The Second Rider

by Alex Beer

  When his hands and face were numb from the cold, he let himself fall to the ground, leaned against the wall of a building that reeked of dog piss, and began to sob. He had lost. He was damned and would remain so forever. In his final act, Damian had taken his only chance for redemption with him to the grave.

  The sound of approaching footsteps snapped Emmerich out of his despair. Was he prepared to go back to the Landl? Or maybe . . . to take the same measure Damian had?

  No. He wasn’t going to give up. Not yet. At least not voluntarily. He reached beneath his cape, put his hand around Horvat’s pistol, and looked up.

  “Here.” Before him stood a broad-shouldered man, who, to judge by his calloused hands, was a worker on his way to an early shift. His simple clothes were patched but clean. He handed Emmerich a piece of bread and nodded encouragingly. “Here. Take it.”

  Emmerich wiped away the snot and tears from his face with his sleeve and took the kind offering, since he wasn’t sure what else he could do. “Thanks,” he said, forcing a smile.

  “It’ll be okay. Just don’t give up.” The worker turned away and headed off.

  Think. He had to think. What had Damian said? Do you have no idea what is really behind the whole thing? Had he been serious, or was he just trying to unnerve him? And if it was true, what had he meant? Or more to the point, who?

  Emmerich closed his eyes and went through every sentence he had exchanged with Damian. With Damian and with Oberwieser. What had he said?

  He snorted a pinch of heroin and waited until he was clearheaded again. Exactly, that’s what it was: The commander was to blame for everything. He ordered it. If someone has to die, then it should be him.

  Emmerich smacked himself on the forehead. Of course. He had made a mistake in his reasoning. How could he have been so stupid?

  The commander and the Beast of Lemberg . . . they weren’t one and the same person. The commander had ordered and the Beast had followed orders. Both during the war and afterwards. Now Josephine’s statement made sense. Big and broad-shouldered, he was . . .

  Emmerich ate the rest of the bread, put his head down, and walked in the dawn light. There was one last chance.

  “August, it’s really you. What are you doing here? What happened?” Minna, standing in her usual spot waiting for a client, put her hand in front of her mouth in shock. “I saw your photo in the paper and couldn’t believe it. Do you need a hideout?”

  “Don’t you even want to know whether I did it?”

  “Even if you did. I’m sure you had your reasons. So tell me: do you need a hideout?”

  “No, it’s okay.” He pulled her deeper into a recessed entryway. “I need to speak with Maximilian Neubert. You know, the former judge you were with in Chatham Bar. It’s important. Do you know where he lives?”

  “No, but I know where he is. At the Winter Ball at Palais Coburg. I was actually supposed to go with him, but I guess he thinks I’m too . . . ”

  Emmerich looked at her face and understood. Minna looked bad. Her cheeks were sunken, her lips pale, her glassy eyes set deep in their sockets. Not even the makeup she had on could hide the fact that she was a deathly ill woman.

  “Here.” He gave her a couple of heroin tablets. She needed them badly.

  Minna took one and nodded. “Let’s go there.”

  “Now? It’s already too late. Or more accurately: too early.”

  Minna smiled sadly. “You’ve never seen the wealthy people party, have you? Max took me a few times. The moneybags live it up into the early morning or even longer. It’s not like they have to get up the next day to go to work.”

  “At Coburg Palace, you said . . . ” Emmerich thought about how he might best try to sneak into the party unnoticed.

  “There’s a dress code. You can’t go there dressed like that,” said Minna, reading his thoughts. “But I can.”

  “No way. You belong in bed.”

  Her smile grew sadder still. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” she said, buckling over from a frightful coughing fit. Emmerich could see that the handkerchief she’d held in front of her mouth was full of blood. Minna needed a minute to collect herself. “I’ll go home quickly and change,” she said. “Wait for me behind the palace. In a quarter of an hour.” She turned to leave, but Emmerich stopped her.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I know. But it’s better than standing around here for no reason. At least we can save your life . . . ”

  “I don’t think you understand what you’re getting yourself into. I’m being sought for murder. Think about your moral compass.”

  “Screw my moral compass,” she answered. Before she left, she turned to him one more time. “Coburg. In fifteen minutes. Don’t get caught.”

  Emmerich stood behind a coach, trying to look as normal and calm as possible. He’d made it unchallenged to the Asparagus Palace, as city residents called the place because of the slim freestanding columns in the middle section of the façade.

  “Psst. August. Here.”

  He turned around. “Minna! You look . . . ”

  She had on a floor-length white gown with snowflakes embroidered on it, the collar lined with silver fox fur. She had put her hair up with a feather-covered brooch. Minna looked enchanting and tragic at the same time, like a bride who was about to stand at the altar with Death.

  “Max gave it to me. It was supposed to be for tonight . . . ” She squinted. “If he’s inside, I’ll find him and bring him to you.”

  Before he could do anything to stop her, she hurried off. Emmerich watched her with a wistful look. She seemed so frail, so eternally lost. Almost translucent. He could tell how much she struggled to climb the few steps that led to the entrance. She had to pause and catch her breath several times.

  She wasn’t going to live to see Paraguay. She’d need a lot of luck to see Christmas. As a group of drunken ball guests stumbled out of the palace and nearly ran over Minna, Emmerich balled his hands into fists.

  “Watch where you’re going!” A woman in an opulent gown cast a disdainful look at Minna. Then she whispered to her companion, who handed her a bottle of champagne. The woman took a swig and laughed shrilly. Better sorts were what these high society types called themselves. But these sorts weren’t better.

  Emmerich watched the people leaving the palace. He saw clothes and jewelry that could have been sold for enough money to get hundreds of children through the winter, and he noticed how poorly they treated the footmen.

  “Miserable vermin,” he mumbled and spat on the ground before warning himself to be inconspicuous.

  Soon Minna came through the portal, and she had actually managed it—her companion was none other than Maximilian Neubert. He was all in white and looked exasperated. He didn’t like the fact that she had dragged him into harsh reality from the warm, colorful world of people who reveled in luxury and excess.

  “Will you tell me now what is so important? Or did you make all that drama just to punish me for coming here with someone else? Minna, what we had wasn’t a relationship. It was strictly business. I can do what I want, with whoever I want. Do you understand?”

  “Of course. It’s just that . . . ” The rest of the sentence was lost to a fit of coughs, and Neubert jumped to the side.

  “I’m going back in. If I wanted to have problems with girls I would have gotten married.”

  “Halt! Wait. It’s all my fault. I sent her.” Emmerich walked up to the two of them, put his cape around Minna’s shoulders, and glared at Neubert angrily.

  Neubert looked intimidated at first, then looked Emmerich up and down. “Do we know each other?”

  “You are head of the war crimes commission, right?”

  “It’s called the Commission for the Inquiry into Military Breach of Duty. But yes, I am.” Neubert narrowed his eyes and looked Emmerich over again. “Y
ou look familiar. What was your name again?”

  “Do you know what happened in the vicinity of Lemberg in 1915?” Emmerich said, ignoring his question.

  Neubert frowned with surprise. “Yes, I know the rumors . . . but . . . what have you . . . ” He shook his head and looked toward the palace, where loud music was now playing. “This is not a suitable time for such things. If you want something from me, come to see me tomorrow afternoon in my office. Riemergasse 7, on the fourth floor.”

  “I can’t wait that long. I need the information now.”

  “What information? Who the hell are you, and what do you want from me at . . . ” he paused to look at his watch, “ . . . seven in the morning?” Neubert ran his hand over his face. “You know what? I have no appetite for this drama. I’m going home. If you need something from me, come to the office.”

  Neubert wanted to turn and go, but Emmerich grabbed his arm. “I’m a police inspector. That’s all you need to know for now. People have been murdered, and more may still die if you don’t answer my question. Who was the commander?”

  Neubert pulled himself free of Emmerich’s grasp. “The unit was under the command of Georg Oberwieser.”

  “He was the noncommissioned officer. Who was his superior?” Emmerich’s tone was so urgent that Neubert no longer put up any resistance.

  “Lieutenant Wilhelm Engelhard. He was the platoon commander.”

  Emmerich, who was now sweating despite the cold, wiped his brow. Engelhard . . . Wilhelm Engelhard . . . He had never heard the name in his life.

  “What did this Engelhard look like, and what does he do now?”

  “No idea what he looked like. But it doesn’t matter. He’s dead. Killed in 1918.”

  Emmerich looked at him in disbelief. “That’s not possible,” he mumbled, massaging the tip of his nose. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s all I know. And that’s the way it’s going to stay. The case was shelved. Like most of them,” added Neubert quietly. “Nothing but rumors . . . nothing confirmable. What am I supposed to do?”

  “But you can’t just let these people off the hook!”

  “First you harass me, and then you lecture me.” Neubert’s tone was harder now. “I won’t put up with this!” Once again he prepared to leave.

  “Please. We’re on the same side. We both want justice.”

  Neubert sighed and pushed a strand of hair out of his face. “Do you have any idea how difficult my task is? You can’t imagine how many barriers are put up by all sides. Nobody in this city wants to shed light on war crimes,” he said, enraged. “The conservatives don’t want to sully the memory of the imperial army, and the social democrats don’t want anything to do with the history of the monarchy. They want to draw a line and start over. It’s a daily tilt against windmills. Files disappear or can’t be located, witnesses don’t want to admit to knowing anything . . . ”

  Emmerich wasn’t listening. Had he misinterpreted everything? Falsely construed the evidence? Had Damian, as a final act of malice, caused him to lose his mind? Was there no sinister power behind it all?

  The commander was to blame for everything. He ordered it. If someone has to die, then it should be him.

  “Who was above him?” he asked in the middle of Neubert’s stream of words.

  “ . . . and the judges are all still from the era of the monarchy and are biased . . . ” Neubert paused. “What?”

  “Who was above Engelhard? Who was the commander of the company?”

  Neubert thought for a moment and then said a name.

  “What’s wrong?” Minna asked when she saw the stunned look on Emmerich’s face.

  He didn’t answer her question. “You have to do me a favor,” he said instead.

  “Of course, whatever you need.”

  Emmerich thought for a moment, grabbed her by the shoulder, and looked directly into her eyes. “It’s important that you listen carefully to me now . . . ”

  41.

  As he looked out the window, he gritted his teeth so hard that his jaw hurt. August Emmerich tried to get his rage under control.

  From the next room came soft snoring, but he couldn’t, no, he mustn’t wake the man now. He was too enraged still. One false word, one false look would be enough, and he couldn’t guarantee anything. He was clutching Horvat’s pistol with such anger that his knuckles were bulging out white. Never in his life had he felt such an urge to kill someone as he felt now—not in the orphanage or the war, not even in Damian’s workshop.

  With a bright red face he looked out at the city as it woke up, bathed in the cool silver light of the winter sun. Its architecture was so imposing and the imperial luster so bright that nobody who didn’t live here could possibly fathom the melodrama that took place behind the curtains. What seemed and what was diverged so violently—like this miserable piece of work a few meters away from him.

  The man in the next room rolled over in his soft, warm feather bed and smacked his lips comfortably. Apparently the sleep of the unrighteous was just as deep and peaceful as the sleep of those with a clear conscience.

  Emmerich stepped away from the window. He couldn’t put off the confrontation any longer. Waiting was only making it worse. Instead of settling down he was getting more upset with every passing second. He quietly closed the curtains, switched the safety off his pistol, and went into the bedroom.

  “Wake up!” Inhale. Exhale. The man murmured something incomprehensible, then started to snore again. “Get up!” Same order, louder and sharper, accompanied by a kick in the ribs.

  Stay calm. Don’t pull the trigger. Don’t beat him to death.

  The man opened his eyes and groaned. “What in god’s name . . . ” The rest of the sentence got stuck in his throat when he saw who had so rudely awakened him. “Emmerich,” he mumbled, staring at the barrel of the gun aimed directly at him.

  Emmerich snorted. “You . . . ” He searched for the right words, but what he was feeling just then couldn’t be put into words. “I know everything,” he said, looking at his boss with a level of disgust he had never felt for any other human being.

  Leopold Sander. When Neubert had said this name, the world had stood still for Emmerich. He had come within a hair of choking on the flood of realization and emotion.

  “How did you get in here?” Sander, who was wearing a silk nightshirt, sat up and wanted to swing his legs out of the bed. Emmerich stopped him.

  “Just lie there.” He felt under the pillow and then threw off the covers to make sure Sander didn’t have a weapon within reach.

  “What do you want? Do you want to kill me now on top of all the others?”

  “Don’t play dumb. You know it wasn’t me. You know it was Damian—because he was acting on your orders.” He was in such a rage that the veins in his neck were popping out.

  “You’re worked up, I get it, but we’re not going to get anywhere like this.” Sander’s tone was gentle and sonorous. “Put down the gun, and then we can talk in peace.”

  Emmerich cast him a scathing glance.

  “I have money and connections,” Sander changed his tune. He seemed to sense that his previous strategy wasn’t working. “You can start fresh. As a rich man in a new land. How would you like that?”

  Emmerich snorted again. “Never.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I want to know why. Why did all those people have to die?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Through the death of a few I prevented a partisan war, and thus the destruction of many. My orders saved thousands of lives. The lives of honest, upstanding soldiers. It’s unfathomable insolence to try to make me out as a war criminal. I should be given a medal.”

  “A medal for the slaughter of innocent women and children? You’re crazy.”

  Sander knitted his brow and dug his fingers into the bedcover. “What
do you want?” he asked again.

  “I want to know why Jost and the others had to die. If they said anything to the war crimes commission they would only be incriminating themselves.” Sander mumbled something into his mustache. “Speak up!” Emmerich smacked him with the butt of the pistol.

  “Jost blackmailed me. He had nothing left to lose and wanted money to emigrate. A lot of money.”

  “And Zeiner?”

  “He had figured out that I had something to do with Jost’s death, and had dragged Czernin into it.”

  The meeting at the Poldi Tant . . . the man Josephine Bauer had seen . . . Sander . . . All the puzzle pieces were slowly forming a complete picture.

  “How convenient that Jost, Zeiner, and Czernin belonged to the lower rungs of our society. Nobody cared about them in the slightest.”

  “Except you.”

  “Except me. Which is why you set Damian on me. Let me guess . . . You had noticed in Galicia how much pleasure he took in cutting open women and had put two and two together. You realized he had to be the Vienna Slasher, and you had him at your mercy as a result.” Sander’s expression told Emmerich that he’d hit the target. “Damian was supposed to find out how much I knew,” he continued. “And while keeping an eye on me he saw me get robbed. Savvy as he was, he had my service weapon . . . ”

  “If you had just let it drop,” interrupted Sander. “If you had just stopped investigating, as I ordered you . . . ” His words began to tumble over each other. “It’s you who put the others in danger. Your stubbornness killed them all and made Winter a cripple.”

  “Leave Winter out of it!” Emmerich punched Sander.

  “Are you happy now?” Sander asked as blood ran from his nose, over his lips, and down his chin, dripping onto his pretty silk nightshirt. “Can we talk to each other like two grown men now?”

  “You’re not a man. You’re a monster, a beast. No better than Damian, if not worse.”

  “I can’t undo the past, but I can shape the future. Your future. Just imagine what kind of life you could have abroad . . . ”