The Second Rider

by Alex Beer

  Kolja grinned. “After my men jogged their memory, they remembered that it was a man with a scar on his cheek.”

  “So he’s been out to get me from the start. But why?”

  Kolja plucked a wooden box from the hat rack, opened it to reveal a semiautomatic pistol, and handed the weapon to Emmerich. “Here, for protection. The man who set you up is dangerous. He’s a real pro. That’s the reason we haven’t managed to drag up any info on him so far.” He pointed to the door of the salon. “But we do know a bit about the men in the photo—and you’re not going to like what we found out.”

  Emmerich vacillated between respect and concern. Kolja was good. Too good.

  In order to stay out of the Landl he’d made a deal with the devil, but the day would come when they were once again on opposite sides—a fact that now made him more uneasy than in the past. When it came to that, he would never again be able to make the mistake of misjudging his opponent.

  The haggard man who had followed Emmerich so amateurishly was out in the parlor. The fresh scrapes on his knuckles suggested he’d recently been in a fight, and the untouched state of his face meant he had come out of the confrontation victorious. Apparently he had more talent at fighting than shadowing.

  “This is Simon. You already know each other.” Kolja poured cognac for everyone. “Tell Herr Emmerich what you found out.”

  The young smuggler, who appeared visibly uncomfortable in the private realm of his boss, sat perfectly straight on a chair and kneaded his cap. “My cousin’s wife had a brother who was stationed in Galicia. He lost an eye there, and half his nose. He wears a horrible prosthetic now.”

  “The guy’s history is of no interest to us. Get to the point,” Kolja encouraged.

  Simon took a sip of cognac and looked at Kolja, surprised. “Good stuff.”

  “You’re here to report, not to drink. So . . . ”

  Simon paused and took a deep breath. “So . . . ” he began. “The brother of my cousin’s wife said there were rumors floating around about atrocities. Bad stuff. A group of Royal and Imperial soldiers supposedly massacred civilians. Women, children, the elderly. Even babies. They were supposed to have done things so brutal it would have shocked Beelzebub. One of the soldiers was so bad they called him the Beast of Lemberg. Apparently even his comrades were scared of him. He loved to slit women’s stomachs open . . . ”

  “And the men in the photo . . . ” Emmerich was beginning to understand what Simon was getting at.

  “ . . . it was them.” Simon emptied his glass. “Can I leave now? I need to go. There’s another delivery waiting.”

  Kolja nodded, and Simon went to leave, but Emmerich stopped him. “Which one?” he asked. “Which one of the men was the beast?” It was dawning on him why one face had been rendered unrecognizable.

  Simon shrugged, and before Kolja or Emmerich could say anything, he left.

  Emmerich, who felt overwhelmed, took a deep breath. War criminals. The men he’d taken for unfortunate victims and risked his neck for were war criminals. It was a twist he had not anticipated.

  “Sometimes the good guys turn out to be the bad guys, and vice versa,” said Kolja.

  “It’s only a rumor at this point. Nothing more.”

  “But nothing less, either.” Kolja lit a cigar and crossed his legs. “I don’t understand why you look so shocked. Did you really think the reports of civilian massacres were enemy propaganda? Why did you think the press is censored?” Before Emmerich could answer, Kolja continued. “I can tell you why—so the people don’t learn about what our army did in enemy territory. Self-defense, my ass. You were on the front and saw what men are capable of. Why not the ones in the photo?”

  Emmerich didn’t know why he bristled at these suggestions. Because he didn’t want to give up his belief in the honor of soldiers? Because he couldn’t accept that everything he had sacrificed so much for was tarnished? Because he was slowly but surely losing his ability to distinguish good from bad?

  “Innocent until proven guilty,” he said, grasping at straws. “We have to find the other men and warn them. There’s only three still alive.”

  “Warn them of what?”

  “About a killer who’s administering vigilante justice.”

  Kolja bent forward and looked Emmerich in the eyes. “If these guys killed women and children, they deserve to die.”

  “That’s something for a real judge to decide, not a self-appointed one. What if they are innocent? I am too, after all.”

  Kolja rolled his eyes. “See how well your beloved system works? No wonder people take the law into their own hands.”

  “Just because you do, you don’t need to generalize.” Emmerich suppressed any further commentary. He didn’t want to fight with Kolja. He needed to save his energy to find the man with the scar and to keep him from inflicting any more damage. And he had to figure out what role he himself was playing in the whole thing.

  32.

  Emmerich stood in the shadows of a collapsing building entryway, his heart pounding, waiting for Winter, who normally passed this way after his shift.

  He didn’t feel comfortable out in the open like this . . .

  “You!” a voice shot through the silence, and Emmerich’s heart nearly stopped. In front of him was Officer Ruprecht, one of the patrolmen who had assisted him in the arrest of Wilhelm Querner—and now he was about to try to arrest him.

  What should he do? Beat up poor Ruprecht? Threaten him with his gun? Try to convince him of his innocence? His right hand glided under his cape and rested on the hard rubber grip of Kolja’s Bayard pistol as his eyes scanned the immediate surroundings. Did Ruprecht have any backup, and if so, how many men?

  The officer reached into his pocket and Emmerich’s entire body tensed, ready to tangle with his opponent. What was he waiting for?

  “Got a light?” asked Ruprecht as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his uniform jacket.

  Emmerich handed him matches without a word.

  “I’m cold, too,” said Ruprecht, motioning to Emmerich’s trembling hand. “And I don’t have such a warm outfit as yours.” He lit the cigarette and tipped his cap. “Thanks, have a nice night.” With that he was on his way, and Emmerich stepped a little further back into the entryway so as not to risk being approached again.

  Where the hell was Winter? A glance at the clock on a nearby church confirmed that his assistant’s shift should have long since ended. Hopefully he hadn’t gone the other way in order to run into the blonde train conductor, thought Emmerich. But his worries proved unfounded. A few minutes later Winter appeared at the end of the street. He hurried past with his head hanging.

  “Psst. Over here.”

  Winter stopped, looked at him, frowned, and then kept going.

  “Winter.” Emmerich grabbed his shoulder from behind.

  Winter jerked himself free and turned, his fist raised. “What do you want?”

  “It’s me.” Emmerich let the monocle drop, took off his hat, and turned his face into the moonlight.

  Winter put his hands in front of his face and looked around frantically. “My god,” he hissed, shoving Emmerich through an entryway into a decrepit courtyard. “What are you thinking? Everyone’s looking for you. They’ve even printed up wanted posters. Things are really heating up. You need to get out of the city.” He looked up at the building, scanning the windows, and pushed Emmerich against a moss-covered wall.

  “Somebody here’s going to call the police in a second because they think we’re up to no good. Try to act normal.” Emmerich freed himself from Winter’s grip and patted the dirt from the wall off his cape.

  “Normal? Since I became your assistant I don’t even know what that means anymore.”

  Emmerich resisted giving Winter a speech about the fact that he still had his badge, his home, and his freedom. “I can’t just l
eave. Where would I go? No, I have to find the real murderer. It’s the only chance I have.”

  “How do you intend to do that? It would be hard enough even if the entire city wasn’t looking for you.”

  They heard the sound of clopping hooves getting closer. Winter cringed, peered around the corner, and exhaled only when the horse team was out of sight.

  “I’ve found something out. The men in the photo are suspected of having committed war crimes. It’s quite possible that they’re being killed in an act of vigilante justice. I think maybe one of the survivors has come to Vienna, sought them out, and is taking revenge.”

  “But what has it all got to do with you?”

  “I don’t know yet. I guess we got too close to the perpetrator. That’s why Josephine Bauer had to die, too—she was the only one who could have identified the killer, after all. He must have been the man who was with Zeiner and Czernin that night at Poldi Tant. He probably lured them under false pretenses. Killing Bauer with my gun was a clever move. He managed to kill two birds with one stone that way.”

  “But how would he know that we . . . ” A bang made both of them jump, and Winter looked around nervously.

  “Just the wind,” Emmerich tried to calm him. “Blew over a garbage can.”

  Winter held his breath and relaxed only when a cloud obscured the moon, leaving the courtyard pitch black. “How would the perpetrator have known that we were closing in on him?” he asked.

  “He was probably waiting around at the spot where Zeiner’s body was found and saw us sniffing around there. When he realized that we were questioning potential witnesses, he must have figured out that we weren’t buying it as a suicide. And then he began to follow us.”

  “You think the man with the scar is the murderer?”

  “He’s definitely the one who bought my service weapon on the black market.”

  “How do you know that? And . . . ” Winter rubbed the fabric of Emmerich’s cape between his fingers. “Where’d you get these nice things?”

  “It’s better if you don’t know. I don’t want to drag you too deep into things. Unless it’s completely unavoidable, I don’t want to ask you for any help, either.”

  “Anything you need,” said Winter immediately, and Emmerich was overcome with a mix of emotion and remorse.

  When had his nightmarish rookie turned into the best assistant he could possibly have hoped for?

  “You said that the man with Minna at the Chatham Bar, Maximilian Neubert, was the head of the war crimes commission. Could you find him and talk to him?” Winter nodded, but didn’t fully understand what Emmerich wanted. “I need whatever files exist about the case. I need to know who the men killed, who turned them in, and whether there are any survivors.”

  Winter grew uneasy again as the moon reemerged from the clouds and the courtyard was once again bathed in cool, blue light. “I can take care of that,” he said.

  Emmerich was surprised at himself when he spontaneously reached out and hugged Winter. “I’ll be on my way then,” he said, slightly embarrassed. He let Winter go again and looked up at the sky. “I have to warn the other men before it’s too late.”

  “That’s not a good idea. Have you forgotten that every available officer is out looking for you? Let me do it.”

  “The wanted posters aren’t up yet, and anyway, I’m well disguised. Even you didn’t recognize me.”

  “Go back into hiding and let me handle everything. Better safe than sorry.”

  Emmerich shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. What if Hörl or Sander figure it out? I’d never forgive myself if you lost your job because of me. Or worse—if you were jailed for aiding and abetting.”

  “Peter Boos lives right near my grandmother. I have to go that way anyway,” Winter insisted stubbornly.

  “Fine,” said Emmerich. “But I’m going to handle Taschner and Oberwieser. Give me their addresses again.”

  After Winter gave him their registered places of residence, Emmerich put his hand on his shoulder. “I’m indebted to you.”

  “I’m happy to help. How can I find you if I have something to report?”

  “I’ll find you.” Emmerich put his monocle back in, pulled up the collar of his cape, and looked cautiously around the corner, out onto the street. “Until then . . . take care of yourself!”

  He disappeared into the dark night, silently thanking the city council for its plan to save on street lighting.

  Emmerich had borrowed money from Kolja, and was able to ride in a luxurious hired car to Leopoldstadt, where Teschner apparently lived.

  Nobody would ever think for a second to look for him in a nice car. The police were searching for a down-and-out fugitive, not a gentleman in a fine threads being driven through the streets by a white-gloved chauffeur. As the motorcar roared loudly through the streets, Emmerich leaned back, breathed in the scent of the leather upholstery, and enjoyed the stress-free atmosphere. He was becoming more and more aware of the fact that he considered peace and sufficient space the most desirable luxuries of all, and he envied Kolja for that very reason. Rich food, nice clothes, and expensive cigars were wonderful things, but he found the possibility of having time and space to yourself far more enticing. Privacy is what the rich called it.

  “Where would you like me to let you out?” the driver interrupted his ruminations as they turned into Brigittenauer Lände.

  Emmerich looked out the window. “Just up here on the left.”

  He pointed to a nightclub with a seedy reputation. Better to be safe. The driver wouldn’t connect him to Teschner this way, and besides, this destination would explain his odd demeanor during the ride. He’d continuously pulled his cap down over his face, kept his head down, and barely said a word.

  “Very well, sir. Whatever you like.” The chauffeur brought the car to a stop with a knowing grin on his face, and Emmerich handed him a banknote.

  “Keep the change.”

  He stepped out and acted as if he were going toward the club, out of which wild music was blaring. Only after the gleaming automobile was out of sight did he change direction, walk to Obere Donaustraße, and stop in front of an apartment building with a freshly-painted façade.

  The name Teschner was indeed next to one of the doorbells. Emmerich rang, but nothing happened. Even after ringing a second, third, and fourth time, nobody opened the door.

  He thought for a moment and then dropped his monocle to the ground and stepped on it. “Was only a bother anyway,” he mumbled as he knocked the glass out of the frame and then bent it into a lock pick. This was about life and death, after all, so any means were acceptable.

  The door to the building was easy to open. Emmerich listened. Not a peep in the hall, which was lit by a gas lamp. He studied the names on the doors and found Teschner on the ground floor. When his knocks once again elicited no response, he employed his lock-picking tool again.

  “Herr Teschner? Are you here?” he called into the darkness.

  No answer. Emmerich listened in the silence. He heard the honk of an automobile in the distance and a couple arguing somewhere in the building, but there wasn’t a sound inside the apartment.

  His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, and he was able to recognize the outlines of some shapes. Teschner lived in a garçonnière, a studio flat, furnished with a narrow bed, a dresser, a kitchen niche, and two chairs. There was a carpet on the floor, and curtains hung to the floor on either side of the small window.

  Emmerich seemed to be alone.

  He felt for a light switch, turned the knob in a clockwise direction, and the room lit up. Electricity was really something.

  Less impressive was the view that was now illuminated for him: the doors of a wardrobe stood open, there were shoes, clothes, and papers strewn everywhere, a cup lay broken on the floor, and a dried blood fleck on the wall boded ill.

 
Emmerich surveyed the chaos and wondered what had happened. A hurried departure? A kidnapping? A break-in? And if it was the latter, what had the intruder been after? Valuables or Teschner himself?

  He examined various objects and looked into all the corners and cracks—but nothing revealed any evidence of what might have happened or where Teschner was.

  He left the building with an uneasy feeling. The avenger had probably beaten him there. But if Teschner was dead, where was his body? If it had been found, Winter would have known and told him. The perpetrator must have dumped it somewhere. But where?

  The quiet burble of the Danube canal put a thought in his head. After all, the murderer had already gotten rid of Zeiner’s body in the river. He crossed the street, walked through the narrow strip of greenery on the other side, and went down the steep embankment.

  Fear shot through him when he saw two men squatting at the water’s edge. But in the next instant he saw that they were holding long wooden sticks into the canal, and he exhaled with relief. They were Fettfischer, fishing for bones, meat scraps, and fat from the wastewater with homemade tools. They would dry their pickings and sell them to the soap industry.

  “Servus,” he greeted them. “Any luck today?”

  They nodded silently, looked at each other and then back at him.

  “You here a lot?”

  “Most every night.”

  The older of the two men looked him up and down while the younger, perhaps his son, got into a crouch. A predator ready to pounce.

  Only now did Emmerich remember that he wasn’t clothed in his normal manner, and instead had on things that could be sold for enough money to keep the two men in brandy and food for a month. If he wasn’t careful, he could end up being the next one in the canal—naked.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of banknotes. Kolja called this amount of money piddling, but for a couple of Fettfischer it was a small fortune.

  “This is all I have with me. It’s yours if you just answer a few questions.”