Vienna Blood (38 page)

“All are possible.” Rheinhardt smiled grimly. “And are we to suppose that in styling the murderer ‘Salieri’ our choice of name was more apposite than we could possibly have imagined?”

“I believe that the real Salieri studied the harpsichord and violin rather than the cello. Whatever, the evidence gathered so far certainly suggests that
our
quarry is a musician.”

“Aschenbrandt?”

“He is the only musician to be counted among your suspects—and he is also a cellist. I saw the instrument leaning against the wall when I visited his apartment.”

“Yes. Aschenbrandt—could he be the killer? I read your report with great interest. But I found it rather … perplexing.”

“Oh? Why?”

“You draw several conclusions, Max—but were they really merited by that interview? I take it that your transcript is faithful and nothing more was said?”

“That is correct.”

“Perhaps my memory is at fault, but was it not the case that you talked to him about a single topic only? That is to say, music.”

“What did you expect me to do? Raise the subject of murder?”

“Well … under the circumstances …”

“Oskar, what is the point of such questions? People lie, misdirect, and make up alibis that are subsequently confirmed by confederates. I am interested only in the truths that people reveal about themselves inadvertently: a raised eyebrow, a hesitation, a slip of the tongue— subtle reactions. These are far more valuable. They are authentic communications, emanating from the unconscious. Had I mentioned murder, it would almost certainly have put Aschenbrandt on his guard.”

Liebermann lit another cigar.

“Aschenbrandt,” he continued, “is definitely a disturbed young man. An anti-Semite who entertains semi-delusional beliefs about a Teutonic Messiah whose destiny it is to save the German-speaking peoples. It is possible that he has surrendered himself to this potent
mythos, and it has now taken hold of his mind like a possessing demon. He may even see himself as ‘the Invincible’ of his string quintet— whose mission it is to rid Vienna of enemy nomads, Slavs, Negroes, and even, perhaps, representatives of the old order—a corrupt Catholic Church. But as to whether he is Salieri … Well, I have my doubts. When we were discussing
The Magic Flute,
Aschenbrandt seemed unperturbed.
The Magic Flute
is Salieri's organizing principle—the channel through which he expresses all his hate and violence. If Aschenbrandt
is
Salieri, there should have been more signs. He was angry, of course—angry about being interrupted, angry that I called Wagner's music bombastic—and he found my delight in Mozart extremely irritating. But at no time did discussion of
The Magic Flute
produce a discernible change in his demeanor. He seemed quite comfortable debating a subject that should have stirred up the most powerful emotions; emotions that he should have struggled to conceal.”

“That's all very well, Max,” said Rheinhardt.” But I am still minded to launch a full investigation into Aschenbrandt's musical activities. If we discover that he has participated in any chamber concerts in the Kapuzinerkirche, or any other church for that matter …”

“Of course,” said Liebermann, “I offer you only an opinion—and Salieri might be such an exceptional creature that his mental processes might not even obey the laws of psychoanalysis.” He knocked the ash from his cigar. “Now, tell me, what of the other suspects?”

“I went to see the artist, Olbricht. What a peculiar fellow.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Something about his expression.”

“I do hope you are not going to invoke Lombroso again. Once and for all, Oskar, there is no relationship between a man's appearance and his nature.”

“Yes, you're quite right. Curiously enough, Olbricht is something
of a war hero. He saved his commanding officer's life in the Bosnia-Herzegovina campaign of 1878. And—for a military man—he was rather reticent about the whole affair. He invited me to the opening of his next exhibition. It's at the Hildebrandt Gallery—on Kärntner Strasse. Other members of the Eddic Literary Association are bound to be there. Would you be interested in coming along?”

“Very much so.”

“Excellent.”

“And what of Lieutenant Hefner?”

Rheinhardt's features contracted into a small circle of disgust. “Haussmann spent some time in Café Haynau, a sordid little place much frequented by military men. It is also a hotbed of gossip. Hefner is rumored to have killed more than a dozen men in duels—probably an exaggeration, but if it proves true, it wouldn't surprise me. His name was recently linked with that of Lemberg, the industrialist's son. The young man is supposed to have died after sustaining a fatal wound in a
shooting accident.
”

Liebermann sank lower down in his chair. “It seems that killing is Hefner's sport.”

“And they say he is a stranger to fear. Always keeps his nerve— always the second to shoot in a barrier duel.”

“Cold, calculating … and arrogant?”

“Insufferably.”

“There is a professor in Berlin who has described a certain pathological ‘type,’ characterized by blunting of the emotions, self-obsession, and lack of conscience. He attributes this syndrome to a disease process affecting the frontal lobes of the brain.”

Both men stared into the flames. The gas lamps hummed harmoniously on a major third.

“The thing is,” said Rheinhardt, not wishing to be drawn into a technical discussion on an arcane branch of medicine, “neither Hefner,
nor Aschenbrandt, nor Olbricht, nor any member of the Eddic Literary Association—to my knowledge—is a librarian, or a seller of antiquarian books.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Liebermann. Rheinhardt suspected that his friend was still occupied with thoughts of frontal lobes.

“While you were”—Rheinhardt smiled—”absent, I took the liberty of calling upon Miss Lydgate again to analyze samples of dust found close to the Capuchin's body.”

“Oh?” Liebermann sat up.

“She occupied the Schottenring laboratory for almost two whole days.”

“And what did she conclude?”

“She concluded that the dust from the crypt contained particles of leather, glue, and cloth that were identical to those found in her previous analysis—although they were present in much smaller quantities. She even went so far as to say that one kind of leather—of reddish hue—appeared in both samples, and very likely came from the same book.” Rheinhardt poured himself another brandy. “We have interviewed most of the city's librarians and antiquarian book dealers. None of them could possibly be Salieri. Moreover, her evidence is inconsistent with the rest of the investigation: none of our suspects are librarians. I hesitate to say this, because I am very fond of this remarkable lady, but could it be that Miss Lydgate is simply mistaken?”

“No, Oskar,” said Liebermann solemnly. “I think there is very little chance of that.”

“In which case,” said the inspector, taking a sip of brandy, “we are still utterly lost.”

67

T
HE EXHIBITION WAS WELL
attended, providing Liebermann and Rheinhardt with a degree of anonymity. Somewhere behind the milling crowd a string quartet was playing a gentle ländler.

Occasionally Rheinhardt leaned closer to his friend and pointed out a particular individual.

“That fellow there—the distinguished-looking gent—that's Von Triebenbach. And the woman he's talking to is Baroness von Rautenberg—Olbricht's patron.”

They stood in front of a full-length portrait of Wagner's Brunhilde.

Rheinhardt nodded toward the entrance. “Plump fellow with the ruddy complexion—Counselor Hannisch. He's talking to—”

“Professor Foch,” Liebermann interrupted.

“Of course, you know him.”

The counselor and the professor made an odd couple. Foch wore his usual funereal garb, and Hannisch was dressed in a green suit with a bright blue cravat.

“I know
of
him,” Liebermann said, correcting Rheinhardt.

Liebermann resumed his scrutiny of the Valkyrie. She wore the horned headdress of a Viking, thick furs, and her spear was tipped with a daub of red paint. Rheinhardt's head swiveled around.

“No Aschenbrandt.”

The general hubbub rose in volume, swelling with the sound of
jovial greetings and cries of satisfaction. Close by, the crowd parted, affording Liebermann and Rheinhardt a glimpse of a short man whose hand was being squeezed by a colonel of the infantry.

“The artist,” whispered Rheinhardt.

Olbricht was delayed for a few moments before continuing his tour of the room. Seeing Rheinhardt, he smiled, revealing his stunted teeth.

“Ah, Inspector, I am so glad you came.”

Rheinhardt gestured toward his companion. “My friend, Dr. Max Liebermann.”

Olbricht acknowledged the younger man's presence but did not bow.

At that moment a very attractive young woman, her hair fashioned in dangling coils of gold, broke through a drab wall of suited figures.

“You will excuse me,” said Olbricht.

“Of course,” said Rheinhardt.

“Herr Olbricht,” cried the young woman. “There you are! I promised my father I would find you—he wishes to introduce you to Hofrat Eggebrecht.”

“Of course, Fräulein Bolle—I am yours to command.”

They linked arms and vanished behind two chattering dowagers whose bony fingers sparkled with diamonds.

The young doctor looked a little perplexed.

“What is it, Max?”

Liebermann lowered his voice. “His face …”

“What?”

“There is
something
about it …”

“Ha! Didn't I say so! And wasn't it you who scolded me! What was it you said? You went on about Lombroso again!”

Liebermann grimaced. “Please accept my apology.”

“I do so with … with munificence.”

They moved along the wall, stopping to look at each painting.

The dwarf Alberich and the three Rhine maidens; a mage standing in a pentacle decorated with runic symbols; a blind skald weaving his spell by the hearth in a timbered hall.

“Do you like them?” asked Rheinhardt, surprised that his friend was examining the images so closely. He knew that Liebermann's artistic preferences were modern and could not understand why he was spending so much time in front of each canvas.

“Definitely not.”

“Then please can we move along. We will never finish the exhibition at this rate!”

Liebermann sighed and followed his friend.

The next canvas was a large battle scene crammed with tiny figures. It reminded Liebermann of the work of Hieronymus Bosch— particularly
The Last Judgment,
which was permanently exhibited in the art school. But when he drew closer to the canvas, it was apparent that Olbricht did not possess Bosch's technique, nor any of his humor. Liebermann fished his spectacles out from the top pocket of his jacket and pressed his nose up close to the painting.

“What on earth are you doing, Max?”

“Looking at the detail.”

A rather large burgher said “Excuse me, sir” in a gruff voice, indicating that Liebermann was in his way. He was wearing an artificial white carnation in his buttonhole, signaling his membership of the Christian Social party. The young doctor apologized and took a step back. The burgher narrowed his eyes at Liebermann and said something to his wife. Neither the young doctor nor his companion needed to hear the words to comprehend the nature of the slur. Rheinhardt was about to challenge the burgher but Liebermann raised his hand. They moved away quietly.

“Disgraceful,” said Rheinhardt. “You really should have let me—”

“Oskar,” Liebermann cut in. “It happens all the time. Come now, let us continue with the exhibition.”

The next canvas showed a woman with flaxen hair looking out at an infinitely receding Roman army. It was titled
Pipara: The Germanic Woman in the Purple of the Caesars.
Liebermann read an accompanying note
: Adapted freely from the two-volume novel by Guido von List, recounting the legendary rise of a German slave to the position of empress in the late third century.

“What a fine woman,” said Rheinhardt, innocently.

The young doctor did not reply. He studied the painting for some time, and motioned that he was ready to move on. Then—strangely— at the last moment he found himself unable to proceed. His feet seemed fixed to the floor. It was as though the painting were exerting a strange influence, producing immobility.

Liebermann's mind was suddenly invaded by a haunting image: the shopgirl he had met on the streetcar—her carmine glove, receding into the gloom.

Rheinhardt, who had already taken a few steps away, paused and looked back at his friend. “Max?”

“This painting …” Liebermann whispered.

The string quartet struck up the introductory bars of a Strauss waltz. Liebermann recognized it immediately:
Vienna Blood.
Suddenly the spell was broken and he was walking toward his friend, an enigmatic smile raising the corners of his mouth.

68

T
HE ROOM CONTAINED NO
furniture except for a small card table that had been placed in the center. From downstairs the muffled sound of carousing rose through the bare floorboards. An inebriated chorus of male voices seemed to be exploring the limits of musical coherence over an out-of-tune piano. The instrument rang out its discords, and occasionally a shriek of delight betrayed the presence of several indecorous females.

A single gas flame sputtered, tainting the air with pungent fumes. Above the lamp's stanchion and cracked glass bowl a black smear of sooty ejecta broke the continuity of a floral motif on the yellowing wallpaper.

Gathered around the table were seven men: Lieutenant Ruprecht Hefner, his seconds, Renz and Trapp, Count Zoltan Záborszky,
his
seconds, Braun and Dekany, and the
unparteiische—
a pale-faced emaciated man with blue lips and transparent fingers.

Thirteen slivers of wood had been laid out on the table's green baize, arranged in a semicircle like the struts of an open fan. Twelve were identical. The thirteenth, however, was distinguished by a daub of red paint. The
unparteiische
pushed it into position, attempting to create a perfectly symmetrical arrangement.