by F. R. Tallis
In front of Rheinhardt was a small square of wood cut from the door he had removed from the Gallus and Sons piano factory. The bloody thumbprint—black against the green paint—was protected beneath a thin microscope slide. Beside the square of wood was a white card on which there was an impression of Eduard Autenburg’s right thumb.
Autenburg had been angry—and probably with good reason. He had been abandoned in a cell, and then Rheinhardt, without explanation, had arrived, only to roll the man’s thumb on an inky plate. “I thought I was being detained for further questioning? Look, my hands are filthy now—I demand a bar of soap!”
Surrounding the two thumbprints were open editions of the Police Gazette. Many pages were covered in diagrams that looked like a bird’s eye view of river formations. A heading identified these as “Ridge Characteristics.” There were also numerous enlarged ovals filled with swirling patterns of parallel lines, labeled “Arch,” “Loop,” and “Whorl.” An oversize magnifying glass had been laid aside on the cloth cover of an English book titled Fingerprint Directories by Francis Galton.
The rabbit’s nose twitched and it hopped to the back of the cage. “Well, my little friend,” said Rheinhardt, “the plot thickens.”
“Are you talking to me, sir?”
Startled, Rheinhardt turned to see his assistant standing behind him. “God in heaven, Haussmann! Don’t creep up on me like that! What ever happened to the common courtesy of knocking before entering?”
“The door was wide open, sir.”
“That’s no excuse. And I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking . . .” His sentence trailed off.
“To the rabbit, sir.” Haussman’s expression was deadpan. “Herr Autenburg is becoming very agitated again. He called me a misguided instrument of oppression, sir.”
“Well, he could be right about the misguided part. Come here, Haussmann. I want you to study these two thumbprints closely, using this magnifying glass.” Haussmann picked up the heavy, mounted lens, and moved it backward and forward. “Now,” Rheinhardt continued, “can you identify the general shape? These examples in the Police Gazette should be helpful.”
“I would say that they are both whorls, sir.”
“Very good. Now, count the ridges outward from the central point. Superimpose a clock face and ascend an imaginary hour hand at ten o’clock. Stop when you reach the fifth ridge and note how it breaks into two—note how it forks. The technical term for this division is a ‘bifurcation.’ Compare the two.”
“They appear to be the same, sir.”
“Count three ridges out from the center—ascending the hour hand at eleven o’clock. Note that the third ridge is connected to the fourth by a small bridge. This is called a ‘crossover.’”
Haussmann’s head oscillated between the samples. “Again, the same, sir.”
“At six o’clock—the very last ridge—see how it divides and then joins up again?”
“Ah yes, sir.”
“The technical name for this is an ‘island.’”
Haussmann raised his head and grinned. “Identical.”
“I could go on, Haussmann. But you will no doubt have already reached the obvious and inevitable conclusion.”
“Autenburg was at the Gallus and Sons piano factory.”
“Without a doubt.”
“Really, sir? Without any doubt?”
Rheinhardt swept his hand over the diagrams and illustrations. “The evidence is overwhelming. Every set of fingerprints is unique to the individual.” There was a loud rap and both men turned. A constable was standing in the doorway. “See, Haussmann?” said Rheinhardt. “Knocking. A custom universally practiced among civilized people.”
The constable came forward. He was new and very nervous. “Detective Inspector Rheinhardt?”
“Yes.”
“Some people are waiting in your office—a man and woman—something about a maniac. They’re very upset.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know. The duty officer didn’t say.”
“Who let them into my office?”
“Not me, sir.” The young constable bowed—a movement so fast it resembled the peck of a chicken—and reversed out of the laboratory. His disappearance was followed by the sound of reverberating footsteps that accelerated to running speed.
“He’s gone, sir,” said Haussmann.
Rheinhardt looked up at his assistant and released a sigh of titanic proportions.
FORTY-SEVEN
Rheinhardt entered his office and discovered that it was occupied by Herr Bok and Fräulein Mugoša. They were sitting at his desk but as soon as they had heard the door open they sprang up from their seats. Herr Bok was wearing a long coat with velvet lapels and he was gripping a cane. He looked prosperous, but his general air of salubrious respectability was compromised by the bluish-purple florescence that surrounded his right eye. His companion’s lips were pressed together tightly and her eyebrows were slanted inward.
“Inspector Rheinhardt,” Bok roared, “you led me to understand that Globocnik was in the hospital.”
“Well,” Rheinhardt responded, “that was certainly true at the time.”
“It is not true now.”
“Would you care to sit down, Herr Bok?” Rheinhardt made circles in the air, which he hoped would encourage the couple to return to their chairs.
“The man is insane. Dangerous! Look what he did to my eye!”
“It has been blackened rather badly.”
“He took me by surprise, otherwise I would have . . .” In lieu of finishing his sentence Bok snatched the air.
“If you would kindly sit, I will take a statement.”
“What good will that do, inspector? You’re wasting valuable time. You need to get out there”—he jabbed his cane at the window—“and catch him.”
Fräulein Mugoša took out a handkerchief and dabbed her cheek. “He said horrible things. He called me a—” A sob made her final word incomprehensible.
“Don’t fret, my dear,” said Bok. “It won’t happen again.” He rounded on Rheinhardt. “Will it, inspector?”
“Globocnik attacked you?”
Bok stamped his foot and Fräulein Mugoša did exactly the same thing. “Haven’t you been listening? Last night, Fräulein Mugoša and I were finalizing the accounts. We didn’t leave the building until nine o’clock. We were crossing the yard and Globocnik jumped out from behind some crates. He punched me in the eye and insulted Fräulein Mugoša. Then, before I could lay my hands on him, he ran off, skipping and howling with laughter. He is mad, quite mad.”
“I was told that Herr Globocnik’s treatment had been successful.”
“You were misinformed, inspector. And frankly, that doesn’t surprise me. I met his doctor. A young fool called Liebermann. He made an appointment to see me in my office and asked the most idiotic questions. Now, what are you going to do about Globocnik, inspector? Something must be done and it must be done soon! We want assurances.”
“I regret to say that I can’t give you any.”
“What?” Bok raised his cane and brought it down in frustration. The tip clipped Rheinhardt’s knuckles. “This is the security office? It is your duty to ensure our safety. And if you fail to do so, then you leave me no choice but to register a formal complaint at the highest level.” Bok looked at Fräulein Mugoša and she returned a satisfied smile. “Well, inspector?”
“I can’t assign you a special constable. We don’t have the resources.”
“Then you really must catch this scoundrel.”
“We’ll keep an eye out for him.”
“That simply isn’t good enough.”
“It’s the best we can do.” Rheinhardt extended his hand. “Thank you for reporting the incident. I will make a note of it in our records.”
The two men shook hands. “That’s all you’re going to do?”
“For the moment, yes.”
When Bok tried to break away, Rheinhardt increased the tigh
tness of his grip.
“Inspector?” Bok looked uncomfortable. Fräulein Mugoša heard the note of alarm in her companion’s voice and turned to face him. The big man grimaced and then let out a cry of pain. “Inspector! Let me go! What are you doing?”
Rheinhardt released Bok’s hand. “I was merely bidding you adieu.”
Bok raised a finger. “I’m not a fool, inspector. You did that on purpose.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rheinhardt replied. “Herr Bok, Fräulein Mugoša.” He bowed and clicked his heels. “Good morning.” When Bok reached the door he hesitated. He looked back at Rheinhardt, with suspicion and uncertainty. “Good morning,” Rheinhardt repeated.
“What is it?” Fräulein Mugoša asked.
“Nothing,” said Bok. “Let’s go.” He looked confused and a little shaken.
The door closed and Rheinhardt sat behind his desk. He opened a drawer and helped himself to a marzipan mouse that Mitzi had made with some help from her mother. He addressed the small pointed face. “I am no psychiatrist, but it would appear to me that Herr Doctor Liebermann’s treatment has been highly effective.” He bit the creature’s head off and his mouth was suffused with flavor: vanilla essence, almonds, apricot conserve, and a hint of lemon. The sweetness of the marzipan was equal to the sweetness of his satisfaction, as he remembered Bok’s yelp of pain and nervous exit.
FORTY-EIGHT
The windowless room in the basement of the Schottenring station was illuminated by a bare glass bulb that emitted a sallow, meager light; an insufficient hazy luminosity that strained the eyes and cast stunted shadows beneath a triangle of chairs. On the wall opposite the door was the usual portrait of the emperor. This particular likeness was photographic and featured a much younger incarnation: plentiful hair, a strong nose, and dark—as opposed to white—muttonchop whiskers. He was wearing a pale military jacket with a high, embroidered collar. The young emperor was looking into the distance, with bright, piercing eyes. Once, while visiting the lord marshal’s office at the palace, a chance encounter with Franz Josef had given Rheinhardt an opportunity to study those eyes at close quarters. They were clear and very blue. The experience had been quite unnerving.
“I want to speak with the commissioner.” On hearing the sound of Autenburg’s voice, Rheinhardt was returned to the present. “You will not subject me to further indignities. My treatment in your custody has been disgraceful.”
“Please sit down, Herr Autenburg.”
“I intend to write a detailed account of your lamentable conduct. This will not reflect well on the security office.”
“It is regrettable that your detention has for the most part been solitary. But I can assure you that this was not my intention. Unfortunately, I have been rather busy since your arrest—the nature of police work. Needless to say, I have been most anxious to continue our interview.”
“I want to see my wife. Why aren’t you allowing her to visit me?”
“I’m afraid your wife hasn’t asked to see you, Herr Autenburg.”
“Is she . . . well?”
“I really wouldn’t know. Should you wish to dispatch a message, then that can be arranged.”
“She hasn’t asked?”
“No. I’m sorry. Now, if you would please sit down, Herr Autenburg, we can proceed.”
Autenburg sat on his chair, muttering in a low, incomprehensible register and huffing loudly. Rheinhardt and Haussmann also sat, but with less fuss and expulsion of air. A buzzing sound accompanied a brief intermittency of light. They all looked up at the flashing bulb for a few moments then lowered their heads when the light became continuous once more.
Rheinhardt leaned forward. “Herr Autenburg, the repetition of questions you have already answered will no doubt test your patience still further, but I must ask you again: did you ever meet Angelo Callari—the man I mentioned before—the man who called himself Tab and frequented The Golden Bears?”
“No, I never met this . . . Callari.”
“The name isn’t even vaguely familiar to you?”
“No.”
“Callari’s body was found in an abandoned piano factory in Favoriten. He had been shot through the head and his face was horribly disfigured with acid.” Autenburg’s expression showed no emotion. “You’ve never been to the Gallus and Sons piano factory?”
“No. Never.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“Of course I’m quite sure. Why would I visit an abandoned piano factory?”
“You know nothing about Angelo Callari?”
“Nothing.”
Rheinhardt looked at his assistant. “Did you hear that, Haussmann?”
“Yes, sir.” Haussmann replied. “He says he knows nothing.”
“And he is quite sure.”
“Indeed, sir. Categorical.”
Rheinhardt shifted in his chair and studied Autenburg. The bulb flashed but neither of the two men allowed the fault to distract them. When Rheinhardt spoke he enunciated each word with careful precision. “Herr Autenburg, I would urge you to think very carefully about your situation.”
A fulvous veneer of perspiration appeared on the publisher’s forehead. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket, cleaned his spectacles, and pretended to reposition a tuft of hair while slyly wiping away the excessive moisture. Within seconds his forehead was gleaming again.
“Herr Autenburg,” said Rheinhardt, in a friendly, confiding tone. “We know you were present at the Gallus and Sons piano factory when Callari was shot.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Where is your proof? Where is your witness?”
Rheinhardt hummed and leaned back in his chair. “As things stand, it looks very likely that you will be tried for the murder of Angelo Callari and the murder of Axl Diamant. On the balance of probabilities I would estimate your chances of escaping a death sentence to be vanishingly small.”
“I didn’t kill anyone!”
Rheinhardt finally raised his voice. “In which case you really had better start telling us the truth.” The injunction rang out, generating harmonics that found sustenance in the enclosed space.
“I did not kill Diamant!” Autenburg’s rebuff was equally loud. “Yes, it’s true, we argued and I was stupid enough to put my hands around his neck. But he was never in any danger. He was a strong fellow and a skilled swordsman. I am not a fighting man. I could never have bettered him. It is absurd to suggest that I could have cut his throat—even if I’d wanted to. His reactions were quick—very quick. I’ve watched him take on a gang of nationalists and knock out every one of them. They didn’t know what had hit them.”
“And what about Callari?”
“I never met Callari.”
“Herr Autenburg, I would be most grateful if you would refrain from further deceit. It is becoming tedious.”
Autenburg struck the arm of his chair. “I never had the pleasure of meeting Signor Callari and I have never been to the Gallus and Sons piano factory. You cannot extract confessions by means of bluff and bluster, inspector. Where is your witness?”
“He is sitting in front of me.”
“What?”
“You are my witness. You have unwittingly incriminated yourself.” Rheinhardt watched Autenburg’s hand slowly rising. The publisher’s teeth closed on either side of a fingernail and he produced two loud clicking noises as he bit into the keratin. “I suspect it was you who removed Callari’s jacket,” Rheinhardt continued. “That is when you got blood on your hands. There was a disturbance of some kind—a dog barking, men talking, a carriage stopping outside? You and your accomplices hurried to the rear of the factory and made your way out. At some point, you must have touched the door, and, in doing so, you left a very good impression of your right thumb on the paintwork.”
Autenburg’s hand dropped and his lips curled slowly into a smile. “Ah, I see. That’s what you were up to earlier this morning—with the ink and paper.” He laughed, almost hysterically. �
�I see. You have discovered that the print you took this morning and the print you found at the factory share similar characteristics.”
“They are identical, Herr Autenburg.”
“Well, what does that prove?” Autenburg peered at his own thumb. “There must be hundreds, no, thousands of people who share the same markings. Purchase any occult encyclopedia, turn to the chapter on palmistry and examine the diagrams closely. You will quickly see that all human hands have common, universal features: the major lines of the head, the heart, life, and destiny—the mounts and valleys—crosses, grilles, stars, and tridents.”
“With respect, Herr Autenburg, occult encyclopedias will not help us to resolve this particular argument. We are better advised, in this instance, to consult the articles of biometric scientists; men such as Galton or Henry. The case for fingerprints has been proven. Every print is unique. You were at the Gallus and Sons piano factory the night Callari was shot. This is an irrefutable fact. And the more you pretend otherwise the more you will prejudice the justice system against you. Come now, Herr Autenburg, be reasonable. Your evasions are serving no purpose.”
Autenburg’s head lowered until his chin was touching his chest. “I didn’t kill Callari.”
“Then tell us who did.”
A long silence was punctuated by more electrical buzzing. Eventually, Autenburg whispered. “To what extent are you willing to . . .” He hesitated before adding, “Negotiate?”
“That rather depends on how helpful you are.”
“I will need false papers, a new identity—and somewhere safe to go.”
“You are not the first to request special provision, Herr Autenburg.”
“And are such accommodations ever made?”
“If the information we are given merits leniency, yes.”
Autenburg was clearly deliberating. He wrapped his handkerchief tightly around his fist and then let it loosen. This action seemed to be linked with some inner increase and release of tension. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he said on a forceful outbreath. “However, if I tell you the truth, I am a dead man. I will go to prison, serve my term, and when I am released I will be executed. Without false papers and somewhere to hide, I am a dead man.”