Vienna Blood

14

RHEINHARDT WAS ESCORTED TO a room located in an outbuilding some distance from the barracks. On the wall hung the obligatory image of Emperor Franz Josef; however, the old print was not a good likeness and the paper was mildewed around the edges. A small stove heated the room, but it was miserably inadequate. Rheinhardt's fingertips were almost numb. He had finished interviewing Lieutenant Harry Lipos?ak (a polite but somewhat taciturn Hungarian) and was now in the process of interrogating Lieutenant Ruprecht Hefner.

Slim, handsome, pale, with blond curls peeping out from under his peaked cap and with a downy, carefully combed mustache, Hefner was the kind of young officer whom Rheinhardt would have expected to encounter on the pages of a romantic novel. His uniform was, as Colonel Kabok had promised, immaculate. The blue of his tunic and breeches was as vivid as a summer sky. His buttons glowed with a lustrous aura, and his fine leather top boots produced a satisfying creak every time he moved. A gold-yellow tassle hung from the pommel of his sabre. The other lieutenant, Lipos?ak, had also sported a pristine uniform, but there was something about Hefner's posture, the straightness of his back, the projection of his chin, the relaxed attitude of his shoulders, that gave him a definite sartorial advantage.

“Where were you on Tuesday morning?” Rheinhardt asked.

“In bed. I wasn't very well.” Hefner's voice was clear and steady, but he spoke with a certain languor. He seemed to be affecting a world-weariness that would have been more appropriate in a man twice his age.

“What was wrong with you?”

“I don't know-I was just sick.”

“Did anyone see you on Tuesday morning?”

“Yerik, my batman.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“Why didn't you call the regimental doctor?”

“I did, later in the day.”

“And what did the doctor say was wrong?”

“He said I had an inflammation of the gut.”

“Which was caused by?”

“I have no idea, Inspector. I'm not a doctor.”

Rheinhardt produced a sheet of paper, which he shunted across the table.

“Do you recognize this?”

“Yes,” said Hefner, calmly. “It is a promissory note, signed by myself. I owed Madam Borek ten kronen.”

“How often did you visit Madam Borek's establishment?”

“Quite often.”

“Why?”

“Isn't it obvious, Inspector?” Hefner's bloodless lips curved slightly. He seemed mildly amused.

“There are many brothels in Spittelberg, Lieutenant. Why Madam Borek's?”

“I was rather fond of one of the girls. She was new there…”

“What was her name? This new girl?”

“Lucca? Something like that.”

“Ludka?”

“Yes, that's it, Ludka. Very pretty…” Hefner smiled again. “And very compliant-if you follow my meaning.”

He lifted his chin a fraction higher in order to clear his stiff high collar. The material was decorated with two gold embroidered stars.

“Madam Borek's establishment did not possess a government trade license,” said Rheinhardt.

“Why should that be of any concern to me?”

“The establishment was illegal.”

Hefner shrugged. “I did not break the law.”

“State-registered prostitutes receive a medical examination twice a week. What precautionary measures do you think Madam Borek took?”

Hefner's lip curled again. “There are always risks, Inspector, wherever one goes in pursuit of pleasure. I am sure that a man of your”-Hefner looked Rheinhardt up and down-”experience appreciates that fact.”

It was an insolent remark, which Rheinhardt did not wish to acknowledge with a response. Instead, he jotted down a few lines in his notebook. When he looked up again, a supercilious smirk was still hovering around Hefner's lips.

“Did Madam Borek have any enemies?”

“How should I know?”

“Did you ever hear of anyone being violent with the women at Madam Borek's?”

“No.”

“Did you ever see anyone there who behaved oddly? Anyone you suspected of being mentally unbalanced?”

Hefner laughed. “Inspector, when I visited Madam Borek's establishment, the behavior of the other patrons was the least of my concerns. Besides, I hardly ever saw them.”

“Did you see Lieutenant Lipos?ak at Madam Borek's?”

“No.”

“What about Renz and Witold?”

“I saw Renz there once… a few weeks ago.”

“Do you know who Captain Alderhorst is?”

“I've never heard of him.”

“Private Friedel?”

“Who?”

“Friedel.”

“I've never heard of him, either.”

Rheinhardt looked toward the window. The day was overcast and the clouds radiated a putrid gray-green light.

“Lieutenant Hefner,” said Rheinhardt, “Ludka-the Galician girl you claim to have been fond of-Madam Borek, and two other women, Frauleins Draczynski and Glomb, were subjected to the most appalling violence.”

“I know.”

“Yet you do not seem”-Rheinhardt searched for a diplomatic phrase-”moved by their fate.”

“Inspector,” said Hefner, “I am an officer of the eighteenth. What do you want me to do? Weep like my grandmother? Bang my fist on the table and rail against heaven?” Hefner crossed his legs slowly and his spurs rattled. “I am a representative of His Majesty's army. A cavalryman. I wear this uniform with pride. We have a reputation to consider. I will not disgrace the regiment with some unseemly display of emotional incontinence. If you want to see that, go and interview an Italian corporal!”