The Second Rider

by Alex Beer

  Europa Editions

  214 West 29th St.

  New York NY 10001

  info@europaeditions.com

  www.europaeditions.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2017 by Limes Verlag, a division of Verlagsgruppe Random House

  GmbH, München, Germany

  First publication 2018 by Europa Editions

  Translation by Tim Mohr

  Original Title: Der zweite Reiter. Ein Fall für August Emmerich

  Translation copyright © 2018 by Europa Editions

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco

  www.mekkanografici.com

  Cover illustration taken from a photograph by Austrian National Library/Interfoto/Alamy Stock Photo

  ISBN 9781787701502

  Alex Beer

  THE SECOND RIDER

  Translated from the German

  by Tim Mohr

  THE SECOND RIDER

  War has a long arm.

  Long after it is over,

  It continues to claim victims.

  —MARTIN KESSEL

  1.

  VIENNA, NOVEMBER 1919

  Jost! Private Jost!” rang out from the underbrush, but he ignored the call. He knew that no living person was addressing him. The voice was only in his head. Along with all the others.

  Though the war had been over for a year already, the memories refused to recede. When he closed his eyes everything was so piercingly clear that he might as well have seen them yesterday: the dead, the dying, the maimed. Even smells: the cold sweat mixed with the smoke of the grenades. But most of all he heard the sounds of combat in his ears, the shouted commands, the barrages, the explosions, the screams of anguish. They’d found a new home in his head and taken over his body.

  No, he’d never returned from the battlefields of Galicia.

  Dietrich Jost stared at his hands, which trembled uncontrollably, and glanced at his feet, which were having difficulty walking on the rough terrain. Before the war he’d been a well-to-do zookeeper, now he was nothing. A war trembler. A pitiable cripple who had to live in the poorhouse and beg for food. Someone who’d been betrayed by the country he’d given everything for. The bureaucrats labeled him neurotic, a hysterical faker, just so they didn’t have to pay him a war victim’s pension. Was an amputated leg really worth more than a broken psyche?

  “Jost! Private Jost!”

  With quivering knees but a resolute stride he walked deeper into the woods, left the trail he’d been following, and pressed into the brush. The hunter’s blind, where the money and papers were waiting for him, had to be right around here somewhere. With those things he’d be able to book his passage from Trieste to Santos and start a new life overseas. Brazil would be his salvation. The whoosh of the ocean would wash the voices from his head and the sun would fade the horrific images.

  At the office of the emigration agency he’d seen photos of beautiful, well-fed women with chubby-cheeked infants on their hips and smiles on their faces. He’d find a wife and leave his old life behind. His old life in this shit hole, Vienna.

  The Kaiser had gone into exile, the crownlands had been split up, and Austria was but a pitiable remnant barely in a position to survive. Just like its citizens. Everything was in short supply. Food, coal, soap and clothing. People were starving, freezing, stinking. They fought each other over rotting horse meat or moldy potatoes and shared their beds with fleas. There was no work and no medicine, which meant even more crime and sickness.

  The once glamorous seat of the empire had become a filthy, bloodthirsty beast that he would soon escape. He’d died in Galicia and would be born anew in South America.

  “Jost! Are you deaf or what?”

  The voice was very close now. Next to him. And it was real. As real as the cold steel of the pistol barrel now pressed to his temple.

  Jost squeezed the words out: “P . . . P . . . Please . . . don’t.”

  “I heard you wanted to reach a beautiful place. And I’m here to help.”

  A loud bang broke the stillness of the woods, and the voices in Jost’s head went silent forever.

  2.

  Inspector August Emmerich sat in the tram running from central Vienna toward Hütteldorf, pulled his wool cap down over his face, crossed his arms on his chest, and leaned back. He was tired—no wonder, it was late after all, and he’d barely closed his eyes the night before. The children of his partner, Luise, who’d lost her husband in the war, were constantly sick because it was impossible to heat the apartment well enough. They hacked their lungs out and cried a lot. Three little beings who’d picked a bad time to be born. On the other hand, was there ever a good time?

  He let his heavy lids close for a moment, and savored the pleasant temperature. It had recently become possible to heat the trolley cars using the overhead electrical lines, and the conductor was making good use of that on this particularly cold day. He probably knew that a cold bed in a cold apartment would be waiting for most of the passengers. Coal was scarce and maintaining a fire in an apartment was a luxury that only very few could afford. It made this short, warm break all the more welcome.

  Emmerich yawned and leaned his head against the window as they passed Casino Baumgarten, which with its ostentatious façade was reminiscent of better times. What surprises would the night bring? He glanced at Veit Kolja, the man he’d been tracking for more than three months and who was now sitting two rows in front of him—it was all up to him and him alone, Inspector Emmerich, as to whether this crook could be stopped, and it was looking good. Kolja had a large jute sack in his lap, and Emmerich hoped he was leading them to his stash.

  Food, clothing, and medicine were scarce, and Kolja was one of those profiting from people’s hardships. He was the leader of a smuggling ring that had stockpiles of contraband in secret locations and traded their supplies for money, jewelry, and other valuable items.

  When this time of misery and need was finally over, Kolja would be unspeakably wealthy or, if it was up to Emmerich, in jail. In the deepest, darkest, dampest hole. Forever. Because, after all, what was sleazier than getting rich off people’s pain and misery?

  In the past few weeks he had put everything into making sure he’d be able to arrest Kolja and his men. He’d followed and observed them, he’d stood by in rain and cold, he’d even greased the palms of a few informers. It was tedious and exhausting, but it had paid off. He was nearly there. He could feel it. He was on the verge of breaking up the smuggling ring and arresting those responsible for it, which he hoped would earn him a promotion . . . as long as nothing messed it all up at the last minute. Or more accurately, nobody.

  His boss, District Inspector Leopold Sander, once a highly decorated officer in the Imperial and Royal Army, who knew a lot about military command but not the slightest thing about police work, had hit upon the brilliant idea of giving him an inexperienced sidekick—Ferdinand Winter, a rookie who’d just finished his training and was more a hindrance than a help.

  Winter, who was sitting next to him and dressed, like him, in plainclothes, put everything in jeopardy with his prim appearance. He gave off an air of nervousness. His legs fidgeted and his fingers tapped on the wooden seat as if he were trying to send Morse code messages out into the night. It drew the attention of the other passengers. Most of them were factory workers on their way home from a long, draining shift. An excess of energy like Winter’s stood out. And standing out was pretty much the last thing that should happen when tailing a suspect.

&nb
sp; “Settle down,” hissed Emmerich rudely. He refused to show respect for the rookie until he earned it. He gave the young man a withering look.

  Winter had big, bright blue eyes, gleaming blond hair, perfect skin, and soft hands. He chose his words with care. Guys like him weren’t used to working. Guys like him weren’t made for times like these. Emmerich knew delicate lads like Winter from the orphanage where he’d spent his childhood. The nicer and more innocent they were, the higher the odds were that they wouldn’t survive.

  Ferdinand Winter was definitely one of them. One of the nice, innocent ones. As far as he’d been able to figure out, Winter was the pampered son of a rich Vienna family whose money was no longer any good. Inflation took whatever the war had left, so the kid had been forced to deal with reality. Which wasn’t bad in and of itself, thought Emmerich—except that it had affected Emmerich’s sphere of responsibility.

  “Satzberggasse,” announced the conductor as they approached the second to last station. But Kolja remained seated, motionless. Where was this son of a bitch heading?

  “Settle down, for god’s sake,” Emmerich whispered, since Winter had started to get antsy again. “We’re heading for the edge of town, not the front.”

  “Hütteldorf, Bujattigasse,” called the conductor a few minutes later. “Last station. All passengers please exit.”

  The remaining passengers stood up slowly and reluctantly. The warm break was over, and life waited outside.

  The two police officers got into the line of people sluggishly pushing their way out the tram door onto the platform and then down the two steps onto the street. From there the passengers scattered in every direction.

  Emmerich put a hand on Winter’s shoulder from behind so he wouldn’t follow too closely on Kolja’s heels. “Easy,” he said once the suspect was out of earshot. “He’s a pro. The best thing is for you to stay a few steps behind me.”

  They followed Kolja at a safe distance as he headed directly toward Gasthaus Prilisauer, which suited Emmerich just fine, a shot of schnapps sounded good to him right then. Or better yet two shots.

  But the smuggler had other plans. Just before the pub he turned left, went through Ferdinand Wolf Park, followed the Halterbach drainage canal to the point where it emptied into the Wien river, crossed the Bräuhaus bridge, and then, turning to the right, left all civilization behind.

  “Everything alright? You’re limping,” said Winter, behind him, a little too loudly. Emmerich turned a deaf ear. “Nothing but woods here,” said Winter, stating the obvious, and Emmerich had to resist stuffing his mouth right there and then.

  “Wait here,” he ordered, after Kolja, with his sack, climbed over the damaged wall that ringed the so-called Lainzer Tiergarten, an extensive area in the eastern section of the Vienna Woods. “And don’t leave this spot.” He came across more like a kindergarten teacher than an aspiring police inspector.

  “Alright, alri—” Winter started to say before holding his tongue and pressing his lips together.

  Emmerich nodded. At least the kid was a fast learner.

  He gave his pistol, a Steyr repeater, the once-over and double-checked that he had his brass knuckles, then hopped over the wall. When he landed on the other side he had to stop himself from crying out in pain. There’d been shrapnel from a grenade lodged in his right leg since the battle of Vittorio Veneto, and it caused him constant trouble. In the last few days it had been worse than ever. The doctors had diagnosed it as arthrofibrosis, which was a fancy word for a miserable condition.

  Emmerich massaged his knee, which was ever stiffer as a result of scarred connective tissue, then stood up straight and braced himself against the wall. Good thing he’d left Winter behind. He didn’t want anyone to know about his wounded leg, and the kid was already suspicious. He couldn’t afford to be shifted to desk work if he was deemed physically unfit. Now that he had Luise and her children to look after, he needed the extra pay that came with his current duties. Then there was the fact that he was just thirty-six and couldn’t possibly imagine spending the rest of his career as a pencil pusher. He wasn’t cut out for that. He was a detective. He hunted down criminals, on the streets, that is, not on paper. He also wasn’t prepared to give up his dream of one day being promoted to the Leib und Leben division. The men who worked in that division, under the direction of the famous Carl Horvat, were the most elite members of the police force. They handled cases of murder and grievous bodily harm. He’d wanted to join their ranks for as long as he could remember, and he wasn’t going to be stopped now that he was so close. Not even by his bad leg.

  Emmerich grasped his talisman, a silver charm dangling from his neck on a leather lace, gritted his teeth, and limped off into the woods. Luckily Kolja had lit a lamp, which Emmerich used to track him, and thankfully the pursuit didn’t last long. The lamp stopped moving after just a few meters, and Emmerich hid himself behind a thick tree trunk. What was the smuggler up to? There was no bunker or anything else that could be used to stash things around here.

  Kolja began to whistle a song, put down his sack, and pulled something out of it. An axe.

  Emmerich’s stomach began to ache. Not from fear or hunger, but because it was dawning on him why Kolja had come here. Not for the purposes of his business, but to collect firewood.

  While Kolja hacked at a thin beech tree, Emmerich, disappointed, used the opportunity to slip away.

  “False alarm,” he whispered as he slung his leg painfully over the wall. “Winter?” The kid wasn’t standing where he was supposed to be standing. “Winter?”

  Emmerich sat atop the wall and looked around. He’d had a feeling that his new assistant spelled trouble. What was he supposed to do now? What a useless dilettante. Where had he gotten to?

  A yelp behind him answered his question.

  “Winter!”

  Emmerich hopped off the wall again, ignored the searing pain that shot through his body, and hobbled into the darkness, which was only dimly illuminated by the moon.

  Had Kolja not come here alone after all? Had the smuggler discovered the inexperienced Winter and dragged him off? Had an animal attacked him? Or had he gotten into it with some other firewood collectors?

  Something underfoot made Emmerich stumble and broke his stream of thoughts. He grasped at the air with his hands but found nothing to grab onto and fell face-first into the cold slush.

  The smell of the dirt and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth sent a quick series of memories shooting through his head. Trembling ground, thundering cannons, splitting helmets, and the most horrible conflict of all: the survival instinct versus military commands. He had to pull himself together. He had to get going. Must get up. Must go on. Forward. Never give up. Never surrender.

  He was startled when someone grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up.

  “Damn it, Winter,” he wanted to say when he realized who it was, but he stopped himself when he saw that the young man’s hands were smeared with blood. “What happened?”

  Winter turned and pointed toward the edge of the woods. “You have to come with me.”

  After he’d made sure his new assistant was unhurt, Emmerich brushed the dirt from his pants, straightened his cap, and listened. Silence. Kolja had taken a break from his task.

  “Where?” he whispered.

  Winter motioned for him to follow and set off. Straight into the brush but not in Kolja’s direction.

  The kid moved fast, with long, hurried strides. He wasn’t bothered by the uneven ground or by low-hanging branches. He just walked on, farther and farther into the thicket, until the brush was so dense that you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.

  Emmerich struggled to keep up, but didn’t want to reveal his problem by asking Winter to slow down. He was overjoyed when Winter finally stopped. “So?”

  Winter didn’t answer, but instead looked around searc
hingly. “You mind?” He held up a little pocket lamp.

  Emmerich thought for a moment and then nodded. If they were to come upon Kolja or some other soul he would just say they were poor people looking for firewood.

  Winter turned on the lamp and shined the light on the forest floor. “It had to have been right here somewhere,” he said. “I heard noises and wanted to check on you . . . ”

  “Check on me?” Emmerich interrupted.

  Winter nodded with childlike seriousness. “And I stumbled over a root and fell on him.”

  “On who?”

  “On him.”

  The light of the lamp finally came to a halt and, like a theater spotlight, illuminated a ghastly scene. The star of the macabre stage was a dead man whose pale visage was framed by coagulated blood, the consistency of which was more reminiscent of tar than of the sap of life. Viscous, sticky, and horrible smelling.

  “Haven’t you ever seen a corpse before?” asked Emmerich when he saw Winter’s face, which was suddenly whiter than the dead man’s. It was meant as a rhetorical question, which is why he nearly choked when the young man silently shook his head. Ferdinand Winter must have been the only person in this entire country who’d never seen a dead body before. “Where the hell did you spend the last five years?” This time the question was a serious one.

  “In the Imperial and Royal Army’s telegraph and communications division.”

  Emmerich made no comment, silently took the lamp from Winter, knelt down, and shone light on the full length of the corpse. From the worn-out shoes with paper-thin soles past the ratty trousers, the twine used as a belt, and the jacket made almost entirely of patches, to the glassy eyes that seemed to peer into the distance. A stare into eternity that Emmerich knew all too well—he had seen that stare far too often in his life.

  The dead man had an entry wound on his right temple and an exit wound on the left. Emmerich took a step back and felt around on the ground, finding what he had expected: a gun. More precisely a Steyr M1912, the standard-issue pistol of the Imperial and Royal Army.