head, placed his pen on the table, and stretched his arms. “It's the last crate. I may as well finish.”
The venerable smiled and approached the desk. He picked up the book that the librarian was in the process of recording, and examined the spine. It read: Journal fur Freymaurer, 1784-1786, Volume IV.
“Do we have all twelve volumes?” asked the venerable.
“Of course,” said the librarian.
“Excellent,” said the venerable, stroking the binding. “All of the Truth and Unity papers. It will be an invaluable addition to our collection.”
The librarian picked up his pen again and began to scratch another entry into his register. The venerable was about to leave, but was momentarily distracted by a book lying open and facedown on the desk. He picked it up and glanced at a mezzotint illustration. Beneath the picture was a caption: Schaffer's design reproducing Schikaneder's staging. The illustration showed a snake cut into three sections.
Part Two
28
RHEINHARDT DID NOT FEEL comfortable in the morgue. Even when its hollow emptiness was enlivened by the sound of human voices it remained a forbidding, misanthropic place. For the umpteenth time he curled his finger into the fob pocket of his vest and tugged the chain. The hands on the watch face had hardly moved.
Where is he?
Suspended from the ceiling was an electric light. Its beam was directed by means of a low conical shade onto sheets, the topography of which suggested a recumbent human form. Beyond this concise column of illumination was an impenetrable expanse of darkness.
The cold was excruciating but Rheinhardt had given up blowing into his locked fingers. He had accepted that the nagging ache in his joints would in due course become a singing pain. Thereafter, he could only hope for the unsatisfactory solace of an anesthetic numbness.
The dense silence-so compressed that it had become tintinnabulary-was ringing in Rheinhardt's ears. He began to whistle a jaunty spirit-rallying tune of his own devising. When he reached the end of the second phrase, the caesura was filled by a long, protracted groan. Disconcertingly, it came from nearby. The faint yet disturbing rise and fall of the mortuary sheets confirmed that it was the corpse who had produced this mournful sound.
Rheinhardt was gripped by a paralyzing jolt of fear. His head pulsed and his heart knocked against the wall of his chest.
Is he still alive?
Impossible!
Rheinhardt ripped the uppermost cover off, revealing the face of a man in his fifties. It was a broad Slavic face, with high cheekbones and swept-back greasy hair. The blue lips were parted. Rheinhardt nervously placed the palm of his hand over the corpse's mouth but felt nothing.
“What on earth do you think you're doing, Rheinhardt?”
The inspector jumped. “Oh, Professor Mathias.”
The pathologist shuffled in and took off his hat and coat. “What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost!”
“He groaned,” said Rheinhardt, gesturing toward the body. “I swear it. He groaned-like this.” Rheinhardt produ
ced a plaintive moan.
“It's the gases, Inspector-the compounds released as the bacteria get to work on his last meal. They rise up and stimulate the voice box.”
Mathias hung up his coat and hat and took an apron down from a row of pegs. After slipping the top loop over his head, the old man tied the dangling side cords behind his back and shuffled over to the table.
“Good evening, sir,” he addressed the corpse. “And who-might I ask-do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“His name is Evzen Vanek,” Rheinhardt replied.
“A Czech?”
“Yes. He was carrying his papers. He sold chickens at the meat market.”
“Where was he found?”
“Near the Ruprechtskirche.”
“New to Vienna?”
“Arrived two months ago.”
“Ah, Evzen.” The professor brushed the man's hair with his fingers. “You should have stayed at home… Was not our citadel long undermined/Already by the Realm of Night?” The professor, his rheumy eyes bulging behind thick lenses, looked up at Rheinhardt. “Well, Inspector?”
“I don't know.”
“It was Schiller, Rheinhardt. ‘Melancholy.’ That should have been child's play!”
Mathias tutted and hobbled over to his cart, where he began a ritual with which Rheinhardt was all too familiar. The professor rolled up his shirtsleeves and proceeded to arrange and rearrange his instruments. A scoop was transferred from the bottom to the top shelf, via the second and third. A clamp was demoted. The largest drill was raised, examined, and then put back in exactly the same place.
“He was stabbed in the chest,” said Rheinhardt.
“Shhh!” Mathias pushed a vertical palm toward Rheinhardt as though repelling the interruption. He contemplated his array of instruments, and carefully placed a chisel next to a line of scalpels. “There we are,” he said-as if the elusive solution to a long-standing problem had suddenly presented itself. Turning to Rheinhardt, he added, “What was that you said?”
