Vienna Blood

13

RHEINHARDT FOLLOWED COLONEL PAL Kabok through the dimly lit corridor of the barracks building. Kabok was a short-legged stocky man with a heavy, ponderous gait. Unlocking one of many identical doors, the colonel gestured that Rheinhardt should enter.

“No one will disturb us here.”

Rheinhardt was surprised to find himself in the colonel's private room. It contained an iron camp bed, two colored prints-one of the emperor and the other of the late Empress Elisabeth-and a few poorly mounted photographs of regimental inspections and dinners. On the wall above the bed hung a pair of crossed swords and a finely decorated Turkish pistol. There was nothing else in the room: no wardrobe, no table, not even a chair. It was uncompromising in its austerity. The colonel turned to face Rheinhardt. He stood squarely, arms akimbo.

“Yes, Inspector?”

Rheinhardt had not expected to conduct his interview standing in the middle of a cold half-empty barracks room.

Outside, a bugle sounded, followed by the clatter of hooves. Rheinhardt suspected that the colonel was content to dispense with pleasantries.

“I am investigating the Spittelberg murders.”

The colonel's low oxlike brow creased.

“Murders? In Spittelberg?”

“Yes. You have perhaps read about them in the Zeitung?”

“The Zeitung? Inspector, I haven't read a newspaper in twenty years.”

“Oh…”

“Like His Majesty, the imperial commander-in-chief, I favor the military gazette. What isn't in the military gazette, I don't need to know.”

Unperturbed, Rheinhardt continued. “On Tuesday, four women were murdered in a Spittelberg brothel. A madam and three house girls believed to have recently come to Vienna from Galicia.”

The colonel rotated his bullet-shaped head on his thick bull neck. His rigid expression changed slightly. “Ah yes, the men were talking about this in the mess.”

“You overheard something?”

“Yes.”

The colonel didn't care to elaborate. He remained perfectly still, his eyebrows bristling.

“The women,” continued Rheinhardt, “were horribly abused- their genitals had been mutilated, their throats cut. The incisions were deep. It is possible that some of these injuries were inflicted with”-he glanced down at the colonel's weapon-”a sabre.”

Kabok's crude rustic features remained fixed. His face reminded Rheinhardt of a potato that he had once used to amuse his daughters. After a long silence, the colonel said bluntly, “You wanted my assistance.”

Rheinhardt handed him a sheet of paper. On it were written the names of several military personnel.

“All these men were patrons of the Spittelberg establishment.”

“Where did you get these names?” barked the colonel.

“They were found on promissory notes in the madam's bureau. Do you know any of them?”

“Yes. Lieutenant Lipos?ak, Lieutenant Hefner…” Kabok's eyes moved from side to side. “Renz and Witold.”

“I must speak to them.”

For the first time Kabok moved. He lumbered over to the twin prints of the emperor and the late empress, his spurs producing a dead jangling in the closed space. With his eyes fixed on the image of the imperial commander-in-chief, he said, “In this world, Inspector, nothing is more important to me than the uhlans, and nothing more sacred than regimental honor. I know these men…” He flapped the sheet of paper in his hand. “No one knows them better. You will not find a spot of rust on their swords, a button badly polished, or a single scuff mark on their boots. They are a credit to His Majesty, a credit to the empire. None of them would ever disgrace the regiment. If-as you imply-the abomination you described was perpetrated by one of my men, then I would have failed His Majesty. I would take that pistol from the wall and blow out my brains.”

Rheinhardt shifted uncomfortably.

The colonel looked up. His cheeks had reddened slightly, and a vein on his temple had started to throb.

“I will arrange for you to meet these men. But believe me, Inspector, you are wasting your time.”