AN ATTEMPTED SOLUTION
INSPECTOR BEIDE SAID, “Here he is.”
Franz opened his eyes. Beide sat across from him in the fold-down seat of the limousine.
“Who are you talking to?” Franz asked.
“Myself,” Beide said.
The automobile was speeding across the countryside that Franz and Gregor had inched across only hours ago.
The uniformed driver rapped his knuckles on the separating glass, and Beide reached for the speaking tube.
“Yes?” he asked into the instrument, then held it to his ear.
Franz couldn’t hear what the driver was saying.
Beide listened and then spoke into it: “No, we’ll retrieve it in due time, if it’s worth it.”
He replaced the speaking tube and smiled at Franz.
“Blacked out there for a moment,” Beide said.
“Haven’t slept,” Franz said.
“So I understand. Your dedication to this case has been an example to us all.”
“It’s just that things kept happening…”
“Funny how things do that, isn’t it? Now tell me what you meant when you said ‘we’ have been doing these murders?”
Franz sat pushed himself up on his elbows to sit upright. “I said that?” he asked.
“You did.”
Franz blinked and tried to clear his head. “I suppose I did,” he said. “But I meant ‘we’ as human beings, collectively, not ‘we’ as in you and me, specifically. But perhaps we can be implicated, too. I don’t know, yet. Perhaps I’ll never know.”
“It’s certainly the most original deduction I’ve ever heard. I’m hoping you plan on explaining it to me.”
“I’ll try,” Franz said. “Is there any water, or something stronger?”
Beide produced a flask and passed it to Franz. Franz opened, sniffed whisky, and took a grateful pull from the flask.
“Leo Kropold murdered Inge Hersch,” he said.
“But that doesn’t follow…”
“Please, Inspector, let me finish. If you keep interrupting everything I’m about to say, it’ll be midnight before you’ll have a full explanation.
“In a way, we should be grateful to Leo Kropold. If he hadn’t killed himself, we’d have been sorely pressed for a key to this riddle. Had he allowed himself to go on living, his existence might have gone unnoticed until his death. It’s hard to say. But it doesn’t matter, because I think he knew what we were after, and because he knew, he decided he was the only way we’d notice the truth… by noticing his death. I’m going to try to tell you the story of Leo Kropold as best as I can from what I’ve been able to piece together.”
“All right,” Beide said. “I’m listening.”
“Leo Kropold was a sheltered, hardworking man his entire life: farm life, compounded by an antisocial, reactionary father. When his father died last summer, Leo struck out to see a bit of the world. He got as far as Vienna. Fifteen kilometers mightn’t seem like all that far to you and me, but to Leo Kropold, it was another world.
“I think he completely embodied the ‘hick in the city’ cliché, the story they like to retread so often on the stage and in books and in the cinema. I think he did the whole wine, women, and song routine. Which is how he met Immerplatz Inge.
“No doubt it was his first sexual encounter, and perhaps he just assumed that such things came at a price. He had a little ready money on him, a small legacy from his father. I don’t know how he found Inge Hersch, if he was directed to her by a procurer who frequented one of the taverns Leo must have sampled, or if she approached him… your characterization of her as a professional woman who no longer had to walk the streets suggests the former. Anyway, Leo probably confused his encounter with Inge as the beginning of a courtship, and I’ve no doubt she quickly disabused him of the notion.
“Leo returns to the farm, having seen and certainly done much. I would say he goes back to farm life for, oh, a few months, until he notices some changes about himself, and discovered he’s sick.
“He sees his physician rather than wait for the doctor’s visit, because his symptoms are strange and frightening. And I’ve no doubt the doctor gave him a grave diagnosis, and tried to spell out the prognosis for Leo as gently as he could.
“And Leo is beside himself.
“He takes the bichloride of mercury, takes other ameliorative measures, but it’s no way to live. And all for a little love, eh? He decides he’s not going to go quietly, tucked away on the farm. He goes out, distracts himself as best he can with food, drink… Any amusement will do, even the second-rate acts at the local variety hall.
“Except one act isn’t second-rate, not to Leo. The man who hangs himself. The man who talks about people being the best judges of themselves, and so on. You know Henker’s spiel.
“It has a profound effect on Leo, and he returns. He might even have decided to take notes on Henker’s act so he can refer to it in the lonely hours of his sickness on that dark, desolate farm.
“Soon, Leo notices something else: people are being murdered, and they show signs of being hanged. Coincidence? Hardly, with an unknown performer doing essentially the same thing to himself night after night, and surviving.
“I think, at the start, Leo behaved the same way we have, Inspector—he tried to solve the murders. But after a while he began to pay closer attention to the volunteers.
“Now, before I explain what I mean by that, let me talk a little about Leo’s wants and needs. I won’t pretend to be an expert on them, because I didn’t know the man, and even knowing the man I wouldn’t necessarily have known; however, I have a basic idea as to where his mind may have turned.
“How did he contract syphilis? Physiologically, from Inge Hersch. Morally, himself. There wasn’t anything he could or would do about himself… After all, he had to live with himself. But he could do something about Inge Hersch. He could kill her. Not just for what she’d done to him, but to prevent her from doing the same to others.”
“And you think he got Henker involved?” Beide asked. “Made a deal with him, offered him money or something?”
Franz shook his head. “No,” he said, “I don’t think Leo Kropold had the mind of a murderer. I don’t think he knew what to do with himself when the decision to kill Inge Hersch appeared in his head. I think it scared him, to be quite honest.
“I think he also began to notice that the phantom murderer’s victims had never been to the theater.”
“How would he know that? Newspaper accounts never mentioned whether or not the victims had been to see The Hanging Artist.”
Franz nodded. “I know,” he said. “But I think perhaps he began to look very closely at the volunteers, as I’ve said.”
“But none of the volunteers were murdered.”
“Correct. But each of the victims knew someone who had volunteered.”
“How did you discover that?”
“Robert Prinsky was the first to give me the idea. Do you remember him?”
“Yes. The little mousy bank official.”
“Yes. He was at the Traumhalle the night Hermann Herbort was murdered. It was the first time, I think, that one of the volunteers and one of the victims had actually been at the same performance at the same time.”
“And you think Prinsky killed Herbort?”
“I know he did.”
“Why?”
“Because Prinsky thought his life would be much easier if Hermann Herbort were out of the way.”
“How do you know that?”
“Prinsky is in love with Hannah Bickel.”
“I don’t recall him ever saying as much.”
“He didn’t. But he had her photograph on his desk. Framed, no less. And when I pretended to mistake her for his wife, he went right along with me. Didn’t even blink. Had I not known otherwise, I would have believed that he was married to Hannah.”
“And yet Hannah, from what I can remember, seemed dismissive about Prinsky.”
“With all that going on inside Prinsky, he goes to the stage when The Hanging Artist picks him out. That night, Hermann Herbort dies.”
“But how did he do it? The man has alibis a mile long.”
“I’m coming to that. I have a theory, but listen. It’s more than Prinsky.”
“Oh,” Beide said, “you’re talking about the timings of the murders and Henker’s brief contact with the volunteers? Is that the case you’re trying to make?”
“Like I said—Prinsky volunteers, Herbort dies. Kropold volunteers, Inge Hersch dies.”
“Because Kropold wanted her dead.”
“This coincidence can be traced all the way back to the first case, Ulla Stach.”
“How?”
“Ulla Stach was one of four girls who had applied for the position of private secretary at a prestigious law firm. She got the job, the others girls did not. Those girls went to the theater, saw Henker’s act, one of them volunteered. That night, Ulla dies.”
“Which of the girls volunteered?”
“The girl who’s now got the job.”
“Why would she want Ulla Stach out of the way?”
“Because this other girl—Fraulein Ascher—was the second choice. Suppose the first choice died? The second choice would obviously be hired as her replacement.”
“She couldn’t know that for sure.”
“Regardless, she thought it.”
“And Walter Furst?”
“His business partner’s wife was Henker’s volunteer.”
“And why would she want Furst out of the way?”
“She was ambitious. She wanted money, status… and her husband wasn’t doing much to realize her ambitions. But if Furst, his business partner, was dead, her husband would get full control of the company, and there’d be more money…”
“Did she confess as much?”
“Not in those words. But it was very clear to me that she felt she was stuck in a rut, and the only solution to her problem would be if Furst was out of the way so her ineffective husband could just slide into a new, wealthier life without having to do anything at all… which suited him, I gather.”
“And Emmanuel Buchner?”
“I’m a bit hazy on that,” Franz said, “but I think he molested his niece.”
“What?”
“I’m not positive, but while I was observing his sister’s daughters, especially the eldest—”
“That quite a leap in inference, Franz. So you’re saying the girl wanted him dead, and when she was at the theater—”
“Not the girl. Her mother. Emmanuel’s sister. She was the volunteer. Here was a man who, I understand, wasn’t the brightest star in the sky, but he had a loving, warm, and trusted connection to his family; he was always at their house. Then, one day, two years ago—completely cut off. Now what happened to cause that rift?”
“Wouldn’t the woman say?”
“No. Which leads me to believe that she discovered something unforgivable, either by direct observation or by questioning the girl. Perhaps she discovered the girl’s own confused, troubled confession. Again, I can’t prove it, but—”
“But you just knew.”
“Yes. And I’m positive that if we keep digging, if we go back and read the files again on all of the victims, we’ll be able to find some link, direct or indirect, to someone they knew who, for one reason or another, wanted them out of the way.”
“You’re forgetting Christian Werdehausen,” Beide said.
Franz hesitated before answering.
“Yes,” he said.
“That’s all you care to say about that?”
“I suppose you’re going to scold me for Yitzchak Lowy.”
“I recall cautioning you about bringing in friends and family,” Beide said.
“I didn’t. That is to say, I didn’t consciously bring in Yitzchak. He said I’d sent him a radiogram, and, well…”
“You got him involved. And he got onstage with Henker. And now another person is dead. If we follow your explanation of things, Herr Lowy is culpable for Werdehausen’s death.”
“Lowy isn’t capable of murder, Inspector.”
“Perhaps.”
“In fact, none of these people we’ve been discussing could be described as capable of murder.”
“With the exception of Leo Kropold.”
“Yes, well, that’s another story altogether.”
The limousine tossed them about as it went over a railway crossing. Beide grabbed the speaking tube and gave the driver a short, pointed lecture on speed versus caution.
They had reached the city, and Franz looked at the streets teeming with people. He wondered about their characters, their darker impulses; how many went through their lives with pure hearts, how many were charred and warped at the core?
“Is Lowy in much trouble?” he asked.
“He’s the prime suspect,” Beide said, “despite there being no way to prove he was anywhere near Werdehausen at the time of the murder. And the larger question remains as to how he could be connected to all of the previous murders. That’s always been the problem, Kafka—each prime suspect exonerates the previous prime suspect.”
“Is it completely necessary to pin these crimes on one person?”
“Let me ask you: twenty-five murders committed by twenty-five different people who all use the same method. Does that make sense to you?”
“The answer I have doesn’t make sense to me, either, but it reduces the list of killers from twenty-five to one.”
“And who is that one golden suspect?”
“The one person you’ve been trying to prove committed these crimes all along, even though no one has been able to directly tie him to any of the crimes,” Franz said. “The Hanging Artist.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
AVATARS OF EVIL
BEIDE LET OUT a low whistle.
“What are you suggesting??” Beide asked. “That Henker somehow knew about the murderous desires of each volunteer and acted upon it? How would he know? Are you suggesting telepathy? Or that he psychically intuited these hatreds from each of his volunteers? Even if you could get me to believe that, what about all of the nights when he performed and a murder didn’t occur?”
“That’s simple,” Franz said. “Not everybody carries hate in their heart.”
“Oh, Herr Kafka. You’ll have to do better than that.”
“I think I can,” Franz said. “If not exactly ‘better,’ at least it’s something that offers an answer for everything, and when I’ve told you, you may do with it as you please.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean I don’t think this is a matter for the police,” Franz said, clearing his throat. “Not for the Vienna police, not for you… There’s nothing anyone, really, who can do about it.”
Beide watched the streets for the next crossing and spoke to the driver via the speaking tube. “Drive around until I tell you to go on to our destination,” he said. He looked at Franz. “I have a feeling what you are about to tell me might take a while to explain.”
Franz shrugged. “Not at all,” he said. “There’s only one way all those people could have been killed in the same manner despite living in such far-flung places; places it would be impossible for any human being to reach in so little time while being observed.
“The killer isn’t The Hanging Artist, Inspector. The killer is The Hanging Artist’s rope.”
“The rope.”
“Yes.”
“Acting on its own.”
“On behalf of the volunteers.”
“It carries out its own sentencing and punishment.”
“On its own.”
“Aided by a malignant, supernatural agency we can’t begin to fathom.”
“So it would seem.”
�
��I see. And where is this malignant, supernatural agency?”
“At the theater.”
“Right this moment?”
“I don’t know. But certainly every time The Hanging Artist performs.”
“And what brings you to this certainty?”
Franz told him about his traumatic experience the evening before while backstage at the Traumhalle. He tried to convey the way he’d felt and why he’d felt that way, when trapped in pitch darkness; he could only describe sensations. He could do no more than tell his story, had no way to rationalize the experience or assign any implication. What these unseen entities were, what they wanted, or where they came from and why were answers he couldn’t even begin to hazard.
Beide listened to Franz. Listened, very carefully, to everything Franz said.
Beide listened and, when Franz was finished, spoke.
“It would be customary, at this point,” Beide said, “to say one or more things to you, many of them entirely justifiable, starting with ‘You’re insane,’ and ending somewhere along the lines of ‘It just isn’t possible in this world,’ but I’m not going to do that for a variety of reasons. I’m going to behave like a perfectly normal inspector working out a theory or two with a perfectly sane colleague or special consultant, both of which I’ve come to consider you. How does that sound to you?”
“Very fair.”
“Good. First question: how long have you suspected this?”
“Not long at all. It’s been an accumulation of suggestions and happenings.”
“Such as?”
“Well, as much as I dislike maligning the lady, my first suspect was Henker’s sister.”
“Mathilde Henker?”
“Unless he has another sister of which I’m unaware, yes.”
“The woman can barely move. And when she does, she needs two canes. She can walk across one room in perhaps fifteen minutes, if she can muster the wind. And you thought she was traveling all over Austria to hang people?”
“We only think she’s an invalid because that’s the only way we see her. We’ve never seen her in private. For all we know, she may be as spry as a teenager who’s taken the highest honors in gymnastics.”
“And what was your theory as to how she knew where to go and whom to hang?”
The Hanging Artist Page 28
