The Second Rider

by Alex Beer

  “Well, well, I’m certainly curious about the questions,” said the older man as the younger one stared in awe at the bills.

  “Over there, in the house across the street,” Emmerich began, “something happened. A break-in, a kidnapping, maybe even a murder. Did you notice anything? Was there a fight, or did you see anyone who didn’t belong here?”

  While the two of them thought for a moment and whispered between themselves, Emmerich looked at the calm, black current flowing slowly but surely eastward. What had happened in Galicia in 1915?

  “There was somebody,” said the younger of the men without ever taking his eyes off the banknotes. “He was prowling around yesterday. We noticed him because we were afraid he wanted to fettfischen, too. We get little enough as it is. If someone else came along we might as well jump in the water. Better to drown quickly than slowly starve to death.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Small, but tough. And agile. I followed him. Just wanted to make sure he wasn’t putting out a net upstream of us. I could barely keep up with him.”

  “Must have been in the military,” the older one added.

  “Who wasn’t?”

  “No, a professional. Not one of the poor bastards that they conscripted.”

  The son gestured to the notes and stuck out his hand.

  “One more question,” said Emmerich. “Did the man happen to have scar on his cheek?”

  “Not sure. His face was always hidden.”

  “Not the whole time. He looked at the water. From up there, looking eastward. Like you did a minute ago.” The old man turned his head to the side and drew a line from his ear to the corner of his mouth using his pointer finger.

  So he had been here. The man with the scar. “Did you happen to notice anything else?”

  “Nope, that’s it.”

  “Once we were sure he hadn’t thrown out a net, we paid no more attention to him, and at some stage he was gone.”

  Emmerich handed the money to the men, who quickly hid it under their clothes and climbed up the embankment.

  So Richard Teschner had also fallen victim to the man with the scar. Hopefully Winter would have more luck with Peter Boos.

  33.

  Ferdinand Winter walked past the single-nave, late baroque Ägydius church, which was in dire need of renovation, and turned into Hockegasse, where Peter Boos not only had a barber shop but also lived, together with his family.

  Since it was already late, nearly midnight, it took some work to convince himself to knock on the door of the former carriage house. Waking people was impolite, his grandmother had always preached, and he found it difficult to violate manners that had been instilled in him.

  It was about life and death, he reminded himself and banged on the door until a pair of windows directly above him were thrown open so forcefully that they slammed against the wall.

  “What is it?”

  Winter looked up and saw the face of a chubby-cheeked woman illuminated in the moonlight. Her red hair was tousled and sticking out from her head at odd angles. “Frau Boos?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Winter, and I need to talk to your husband. It’s an emergency.”

  “What kind of emergency?” She looked him over. “It better not be about a shave, junior.”

  Winter reflexively touched his cheeks. “It’s something confidential.”

  She glared at him so angrily that he took a few steps back—he didn’t want her to empty her chamber pot on his head.

  “My husband went for a walk,” she said finally. “He can’t sleep at night. He’s probably sitting somewhere in the palace gardens looking at the trees.”

  “The palace gardens? That’s private property.”

  “Owned by someone who doesn’t take care of it.”

  “Do you know where exactly? The gardens are pretty extensive.”

  “Try near the first pond. And now, goodnight.”

  She pulled the windows closed so hard that the panes rattled.

  The 18th-century English-style Pötzleinsdorfer palace gardens had long been a favorite meeting place of the Viennese elite.

  Winter’s grandmother had often talked of the grotto, the Greek temple, the “singing quartet”—four statues from the burnt-out Ring Theater, that now stood here—and the glittering festivals at the Lusthaus, and rhapsodized colorfully about the rambling woods and the exotic plants around the two ponds. He himself had never had a chance to take in all the splendor, because after the last owner went bankrupt no more events had been held there. Nobody had looked after the 300,000-square-meter grounds and it had gone to seed.

  Winter went along Schafberggasse to a narrow drive that led to a gate in the high wall that surrounded the grounds. He pushed on the cast-iron gate and found it locked. Shaking it accomplished nothing because, as he quickly realized, it was held shut by an iron chain. If Boos was really here, he must have climbed in.

  He sized up the gate and with a sigh started to climb it. He hoped his boss knew the lengths he was going to for him. At the top, Winter positioned one of his feet between the spikes, grabbed a crossbar, and swung his other leg over. A loud rip and burning pain on his thigh signaled that he had just suffered his first duty-related injury.

  But was this really duty-related? Better not to think about it too much. If he had learned anything in the last few days, it was that. With gritted teeth, Winter climbed down and jumped onto the narrow leaf-strewn path that led into the gardens. As he hadn’t prepared for this sort of expedition, he had no lamp, and since there were no lights in the neglected gardens, he had to depend entirely on the meager light of the moon.

  More stumbling than walking, he fought his way through the blackness and was nearly frightened to death when a little owl emerged from a nearby stand of trees and flew past him screeching.

  Bird of death, he thought, and it took all his courage not to turn around and run home. “For Emmerich,” he mumbled, “You’re doing this for Emmerich.” The sound of his voice calmed him down a little. He had to find Boos before anyone else did.

  “Try near the first pond,” he repeated Frau Boos’s words and walked past the ruins of the palace, which were looming ghostlike off to his right. Was it haunted?

  Don’t think, just keep going.

  He ignored the goblin faces grinning at him from gnarled tree trunks and blocked out the odd noises caused by the wind.

  “Herr Boos,” he called in order to drown out the eerie rustling coming from the underbrush. “Herr Boos, are you here?”

  When he came to a fork in the path he chose to go to the right. It took him between tall sequoias, which screened the moonlight such that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Winter took a few hesitant steps and was enveloped in darkness.

  “Who are you?”

  Winter turned and stared in the direction of the voice, but he couldn’t see anything. His heart beat so quickly and loudly that it must have been audible from a kilometer away.

  “I’m Ferdinand Winter. Who are you?”

  “Do we know each other?”

  “How should I know, if you won’t tell me your name.” Winter squatted down and felt around for a rock, a stick, or anything else he could use as a weapon. If only he had a service revolver.

  “You called my name. I’m Peter Boos.”

  Winter stood back up. What was he thinking? What had gotten into him?

  “You were stationed in Galicia four years ago and served in the 13th Company of the 11th Infantry Division together with Dietrich Jost, Harald Zeiner, and Anatol Czernin,” he said, his voice trembling. “Right?”

  What if Boos really was a war criminal? He should never have come to these godforsaken gardens alone and unarmed.

  Boos didn’t answer. There was only the sound of his strained breathi
ng. “What do you want with me?” His tone had changed. Curiosity and mistrust had given way to something else. Horror might best describe it.

  “I’m here to warn you. Somebody has killed your comrades, and we think this person is after you as well.”

  Boos took a quick breath, and then there were no more sounds.

  “Herr Boos?”

  A match lit with a hiss and a moment later the area was bathed in the flickering light of a gas lantern.

  Finally Winter could see the man’s face. Boos was about the same size as he was, but extremely gaunt. His pale face was caved in and creased with deep lines. He had dark rings under his eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in years.

  “Thanks.” Boos turned and headed toward the gate.

  Winter, completely surprised by this unexpected reaction, initially stood there as if planted in the dirt before then following after the light. “What are you doing? Where are you going?” he called, tripping and falling over a root. Boos continued on without a word, unconcerned about him. He got up with a groan and hobbled after the lantern. “Who is after you?” he called when he got to the gate.

  Boos, who was already on the other side, looked at him through the iron bars. “Does that matter?”

  “Of course.”

  “Not for me.”

  Winter had to look twice, but he wasn’t seeing things—Boos was smiling.

  “I always knew the day would come when someone would take revenge. It doesn’t matter who. I’ve earned it and will not resist my fate.” With these words he walked off toward Schafberggasse.

  “Wait a minute!” Winter climbed the gate, this time managing not to snag himself on the spikes atop it. “If you know anything, you have to tell me. Your life isn’t the only one at stake here!” He hurried after Boos, and when he finally reached the alley, which was lit by gas lamps and lined with single-story buildings, he exhaled. He was finally back in civilization. He was finally safe.

  “Wait,” he repeated, but his words were drowned out by the noise from an automobile that raced past him.

  And then everything happened quickly.

  The car swerved. Boos turned and opened his mouth, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of the impact when the car hit him. His body was catapulted up, swirled around like a leaf in the wind, and then flopped to the ground.

  “Jesus!” Winter, frozen in shock at first, quickly snapped out of it and ran to the injured man, who lay unnaturally contorted on the side of the road, quietly gasping for breath. “Hang in there.” He knelt down and held his hands against a gaping wound on Boos’s neck. “Help!” he yelled. He realized with horror that blood was trickling between his fingers. “We need a doctor!”

  “Not . . . ” rasped Boos, “ . . . revenge.”

  “Don’t talk.” Winter was relieved to see lights go on in the nearby houses. “Help is on the way. Just hold on a little longer.”

  Boos shook his head nearly imperceptibly. “Beast . . . Lemberg . . . ” he stammered, and with great effort lifted a hand to Winter’s cheek. “Scar . . . ”

  “Is that who ran you over? The man with the scar?”

  Boos closed his eyes. “Sleep . . . finally . . . sleep . . . ” he managed before a gurgling sound escaped his throat.

  “Don’t die,” begged Winter. Why wasn’t anyone coming to help?

  When he saw two headlights coming, he lifted his arm and waved. “Here!” he yelled. “We’re here!” He took Boos’s limp hand in his own and squeezed it. “Help is coming. Stay with me.”

  When he looked up again, the lights were still coming at him full speed. Had the driver not seen them? They were directly beneath a streetlamp. “Stop!” he yelled, jumping up. “Stop!”

  The automobile sped up, and Winter could suddenly see that it was a sedan, gleaming light gray in the moonlight. This realization hit him like a lightning bolt: light gray.

  Pale.

  Beware the Fourth Horseman. Beware the pale horse.

  He leapt to the side to try to reach safety, but the car also swerved, and before he could react he was hit and sent catapulting into the air.

  Bird of death, he thought as an owl flew over him hooting quietly.

  And then he thought no more.

  34.

  Emmerich lingered in a doorway on Berggasse, very near the building where the renowned psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud practiced. A human being is so miserable when all he wants is to stay alive, he was supposed to have said. A wise man, who had a lot of work ahead of him.

  Just as with Teschner, Oberwieser didn’t answer the doorbell, and since the lock couldn’t be picked Emmerich had been waiting for more than half an hour for an opportunity to get into the building.

  Even though he was wearing warm clothes, the moist cold air of the southeasterly wind was creeping into his bones. You could no longer ignore the fact that the hardest time of the year was upon them. Many people wouldn’t live through it.

  Uns’re Linke an dem Schwerte,

  in der Rechten einen Spieß,

  kämpfen wir so weit die Erde,

  bald für das und bald für dies.

  With our left hand on our cutlass,

  our right around our spear,

  we’ll fight to the ends of the atlas,

  whether far or whether near.

  A group of men, all wearing military-style armbands and apparently deep into their cups, stopped in front of the building across the street.

  “See you tomorrow, comrades,” said one of them after the final verse of the song had been sung.

  The rest of them clicked their heels, saluted, and marched onward while the man who was apparently their leader came across the street and opened the door where Emmerich was waiting. Georg Oberwieser.

  He looks exactly as he did in the photo, thought Emmerich. Proud, agile, and full of energy. As if the war years hadn’t left a mark.

  “Herr Oberwieser? I need to talk to you.”

  Georg Oberwieser didn’t seem irritated at being addressed by a stranger in the middle of the night. He didn’t look surprised or skeptical—on the contrary, his mouth formed a smile.

  “You want to join the Heritage Association. Theo already told me he was sending someone to me. You’re late, but come on in, my good man.” His breath smelled of schnapps, and his eyes gleamed.

  For the moment, Emmerich let the man believe he was an aspiring member and followed him to the third floor of the building, where they entered a generous two-room apartment. “I hope I’m not intruding,” he said as he looked around: medals, flags, pennants and other reverential objects related to the war and the monarchy had transformed the scrupulously clean rooms into a sort of museum to the glory of the Imperial and Royal Army.

  “Where did you serve, Herr . . . ?” Oberwieser motioned to a chair and set two bottles of beer out on a table.

  “Italy.”

  Emmerich felt both strange and at home amid the mementos. It was easy to glorify the past in light of the current political chaos and the humiliation of the Treaty of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, which had turned Austria into a miserable pile of shards that nobody wanted.

  “Isonzo?”

  Emmerich nodded and washed down his misty-eyed sentimentality with a swig of beer.

  “And how do you know Theo, Herr . . . ?”

  Emmerich once again left the request for his name unanswered. “To be honest, I don’t know this Theo. And I don’t want to join your Heritage Association.”

  Oberwieser took in this news with a stoic look but casually moved his hand to his waistband.

  “Not necessary.” Emmerich sat down and put his hands in plain view. “I’m not here to do anything to you. Just the opposite. I’ve come to warn you.”

  He reached purposefully slowly into the inner pocket of his cape, pulled out with two fingers the gun Kol
ja had given him, and placed it on the table.

  “Warn me about whom?”

  Oberwieser loosened his grip on his own pistol. He’d begun to perspire and was giving off the unpleasant smell of alcohol-infused sweat.

  “I don’t know his name, but I know it’s about the things that happened during the war.”

  Oberwieser didn’t betray any emotion. “A lot happened during the war.” Without ever taking his eyes off Emmerich, he took a sip of beer.

  “It’s about the people that you murdered.”

  The corner of Oberwieser’s mouth curled upward. “The people I murdered . . . ,” he repeated, laughing. “Did you not kill anyone in Italy?”

  “Of course. Men fit for action in the course of battle. Not women and children. Not the old or the infirm.”

  “Are you from that goddamn commission? Those traitors?” Oberwieser’s neck and face were now covered with red blotches and his fingers gripped the beer bottle so tightly that Emmerich thought it might break. “They want to make villains out of us heroes. Make us into criminals who have to justify ourselves. What would make you want to destroy the honor of the army and drag the reputation of its soldiers through the mud?”

  “I’m not from the commission, and I don’t want to drag anyone through the mud. For me, it’s about protecting your life. But to do that I need your help. Do you understand? I need to ask you a few questions.”

  The red splotches grew darker. “Do I look like a idiot? This is obviously a trap. Nothing is sacred to you socialist pigs.” He pulled the pistol out of his waistband and pointed it at Emmerich.

  Emmerich held up his hands. “Dietrich Jost was found shot in the woods,” he began to explain. “Harald Zeiner was fished out of the Danube canal, dead. Anatol Czernin was strangled at the movies, and Richard Teschner has disappeared without a trace. I wanted to try to keep you from being the next victim. But if you don’t want . . . ”

  Oberwieser turned as white as a sheet. “There was nothing about that in the papers.”

  “The perpetrator is clever, makes his murders look like suicides, accidents, or organized criminal activity. A real pro. Go over to the nearest commissariat and ask. They’ll confirm everything.”