The Second Rider

by Alex Beer

  Emmerich looked up. “Arthrofibrosis,” he said. “The connective tissue in his knee has formed scar tissue as a result of an injury, which has led to painful stiffness.”

  “Treatment options?”

  “In the long run, none. You just try to manage the pain through convalescence and medicine.” He patted his pocket.

  Dr. Klein nodded. “Exactly right. And with that, the visit is finished. We meet again later in the lecture hall.”

  “Sorry,” Emmerich whispered to the patient and followed the group outside. There he positioned himself directly next to his special friend and showed him his fist. “I hope we meet again soon—in a dark alley.”

  He was still reveling in the guy’s stunned expression when something else suddenly caught his attention. Two paramedics were pushing a man down the hall on a stretcher. Which wasn’t particularly unusual in a hospital, but the man’s mouth was hanging open and his tongue was stained yellow.

  “What’s with him?” Emmerich asked the paramedics.

  “He was found unconscious in the Kosmos cinema.” They pushed the unknown man into the room where Emmerich had woken up that morning and hoisted him into a bed.

  “Any details?”

  Emmerich went up to the patient and looked into his mouth. His teeth, at least those that were still there, were in exceedingly bad condition. He was obviously no champion of oral hygiene. It was certainly possible, then, that the yellow coloring had been there a while.

  One of the paramedics pointed at the man’s throat, where a dark red welt was visible. “Somebody obviously tried to strangle him.”

  “Did anyone see anything? Are there any suspects? And do we know this guy’s name?”

  The paramedics looked at him with wide eyes. “We’re ambulance men, not cops.”

  “Right, of course.” Emmerich cleared his throat and tried to mimic some sort of professional doctor-like gesture. Since nothing occurred to him, he put his hand on the patient’s forehead and said, “No fever.”

  “So, here I am. Sorry you had to wait, but a patient of ours has gone missing.” The matronly nurse came in with a bedpan in one hand and a washcloth in the other. “It’s like a nuthouse here, and now there’s a half-naked alcoholic running around the halls somewhere.”

  Emmerich lowered his head and made his way toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” called the nurse.

  “To Dr. Klein,” he answered with his face toward the door. “You know what he always says: punctuality is a virtue.”

  12.

  Emmerich wandered aimlessly through the streets of the city. He had no idea where he should go. All the friends he trusted unconditionally had never come back from the war—either killed or missing—and since then Luise had been the only person with whom his life was intertwined.

  The thought of her and Xaver transformed the contents of his stomach into a hard lump. He paused, took a few deep breaths, and thought back to his childhood at the orphanage, the years on the street, and his time at the front. He’d certainly experienced plenty of awful things, and he wasn’t about to be defeated now.

  Emmerich concentrated on the positives, for instance, that he’d not felt so good physically in a long while. He didn’t feel cold or hunger or pain, and the curious looks from passersby at his unusual outfit didn’t bother him one bit. It must have to do with the heroin, he thought, ruing the fact that he hadn’t yet taken any more.

  When he couldn’t think of any better alternative, he went to the commissariat, the place that seemed the most like a second home to him.

  Clack, clack, clack. He entered the main room of the station house, where it was suspiciously calm instead of humming with its usual hectic activity, and clomped across the smooth stone floor.

  Hörl, who was reading a file, looked up and furrowed his brow. “Did someone call a doctor?” he shouted into the backroom and then turned to Emmerich. “Good day, Herr Doctor. What brings you—” He suddenly stopped and squinted. “Emmerich? What’s with the outfit?”

  “I’m learning a new trade so I don’t have to see your faces every day.” He grinned and went over to Winter’s table.

  Hörl shook his head. “Trying to understand him is like trying to understand women,” he mumbled and then went back to reading his file.

  “Where’ve you been?” Winter stared at his boss with wide eyes. “And why are you wearing . . . ” He remembered that there was no point in asking Emmerich too many questions, and he swallowed his curiosity.

  “Listen, I need something to put on. You wouldn’t happen to have—”

  “I don’t have any money with me, and my clothes won’t fit you, unfortunately.” Winter looked around frantically. “You missed your appointment with District Inspector Sander,” he whispered.

  “Shit,” Emmerich spat. He’d completely forgotten that he was supposed to report to the chief. “Was Sander here? Was he upset?”

  “EMMERICH!”

  This rendered any number of questions superfluous. Emmerich straightened his neck reflexively and turned slowly. In front of him stood Sander with his arms crossed across his chest. He looked as ominous as a force of nature.

  “I can explain,” Emmerich began, but Sander’s rage crashed down unsparingly over him.

  “Your impertinence is truly unbelievable. You seem to think you can do anything you like,” he growled. “I am going to hammer some obedience into you. And what on earth is with that outfit? Do you think you’re funny?”

  “I was undercover at the general hospital and found out something important,” Emmerich tried to justify himself.

  And it did indeed seem to assuage Sander. The color of his face returned to normal, and he took a deep breath. “I’m listening.”

  “An unconscious man was brought in. Somebody had tried to strangle him. I believe there’s a connection to Jost and Zeiner. You know what that means.”

  “Of course I know.”

  Emmerich took a deep breath.

  “It means that you ignored my instructions. Again.” Sander had leaned forward and Emmerich could feel the heat of his breath on his face.

  He mustered all of his courage. “It means that I was right and that a murderer is on the loose in the city,” he countered.

  Sander looked him right in the eye. “Did you take a blow to the head?”

  Emmerich reflexively grabbed at the lump on the back of his head, but immediately lowered his hand again. “I don’t yet have any proof, but if you let me get after it—”

  “Do you really wish to embarrass yourself in front of Dr. Horvat and his men? I’ve read Wiesegger’s report and spoken with Professor Hirschkron. He stands wholly and completely behind the expertise of his assistant. If you can’t give me any solid evidence, I will not be responsible for you impugning the reputation of this department.”

  “But the murders—”

  “Write up a report and submit it to me. I’ll have a look at it and then decide how to proceed.”

  Emmerich sighed loudly. Resistance was obviously futile. “Understood,” he mumbled.

  Sander nodded without a word, didn’t dignify him with another glance, and left the room at a marching pace.

  “I have an idea how we can find Kolja’s stash,” said Winter cautiously when Emmerich’s attention was directed back to him.

  Emmerich frowned and shook his head disbelievingly. “Doesn’t anyone care about the dead?” he yelled angrily.

  “There are millions of dead scattered across the entire continent,” Hörl answered. “Perhaps it would be wiser for you to get over it and stop aggravating Sander. The city council is all over him and he needs to deliver results. If he doesn’t, heads are going to roll. And probably not just his.”

  Winter grabbed Emmerich’s arm before he could explode. “If you lose your job, you won’t be able to continue tryin
g to clear up the murders, either.”

  Emmerich wanted to make a counterargument but nothing occurred to him. In the end he had to admit that Winter was right. For once. “Fine, let’s hear your idea about Kolja.”

  “This morning two women were arrested with black-market contraband. I had a look at the stuff, and it occurred to me that it all smelled funny. Sort of musty. Like a damp basement or—”

  “The sewer.” Why hadn’t they thought of it before? As a result of the covering and diverting of the Wien River there was an extensive, subterranean labyrinth whose gangways, catchment basins, and access shafts made perfect hideouts and contraband stashes. You could supply half the city quickly and easily by means of the sewers. The most obvious thing was often the last thing you thought of. “Well done,” he said, and Winter grinned from ear to ear.

  “How should we proceed?”

  Emmerich pulled a set of keys from his desk drawer and pointed to the door. “I have to take care of something real quick. Let’s meet in fifteen minutes at Karoline Bridge in the Stadtpark. Bring lanterns.”

  13.

  When Emmerich turned up, Winter was already waiting at the bridge.

  “Where did you manage to get a change of clothes so quickly?”

  With the exception of his shoes, Emmerich was indeed in a completely new outfit: he was wearing warm wool pants, a linen shirt, and a thick brown corduroy jacket.

  “We have to climb over that gate over there,” he answered, heading off toward it. “If I’m not mistaken, there’s an access shaft behind it where we can get down to the bottom of the Wien.”

  Winter followed him and couldn’t believe his eyes. “Oh, my god!” he blurted. “On your back . . . is that blood?” He looked at the stain and ran his finger over it. “Is this a bullet hole?”

  “So what if it is.”

  “Oh, heavens. Is this stuff from the evidence room?” Winter couldn’t believe what his boss had done. “Isn’t it unlucky to wear a dead man’s clothes?”

  “Wearing the wrong clothes in these temperatures is unlucky. So is asking too many questions.”

  They climbed over the gate, behind which stood a so-called tower—a column that hid a spiral staircase that led to the subterranean world. The two detectives descended into the depths, then headed silently off through the Wien River tunnel toward Schwarzenberg Platz.

  It was ghostly quiet in the sewers. The noise of the city seemed far away; the pebbles crunching beneath their feet and the burble of the Wien flowing softly next to them were the only sounds. The farther they went from the entrance the darker it got, until—even though it was the middle of the day—they couldn’t see their hands before their faces, and they had to light their lanterns.

  “Oh, no!” Winter gasped when his lamp illuminated a dead dog and scores of rat cadavers. The sickly sweet smell of decay pressed into his nose, and he turned away. “That’s not a good omen.”

  “Shhh. We have to be quiet,” hissed Emmerich. “Lots of vagabonds live down here. Some of them are real savages. You do not want to tangle with them.”

  “We could get backup,” Winter suggested.

  “It wouldn’t help.” Emmerich turned right and they were standing in front of a pipe about a meter in diameter. “Numerical superiority is only an advantage in open spaces.”

  “No way! You expect me to go in there?” Winter seemed on the verge of quitting and fleeing back to the street above. “That’s way too dangerous!”

  “War, that was dangerous—this is just a walk in the park by comparison.” With no hesitation, Emmerich clambered into the narrow tunnel.

  Winter crossed himself and followed. On all fours they crawled through the slightly sloping pipe, which was not such an easy undertaking. Sharp pebbles bored mercilessly into their knees and the palms of their hands, the moist air made breathing difficult, and the claustrophobic confines presented psychological challenges.

  “Who would have thought that the starving multitudes would work directly to our advantage, eh?” Emmerich tried to make the best of the situation with a joke.

  Winter didn’t laugh.

  The next few meters were uniquely torturous, and he breathed with relief when they finally emerged into a small catchment basin where they could stand upright. Unfortunately, rainwater had backed up on the floor of the basin, and it slowly soaked through their shoes.

  “Great.” Winter wiped sweat from his face. “If the smugglers or the vagabonds don’t get us, cholera will.” Winter continued: “Where are we going? Do you have a plan?” But his boss did the same thing he always did when Winter doggedly asked questions—he ignored him.

  “There are rumors,” said Emmerich cryptically while shining his light around the walls. “A guy I arrested a while back said that there was a hidden cavern beneath Schwarzenberg Platz that stays dry all year round. The only way to reach it is by a pedestrian bridge that can be retracted at any time. They call the space the Fortress. If Kolja has a warehouse somewhere down here, it’ll be there. Why didn’t it occur to me earlier?”

  “And if we manage to find it, what then?”

  “Then we’ll go get backup, watch all the entrances, and arrest every sewer rat that goes in or out.” Emmerich was satisfied with his plan, and Winter, too, couldn’t find anything to object to. “Let’s go,” announced Emmerich, and they crawled into the next pipe, which led out the back wall of the catchment basin. It was even narrower than the previous one.

  As Winter pulled his body through the damp, foul-smelling slush, the makeup of which he didn’t want to think about, one horror scenario after the next went through his head. What if they got stuck? What if it began to rain and the sewers flooded? What if the tunnel collapsed? He fought the rising panic and was happy that Emmerich couldn’t see the tears welling in his eyes.

  When the pipe finally spat them out again—they found themselves in a basement-like, one-and-a-half-meter-high vault—Winter’s nerves were shot. “Do we have to go back the same way?” he asked in a quaking voice. “Or is there another way out?”

  “No idea.” Emmerich continued on, hunched over, until he ran up against a brick wall. “I didn’t expect it to be so intricate.” He shined his light on the wall from top to bottom, tapped on it, and turned around. “It seems as if we’ll have to go back.”

  A moment later, the dull echo of footsteps rang out. “What was that?” Winter turned around frantically and hit his head. He ignored the pain and stared into the darkness. “Please don’t let it be the savages.”

  Emmerich looked over his shoulder. “Shhh,” he whispered. “Maybe they’ll go a different way.”

  Winter nodded, with bated breath. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his body as the footsteps got closer. “Can we hide someplace?”

  Emmerich looked around. “There’s a recess in the wall back there. It might work,” he said quietly.

  They put out their lanterns, crept back, and pressed themselves into the narrow niche.

  The footsteps were only a few meters away at that point, then suddenly stopped. Emmerich and Winter stood stock-still and tried to listen in the dark. Silence. Not a sound. Somewhere in the shadows, danger was lying in wait like a spider for an insect.

  Keep moving. Keep on moving, prayed Winter silently.

  All of a sudden laughter rang out, and bright light blinded the two detectives. Winter raised an arm to shield his eyes.

  “So, what have we here?” they heard a deep, raspy voice say. “If it isn’t a pair of cops cuddling together like a couple of lovebirds. Come out!” Two broad-shouldered, scarred men stood before them—one had a gas torch in his hand, the other a pistol. “Which one of you lovebirds is August Emmerich?”

  “I’m betting it’s that one.” The man with the piece pointed at Emmerich. “Milquetoast there is too young. Empty your pockets! And no funny business.”

  Th
e two strangers took everything they had on them.

  “Alright, this way,” ordered the one with the torch.

  They had no other choice but to obey. Winter was astounded that Emmerich didn’t seem the slightest bit perturbed. His own heart was beating right out of his chest. This had revealed a whole new side of his boss. Normally he always had a plan. What did this mean? Did it mean they had no shot at escaping? Were they finished?

  They all crawled back to the river and waded through the sludgy Wien to the other side of the waterway, which flowed through an artificial concrete bed lined with tall quay walls. Winter looked around frantically, searching for a way out, but they were trapped. The wall was too high and too smooth, and the two smugglers didn’t take their eyes off them for so much as a second. There was no escape. They were done for.

  Without a hint of resistance, they entered another stinking sewer access and struggled, sweating and wheezing, through another confusing tangle of stairs, plateaus, and tunnels, until there was the muffled sound of running water, which became louder with every further step.

  Finally the sewer widened and they found themselves at the edge of an abyss that could be crossed only by a narrow wooden plank.

  “They’re going to kill us,” Winter murmured, wiping the sweat from his brow. “They’re going to shoot us, whack us in the head, or drown us like rats. They’d never have showed us the way to the Fortress otherwise.”

  “Calm down. Save your energy.” Emmerich looked into the depths, where roaring water disappeared into a pitch-black chasm. Jumping would have been suicide. “The one who survives is the one who knows when to fight and when not to. We’ll wait for the right time and place.”

  With held breath they crossed the shaky plank and came to another semicircular hall. Winter forgot for a moment the predicament they were in, gave in to the exceedingly strong impulse to stretch, and looked around, awestruck. In the space, which was even more vast than he had imagined from Emmerich’s description, were stacks of crates and barrels of all sizes and shapes. Maneuvering among them in the light of gas torches were countless men diligently stacking and hauling, and counting money.