The Second Rider

by Alex Beer

  “Beas . . . ” His lips were dry and every syllable an ordeal. “Beas . . . ” he pressed.

  Emmerich’s pulse raced. “Beast?”

  “Lem . . . ”

  “The Beast of Lemberg? Is that what you are trying to say? Is that who did this?”

  Since Winter couldn’t nod, he winked. “Sca . . . scar.”

  “The goddamn pig.” Emmerich reached into his chest pocket. “He tried to get me, too.” He showed Winter the snake amulet with the bullet stuck in it. “But he didn’t know who he was dealing with.”

  Winter pulled his mouth into something like a smile and groaned in pain.

  “Don’t move.” Emmerich stood up. “I’m going to make the bastard pay for his crimes. And you need to get better.”

  He peeked out of the curtain and since the coast was clear, he said goodbye and crept out between the beds.

  The man with the scar was the Beast of Lemberg. It was his face that had been scratched out of the photo. What was it Simon had said? That even his comrades were scared of him.

  But Emmerich wasn’t afraid. He just needed to find the guy now. But how would he go about that? Without a name, an address, or any other clue? He scratched his head.

  The sight of a black-stained finger snapped him out of his reverie. Maria and her miserable dye. What had she smeared in his hair?

  He looked around, scanning the labels on the doors. Where were the bathrooms? He needed a mirror.

  He found what he was looking for at the end of the hall, and Emmerich saw that the mess wasn’t as bad as he had feared. With a bit of balled up newspaper he wiped his hairline and the back of his neck and had another look at himself. He looked good, but strange.

  Something else was bothering him. He had no idea what it was, but something was off. Don’t get paranoid now, he chided himself. He’d been on the run for only a few hours and he was already imagining things. What was off?

  When he heard the sound of a toilet flushing behind him and a stall opening, he dropped his head, turned on the faucet, and acted as though he were washing his hands.

  And then he realized what it was: the smell. It was the smell that was bothering him. It didn’t stink like a bathroom in here. On the contrary: it smelled like expensive aftershave. An aftershave he’d smelled not so long ago . . .

  “Got the night shift, too, eh?” he heard a voice say.

  Emmerich’s heart skipped a few beats.

  He looked up out of the corner of his eye, and the reflection in the mirror confirmed his fears—directly next to him, so close that their shoulders were nearly touching, stood none other than Chief Inspector Carl Horvat.

  “Mmm-hmm,” said Emmerich, making his voice as deep as possible. With his head down, he tried to maneuver past Horvat, but he took a step back, blocking Emmerich’s way.

  “Going to be a long night.” He leaned over the sink and splashed water on his face.

  “Mmm-hmm.” Emmerich turned and went as calmly as possible into one of the toilet stalls, closed the door, and locked it.

  “Wiedersehen,” called Horvat, and Emmerich listened, breath held, as Horvat went, step, step, step, door open, door closed. He was gone.

  Emmerich slowly exhaled and wiped the cold sweat from his face. That had been a close one. He waited until his heartbeat had more or less normalized, unlocked the door, opened it—and was staring directly into the barrel of a pistol.

  “No false moves.” Horvat stared directly into his eyes with a penetrating look. “August Emmerich. I knew it.” Emmerich, paralyzed with fear, stared back silently. “Hands up!” Horvat directed Emmerich out of the stall. “Bold, just strolling out of the court like that. I have to admit, I was impressed.” Emmerich held up his hands and gauged the situation. It looked like his goose was cooked. “Why did you come here? You must have known that Herr Winter would be under surveillance.”

  “I had to know how he was, otherwise I wouldn’t have had a moment’s peace,” Emmerich heard himself say. “Winter is a good guy, and it’s my fault that he’s in there. When he was run over, he was looking into something for me.” Since Horvat didn’t respond, he kept talking. “I heard that his attempted murder will be pinned on me.”

  “And the murder of Peter Boos.”

  “And probably the murder of Georg Oberwieser.”

  “According to witness accounts, Oberweiser had a visitor and there was an argument. Shortly afterwards, shots rang out. The neighbor’s descriptions all fit you to a tee. Don’t try to tell me that it’s just a strange coincidence.”

  Just as last time, Horvat was the embodiment of calm. Was this guy even human? Or just a well-oiled, perfectly functioning machine?

  “I was there, but I didn’t kill him. No more than I killed Peter Boos or Josephine Bauer. And I’d never do anything to Winter.”

  “Ach . . . ”

  Emmerich would like to have pummeled that dismissive syllable out of his mouth, but he wasn’t in a position to just then.

  “Who else could it have been?” Horvat looked searchingly at Emmerich.

  “In 1915 in Galicia, near Lemberg, there was a gang of men from the 13th Company of the 11th Infantry Division. This unit inflicted unspeakable war crimes on the civilian population. One of the men was so barbarous that they called him the Beast of Lemberg. He did it.”

  “The Beast of Lemberg,” Horvat repeated, wrinkling his nose. “A little theatrical, don’t you think?”

  “I’m being serious. Horrible things took place. The propaganda machine of the Imperial and Royal monarchy kept it all quiet and swept it under the carpet.”

  “Ach . . . ”

  Emmerich wanted to grab Horvat by the throat. “The Beast of Lemberg is a sadist. He cut open innocent women!” he screamed at Horvat.

  He was expecting another obligatory “ach,” but Horvat didn’t say anything. In fact, his facial expression, which had remained the same to this point, suddenly changed. The Chief Inspector was getting pensive. He was about to say something, apparently changed his mind, and then put his poker face back on.

  “And what does this have to do with recent events?”

  “The war crimes commission has started to ask inconvenient questions, and the Beast of Lemberg is killing off one witness after the next. Dietrich Jost, Harald Zeiner, Anatol Czernin, Peter Boos, and Georg Oberwieser—they were all part of the unit. There’s a photo that proves it.”

  “And Josephine Bauer? She certainly wasn’t in Galicia.”

  “I think she saw something she wasn’t supposed to see.”

  Horvat narrowed his eyes. “This man . . . the Beast of Lemberg . . . what is his name?”

  Emmerich shrugged. “I don’t know his name. I only know that he’s kind of small and unremarkable, and he has a long, narrow scar on his right cheek.” He stopped suddenly. Some distant inkling was trying to enter his brain but couldn’t quite get through.

  At that moment the door was thrown open and a man with a bucket and mop in his hands walked into the bathroom. “I . . . I . . . uh . . . ” he stuttered, letting the cleaning tools drop to the floor and cautiously taking two steps backwards with his hands up. The moment he reached the threshold he turned and ran as if the devil himself were on his heels.

  “Call the police!” Horvat called after him, reaching with his free hand for a set of handcuffs tucked in his waistband and tossing them to Emmerich. “You can go ahead and put those on. Backup will be here in a moment.”

  Emmerich held the cool metal in his hand.

  “What is it? What are you waiting for? Put them on! You know how this works.”

  Emmerich closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “No,” he said, looking at Horvat without blinking. He had decided to go all in, praying that he wasn’t making a fatal error.

  “No?” Horvat seemed truly surprised. “I’m not sure i
f you’ve noticed, but I have a gun. And you don’t.”

  “They say you have a brilliant knowledge of human nature. So you must sense that it wasn’t me. Look at me. Look me in the eyes. I’ve done a lot things in my life that I’m not proud of. I’ve broken the law and brought shame upon myself. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a murderer.” He slowly lifted his left foot and moved it backward.

  “What are you doing?” Horvat flipped the safety off his pistol.

  “I trust my judgment of human nature.” He moved his right foot. “You’re no more of a murderer than I am. You’re not going to shoot an innocent man.” He leaned down and picked up the mop the other man had dropped.

  “But . . . ” Emmerich had succeeded in convincing Horvat. “You can’t just . . . ”

  Emmerich jumped out of the bathroom, closed the door, and blocked the handle with the broomstick. As he went to test the strength of his blockade, a shot rang out. A few centimeters above his head the wooden door splintered. A bullet had flown past him.

  “Next time I won’t hesitate!” called Horvat, rattling the door.

  “Ach . . . ” said Emmerich. Then he ran off.

  37.

  Emmerich hastily removed the doctor’s coat, threw it away, and turned with quick steps into the next street. He had to get out of here quick, the cops could show up at any moment. In a dark corner he carefully snorted another pinch of heroin.

  “He can’t have gotten far,” he heard the familiar voice behind him. Horvat. “He has a war wound and can’t run fast. Bring him to me.” He sounded angry.

  Emmerich hurried on. The street smelled of sewage and rotten potatoes.

  “You heard what he said. Spread out!” came another voice through the night, and soon he could hear the sound of heavy boots. Lots of boots, all going the same direction.

  Emmerich was startled when, running in the dark, he knocked into a garbage can, which fell over with a loud clang.

  “Did you hear that?” he heard a man’s voice say. From nearby. Too nearby.

  “Let’s have a look. That way.”

  Emmerich ran and ran until he found himself in a street that dead-ended in a high wall.

  He felt his way along the brick wall. But it was too smooth. No footholds. No holes. No way to get over.

  “Goddamn vermin,” cursed one of the policemen from what sounded like just a few meters behind him. He heard squeaks. Rats.

  Emmerich looked down and saw one of the rodents go into a sewer grate almost directly next to him. Quickly he lifted the grate and lowered himself into the sewer, replacing the grate above the culvert, which went to the right beneath the street.

  “You see anything?” A beam from a flashlight crossed above him.

  “He’s not here.” They were right above him.

  “Okay, let’s backtrack. Horvat wants his head.”

  Even though it was claustrophobic and stank to high hell, Emmerich decided not to go back out. His chances were better underground. The Fortress represented the perfect hideout to plan his next move. He just had to find it.

  He crawled beneath the streets of Vienna while Horvat’s men searched for him above, through the sewers until he ended up in a chamber. There, using rusty metal rungs, he climbed down another level and scuttled in absolute darkness through the underworld until he had lost all sense of time and orientation.

  And then he heard it. A dull bubbling. A subterranean river he would have to cross. Emmerich felt his way ever closer to the rushing, until it was directly in front of him.

  “Hey!” he yelled into the noise. “Can somebody get me across?”

  A few meters in front of him a gas lantern went on, and a heavily-built man with a brush cut and big ears held it up toward him. “Shit!” he cursed. “The cops!” The lamp went out and the man disappeared into the dark.

  “Tell Kolja that it’s me. August Emmerich.”

  The lantern was soon lit again, only this time it was Simon who was holding it. “It’s alright,” he yelled behind him. “He’s okay. He’s one of us.”

  The plank was shoved across the chasm and Emmerich cautiously balanced his way across the decaying wood. When he reached the far side he looked around. Once again there was much activity. He felt as if he’d landed in the middle of an ant colony.

  “What the . . . ?” He rubbed his eyes when he saw a man who looked exactly like Xaver Koch. Was it really him? Had the bastard managed to get in with Kolja’s people? “You there, stop!”

  He didn’t have a chance to try to talk to Koch because Kolja came toward him. “Are you crazy? What are you doing here? You were supposed to stay in the apartment!”

  “I can’t wait any longer,” said Emmerich. “I have to catch the Beast of Lemberg.” He sat down on a wooden crate and borrowed a cigarette from a man rolling a barrel past.

  “And just how do you expect to do that? Even I wasn’t able to figure out the man’s identity.” Emmerich took a drag and thought for a moment. “You never recognized your limitations,” Kolja lamented. “And patience is something you could afford to finally learn. Sometimes I really wonder . . . ”

  Emmerich stopped listening to him. He thought about the encounter with Horvat and his reaction to the gruesome acts that the Beast had committed. Death and brutality were part of Horvat’s daily life, but for an instant he had displayed an emotional reaction. It hadn’t really been revulsion or shock exactly, it had been something else. But what was it?

  “Recognition,” he blurted as it hit him. “It’s not the first time he’s seen such things.”

  “Who? What?” Kolja frowned. “I think maybe you shouldn’t drink so much.”

  “Carl Horvat . . . When I mentioned the gutted women, he looked as if he knew what I was talking about. You understand?”

  “When the hell did you run into Horvat? Jesus, Emmerich, I leave you alone for a second and you just get deeper and deeper into the shit. Just like the old days.”

  “He must have dealt with such crimes before,” Emmerich continued. “And that makes sense. Perversions like that don’t just pop up from one day to the next.” He looked Kolja in the eyes. “The Beast of Lemberg must have been active here in the city. Before the war.”

  Kolja slowly realized what Emmerich was saying. “Or he got a taste for it during the war and couldn’t stop.”

  “Before or afterwards. Doesn’t matter. But he’s definitely committed murders. In Vienna. In Horvat’s jurisdiction.”

  Kolja sat down on the crate next to Emmerich. “Horvat’s reaction is all well and good. But it doesn’t help you. He isn’t going to be too keen on discussing his cases with you, of all people.”

  “I know. That’s why I have to get hold of the files somehow, so I can at least get a peek.”

  “And how do you propose to do that? You plan to break into the offices of the Leib und Leben division?” Kolja started to laugh.

  “Exactly.” Kolja’s laughter reverberated so loudly through the Fortress that some of the men stopped working and looked over at him. But Emmerich was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice. “I need a skeleton key from you, and . . . ” he began.

  The laughter died like a flooded engine. “You lunatic, you’re serious?”

  “It’s my best chance. I’ve got to take it. And besides . . . If there’s anyplace they won’t be looking for me, it’s there.”

  “I don’t know if you’re a genius or if the heroin has eaten into your brain.” Kolja looked at Emmerich and frowned. “If, for the sake of argument, I were to help you . . . how would you go about it?”

  “If I learned anything during the war, it was camouflaging, deception, and tactical maneuvering.”

  Kolja rubbed his chin. “I’m afraid it’s too dangerous for me. I can’t afford to blow my cover. Half the city depends on me and my deliveries.”

  “Not to worry. I
can manage the break-in alone. Or, as good as alone. All I need is a skeleton key, one of your men, and this.” He pointed to a barrel. “Oh, and do you know where the nearest telephone is?”

  38.

  Leib und Leben division,” said Emil Mandl, a young policeman who had been working for Horvat for barely a month, with a yawn. “Uh-huh . . . ja . . . really? Can you describe him?” He stretched his back and rubbed his eyes. “Uh-huh . . . ja . . . and where exactly, did you say?” Suddenly wide awake, he took notes, hung up the phone, and waved over two colleagues. “He’s been spotted. August Emmerich. At the Prater.”

  “Prater? You sure?”

  “You better get going right away.”

  “Someone else just called and said he was at the central cemetery. That’s the opposite direction. You sure they’re not just idiots trying to feel important?”

  “The guy described the elegant clothes and the dyed hair. And none of the wanted posters say anything about that. Get going.” Mandl clapped his hands excitedly.

  The two men pulled on their jackets. “Will you be alright by yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  A few minutes after the two police had left the division offices, the entrance door swung open again and a deliveryman entered pushing a meter-high barrel on a hand truck. “Leib und Leben?” he asked, slapping a clipboard down on the desk in front of the surprised Mandl.

  “Yes, but . . . ” He tried to decipher the writing on the barrel. “Rum?” he asked in wonder. “What? Who?”

  “Not rum. A body. For the evidence vault.” The deliveryman pulled his cap down over his face and pointed with a dirty finger at the form on the clipboard. “Sign here.”

  “Halt, halt, halt.” Mandl stood up, leaned over the desk and stared at the barrel. “You’re not really delivering a body, are you?”

  “Come on.” The courier rolled his eyes. “The barrel’s empty. But there was a body in there, and I’m bringing it for the evidence vault, get it?”

  “Understood. Who sent you? And which case is it related to? And does Herr Horvat know about it?”