by Richard Lord
“Yes. He had really become a liability. That’s how Herr von Klettenburg described it. He said that in business, you always incur some liabilities and you can accept them for a certain time if they are somehow linked to your assets. But at some point, your liabilities threaten to destroy everything you’ve built up. And that’s when you have to just dispose of them.”
“It’s good that Herr von Klettenburg is such a shrewd businessman.”
“Oh, that he is, that he is. The biggest mistake that Brunner made was right there in that room: he wanted more money for killing the fifth girl than he had received for the previous three. He actually insisted that the Geheimrat pay him more for a murder that he didn’t even want. He said things were getting very dangerous out there with the police increasing their work, so he should get more money.
“Well, the Geheimrat felt that this was just the beginning, that he’d soon be blackmailing him openly, and for much more money that that idiot Scherling had demanded. So he said we had to bring an end to Brunner and his killings.”
“Stop the music and end the strangler’s waltz.”
“Yes. That was it, pretty much.”
By this time, Stebbel had stood up and was pacing about the room slowly, deliberately. He tried to maintain a veneer of civility despite all the raw anger churning up inside him. It was almost incomprehensible: a member of the imperial privy council coming up with a diabolical scheme and then providing the funds to see it carried out. Five women murdered to shield his pride. To keep the family name unblemished.
Stebbel was filled with loathing for von Klettenburg – and for Zingler as well. This loathing wiped out any earlier feelings of sympathy he’d had for this older man lying in the bed, severely wounded. He didn’t even want to look at him again, so deep was his disgust. He only did so when Zingler called out to him. “Inspector …”
Stebbel summoned up some last scrapes of sympathy and did turn to face Zingler. “Yes?”
“Do you think God will ever forgive me for what I’ve done?”
Stebbel shook his head slightly, not quite believing what he’d just heard. “I think the priest standing outside the door there is better qualified to answer that than I am.”
“That’s just it. He swears that God can forgive me; will forgive me. He says I only need to show true remorse for my sins. But I don’t know if that’s true. I feel that what I’ve done is so terrible … Well, maybe thousands of years in purgatory, and then I can …”
“As I said, Herr Zingler, this is not really my territory. You’d do best to ask the priest again.”
Zingler suddenly had a hurt look on his face, as if he were some kind of victim. “Would you forgive me? If the decision were left to you, would you ever be able to forgive me?”
Stebbel looked at him for several moments, then turned and started walking towards the door. But just before he reached it, he heard Zingler’s strained voice calling out.
“Inspector?” Stebbel could hear the intense pain of his wounds in that voice. He stopped at the door and turned around again.
“I’m sorry. I don’t really know what forgiveness could mean in a situation like this.” And then, as an afterthought: “You should never ask a policeman about forgiveness anyway; we don’t deal in that commodity. I have to go now.”
A few seconds later, Herr Zingler was again all alone in his bed with his tortured conscience.
As Stebbel came out, Father Wenzel approached. He seemed to be wearing the same pained smile he had assumed when Stebbel headed into the room. Stebbel’s face was filled with anger, contempt and confusion. The priest read these feelings from his face, then again reached out and took his arm.
“Inspector, we have to realize that sometimes justice escapes us in this world. But there will be full justice in the next world, and those who have done terrible things will pay for them there in the next world.”
Stebbel closed his eyes briefly, then shook his head. “Father, I need justice in this world. That is why I’m a policeman.” He gently lifted the priest’s hand from his forearm, gave a polite nod and started walking away. The corridor now reeked of rancid pity and seemed twice as long as when he was on his way to hear Zingler’s confession. The inspector picked up his pace to get away as quickly as he could.
Father Meller stood waiting for Stebbel at the paternoster. He saw him down, hurriedly found him another taxi, and paid the driver in advance for the fare back to Stebbel’s home.
As they drove along, Stebbel stared glumly at the half-lit streets flanked by formidable buildings, the manicured parks, the yawning squares, those imposing statues, all of it filled with sullen shadows. The city was a masterpiece of imperial pomposity.
He suddenly realized that his feelings for Vienna, the place he’d spent such an important part of his life, had become like a love affair gone bad. You wouldn’t even notice those first signs of alienation, the disappointments, the slights. Then, at first slowly, you started slipping further and further apart. And then you suddenly realized, as Stebbel did there in that taxi, that the love was largely drained, replaced with something like a snug contempt. He tapped his fist against the window in anger. The taxi driver turned slightly, then raced on through the darkness without saying anything.
Chapter 47
Stebbel was thoroughly exhausted, but even so, he lay there in his bed staring up at the wall, unable to tumble into what he had hoped would be a healing sleep. Where did all this leave him? The case was now reopened and had become messier than it had ever been in its messiest moments before now.
He closed his eyes and wished for some kind of oblivion. He was exhausted but not capable of sleep; he was hungry, but without any appetite; he was aching, but with no desire to lose the aches. And he couldn’t straighten out his thoughts to come up with a way out of this new labyrinth.
Eventually, Stebbel did sink into sleep, but it was more like sinking into a dank swamp: a troubled sleep, tossed back and forth through all the concerns, obsessions and doubts that he’d lived with over the last month. He woke shortly after five a.m. and realized he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. But it was still hours before he was expected at the office. He rose, washed, and dressed. After downing his third tumbler of water that morning, he headed out.
His ultimate destination was the Lange Gasse, where Dörfner’s boarding house was. However, when he arrived, it was still too early to rouse his partner. So he strolled over to the Café Kettner, arriving just as the bleary-eyed staff was opening the doors. He ordered what he suspected would be the first of too many coffees that day, and drank it with a bitter expression despite the three spoonfuls of sugar he’d added.
He lingered over that kleiner Brauner coffee, then downed another. Finally, he decided it was almost a decent time to call on Dörfner. He had to talk to him before they met up at the office.
When Dörfner opened the door, he was caught completely by surprise to see Stebbel standing there. Stebbel had only come to Dörfner’s place once or twice since they’d become partners, and never first thing in the morning. Even stranger, this was a free day for both loupes, supposedly the beginning of the long holiday weekend.
Dörfner was still in his bed clothes, just wrenched out of an alcohol-aided sleep, so his invitation to Stebbel to come in was awkward and mumbly. He just managed to ask Stebbel the reason for this surprise visit while moving towards the small toilet cabinet.
“I had a meeting with our mystery caller last night. The self-proclaimed ‘friend of justice’.”
This report jolted Dörfner fully awake within seconds. He told Stebbel that he’d get ready and be with him in just a few minutes.
Stebbel had to wait at a table near the front door while Dörfner finished with his morning ablutions and his dressing. When he reappeared, Stebbel flashed a broad smile: his partner was wearing a fancy new suit. These are a cop’s trappings of success when you solve a major case, Stebbel thought. And he wondered what changes in demeanor would fold over Dör
fner when he heard the news Stebbel had come to share with him.
Stebbel suggested they have breakfast together and Dörfner agreed. The two then shuffled over to the Café Kettner. The waiters greeted Stebbel like an old customer who commanded special attention.
After they’d placed their orders, the senior partner began to tell his junior about the confession at the hospital the previous evening. He spoke even more slowly than usual as he deftly pulled out every detail of the evening, from the time he was met at his own front door by Father Meller.
He tried to fully describe Zingler lying there in the hospital bed, his difficulties speaking, the fear and self-disgust he saw in the man’s face. And he recounted the story in a way that made Karsten von Klettenburg seem even more cold-hearted and malevolent than he had appeared in Zingler’s account.
Dörfner just sat and listened for most of the time, nodding to underscore his interest. He only asked one or two questions, slight clarifications. For the first part of Stebbel’s narrative, Dörfner seemed astonished. Once or twice, he shook his head, as if he was teetering on that thin line between belief and non-belief.
When he heard the rationale behind the last four murders, he seemed to be glaring at Stebbel, almost like he was about to accuse his partner of having made this whole horrific tale up. But a short time later, the look of astonishment disappeared and was replaced by anger.
The anger was constant and almost reached the point of rage. As if to keep that rage safely bottled up, he clutched his tie and the front of his shirt as he leaned forward to whisper to Stebbel.
“You know, I always half-suspected our friend the Geheimrat was involved in this in some way. But never this deeply, the bastard. He makes Brunner look like an altar boy. Yeah, an altar boy just serving the dark priest of deception.”
“I won’t argue with you, Charley.”
“And the worst thing is …” Stebbel raised his eyebrows to encourage Dörfner to continue. “The worst thing is, he’ll probably get away with the whole thing. Brunner dies, this other pimp in the hospital will probably die, and Herr von Klettenburg sails right along through all the turbulent storms. The swine will probably even get some honor from the Emperor, something for bravery or meritorious service or some shit like that.”
He took a deep swallow of his coffee, as if to refuel his bitterness. “Yeah, justice rarely scrambles up to the top tiers of society.”
Stebbel fixed him with a hard stare. “No, we’re not going to let him get away with it. That’s why I came to see you this morning. All last night, I was tearing myself apart inside, thinking that he would get off without getting a smudge on him. But then, this morning, I came up with a plan.”
Dörfner was immediately engaged. “What is it?”
“We go to the office right now. We’ll get in a little early, grab one of those typewriting machines, and write out a confession for Herr Zingler. We put down everything he told me last night. About all five murders. Well, six, actually, because we have to include Scherling. Now we know that was a murder as well, no suicide.” Dörfner nodded zealously.
“Then we rush over to the hospital and we pay Herr Zingler a visit. We tell him the only way he can really earn full forgiveness is if he signs that confession. He has to tell the world what he did, and who else was really behind it all. I don’t think he’s worried about retribution from von Klettenburg at this point. So we get the confession signed, and then we go after the Geheimrat.”
Dörfner looked ready to sign on, but a small sliver of doubt remained.
“Do you think it will work?”
“It’s the only thing that can work. Otherwise, you’re right: von Klettenburg walks off looking like a brave widower. He will have managed to commit the perfect crime – but only by killing five additional people to masquerade the crime.”
Dörfner scooped out the remaining egg from its shell and stuffed it into his mouth. He nodded several times as he swallowed. “Alright; we’ll do it. We’re together on this all the way. Except …”
“Yes?”
“You’ll have to type that confession. I have nothing but trouble with those typewriting machines. My fingers, you know.” He held up his hands. “Every one of my fingertips smothers five or six letters at a time.”
Stebbel chuckled. “Alright, I’ll do all the typing. I’m no expert with that contraption, but I do have some experience. Mostly sad experience, but I can manage.”
Dörfner then chomped down his half-eaten roll and picked up the remaining one on the plate. He paused, raised a hand and finished his energetic chewing.
“One other thing.”
“Yes?”
“If we catch the bastard on this, do we have to give back all that wine?”
Stebbel sputtered a laugh and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Good. I’ve already polished off half of mine.”
They finished their breakfasts quickly, paid, and took a taxi back to the precinct.
Chapter 48
Typing the confession proved as painful a task as Stebbel had thought it would be. But they kept the document short and blunt, without omitting any damning details, and an hour later, they signed out on the duty sheet and headed over to Holy Hearts Hospital. Checking to see that Zingler was still in the same room, Stebbel nodded, then led his partner to the paternoster. A few minutes later, they were knocking at the door of Zingler’s room.
A nun with a wimple resembling an assault umbrella answered the door. When the two inspectors identified themselves and said they needed to see Herr Zingler urgently, the nun turned a light shade of fluster. Herr Zingler was unable to see any visitors, she told them, and advised them to speak with Doctor Reimann instead.
Dörfner said they understood why the hospital wouldn’t want a crowd gathering inside the room and carrying on a long conversation with the patient, but this was different: they were high-ranking police inspectors on an important investigation and they really needed Zingler’s assistance at that point.
The nun still refused to remove herself from the doorway, but she offered to take them to Doctor Reimann’s office. It was just down the corridor, she said, and it would take no time at all.
Reimann’s office was actually at the other end of the corridor, and during the trek, the nun kept apologizing for not letting the two inspectors in. She had strict orders, she told them, very strict, and if she did let anyone in, she could find herself in deep trouble. Stebbel and Dörfner put on their gracious faces and said they understood entirely.
Reimann’s office was spacious, sunny and resolutely sterile. It looked like a place you would store medical specimens. Reimann himself was a tall man with an elongated face and small, unsympathetic eyes. After the introductions, the inspectors simply said that they were on important police business and needed to speak with Herr Zingler.
Reimann stared at them the whole time like a school principal listening to two students asking that they be allowed to violate some long-established school regulation. When they’d finished, he nodded sympathetically and told them it was not possible to see the patient right then. Herr Zingler had taken a turn for the worse during the night, he explained, and it would be highly irresponsible for him, as a doctor, to allow the patient any visitors.
But all they wanted, Stebbel interjected, was to have Zingler read through a short document, not quite a page-and-a-half, then sign it.
Absolutely not, Reimann replied. The strain of reading some official document was exactly the kind of thing he wanted to protect his patient from in this perilous state he was now thrown into. Plus, if this document was anything official, something intended to carry legal weight, it would not be very valuable with the signature of a heavily sedated man who was having trouble remembering where he was or what year it was.
The two inspectors nodded sadly. But before leaving, they did insist on one thing: the moment Zingler had recovered enough to entertain any visitors, they were to be informed immediately and allowed to sh
ow him the document in question.
In fact, they added a slight grace note of threat: if Doctor Reimann did not undertake to have them informed immediately, he could well be charged with obstruction of justice. Reimann assured them that they would be notified the moment any signs of recovery showed, and asked where and how they could be contacted.
The discussion ended on that sour note. Reimann saw them to the door, they exchanged mechanical handshakes, and the two inspectors went back to the office.
* * *
For the next day and a half, Stebbel and Dörfner worked on a missing person case and tried to keep themselves well informed of Zingler’s progress. Finally, late Thursday morning, Stebbel received a phone call from the nun at Holy Hearts Hospital.
Sister Elisabeth said that Herr Zingler had passed away shortly after dawn. There were a “series of complications attendant upon his accident”. His mortal body had been collected by the Froner Funeral Institute in Grinzing. A wake for the dead would be held there the next two evenings for friends and family wishing to see the deceased one more time. Requiem mass would follow on Saturday, at the Votive Church.
The nun ended by offering her condolences to Inspector Stebbel and his colleague; she could see how agitated they were when they came to visit Herr Zingler. The three of them must have been close.
Stebbel thanked the good sister and dropped the receiver into the hook with a clunk of despair. Dörfner, who had been watching him closely throughout the call, dropped his voice.
“Zingler?”
Stebbel nodded slowly. “His soul was taken up by the angels.”
Dörfner looked like someone had just yanked a stopper and depleted him of enthusiasm. “I hope von Klettenburg is grateful to those angels. They just delivered the Herr Geheimrat from justice.”
“Earthly justice. As the priests always like to remind us.”
“Tja.”
Suddenly, Stebbel’s mood lifted a few degrees. “Wait a minute. There’s still a chance we can get the evidence we need. There is still that chance.”
