Vienna Secrets

21

The coffeehouse had little to distinguish it from the other shops. It did not have lettering above the windows or a bright awning, only a board standing on the pavement on which the proprietor’s name had been painted in flowing red letters: Zucker.

Rheinhardt opened the door and entered. His first impression was of humidity and noise. Condensation had made the windows opaque, and the steamy atmosphere was ripe with the savory smells of frankfurters, mustard, and sauerkraut. Although the coffeehouse had only four circular tables, these were fully occupied and were covered with newspapers, which were being continually consulted in order to support one side or the other of a communal debate involving everyone present. In addition to seated patrons, there were many others who were either standing in a central space or leaning against the walls. The general mayhem was compounded by the presence of a shabby violinist who had situated himself in a corner and was singing along to a merry dance tune. There was much shouting, gesticulating, jeering, and occasional outbursts of raucous laughter.

Squeezing through the crowd, Rheinhardt advanced to the counter, where an attractive young woman was ladling a thick orange soup into rustic bowls.

“I’m looking for Herr Zucker.”

“What?”

“I’m looking for Herr Zucker,” Rheinhardt repeated, raising his voice.

The young woman wiped some perspiration off her brow with the back of her hand and, leaning back, directed her voice through an open door. “Father! Someone to see you.” The sound of clattering saucepans and a Yiddisher curse heralded the emergence of a big man wearing a striped apron. His face possessed a rough, unfinished quality-raw and pitted skin and nubbly features. Rheinhardt noticed that his exposed arms were insulated by a natural sleeve of wiry black hair. It was difficult to believe that he was the pretty girl’s father.

“Inspector Rheinhardt. Security office. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Zucker nodded. “This way, please.”

Rheinhardt followed him through the kitchen (in which a cook appeared to be tossing pancakes solely for the amusement of a prepubescent boy) and out into a little cobbled garden.

“Take a seat, Inspector,” said Zucker, gesturing toward a bench. “It’s quiet out here. At least we’ll be able to hear ourselves speak. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? We have some delicious reis trauttmansdorff.”

“That’s very kind of you to offer, Herr Zucker. But no, thank you.”

The two men sat down on the bench.

“What can I do for you, then?” said Zucker, taking a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches from his apron pocket.

“I would like to ask you a few questions about some of your customers.” Zucker offered Rheinhardt a cigarette, which the inspector declined, before lighting one for himself. “I take it,” Rheinhardt continued, “that you are aware of what happened in Josefstadt last week.”

“The murder?”

“Indeed.”

“Well, of course. It’s been all over the papers. The customers don’t stop talking about it.”

“One of your customers-a young Hasid, I believe-was overheard saying that his master, a preacher called Barash, had prophesied the monk’s death.”

“Yes, that’s true. I was there at the time. But-with respect-you shouldn’t be taking very much notice of such things.”

“Oh, why not?”

“The Hasidim aren’t like the rest of us. They believe all sorts of nonsense. They interpret dreams, commune with the dead, and think that God reveals himself in magic numbers! And as for prophecies… Well, they’re always saying this thing or that thing is going to happen. They make so many predictions! I mean, it stands to reason they’ve got to be right about something-eventually! Coincidence, Inspector. That’s all it is. Coincidence.”

“Did the young Hasid say specifically that the monk would be murdered?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Please, try to remember exactly what he said.”

“Well, that’s not so easy. As usual, there was a lot of noise, and I was very busy.”

“Was your daughter present?”

“No. That’s why I was busy.”

“Even so, perhaps you could try to remember what was said?”

Zucker paused and thought for a moment.

“They were arguing about religion. A young Hasid, and some workmen. They usually keep themselves to themselves, the Hasidim. But when they do get into arguments with my regulars”-Zucker pretended to cover his ears-“it’s worse than a yeshiva.”

“A what?”

“A school where they study holy books. There’s an old saying: two rabbis, three arguments. And you know, it’s not far wrong.”

“You were saying…,” Rheinhardt prompted the proprietor. “About the young Hasid?”

“Oh yes… Actually, I think the workmen were just teasing. But the Hasid was getting more and more agitated, and to prove some point he mentioned his leader’s prophecy. To be honest, I can’t remember very much more than that.” Zucker waved his cigarette in the air, creating a vortex of ash. “Now, are you sure I can’t interest you in my reis trauttmansdorff? I promise you, once you’ve tasted it, you’ll be back for more.”

“You said that these Hasidim are always making prophecies. What other things have you heard?”

Zucker grinned. “Everything from horse race winners to the coming of the Messiah! Now, for the last time, Inspector: my reis trauttmansdorff? Are you going to try it or not?”