by Frank Tallis
“The swastika,” said Liebermann.
“I beg your pardon?”
“That's what it's called-the crooked cross. It's an Indo-European symbol representing goodness and health. Professor Freud looked it up for me in a volume of Sanskrit.” Liebermann waved the pamphlet. “Where did you get this?”
“It was left at a table in a beer cellar. Haussmann found it.”
“Where?”
“Mariahilf-it's near where he lives.”
Liebermann flicked a few pages and began reading: “The runes were more than letters are today, more even than mere syllables or word signs-that is, they were holy signs or magical characters. They were, in a certain way of thinking, something similar to the spirit sigils of later times, which played a conspicuous role in the notorious hellish conjuration of Dr. Johann Faust…” Liebermann's upper lip curled. “It's nonsense, Oskar. Gibberish.”
“Not quite. It purports to be a treatise on the origins of the German language. The author, Guido List-”
“Von List,” Liebermann said, correcting Rheinhardt and tapping the author's poorly defined ink-splotched name.
Rheinhardt shook his head. “He is a writer who, to our knowledge, has only ever been known as Guido List. It must be a typographic error.”
“Or he has decided to ennoble himself!”
“Well, now you say that-it wouldn't surprise me. He's obviously a rather grandiose fellow. Although much of the pamphlet is concerned with the mystical significance of runes, he chooses to end his exegesis with a peculiar and rather disturbing polemic. He condemns and vilifies a number of institutions and groups: the Catholic Church, enemy nomads-by which I think he means Jews- the internationals (I'm not sure who he means there), and the Freemasons. He is particularly scornful about the Masons.”
“What is it about these groups that he objects to?”
“I really don't know, Max. None of it is very coherent… He was originally a journalist. His articles appeared in the Neue Deutsche Alpenzeitung and the Deutsche Zeitung. But now he's most famous for being the author of a historical novel called Carnuntum-have you heard of it?”
“No.”
“Very popular a few years back. It was about a Germanic tribe who won a victory over the Romans in AD 375.”
The clock struck ten and the two friends waited until the last chime had faded before continuing their conversation.
“You think there's a connection, then?” asked Liebermann. “Between this writer and the Spittelberg murders?”
“When Haussmann showed me the crooked cross-I beg your pardon, what did you say it was called?”
“The swastika.”
“When Haussmann showed me the swastika, I imagined that there must be. But now, if the symbol is a Sanskrit character, as you say it is, then I'm not so sure. Perhaps we should be looking for an Indian gentleman.”
“Does List mention the swastika in this pamphlet?”
“Yes, he does. But he refers to it as the fyrfos, the hooked cross, or the eighteenth rune.”
Liebermann offered his friend another cigar.
“Thank you,” said Rheinhardt. He passed the corona under his nose and nodded with approval.
“Where was List on the day of the Spittelberg atrocity?”
“When we interviewed him, he said that he was at home-with his wife.”
“Do you believe him?”
Rheinhardt cut his cigar. “It's irrelevant-he didn't do it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He's blind, Max-and has been for several months. He had some cataracts surgically removed and he is still wearing the bandages. If there is a connection between List and the murders, then it must be indirect.”
Rheinhardt lit his cigar and produced two perfect rings of smoke.
“So where does all this lead us?” asked Liebermann, sounding mildly irritated. “The women in the Spittelberg brothel-with the exception of the girl Ludka-and Evzen Vanek were all killed with a sabre. The Spittelberg murders and the Ruprechtskirche murder are also linked by oddities: a Sanskrit character signifying goodness and health-and a padlock that was used, perhaps, to signify that the victim will no longer speak. Neither seem to be very meaningful.” Liebermann viewed the flames through his cognac. His glass appeared to be filled with a magically lucent elixir. “It occurred to me,” he continued, “that the swastika, being a symbol representing health, might have some medical significance. I was reminded of your observations concerning the Whitechapel murders.”
“Indeed, the London Ripper may well have been a doctor. But if our perpetrator had wanted to let us know that he was a medical man, why daub an obscure Sanskrit character on the wall?”
“To give us a problem to solve-to show us that he is more knowledgeable than we are.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Arrogance?”
Rheinhardt sighed.
“I agree,” continued Liebermann. “None of this is terribly coherent; still, the unusual choice of murder weapon is promising. A sabre is large and difficult to conceal.”
“Unless you already happen to be wearing one as part of your uniform.”
“But why would a military man who hated women then choose an impoverished male Czech stallholder as his next victim? And what are we to make of this?” Liebermann lifted the pamphlet and waved it in the air. “Is the fiend a student of the early Germanic alphabet-and if so, what in God's name are we supposed to make of that?”
Liebermann sipped his cognac and turned to looked at Rheinhardt. The policeman shrugged, and the young doctor, normally full of ideas and interpretations, was worryingly silent.
36
LIEUTENANT RUPRECHT HEFNER, his seconds, Renz and Trapp, and the regimental doctor all stepped down from the carriage. One of the horses snorted violently, expelling two jets of steam from its quivering nostrils. Another carriage had preceded them and was already parked on the verge. It was finished in black lacquer, and would scarcely have been out of place beneath the dome of the Hofburg Palace.
“Lemberg,” said Trapp.
The observation did not merit a response from his companions.
Above the eastern horizon of the Vienna Woods a strip of pellucid sky had begun to brighten. Within the pale band a pink halo of luminescence surrounded an unusually radiant point of light. The doctor paused, considered the nature of the object, and concluded that this lovely sentinel was in fact the planet Venus.
“Come, Herr Doctor,” Renz called back. “Now is not the time for stargazing.”
The doctor, somewhat embarrassed, nodded and hurried along. He touched his cap as he passed the other carriage, and the driver, perched on his high box, returned the greeting by raising his whip in a silent salute.
Hefner had taken the lead and was searching among some gorse bushes by the roadside. He waved, clutching in his hand something he had found. It was a tattered red handkerchief. The others followed. They descended a steep track that was slippery with scree and ice. Their path took them through woods and for a few minutes they could see nothing but a corridor of black spruces and an arch of sky above their heads. Hefner crushed a cone beneath his boot. It broke with a pleasing crunch.
Eventually the track led them to the floor of a narrow valley. A nearby brook had been reduced to a trickle but its noise was surprisingly loud.
Halfway across the “field of honor” stood the unparteiische. He wore a tall silk stovepipe hat and a dark frock coat. Tucked under his right arm was a mahogany case. Beyond the unparteiische, standing next to a solitary beech tree, was Hefner's opponent, Lemberg.
Hefner and the regimental doctor held back, while Renz and Trapp continued walking. Lemberg's seconds, when they saw the two Uhlans approaching, also came forward. The four men struggled toward one another, their feet dragging in the snow. They converged in front of the man in the stovepipe hat, where they halted and bowed. After exchanging some preliminary remarks, they turned to address the unparteiische, who opened the mahoga
ny case and offered them a view of its contents. Renz and his opposite number (who Hefner assumed must be Glockner) each removed a pistol and examined it closely, testing its aim and mechanism. Then they swapped guns and repeated the inspection. The loading of each weapon was undertaken jointly. When both seconds were satisfied, the pistols were returned to the unparteiische.
Meanwhile Trapp and Riehl, Lemberg's other second, had made their way onto the “field” and, from a starting position that required both men to stand back-to-back, were now measuring out an agreed distance in precise synchronized steps. Trapp's voice could be heard counting out paces: “Five, six, seven…” Both men were carrying something bulky in their arms.
“How are you feeling?” asked the regimental doctor.
“Couldn't be better,” Hefner replied. “Steady as a rock.” To prove it, the lieutenant thrust out his hands. They were still-more like carved marble than flesh and bone. “To tell the truth, Herr DoctorI'm anxious to get this morning's business out of the way so that I can have breakfast. There's a splendid roadhouse in the village we passed on the way up. The Postschanke-do you know it?
“No.”
“Their cabbage soup is beyond compare. And the bread that they serve is like…” He paused, and waited for his brain to supply an appropriate superlative. “Ambrosia. Yes, ambrosia. Are you hungry, Herr Doctor?”
“I can't say that I am.”
“Shame.”
Trapp and Riehl had stopped, and it was now easier to see what they had been carrying: wooden stakes. Each man placed his stake upright against the ground and pressed down on the blunt end, ensuring that the sharp end sank deep into the snow. These markers were set approximately fifteen paces apart. Trapp and Riehl then measured a farther distance either side of the stakes, which was marked at both ends with brightly colored handkerchiefs held in place by rocks.
Renz made his way back to Hefner, breaking into a trot as he came nearer. “Fine pistols,” he called out. “German. A little heavy, perhaps, but very well made.”
“Excellent,” said Hefner.
Trapp followed close behind. “The light is acceptable. No shadows. No wind-and, apart from the beech tree, there's nothing else to distract you. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Let's go, then-and good luck.”
“Yes, good luck, Hefner,” Renz added.
The doctor-who was obliged to be impartial-inhaled deeply. He wasn't altogether sure what he felt concerning Hefner's fate. He admired him, certainly; but whether he liked him or not was another matter.
Renz and Trapp led Hefner and the regimental doctor across the valley floor. Their progress was mirrored by Lemberg and his two seconds. Both groups came to a halt in front of the unparteiische, who turned out to be a very distinguished-looking gentleman with a well-waxed mustache.
Hefner caught Lemberg's eye. The industrialist's son was angrybut his anger was not so fierce that it could conceal fear. Hefner fancied himself a good judge of character, and he was reassured by what he saw: a telling glint of animal terror.
Yes, thought Hefner, the Jew has weak nerves. He'll make a poor decision under pressure…
The unparteiische requested that the opponents empty their pockets, the contents of which were given to their seconds for safekeeping. Dishonorable duelists had been known to secrete watches, wallets, coins, and keys about their person in order to protect them from the low-velocity but nonetheless lethal bullets. When the searches were complete, the unparteiische turned to Lemberg.
“You are the offended party?” The young man nodded. “Then, in accordance with the code, it is for you to confirm before the assembled witnesses here gathered the terms of engagement. First blood or death?”
“Death,” said Lemberg. His voice caught on the heavy syllable.
Herr Riehl-who was the older of Lemberg's two seconds- winced.
“Freddi,” he growled, “I beg you to reconsider. It's not too-”
“Enough!” said Lemberg sharply, attempting to recover some of his ebbing dignity.
“This is madness,” muttered Riehl under his breath, appealing to the regimental doctor, an expression of desperation in his wide eyes. But it was not the doctor's place to interfere.
The unparteiische opened the mahogany case and showed the interior to both parties. Inside, nestling in a deep bed of green fabric, were the specially modified dueling pistols. The octagonal barrels were fashioned from Damascus steel and had been darkened to stop reflection. All metal appurtenances had been left unengraved for the same reason. Sights-fore and back-had been removed. The guns were stripped down and entirely functional, reduced to their essential parts for a singular and fatal purpose.
The unparteiische tilted the case toward Lemberg.
“Sir?”
Lemberg removed the nearest pistol.
The box was then offered to Hefner, who removed the remaining weapon. He checked its weight in a loose grip and was unable to suppress a smile. It was perfect.
“Gentlemen? Are you ready?” The unparteiische looked from Hefner to Lemberg. “Please take your places.”
Lemberg slipped off his coat and let it fall to the ground. It was a maneuver designed to give him a small advantage. The white of his shirt would make him less visible against the snowy landscape. Hefner-who was duty-bound to wear his Uhlan uniform at all times-was not at liberty to do the same. Even so, he could do one or two things to mitigate his vulnerability. Discreetly, he lifted the lapels of his greatcoat to cover the stars on his collar.
The two duelists were led by their seconds to their respective positions, the places that had been marked with the brightly colored handkerchiefs. Then, with great solemnity, the seconds retraced their footsteps, returning in due course to the unparteiische.
The regimental doctor sighed and opened his bag. He took out a scalpel and a bottle of carbolic.
“Herr Doctor,” said the unparteiische. “I respectfully request that you put your instruments away. We do not wish to demoralize the parties.”
The doctor protested, “An unnecessary delay can sometimes be the difference between a man living and dying.”
“May I remind you, Herr Doctor,” said the unparteiische sternly, “that in the present contest matters of life and death are secondary to those of honor and propriety. I must insist: put your instruments away.”
It was not the first time that the doctor had encountered such pedantry. With some reluctance, he replaced the scalpel and bottle in his bag.
A curious stillness descended on the valley. The two opponents stared at each other across a white no-man's-land, featureless except for the vertical wooden stakes. The forty paces that separated the men might have been a vampire's graveyard. Above the snowcapped hills, the light of the morning star was fading.
The man in the stovepipe hat called out, “Forward!”
His baritone bounced off the steep valley walls like the voice of Jehovah.
The opponents began walking toward each other.
Hefner held his pistol up, pointing the muzzle at the clouds and compressing his crooked arm against his chest. In the unlikely event of Lemberg's aim being true, the lieutenant's forearm would protect his heart and the pistol would shield his nose. He turned his torso slightly to the left-thus reducing the amount of his body's surface area exposed to Lemberg.
They drew closer, taking long, stately strides.
The rules of the barrier duel were simple. Both parties could-at any point-stop, aim, and fire. The advantage of shooting first was the preemptive demise of one's opponent. However, if the shot missed, the premature action would incur a significant penalty: the presumptive party was required to stand still and await an answer. The opponent was given a full minute to reach the nearest barrier, from where he could make his leisurely riposte. Thus, the disadvantage of firing second was compensated for by the advantage of firing at an immobile target at shorter range. Hefner was a great advocate of the barrier duel. He found its mathematics deeply
satisfying.
The opponents drew closer.
Thirty-five paces, thirty paces, twenty-five paces…
Lemberg stopped and raised his pistol.
Hefner had been expecting this.
The Jew has no nerve.
The Uhlan did not break his measured step. He checked that his arm was still in the correct position and tightened his abdominal muscles. A concave stomach would be less easy to hit.
He looked directly at Lemberg.
The muzzle of Lemberg's pistol was not true.
If he fires now, he'll miss.
There was a loud report. Hefner heard snow falling from the branches of the pines behind him. The air became acrid with the reek of saltpeter and sulfur. He felt no pain, and he was still walking.
Missed!
Lemberg lowered his pistol and awaited his fate.
Hefner showed no elation. He did not quicken his pace. His heartbeat was sounding a regular tattoo in his chest. When he reached the nearest stake, he stopped, took aim, and considered his target. Lemberg was shaking. The tremor was clearly visible.
Hefner squeezed the trigger.
A loud crack-more snow falling. A dull thud, and a rustle like rice on paper.
Lemberg swayed. His pistol fell from his hand and his knees buckled beneath him. Before he had hit the ground, the regimental doctor was running toward him.
There was only one thought occupying Hefner's mind: breakfast at the Postschanke. The doctor would not be unduly delayed. Of that, Hefner was quite certain.
37
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON and the hospital was uncharacteristically quiet. Even the most distressed patients, whose mournful cries could usually be heard reverberating down the corridors, had fallen silent. Perhaps it was the cold. The hospital heating system had been unable to withstand the Siberian temperature, which had advanced through the walls and was now taking possession of every ward. Many of the patients were still in bed, shivering under starched sheets.
