The Strangler's Waltz

by Richard Lord

  Rautz then looked at his watch again, the second time in less than a minute. He decided that if this Brunner person did not show up in the next five … well, maybe ten minutes, he would call the action off. He didn’t want to waste the time of his own best people and the highly praised street policemen they had with them.

  There would always be other opportunities, he decided. This whole thing had probably been a very mean, tasteless joke by someone who did not have the proper respect for Vienna’s police force and its men.

  Across the river, Prenger had just bent over to check a security rope placed under the bench when Officer Kern tapped him lightly on the shoulder and cautiously pointed towards a figure approaching along the river bank.

  Within moments, it was clear this figure was a male. A fairly tall and burly male. At the bridgehead, the man stopped, looked around, then started onto the bridge. About ten meters in, he turned … looked around again. Prenger and Kern, facing each other, pretended to be involved in a heated discussion. As Prenger’s back was now turned to the bridge, he whispered to Kern, “Tell me if starts coming back.”

  “No,” Kern replied. “No. In fact, now he’s started walking again, towards the middle.”

  “Then let’s count to five, get up slowly, and join him.”

  Both officers pulled out their revolvers, index fingers pushed against the triggers. They were ready for any thing that might happen, expected or unexpected.

  Meanwhile, Dörfner and Schildhauer started moving across the bridge, on the opposite side from the large man. The man had now reached the middle of the bridge and taken up a position in front of the John of Nepomuk statue, as had been forecast by the anonymous “friend of justice”.

  When he saw this pair approaching on the other side, he turned and pretended to be looking into the Danube, admiring the view. Across from him, Dörfner briefly turned and pointed towards the river. This was the signal for Stebbel and the two sharpshooters at the café to commence their advance.

  Meanwhile, Schildhauer clutched a small rock he had brought along and threw that into the river, as close to the north side as possible. A quarter century before the invention of the walkie-talkie, this was the way police and military personnel communicated with each other on operations such as this one.

  But Prenger and Kern had already vacated the bench and started across the bridge, treading the same side as the late arrival. As soon as he saw them out of the corner of his eye, Dörfner whispered to Schildhauer, “Now!”

  Both officers spun around, guns drawn. Dörfner barked out: “Herr Brunner – it’s the police. Please turn around, raise your hands and put them high in the air.”

  The man across the way spun around abruptly. For the first time, Dörfner saw his face. And he could see that, except for the cold fear now etched there, it was the same face as in Herr Hitler’s sketch. He also saw that the man had moved his right hand to his chest, the fingers just sliding under the jacket. He shouted once more. “Brunner – raise your hands. High! Right now!”

  Instead, the man started back in the direction he had come from. But after just a few steps, he saw the other two officers advancing on him, guns drawn. He stopped and leaned against the railing as a smile spread slowly across his face. And then, he started humming. A waltz tune, with the smile on his face broadening as he hummed.

  He then started swaying his shoulders, in rhythm to the tune he was humming. Dörfner tightened the pressure on his trigger. His throat almost painfully dry, he managed to yell again. “Herr Brunner – last chance. Raise your hands. High!”

  Instead of following this order, Brunner reached into his jacket and started to pull something out. There was no possibility they would wait to see exactly what he was pulling out. Dörfner shouted, “Open fire!” At almost the same moment, he heard Prenger shout the same order.

  By the time Dörfner had taken aim, the suspect had swirled just as the first bullets, from the guns of Prenger and Kern, tore into his left leg. He let out a scream of pain and fell awkwardly against the bridge railing. But even though wounded, he managed to pull out what looked like a gun.

  Dörfner again barked: “Fire!” He and Schildhauer started firing, one right after the other, as if taking turns in a shooting gallery contest. Four bullets ripped through the left side of the man’s chest; a large blotch of dark appeared where they had entered.

  A look of shock filled that face Dörfner had seen repeated times in roiling dreams and the man pitched forward. Seven policemen quickly converged on the large figure, now sprawled over the walkway. Stebbel, Koubek and Griesser had rushed up, but got to the action just as the shooting had ceased. By the time they arrived at the scene, Schildhauer and Prenger had turned the man over, onto his back. As Stebbel approached, he peered at Dörfner. Dörfner nodded.

  “Brunner. It is Brunner.” Stebbel looked down at the figure on the ground and nodded in agreement. “He’s gone. It’s over. It’s all over.”

  The two partners then knelt down and stared closely at the face of the man who had obsessed their lives over the last few weeks. His eyes were wide open, staring upwards.

  Dörfner pointed down at the face. “Look at those eyes. Like he still sees something. It looks like he’s …”

  Stebbel finished the thought. “Like he’s staring out at something terrifying.” Dörfner nodded.

  As they rose, they stared at each other. Dörfner then spontaneously reached over and put both arms around his partner and lowered his head against him. “We got him, Steb. We got him. The whole mess is over.” Stebbel squeezed him in return. The other five officers on the detail looked away for a few moments, allowing these two men who had spent so much energy and emotional capital trying to capture this killer have the moment to themselves.

  But it lasted little more than a few moments. Stebbel and Dörfner then broke their embrace and stepped away, both of them embarrassed at this spontaneous show of stored emotions. Prenger stepped over and gave a comradely pat on the shoulder to both men. And then Stebbel croaked out a downbeat note.

  “But I wanted him alive. I wanted to interrogate. There were so many … things left unanswered.”

  “We had no choice, Inspector,” Prenger said. “He drew his gun. He was not going to give up. It was his life or ours.” Stebbel looked at Dörfner, who nodded sadly.

  By this time, Inspector Rautz had made his way out of the café and was moving as quickly as he could to join the others. He still had no idea what had gone down, but he saw a body sprawled across the pedestrian walk. He started counting the men standing around the body. Five … six … seven. It wasn’t one of his men; he was exulted.

  He finally reached the group and put his arm around Stebbel’s shoulder.

  Stebbel then shook his head, still awash in regret. “But I wanted to interrogate him. I had questions. I had so many questions I needed to ask him.”

  Staring down at the face, Prenger said, “Don’t worry: it looks like wherever he is now, he’s being called upon to answer some very difficult questions.”

  Chapter 40

  As promised, Rautz took the entire team out to celebrate their triumph. He chose one of his favorite cafés, the Blauer Stengel. As they entered, Rautz signaled the head waiter, then whispered something into his ear. The head waiter had one of his subordinates show the party to a large table near the rear of the main salon as he himself headed off to the kitchen.

  After a short time, three waiters approached. The first set up an ice bucket just to the left of Inspector Rautz, the second carried a tray with eight glasses on it, and the third toted a bottle of champagne.

  When each officer had his glass filled to the brim with bubbly, Rautz stood and prompted a toast. “To every man here – for their sterling work this evening. There were so many things that could have gone wrong, but you all proved yourselves to be total professionals. And – dare I say it – you are, each of you, heroes for your actions tonight.”

  To this, they all raised their glasses an
d sipped the champagne. Rautz then tapped a spoon on his plate and offered a second toast.

  “I want to say that there are three of us here at the table who deserve special praise, for tackling this case right from that first dark morning. We put untiring energies into pursuing this monster, who tonight was finally given his bitter dose of justice.

  “So – to my brave and resourceful colleagues, Inspectors Stebbel and Dörfner, who were my right-hand men in solving this case.” The other policemen all raised their glasses to Stebbel and Dörfner and took deep drinks. Those two sneaked a look at each other and arched their eyebrows at Rautz’s puff of self-praise.

  Later, generous slices of cake were served, which the men washed down with the remaining champagne. Rautz signaled for the three inspectors to lean closer while he imparted some important information.

  “I have to go soon. Those damn newspaper reporters will be flocking to headquarters to get some details. For the morning editions, you know. We can work on the full report tomorrow, so you three can just go on celebrating. But I will need some details for when the journalists ask me.”

  “Of course, Herr Inspector.”

  Rautz then slid the receipt for the celebration to Stebbel and asked him to write down the name of the killer, so that he would have the exact spelling. While Stebbel was carefully printing the name in large letters, Rautz asked other key questions. “OK, so the killer, he did really have a gun with him tonight, correct?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Inspector.”

  “And he did pull it out, which is why we had to shoot him?”

  “Yes, we had to consider the safety of every member of the team. Knowing him to be a vicious murderer –’

  Rautz was already writing something down. “We couldn’t give him the chance to kill one of our own.”

  Prenger then added a detail. “The gun this Brunner was carrying was a Remington Star.” Then, in a softer voice, he added an editorial note. “Not a very good firearm actually. Even if it was only one of us facing him down there on the bridge, he wouldn’t have had much of a chance.”

  Dörfner snorted. “A much better chance than he offered any of those girls he murdered.” The other three inspectors tapped their fists softly on the table to show their full agreement.

  Rautz left a short time later. Before departing, he again thanked all those on the capture and warned the young hooks that they shouldn’t stay much longer, as they had to get up early again tomorrow for duty and they “all needed their beauty sleep”. He then leaned over to inform the three inspectors that they could take the whole morning off, at full pay. Just make sure they were in by mid-afternoon, he added; they would probably be called upstairs to receive congratulations from the District Commander, maybe even the Commissioner.

  * * *

  Following the celebration at the café, the three inspectors headed off to a late-night tavern to continue with their celebrations. On their way, these three men who had planned and overseen the operation looked back at the end of the mission.

  Stebbel turned to Prenger. “So that gun he used, it wasn’t very good?”

  Prenger shook his head. “An old model, and one that always had problems. I’m surprised he even showed up with such a relic.”

  “So why do you think he didn’t just … give himself up? He was outmanned, outgunned, out-everythinged.”

  Dörfner had an answer to this. “He knew he was facing the noose anyway. And he was a military man. There’s a code in the military: if the cause is lost, you still go down fighting. Keep shooting and hope you take out as many of the other bastards as you can before they take you out. He was just following the code.”

  Prenger shifted uneasily in his seat, then turned to the other two loupes. “There’s one other big question dangling.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Who was Herr Brunner expecting to meet there tonight?”

  Dörfner had no idea. He turned to Stebbel as the only one who might have an answer. But Stebbel simply shrugged. “A friend of justice?” he said.

  Though they got lost several times along the way, the trio finally reached the tavern. It was not too long before they had become darlings of the owner and the staff. One tall carafe of wine was not even finished when the trio called for the next.

  Dörfner poured himself another glass and took half of it down in one deep swallow. He then smiled through his self-imposed fog and tapped the wood to get the attention of his two colleagues at the table.

  “I, Karl-Heinz Dörfner, being of sodden mind and unwound body, do hereby declare that you two fellows are the most valuable friends one could find in the entire Viennese police force.”

  “I second that motion,” added Prenger, hoisting his glass high.

  Stebbel likewise raised his glass. “For what it’s worth.”

  “Great friends. The kind you can rely on. The kind who you can put your hands in their life. I mean, you could put your life in their hands.” He paused for a minute to go over that last sentence again, making sure he had gotten it right this time.

  “Yes, great, great friends. Especially this guy.” He pointed at Stebbel with his glass. Stebbel smiled and raised his own glass in gratitude.

  “And let me tell you, I am going to take care of both of you guys when I’m running things around here.”

  Prenger pursed his lips. “Oh. And when is this going to be?”

  “Before long. Very soon, in fact. Soon, soon, soon. Here, feel this.” He then put both of his hands on the table and with a head gesture, prompted his two colleagues to do the same. They duly joined him.

  “Do you feel that? That’s the big roulette wheel. And I mean the big one. Spinning faster and faster. And that wheel is going to going to take another big spin, and when it stops, my side will be on top.”

  Stebbel smiled. “What? You’re going to win a bundle at some casino? Remember me when you do.”

  “No, that’s nothing. Crumbs from the stinking rich. I mean, when the wheel stops and the workers are finally in control.”

  Prenger thumped his palm on the table in a mock show of triumph. “Ah yes. Attention, gentlemen and cops: we are now about to hear an inspiring speech by Charley the Red.” He turned to Stebbel. “You know Dörfner is a Red, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Ja, ja – he’s a deep-red socialist. Can’t wait for the ruling class to be overthrown.”

  Stebbel was incredulous. “Is this serious?”

  Dörfner nodded and raised his glass high. “To the working class and their true allies. When we’re running things, things will run right. Finally.”

  Prenger grabbed the wine carafe and refilled Dörfner’s glass to the brim. “Come on, let’s get him mumbling drunk before he can give us his whole theory of the coming revolution.”

  Dörfner folded his hand over the top of the glass even though it would have been impossible to pour in more than a few drops. He was in a buoyant mood and he had what he felt was an important point to make.

  “Let’s face it: the Habsburgs are finished. Old Franz-Josef doesn’t even know what century it is most of the time, and he probably needs four assistants to help him sit down to shit. Forget about him trying to run the empire.

  “Franz-Ferdinand? OK, I grant you he doesn’t seem to be that bad. Some people tell me he’s even clever, and sympathetic to the common folks. Like us. But the old fool Franz-Joseph has already declared that none of his offspring can ever inherit the throne. Why? Because his wife is not from the ranks of the upper aristocracy. Marrying out of that group is the only way to produce kids that aren’t natural-born idiots, but F-J doesn’t want that. And why? Because he only feels comfortable with idiots like himself running the country.

  “And who would be next in line after Franz-Ferdinand? Karl! God help us! Give him six months on the throne and the whole Habsburg farce will fold up its tents and leave the scene as fast as they can get out.”

  Prenger again raised his glass and spoke in a mocking tone.
“To the new order! And to Karl-Heinz the First! The leader of the empire’s proletariat.”

  Dörfner clutched his own glass and hoisted it high, spilling about a third of its contents on the upward trajectory.

  “To us! And especially the three of us sitting right here. Here. We will be there among the leaders of the first Workers Republic of Austria-Hungary.”

  Stebbel then raised his own glass. “To a better tomorrow!”

  They all clinked glasses. Prenger took a swallow, then turned again to Stebbel. “You really didn’t know that our Karl-Heinz was a socialist agitator? The worm within the rotten apple?”

  Stebbel threw his hands up. “I … This is the first time I ever hear of this.”

  Dörfner nodded. “Stebbel and I are good at keeping secrets. We keep our secrets away from criminals, informants, newspaper guys, and even each other.” He swallowed most of the wine left in his glass. “Yes, Herr Colleague, there are a lot of things you don’t know about me yet.”

  Prenger smiled. “And there are probably a lot of things you don’t know about Julian.”

  Dörfner’s head lolled from side to side, which was all he could manage to serve as a nod at that point. “Absolutely. Now that we’re big heroes though, and we rely on each other so much, we’ll have to learn more.”

  He then leaned over, cupped his hand and pretended to whisper to Prenger. “I do know some of his secrets though. For instance, I know he writes poetry.”

  Prenger turned to Stebbel. “You do?” Stebbel smiled and shrugged.

  “And very good stuff, let me tell you – if only I could understand any of it.” Dörfner leaned back and smiled at his partner. “He even writes it in the office, I think. I find it sometimes in the desk. In that drawer that we both have a key to. He hides it under other papers and a few notebooks. I was looking for something one time, pulled out all the papers and found that poetry. At first, I thought it was the confessions of some half-crazy criminals. But then I recognized Steb’s handwriting. I was so proud right then to have a real poet as a partner.” He hoisted his glass high again. “To Julian Stebbel – the Goethe of our age.”