The Second Rider

by Alex Beer

  With expert hands he searched the clothes of the man, put the gun in his pocket, and turned to Winter. “So far, so good,” he said. “Let’s go back into the city.”

  “But—” Winter began, but Emmerich left him standing there and marched off toward the tram station.

  “We can’t just leave him lying there. We have to do something.”

  Emmerich suppressed a sigh. “You want to take him on the tram? Feel free to go back and carry him here. Then the three of us can hop on.”

  Winter stared at the ground. “Sorry,” he said. “I have a lot to learn.”

  “We can get started with that right away.” Emmerich pulled a small brown card out of his pants pocket. On it was the number 165. “This was on the dead man. We’re going to figure out his identity now and inform any family members he may have. While we’re doing that, the patrolmen from the commissariat can take care of the body.”

  Winter didn’t have to say anything, his look spoke volumes. He’d never seen a card like this, which is why Emmerich turned it over to show his assistant the stamp on the reverse side.

  Asylum Society

  18 Nov. 1919

  for

  homeless in Vienna

  “165 is the bed number. And see these holes?” Emmerich pointed to the edge of the card. “It’s been punched five times, which means the dead man stayed there five nights. That’s the maximum. They won’t let anyone stay there longer than that.”

  “You think that’s why he—”

  “—Blew his brains out?” Emmerich nodded. “That and a thousand other reasons. Poor bastard. Who could blame him.” He rubbed his leg as inconspicuously as possible and looked in the direction of town, where the headlight of the 49 tram was finally coming into view. Hopefully the conductor had the heat up because the cold had crept deep into his bones.

  The inspector’s wishes were fulfilled, and for the second time that day he was able to enjoy a warm break. “Wake me up when it’s time to get off,” he said, leaning back and pulling his cap down over his face.

  “Where exactly are we going?”

  “First to the commissariat, then to the homeless shelter.”

  “And then?”

  “Then the situation will be taken care of and we can set our sights on the smuggler again.”

  3.

  The men of the detective corps were spread around the twenty-two station houses of the federal constabulary because they worked directly with the uniformed guardians of public order. Since they spent most of their time on the streets, the lower ranks of police detectives did not have their own offices and instead worked at large tables in the main room of whatever station house they were assigned.

  “It’s about time that the overhaul of the police system was instituted and we got our own desks,” complained Emmerich when he saw that constable Rüdiger Hörl, a dumpy, half-bald fifty-year-old who was on overnight standby duty, had taken over their work space again. “You can put this stuff right on.” He grabbed Hörl’s khaki uniform jacket and chocolate-brown cap from the table and threw them to him. “There’s a body in the Vienna Woods that needs to be taken to the coroner’s office.”

  “The woods are huge. What, am I just supposed to hope to get lucky searching over a thousand square kilometers? Easter’s not until April.” Hörl didn’t seem too happy that Emmerich had brought him work to do.

  “Over Bräuhaus Bridge, then go to the right over the wall into Lainzer Tiergarten, then about two hundred meters into the brush.”

  “Get out of here,” said Hörl. “I’m not running a courier service for stiffs. Especially not for ones who’ve made pendulums out of themselves.”

  “He didn’t hang himself, he shot himself,” Winter spat back.

  “Even worse. More of a mess. And besides I’ve got things to do.” Hörl pointed to a wooden bench where two women were sitting and staring at the floor. “I need to take care of these gracious ladies.”

  “What were they engaged in?” Winter looked at the two of them, who were dressed nicely and also seemed well fed. They didn’t look like pickpockets or prostitutes.

  “What else? They wanted to earn a little on the side. These days it’s not just the poor, uneducated women who turn tricks. The finer women have also had to learn that life isn’t always a bowl of cherries. Isn’t that right?” he yelled in the women’s direction, causing them to turn red and hang their heads even lower.

  “Let them go,” Emmerich suggested. “A couple of part-time prostitutes are the least of our problems.”

  “Says you!” Hörl turned to Winter. “If you value your balls at all, don’t get lured in by ones like this. Go to the official ones. The ones who do it on the side like this don’t have a health department license. Indulging yourself with one of these is like playing Russian roulette.”

  He gave the young man the kind of smug look a teacher might offer upon dispensing some important life lesson to a departing pupil.

  The two women’s discomfort was palpable.

  “You can go, ladies.” Emmerich opened the door and turned to Hörl. “You, too. To the Vienna Woods in your case. And the next time you address women, I expect more decorum.”

  “Thanks,” the two women breathed before they disappeared into the cold night.

  Hörl shook his head. “He is the most ferocious dog I know. But when it comes to whores, he turns into a gentleman,” he hissed to Winter. “Better get used to it.”

  “Why is he like that?”

  Hörl laughed. “Nobody can read Emmerich. That’s another thing you’d better get used to straightaway.”

  Hopefully the homeless shelter isn’t something I have to get used to, thought Winter when they reached the building on Blattgasse.

  A throng of men, of all ages, from whiskerless youths to hunched old men, had assembled before the large gate. There must have been several hundred, and most of them had no hat or gloves or even a proper winter jacket. They shivered as they waited for the place to open. They pressed closely together, as a wind carrying the smell of snow had kicked up.

  The freezing, emaciated bodies shifted a few steps back as a portal in the lock gate was opened and a bearded man stuck his head out. “Cards first!” he yelled. “No exceptions.”

  Immediately a host of brown cards were held aloft, and one man after another shuffled forward past the envious glances of those without cards, and presented their valuable slips of paper to the housemaster, who punched a hole in each and let the lucky holder enter.

  Finally Emmerich and Winter made it to the front.

  “Wait, wait, wait, not so fast.” The housemaster blocked the entrance with his stocky frame. “This card’s no good. Five nights and then you’re out.”

  “My card’s good every night.” Emmerich pulled out his badge. “We’re not here to cause any trouble. We just have a few questions.”

  Ha,” snapped the bearded housemaster. “No trouble, my ass. That’s what you coppers are all about.”

  Emmerich planted his hands on his hips and stared silently into the man’s eyes. The housemaster turned away, looked at the wretched figures waiting to get in, and sighed.

  “Do I have any choice?”

  Emmerich spared the housemaster the answer, shoved him aside, and pulled Winter in through the gate.

  “Cards? Anyone else with a card? Nobody? Then I’ll distribute the new ones now,” they heard called out behind them, at which point skirmishes broke out.

  Winter turned around, shocked, but was pulled forward into the home by Emmerich. “They’re fighting for the rest of the spots,” he said dryly. “It’s nothing to do with us.”

  Before Winter could give any thought to the poor souls outside, a wiry man who was apparently one of the wardens stopped them.

  “Hey, you two, not so fast. You already been checked for vermin?” He shot them a
disparaging look. “I don’t want you bringing in lice or something worse, you miserable rabble.”

  Emmerich held his badge with its embossed eagle up to the guy’s face. “This is the only creature on our bodies.”

  A look at the eagle turned the warden obsequious. “Most honorable inspector,” he said bowing slightly. “I am at your service.”

  “The most admirable type of person. Kissing up to power and kicking the downtrodden.” Emmerich looked the man up and down, full of disgust. The people seeking shelter here might have seemed repellent on the outside. But they were a thousand times more palatable to Emmerich than this bootlicker. “What do you know about the man who spent the last five nights in bed number 165?”

  “165? No idea. We don’t ask for their names or backgrounds. We don’t ask them anything. And even if we could . . . We have two hundred beds, and their occupants change every five days, how could I possibly remember anything?”

  A thought suddenly occurred to Emmerich. “Where is bed 165?”

  The warden told them how to find it. When they entered the dorm room, they were hit with stifling, fetid air.

  While Emmerich strode stolidly into the room, Winter visibly cringed. “Perhaps we should question the housemaster,” he suggested.

  Winter looked anxious to flee as quickly as possible. The world outside had been tough since the war, but compared to this place it didn’t seem so bad to him.

  “You heard what the warden said: they don’t take any personal information. The homeless get a bed and a warm meal. Nobody cares about anything else. If anyone will know anything, it’ll be the man’s comrades in misery.”

  They went through the dorm room, a long, narrow room with fifteen beds lined up against two opposing walls with no more than an arm’s length between them. It was dim, so it was hard to read the numbers which were written on the wall at the head of each bed.

  “Here.” Emmerich pointed to an empty bed, stopped in front of it, then sat down on it. Comfortable it was not. There was no mattress, just two tattered blankets on wire mesh strung from a metal frame. There was a pillow, too, with a blue patterned case that was so greasy that its shine was plain to see even in the dull light of the room.

  Emmerich stood up again. “Could I please have your attention,” he called, garnering nothing more than a yawn from the men lying in the other beds. “We need some information in the man from bed 165.”

  “He’s downstairs getting our soup,” said a voice.

  “We looking for information about the man who probably spent the previous five nights in bed 165,” Emmerich corrected. “Anybody know his name?”

  Again only yawns, coughs, and a quiet murmur.

  The bells in the tower of the nearby Weißgerber church struck eight times, and the present company showed more interest in the whereabouts of their soup than in the concerns of the two inspectors.

  Emmerich searched his pockets, fished out a half-empty packet of tobacco, and held it up.

  “Oh yeah, now I remember,” said the man in the next bed.

  “Me, too,” said one on the opposite wall. “I was here the last two nights, I spoke to him.”

  “His name was something with D,” said another man.

  Then it was quiet again.

  Emmerich understood, felt in his pockets again, and conjured up a packet of rolling papers and a banknote.

  Expectant silence. The men watched suspiciously and then ravenously as Emmerich began to roll a cigarette.

  “Pfff,” one whispered. “He should offer more than that.”

  “The longer you wait, the less will be left.” He lit the cigarette, took a few deep breaths, and then blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “Dietrich Jost,” said the man from the next bed, causing insults and curses to fly.

  “That’s better. It’s not so difficult.” Emmerich motioned for Winter to take notes.

  “He served in Galicia,” said another man. “Three years.”

  “He was a zookeeper before the war.”

  “But he couldn’t work afterwards because his nerves were shot.”

  “His old lady left him, too. She couldn’t take it anymore. The constant trembling.” The man in the bed next to Jost’s put out his arms and flailed about wildly. “It really was shit sleeping next to him.”

  “So he was shell-shocked?”

  “Oh yeah,” came the answer in unison.

  Emmerich knew a lot of men who’d lost not their lives but control over their bodies on the front. Their limbs twitched uncontrollably, and they often had difficulty speaking.

  “Would he have been capable of loading and firing a pistol in his condition?”

  “Definitely not,” said the man on the opposite wall, and all the rest agreed.

  Emmerich rolled another cigarette, which was met with loud protest by those present, protest that Emmerich studiously ignored. He needed to think. Was it really possible that Dietrich Jost hadn’t killed himself?

  “Did he seem distraught by his circumstances?”

  “Distraught?” The man in the next bed fixed on the banknote and the tobacco that Emmerich had put down next to him. “Not really. He was a little . . . well, you know.” He twirled his finger next to his temple. “Said some crazy things and had convinced himself that he was going to emigrate to Brazil soon.” He started to laugh. “He liked the idea. And he had this one friend, who always looked out for him with a bit of money here and there. What was his name again? Something with Z.”

  “Zeiner,” another man interjected helpfully. “Harald Zeiner. Good guy. Had a big heart.”

  “Jost had it good. Nobody looked after any of us poor bastards.”

  “What’s with the cig anyway? Who gets to smoke it? And why all the questions? Did Jost get into some kind of trouble?”

  “Where can I find Zeiner?” Emmerich ignored the questions.

  “He doesn’t have a fixed address. He sleeps here and there. The best place to find him is at the Kitty Bar. He started working there recently.”

  “Kitty Bar? Where is that?” Emmerich, who knew Vienna nightlife well, had never heard of the place.

  “How should I know where it is? Do I look like someone who could afford to hang around in some fancy bar? I’m happy if I can afford a swig of the cheapest stuff, forget a glass or a bartender.” The man was starting to get agitated. “What is with the cig?”

  “Does anyone else know anything?” Emmerich called out through the room, but there was no answer, just unhappy grumbles.

  “I think I know what bar he means,” whispered Winter.

  Emmerich looked surprised, stood up, and thanked the homeless men. “It’s been an honor, gentlemen.” He tipped his cap and headed for the exit. He left the goodies on the bed.

  Wild shouts and curses rang out even before they’d left the room.

  “I’d wait a minute,” said Emmerich to the man they encountered in the hall carrying a large pot. “Don’t want to upset the soup.”

  4.

  I want to be absolutely sure it wasn’t a suicide,” said Emmerich when they were finally back out on the street, able to breathe in the cold, clear air. “Dietrich Jost fought for God, for Kaiser, and for Vaterland and paid a dear price. Nobody kills a war veteran without getting punished. Not in my city. So where’s this Kitty Bar?”

  Winter ran his hands over his face as if he could wipe away the invisible sheen of misery and suffering that clung to him from the shelter. “I think he meant the Chatham Bar.”

  “The Chatham Bar?” Emmerich was visibly surprised. “Have you ever been in there?” It was a crazy bar better known around Vienna by the name Je t’aime Bar. And it wasn’t a reference to the romantic type of love.

  “I only know their ads. With the black cat sitting in front of a champagne glass. Never been inside.”

  “Then it�
�s time you were.”

  “A day of firsts,” mumbled Winter, following his superior as he headed in the direction of Dorotheergasse in 1st district.

  “Evening,” said Emmerich to the overgrown bouncer as he reached for the doorknob when they arrived.

  “Get the hell out of here,” said the man, blocking their way. “We don’t let in the likes of you.”

  “Aha, and why not?” said Emmerich, sticking out his chin.

  “Because you stink. And anyone who can’t afford soap can’t pay for drinks either.”

  Winter sniffed his underarms. The long day and the visit to the homeless shelter had indeed caused an olfactory effect.

  “Now fuck off, and fast.” The bouncer made a hand gesture as if shooing away stray dogs.

  Emmerich looked the man over. His scarred face left no doubt that he’d spent a lot of time in the ring, and Emmerich decided he’d be better off not starting a fight. The guy was large, and nearly six feet tall . . . He wouldn’t be able to take the boxer on his own. And he couldn’t imagine Winter was of any use at all when it came to street fighting. It was a shame he couldn’t just identify himself as a policeman—but then the joint would empty out immediately.

  “You always run into people a second time,” he promised, and trudged off with Winter in tow. They went around the corner to the service entrance, and Emmerich banged on the door.

  “Garbage collection,” he said when a young woman in a checkered apron opened the door.

  “What? Now? At this hour? Hang on, they don’t do the rounds until the day after tomorrow. And since when do you collect the stuff door-to-door?”

  “Didn’t you read the notice? It’s a new city service.” Emmerich tipped his cap and bowed slightly. “So where are the bins? We don’t have all night. We have to keep a tight schedule or we’ll catch hell from city hall.”