by F. R. Tallis
“I meant no offense,” said Rheinhardt.
Liebermann was drumming his fingers. When the drumming stopped, he said, “Those nails of yours . . .”
“What?” Autenburg growled.
“Do you really believe that we are free to live any in any way we choose? That we can simply ignore our primitive instincts? We are animals—after all—sophisticated apes. And in the animal kingdom, the male of the species jealously guards his mate and fights off competitors. To repress the primitive requires the expenditure of enormous amounts of psychic energy—the individual becomes excessively fraught, anxious.”
“That is utter nonsense, Herr Doctor. Every time we postpone sleep or a meal, we are denying our biological imperatives—and with no ill effect.”
“I don’t think that’s quite the same thing. One’s wife isn’t really comparable to a beef stew.”
Haussmann let out a laugh and Rheinhardt rounded on him. “Haussmann!”
“Sorry, sir.” The assistant detective bowed his head in shame.
“The night before last, Herr Autenburg,” Rheinhardt resumed. “When you and Diamant parted . . . did you do so amicably?”
Autenburg touched the apex of his Van Dyke beard. “We had been discussing a point of political philosophy. There may have been a difference of opinion—what of it? We are always debating issues.”
“Debating—or arguing?”
“Yes, we argued—because we are men of conviction. How can one establish what is true without argument?”
“Did you disagree often?”
“Yes, of course.”
“These ideological debates,” said Liebermann. “Has it occurred to you, Herr Autenburg, that all along, you were really arguing about something else entirely?”
“I’m afraid, once again, I am finding your interjections rather opaque, Herr Doctor.”
“Then might I draw your attention, once again, to the condition of your nails. They are not the nails of a man who is entirely comfortable with his domestic arrangements.”
Autenburg ignored Liebermann and addressed Rheinhardt. “What is your business here?”
Slowly, Rheinhardt took a photograph from his pocket and slid it across the table, negotiating a path between the clutter. “The body of Axl Diamant was found early this morning. His throat had been cut.”
Della gasped and looked away.
“He was always getting into trouble,” Autenburg shook his head. “I knew something like this would happen in the end.”
Rheinhardt closed his notebook. “The night before last—before you parted—you tried to strangle him.”
“I—” Autenburg’s mouth opened but no words followed.
“We have a witness,” Rheinhardt continued. “Herr Düsterbehn from across the road. He’s already made a statement.”
Finally Autenburg recovered his voice. “Are you accusing me of murdering Axl Diamant?”
Rheinhardt picked up his notebook with an air of finality. “I am afraid you’ll have to accompany us to the Schottenring station.”
Della stood up and distanced herself from her husband. “Eduard. You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”
“Of course I didn’t!” Autenburg cried.
Della placed the back of her right hand against her forehead and her body shaped itself into a collapsing spiral. She did not so much hit the floor, as artfully unfurl into a supine position with her legs and arms projecting at equidistant angles. Her ample bosom was rising and falling, the flesh threatening to escape containment as her lungs filled with air.
“Shouldn’t you attend to her?” Rheinhardt prompted his friend.
“Oh, I suppose so,” Liebermann replied, with some reluctance.
Liebermann, Rheinhardt, Autenburg, and Haussmann stepped out onto Obere Weissgärberstrasse. A constable in a long coat was hurrying toward them, his hand raised.
“Detective Inspector Rheinhardt?”
“Yes.”
“Constable Plücker—Rudolfsgasse, sir.” The constable clicked his heels and waited a few moments to catch his breath. “Urgent message—Schottenring.” Rheinhardt nodded and the two men stepped aside. “You are to proceed without delay to the Beatrix Hotel.” The constable handed Rheinhardt a scrap of paper with a barely legible address scribbled on it. “Thurngasse: 9th district.”
Rheinhardt dropped the scrap into his pocket. “Why?”
“Oh yes, sorry, sir—forgot to say, went right out of my head, what with the rush—I didn’t think I’d get here in time to catch you.” The constable looked over his shoulder before whispering, “A gentleman, sir. Shot dead, sir.”
Rheinhardt beckoned Liebermann. “I don’t suppose you’re free for the rest of the afternoon?”
“No, Oskar,” Liebermann replied. “I really must get back the hospital. Is there a problem?”
THIRTY-NINE
As Rheinhardt emerged from the cab he glanced up at a high facade decorated with balconets, pilasters, and raised rococo pendants. The overall effect, however, was rather moribund; the cracked, faded stucco somehow suggested the lined face of an old duchess. This impression of sad disintegration was reinforced by the foyer, a yawning, dusty chamber which was dominated by a feebly glowing crystal chandelier. An imitation Roman amphora, positioned in the middle of a round wooden table, had been filled with artificial flowers, but even these had started to droop. The stems could not support the weight of the silk petals. Beyond the table and standing in front of the reception desk were two men, a dapper fellow with wavy hair and a thin moustache and a constable from the Schottenring station.
“Constable . . .” Rheinhardt recognized the stout policeman but had forgotten his name.
“Schwacke, sir.” The constable turned toward his well-dressed companion, who exuded a sweet and overpowering fragrance that resembled a combination of lilac and marzipan. “May I introduce the manager of the hotel, Herr Okolski.”
The dapper man’s low bow was foppish and complex. “Feliks Okolski. At your service, Herr Inspector.” He also had a slight lisp.
“My name is Rheinhardt and this is my assistant, Haussmann.”
The manager repeated his impressive bow, adding further flourishes and cried, “What a fearful tragedy!” He pulled a red folded handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and shook it open, releasing another heady scent. He then dabbed his forehead, somewhat unnecessarily, because he wasn’t perspiring. “I can’t believe that this atrocity was perpetrated in my hotel.”
“Murders can happen anywhere, Herr Okolski.”
“But my hotel! Really . . .”
Rheinhardt glanced at Haussmann who was, once again, attempting unsuccessfully to disguise a smirk.
“Was the murdered man one of your guests?”
“Yes,” Okolski replied. “His name is—perhaps it would be more fitting to use the past tense? His name was Herr Kelbling. Gerd Kelbling.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Very little, I’m sorry to say. He made his reservation some time ago and as I recall he was very particular about his requirements. He wanted the fourth suite on the second floor and wouldn’t accept any other, even though they’re all identical. He took the suite for three months and paid the full remittance two weeks in advance of his arrival. He never spoke to anyone or ordered food. In fact, I’d never laid eyes on him before today.”
“Three months?”
“Our rates are very competitive, our accommodation is spacious, and though I say so myself, our restaurant serves a truly delicious bryndzové halušky. We have a new Slovak chef. I poached him from the Imperial and you wouldn’t believe what he can do with a little sheep’s cheese and bacon.”
Rheinhardt spoke through a forced smile. “I’m sure that your chef is very gifted, but returning to the principal issue . . .”
“Of course, inspector.” Okolski’s consent was accompanied by a decorous flap of his handkerchief.
“How long has Herr Kelbling been residing at the Bea
trix?”
“Nine weeks.”
A maid appeared, balancing a mop on her shoulder. Rheinhardt waited for her to pass before asking his next question: “And when was the body discovered?”
“About two hours ago. There was a loud bang.” Okolski clapped his hands together, concerned that Rheinhardt might be in danger of underestimating the volume of the report. “And I decided that I would investigate myself, with the assistance of Herr Bajramovic.”
“Who?”
“Herr Bajramovic, our porter.”
“Where is he now?”
“Oh, he’s in the kitchen, having a drink. A little early, perhaps, but he’s very fond of cognac and I thought his willingness to assist should be rewarded. To be perfectly honest, I might not have ventured up the stairs without his encouragement.” He refolded the red handkerchief and pushed it back into his breast pocket, allowing a neat triangle to show. “Some of the guests had, rather foolishly, come out onto the landings and I had to be quite firm with them. I told them to return to their rooms and to await further notice. On the second floor we found a door wide open—suite number four. Herr Bajramovic and I entered and . . .” Okolski shuddered.
“You didn’t see anyone rushing away from the scene, trying to leave the building in a hurry?”
“No?”
“What about the guests? Did they see anyone?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask them, inspector.”
“I’m assuming that you went up that staircase over there,” Rheinhardt gestured across the foyer.
“Yes.”
“Are there others?”
“Yes. There is a second staircase on the other side of the building and a service staircase that is not for public use. Once the gunman was on the ground floor he could have made his way to the back of the building and made his escape through one of two exits. I suspect that he used the exit that is reached through the store rooms.”
“All right,” said Rheinhardt. “I suppose we’d better go up.”
Okolski led the way, assuming an air of great importance. When they arrived outside suite number four, Okolski unlocked the door and ushered his party in. Reinhardt paused and instructed Schwacke: “Don’t let anyone pass unless they’re from Schottenring.” The constable clicked his heels and stood to attention.
A body was stretched out between an armchair and a sofa—arms angled on either side of the head.
“It’s getting dark,” said Okolski, “I’ll attend to the lighting.”
Rheinhardt and Haussmann stood over the dead man: early forties, brown, slightly brindled hair, and a tidy beard. There were no rings on his fingers. Okolski returned and said, “All the lamps have been lit. Before I go, can I get you anything? A pastry from the kitchen, perhaps?”
It was only Haussmann’s cautionary, raised eyebrows that gave Rheinhardt the strength to resist. “That is a most generous offer, Herr Okolski, but regretfully, we must decline.”
“Of course, of course.” Okolski bowed and reversed out of the room with his head still bent forward.
The dead man was wearing a white shirt, the entire front of which was stained with blood. Rheinhardt knelt on the floor and held a small hand mirror under the dead man’s nose, but no condensation formed on the glass.
“Unlikely, sir,” said Haussmann.
“Yes, I know,” Rheinhardt replied.
Rheinhardt withdrew the mirror and searched the man’s pockets. He found a tram ticket which he handed to his assistant. “A floor plan, please?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rheinhardt stood up, with some difficulty, and walked over to an attractive writing bureau with carved feet. He lowered the hinged flap and found some stationary, supplied by the hotel, and an envelope stuffed with 100 kronen banknotes. Behind an adjacent door was a large bedroom. The wardrobe smelt strongly of napthalene because a whole box of moth balls had been carelessly emptied beneath the hanging clothes. A drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe contained underwear, a few ties, collar studs, and cuff links. An umbrella was hooked over the clothes rod. On entering a second, smaller bedroom, Rheinhardt was surprised by the pomposity of the décor: velvet curtains, gold tasseled ropes, and a four-poster bed, behind which was a floor-to-ceiling tapestry populated by knights, ladies in wimples, and rampant unicorns. The coverlet was a little wrinkled and there was a slight depression in the pillow. On the wall opposite the tapestry was a crudely executed portrait in oils of a kingly man with curly hair and mad eyes. An engraved metal plate set into the lower horizontal of the picture frame read: “Bolko the Small, ruler of Schweidnitz, Piast Dynasty.” A chest of drawers was completely empty, except for a half-sphere of black rubber, about the size of a coffee cup, attached to a short length of flexible tubing.
Haussmann appeared, notebook raised. He leaned against the doorjamb and said, laconically, “Two bedrooms.”
“Indeed,” Rheinhardt replied. “Why would a single man, with hardly any possessions, pay for a whole suite for three months?”
“Maybe he was waiting for someone?”
“And why did he want this suite—specifically?”
Haussmann walked over to the window and peered through the nets. “Perhaps you can see something from here that you can’t see from anywhere else?”
Rheinhardt wasn’t convinced. “What do you think this is?” As Haussmann turned, Rheinhardt held up the rubber half-sphere and pulled the length of tubing so it was taut.
“Looks like a piece of medical equipment. Something you might use to deliver gas to a patient.”
Rheinhardt placed the rubber dome over his nose, took a few breaths, and then removed it. “No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t cover my nose and mouth. A gas mask would have to be larger and a different shape.”
“Then something a chemist might use?”
“Perhaps.”
There were voices outside and Rheinhardt left the bedroom to see who had arrived. He found the photographer and his overburdened young assistant gazing at the dead man.
“Two in one day, inspector. I’m glad that it’s you who reports directly to the commissioner and not me.”
“Thank you,” said Rheinhardt, rolling back on his heels. “That is just what I wanted to hear.”
FORTY
Razumovsky was standing on a corner opposite the opera house. He studied his pocket watch and then turned to admire the westward prospect: high buildings on either side of the wide boulevard receded into a milky distance. The fine domes and lanterns of the art and natural history museums were like an exquisite mirage, a magical kingdom materializing at the end of a long canyon. He put his watch away and looked up at the white sky. There were two statues of winged horses on the opera house, preparing to leap into space and ascend into the heavens. A great deal of traffic, mostly trams, rattled by, and the sidewalks were bustling with people: men in bowler hats, boys pulling carts, ladies trailing capes, and porters pushing trolleys heavily laden with boxes. Three street cleaners, wearing baggy coats and peaked caps, were unwinding a hose. The majority of the hose was wrapped around a drum suspended between two massive wooden wheels. When a sufficient length of the hose had been freed, the senior cleaner—who looked surprisingly regal—aimed the nozzle and released a jet of water onto the cobbles. A pile of horse excrement was pushed toward a drain and some of the spray spotted the hem of Razumovsky’s trousers. He stepped back a few paces, tugged his gloves, and repositioned his ornate Turkish scarf. It was important that the scarf should remain visible.
One of the many bowler-hatted men stepped out of the fast flowing stream of passersby and said, “What have you got for me?”
Razumovsky handed the man a piece of paper. “Go to this address. You’ll find the larder very well stocked.”
The man slipped the paper into his coat pocket and looked across the road to the opera house. “I might catch a performance while I’m here.”
“Yes. Why not?”
The man tapped the brim of his hat. “Good day.
”
Razumovsky nodded and the man walked off at a brisk pace. Two musicians carrying violin cases jumped over the water jet and the street cleaner shook his fist at them with evident good humor. When Razumovsky looked for the bomb-maker he was already gone.
FORTY-ONE
Straight through the sternum,” said Professor Mathias. He picked up a small fret saw and laid its sharp metal teeth on the plate of exposed bone. He then began to move his arm backward and forward. The grating sound made Rheinhardt look away.
“You know,” said Mathias, casually. “I have a great fondness for the first Joseph. He was a truly splendid emperor.”
“Really?” Rheinhardt responded. “I thought he was a heavy drinker with a weakness for improper sexual conduct and firearms.”
“Exactly!” Mathias laid his fret saw aside and pulled the dead man’s rib cage open. “He was only on the throne for a few years.”
“Yes,” said Rheinhardt. “We’ll never know what a man with his qualities would have achieved if he’d lived longer. Presumably he was syphilitic?”
“Oh, inspector, please, don’t be such a prig! The great pleasure of history is its parade of colorful characters.”
“I wasn’t being sanctimonious, professor, I was being sarcastic.”
“A form of wit best avoided, I feel—especially where there is no evidence of natural aptitude.”
The old man seemed to be rummaging around in Kelbling’s chest in much the same way as he might if he were at home searching through a sock drawer. His forearms were spattered with blood and a few drops had dried on the lenses of his spectacles. “Have you heard the story about Joseph and the Jesuit, inspector?”
“No.”
Mathias removed Kelbling’s torn heart, pointed out the damage, and slapped it down on the table. “As you might imagine, Joseph was never overly vexed by matters of the spirit and he became increasingly intolerant of religious divisions and fundamentalists. Thus, it didn’t matter to him one jot that a particular man he chose to favor with an elevated station was of the protestant persuasion. A Jesuit, shocked by Joseph’s profanity, decided on a scheme that would renew the emperor’s commitment to the one, true congregation. After disguising himself as a ghost, the Jesuit gained entry into the emperor’s bedroom, where he applied himself to the considerable challenge of terrifying his monarch; however, Joseph was not a credulous man. He immediately rang for his servants and promptly ordered them to throw the Jesuit out of the window.”