The Master of the Day of Judgment

by Leo Perutz

  I accompanied him out. He turned in the doorway and struck his brow with his hand.

  "Of course," he exclaimed. "I nearly forgot the most important thing. Listen, baron. I saw Dina this morning. I may be mistaken, but I had the impression that she would very much like to talk to you."

  This piece of information was like a blow on the head with a rifle butt. For a moment I stood there in a trance, totally unable to think. For the next second I had a wild struggle with myself. I wanted to go to her, take her by both shoulders — he had been with her, seen her, spoken to her. I felt a wild desire to find out everything, good and bad, to ask him whether she had mentioned my name, and if so what the expression on her face had been. That was my first impulse, but I overcame it. I stayed quite calm, I did not give myself away.

  "I'll let her know my address," I said, and noticed that my voice was trembling.

  "Do that. Do that," the engineer said, and slapped my back in very friendly fashion. "Have a good trip. And don't miss your train."

  TWELVE

  I do not find it at all easy to explain why I did not carry out my intention to leave by the next train. It was certainly not the thought of Dina that kept me in Vienna because, however much I was struck by what the engineer told me, after a moment's calm reflection I attached no importance to it. She believed me to be her husband's murderer. Was it really possible that she wanted to see me again? I saw through the engineer's purpose. He had invented the story to dissuade me from leaving Vienna, and I was furious with myself for having been taken in by it; if only for a second.

  The reasons that made me give up the idea of going away were by no means of a compelling nature, they resulted from a change of mood brought about by the engineer's visit. Hitherto I had been quite inactive. An absurd incident had put me at the centre of an event to which I did not feel I had the slightest connection. I had been so stunned by the sudden turn of events that I had hardly tried to defend myself. I had completely withdrawn into myself, left everything to the chance that was governing events and, in an inexplicable reversal of feeling, had wanted only to remain unaffected by memories of the events of the previous day.

  That had now changed. The conversation with the engineer had roused in me the desire to take up my own cause myself. Eugen Bischoff's murderer must be found, and I did not know where to look for him. I imagined a dreadful, sluggish, monstrously fat creature craftily waiting for his victim between his four walls. The idea that this murderous horror was more than a figment of the engineer's imagination, that he might be living in my immediate neighbourhood, that I might confront him and call him to account — it was this last thought in particular that spurred me to action. I had wasted far too much time already, now I mustn't waste another minute. I must find out where Eugen Bischoff had been between twelve and one o'clock on three days of the past week, that was the point from which everything else would follow, and I set about the task with the impatient zeal that had prompted me to make preparations for leaving town during the night.

  By now it was one o'clock. Vinzenz had laid the table, but I left untouched the meal that he fetched as usual from a neighbouring tavern when I was at home. I paced up and down the room in a state of nervous excitement, made plans, dismissed them as useless or impractical or too time-consuming, considered all sorts of possibilities, but obstacles kept cropping up, I embroiled myself in a hundred different schemes, lost patience and began all over again, and not for a single moment did I doubt that I would end by hitting on the right one.

  Inspiration came suddenly, when I least expected it. I was standing by the open window. The activity in the street reflected in the windowpanes was strangely diminished in size, and the picture it presented is inscribed in my memory as with an etching tool. I can still plainly visualise the bluish white curtains in the windows opposite, the lady with the old- fashioned cloche hat who was crossing the road, the working- class woman carrying a basket full of lemons. I could make out distinctly, though on a miniature scale, the Archangel Michael raising his hands in a protective gesture on the counter of the chemist's opposite. A passing tram obscured the picture and released it again. A confectioner's van was standing outside the corner café, and a red-haired apprentice carrying two yellow-brown boxes disappeared through the revolving door. And while I watched all this an idea struck me that seemed so simple and obvious that I could not understand how the engineer had managed not to think of it.

  The starting point of my investigations must be Eugen Bischoff's taxi accident in the Burggasse. The Burggasse was in the 7th district, I reflected. I knew the police superintendent there, Dr Franz or Friedrich Hufnagl. I had gone to see him a few months previously about an anonymous threatening letter that had been sent me. Since then I had come across him several times in the chess room of a café in the town; he would help me. I lacked the inner peace and patience necessary to carry out inquiries myself. I wrote a few lines on a visiting card, and called my man Vinzenz.

  "Go to the police station in the Kreindlgasse, ask for Dr Hufnagl, and give him this card," I said. "He will let you look up the police report of a road accident. Note the driver's name and the number of his cab. Then you will wait for the driver at his rank and bring him here, I've got to talk to him. That's all. Have you understood? You'll find that the police will be helpful."

  He went off, leaving me plenty of time to consider my chances, which I certainly did not overrate. Very likely I would find out where Eugen Bischoff had picked up that taxi. That wouldn't get me very far, but at least I would know in what part of the city I must begin my search, and it was clear to me that it was then that my real difficulties would begin. But I counted on luck or sudden inspiration to help me out when the time came. Also I had stolen a march over the engineer, and that was good enough for the time being.

  I had to wait for two hours, and the time passed very slowly. Vinzenz came back at three o'clock with a copy of the police report, from which it appeared that according to Police Constable Josef Nedved, taxicab no. A VI 138, driver Johann Wiederhofer, at 1.45 on 24 September because of the slippery road surface had skidded into the trailer of city tram no. 5139 in the Burggasse and suffered slight damage. The driver, whom Vinzenz had found at his rank, was waiting with his vehicle at the front door.

  Johann Wiederhofer turned out to be a very loquacious gentleman of mature years. He obviously had not yet got over the accident, which had brought him into contact with the police, and he violently objected to any kind of police interference and to the tendencies to solidarity that in his opinion characterised all tramwaymen.

  The mishap had been due to no fault of his, he insisted. It had been raining, and it had rained on the previous day too. The collision had occurred suddenly and out of the blue, and only his vehicle had been damaged. But those rogues the tram drivers all backed one another, and all at once the policeman had appeared on the scene, and he had told him not to make a fuss or take any notice of those tramway types.

  He lit a Virginia cigarette, and I took advantage of the pause to ask about the extent of the damage. A mudguard had been bent and scratched, the windscreen had been smashed, and he had lost a whole afternoon doing repairs, which he finished on Saturday morning. At midday he was back at his rank, and chance had it that the same gentleman came out of no. 8. "Don't you take him," his colleagues had said, but he wasn't superstitious, not he. "Get in, sir," he had said to the gentleman, and . . .

  "You saw the gentleman from no. 8 coming?" I interrupted, unable to conceal my excitement. "Where is your rank?"

  "On the Dominikanerbastei, just opposite the Popular Café," he replied.

  "Take me there," I said. "Dominikanerbastei 8," I said and got into the cab.

  It stopped outside a melancholy-looking three-storey building. I looked in vain for the porter's flat inside the dark doorway, and found myself in a very neglected courtyard — puddles of rainwater had formed on the stone paving. A dog of indeterminate breed standing on a hand-cart barked at me furious
ly. Two pale small boys on a rubbish heap were playing with box lids and broken tiles and bottles. I asked one of them where I could find the caretaker, but he did not understand and did not answer.

  I stood there for a while, at a loss what to do. A continual splashing sound came from some corner or other, perhaps from a fountain, or water may have been overflowing from the eaves. The dog was still barking. I went up the winding wooden staircase, intending to knock at a door and ask for information.

  I was met by an unpleasant smell, the smell of domestic refuse, accumulated damp, and decaying vegetable matter. I was unwilling to give up and leave empty-handed, so I overcame my distaste and forced myself to go on.

  On the first floor I did some reconnoitring. The premises of the Hilaritas German Students Association were on the right, next to the staircase. Two letters were under the door and a crumpled note on which "Am at the Kronstein café" was scrawled in pencil, followed by an illegible signature. There seemed to be no point in seeking information there, and the same applied to the office of the Hat and Felt Goods Dealers' Association. The third door was that of a private flat, occupied, according to the nameplate, by Wilhelm Kubicek, Major (ret.). I rang the bell, and handed my card to the girl who opened the door.

  She showed me into a simply-furnished room. White covers protected the furniture. Opposite the door there was a portrait of a lieutenant field marshal in full dress uniform with the Order of the Iron Crown on his chest. The major, in dressing gown and slippers, came towards me, and on his face I read surprise and uneasiness at a visit the purpose of which he could not explain. On the table were a magnifying glass, a hookah, a note-pad, a cleaning rag, a bar of chocolate and an open stamp album.

  I explained that I had called in order to seek information about a fellow-tenant of his. I had felt justified in seeking aid from an ex-officer, for I was a captain (retired) in the 12th Dragoons. The mistrust vanished from his face. He asked a trifle uncertainly whether I had called on behalf of some business and, when I told him that it was a purely private affair that had led me to him, his reserve disappeared. He regretted he could not offer me a glass of schnapps, a good Kontuczowka he had from Galicia, but his wife had gone out and taken the key with her. He couldn't even offer me a cigarette, as he was a pipe-smoker.

  I described the man I was looking for exactly as the engineer had described him to me. The major was surprised to hear that the building in which he lived harboured anyone of such extraordinary physique. He had never heard of the monster.

  "Strange, strange, strange," he muttered. "I've lived here ever since I left the army. The whole street is a gossip shop and, if Frau Dolezal from no. 6 has ox tongue with caper sauce for lunch, every child in the street knows it the same afternoon. You say he never goes out? But one would have heard something about him, no-one could have remained so completely hidden as that. Do you know what I think, captain? Someone has been taking you in. If you will forgive me for suggesting such a thing, captain, I think some humorist has been pulling your leg."

  He stopped and thought for a while.

  "On the other hand," he went on, "didn't you say he's an Italian? Just a minute, just a minute, just a minute. Until last year a Serbo-Croat lived in this house, his German was very bad, I was the only one who could talk to him in his mother tongue because for two years I was stationed at Priepolje, a kind of sin-bin, you know, it gives me the creeps to think of it, the stories I could tell you about Novibazar, but never mind about that now. He wasn't really fat, quite the reverse in fact. His name was Dulibic, I now remember, and he was the nephew of a parliamentary deputy, they're all traitors, if you ask me, and if I had my way — but you can't mean him, because he moved to Budapest last year. Dulibic his name was, that's right, Dulibic. But just a minute, just a minute. There is someone I haven't seen for two or three weeks. What has happened to Herr Kratky? I asked the caretaker's wife, one never sees him any more. He had inflammation of the middle ear. He's going out again now, he's still rather pale and weak, it takes time to get over a thing like that. But for one thing he's not an Italian, and for another he's not really what one would call fat."

  He thought again for a while, and suddenly he seemed to have an idea.

  "Supposing the man you want is Herr Albachary, after all," he said, lowering his voice, and he smiled cautiously and understandingly. "There's really no need for you to feel any embarrassment with me, why should you, we're both old soldiers, after all, and I myself was young once. Herr Gabriel Albachary lives at no. 8 on the second floor. You've no idea of the people who go up and see him, many of them are men of breeding and proper gentlemen, after all anyone can find himself in a situation in which he needs Herr Albachary, I think nothing of it. Also he's said to be a highly educated man, a great connoisseur and collector in the face of the Lord, pictures, antiques, theatrical relics and relics of old Vienna, all sorts of things, he's an old gentleman, always elegant, always smartly dressed, the only thing is that he takes ten, twelve or fifteen per cent, all depending, and sometimes more."

  I had no desire to be considered a moneylender's client, so I decided to take the major into my confidence so far as the circumstances required.

  "I am not in financial difficulties, major," I told him firmly, "and I am not interested in Herr Albachary. To put it in a nutshell, I am here because of the actor Eugen Bischoff, of whom you have heard, perhaps, major. In the past few days he was here a number of times, and by all appearances there is a connection between those visits and his suicide. Last night he shot himself at his villa."

  The major leapt from his chair as if he had had an electric shock.

  "What did you say? Bischoff, the court actor?"

  "Yes, I very much want to find out ..."

  "Killed himself? Impossible. Is it in the papers?"

  "It's bound to be."

  "The court actor Bischoff? Why didn't you tell me straight away? Of course he was here. The day before yesterday, no, wait a minute, about twelve o'clock on Friday ..."

  "Did you see him, major?"

  "No, but my daughter did. The things you say! The actor Eugen Bischoff. What do the papers say? Money troubles? Debts?"

  I did not answer.

  "It must have been nerves," he went on. "An artist nowadays, over-worked and over-strained — that's what my daughter thought too — he looked distracted and distraught, he didn't realise at first what she wanted of him — yes, these brilliant people — my daughter — we both have our hobbies. I collect jubilee stamps and special issues. When I've completed a collection, I sell it, one can always find an enthusiast willing to buy. My daughter's more interested in autographs. She has a whole album full of them. Painters, musicians, excellencies, actors, singers, all sorts of celebrities. At midday on Friday she came dashing in. 'Whom do you think I ran into on the stairs, papa?' she said excitedly. 'Eugen Bischoff, just imagine it.' She picked up her album and dashed out again. An hour later she came back looking radiant, she had had to wait all that time on the stairs, but she got him, and he wrote his name in her book."

  "And where had he been all that time?" I asked.

  "At Herr Albachary's, where else would he have been?"

  "Is that just an assumption, or ... ?"

  "No, she saw him come out. Herr Albachary accompanied him to the door."

  I rose and thanked the major for his information.

  "Do you want to go already?" he said. "If you've got a moment to spare, you might be interested in my collection. I've no great rarities, only what comes my way."

  And he pointed with the stem of his pipe to the open album and said:

  "Honduras. The latest issue."

  A few minutes later I was at the door of Herr Albachary's flat and rang the bell.

  A red-haired youth as long as a bean pole and in his shirtsleeves opened the door and let me in.

  No, the gentleman was not at home. When would he be back? That was impossible to say. Perhaps not till the evening.

  I could not make
up my mind whether or not to wait. From the half-open door of the room I heard footsteps and the sound of someone impatiently clearing his throat.

  "That's another gentleman waiting to see Herr Albachary," the young man explained. "He has been waiting for half- an-hour."

  My eyes fell on the clothes rack, where a raglan and green velour hat were hanging, and a black polished walking stick with an ivory handle was leaning against the wall. Good heavens, I said to myself, I know that hat and coat and stick. Someone I know is here. The idea of being greeted in a moneylender's waiting room by an acquaintance was the last straw. I must clear out fast, before he had the idea of looking to see who the new arrival was.

  I said I would come back another time, perhaps next day at the same time, and hurried out.

  Down in the entrance hall I suddenly remembered where I knew that hat and coat and ivory-handled stick from. So great was my astonishment that I stopped in my tracks. It was incredible. How could he have found his way here before me? But there was no doubt about it. The man whose overcoat was upstairs in the waiting room was the engineer.

  THIRTEEN

  It was raining in torrents when I walked out of the entrance hall. The street was practically deserted, and the driver, wrapped in a mackintosh, was sitting at the wheel reading a dripping newspaper. I felt uneasy. I could not see how the engineer had managed so quickly and so certainly to follow Eugen Bischoff's invisible trail but, to tell the truth, I quickly gave up worrying about it. All I knew was that my sleuthing had been totally superfluous. The inquiries at the police station, my questions to the driver, my call on the old major had been a useless waste of energy. It had been a wasted afternoon. I felt hungry and tired, I was shivering with cold, and the rain blew in my face. All I wanted was a dry change of clothing and a warm room. I must get home as quickly as possible.

  The driver, who had been having some sort of trouble with the petrol tank, stood erect. "Myrthengasse 18," I called out to him — that was my address. But just when we were moving off I had an idea that completely changed my mood. I had been thinking that the trail I had been following had led me up a blind alley, but that was not the case, it led further. That accident had happened in the Burggasse. Strange that it struck me only now, but the Burggasse was not on Eugen Bischoff's way home. Why had he gone so far out of his way?