Vienna Blood

16

RHEINHARDT HAD FINISHED CONDUCTING his interviews. He was bid an indifferent farewell by Colonel Kabok, and given explicit directions to expedite his departure. He wended his way through the assorted collection of outbuildings and soon found himself trudging along the edge of a frozen parade ground. He followed a low perimeter wall of dirty sludge and ice that had been shoveled aside earlier in the day.

A regiment of uhlans seemed to be practicing a complex drill that required considerable skill and concentration. Each horse's head was inclined at an identical angle, and all the riders were pointing their swords upward. An officer, seated on a beautiful chestnut gelding, was obviously displeased with one of his command and cantered up to the unfortunate miscreant. He opened his mouth and bellowed a torrent of foul invective. In response, the rider seemed to make a few small adjustments, but Rheinhardt was unable to detect just how his comportment had improved. To his untutored eye, horse and rider looked just the same. The officer, however, appeared to have been appeased, and he withdrew from the squadron column.

Rheinhardt walked under an arch above which projected two sculpted horses’ heads; on closer inspection, he saw that the smaller of the pair represented the living horse, while the larger one depicted its protective headgear or armor.

It had not been a particularly productive morning. All the cavalrymen had been subtly uncooperative, and Rheinhardt was left with the impression that, simply by making routine inquiries, he was-in their eyes-questioning the integrity of His Majesty's army, and therefore, by implication, conducting an unpatriotic investigation. Perhaps it was this feeling of having accomplished so little that urged Rheinhardt to walk quickly past the welcoming steamy windows of several coffeehouses, with their blue uncovered gas jets flickering inside, to head off in the direction of Spittelberg. He was not sure what he hoped to achieve by making this detour, but he was of the opinion that action-any action, in fact-would remedy the sense of frustration that had been building up inside him since his first encounter with Colonel Kabok.

Rheinhardt raised the collar of his coat and made his way through a series of backstreets that led to his destination. Entering Spittelberg, he found that he had to take more care on the slippery cobbles. Although it was relatively early in the afternoon, the light was already beginning to fail. A woman, her head wrapped up in a voluminous scarf, was slowly ascending the narrow road. She was clutching a wicker basket, the contents of which were covered by a grubby napkin. Behind her a little boy followed, dragging a toy sword made from two pieces of wood joined by a rusty nail. Rheinhardt winked, but the diminutive soldier was too cold to respond.

As Rheinhardt neared Madam Borek's, he spied a figure who looked familiar: an old man, bent over his stick, wearing a broad Bohemian hat. It was the same old-timer who had been waiting outside Madam Borek's when the inspector had first arrived with Haussmann. Rheinhardt waved, and the old man responded by lifting his hat.

“So,” said Rheinhardt. “You are still waiting here.” The old man worked his jaw and smacked his lips. He looked at his interlocutor with a quizzical expression. “We've met before,” Rheinhardt added.

“Yes,” said the old man. “You're the policeman who told me to move along. You told me to go home and light a fire.”

“That's right. And today is another bitterly cold day. Why, my friend, are you standing here again? You'll get pneumonia!”

“I'm waiting for my daughter,” the old man replied. “Sometimes, when she's late, I get worried. I come here, and stand under Saint Joseph.” He pointed up at the little statue with its aureole of metal strips. “From here I can see her coming around the corner.” The old man gestured up the street.

“What does she do? Your daughter?” asked Rheinhardt.

“She sells glasses of pickled gherkin juice to schoolboys at the bread market. She's a bit simple.” A gust of wind whipped up a cloud of powdered snow, which made the old man close his eyes. When he opened them again, they were moist and glistening. “Have you caught him yet?” he croaked.

“Caught who?”

“Krull-the man who killed them… Frau Borek and the three girls.” The old man pointed his stick toward the abandoned brothel.

“What did you say?

“Krull. Have you caught him yet?”

“Who is Krull?

“The man who killed them all.”

“Why do you say that? Why do you think that this Herr Krull is responsible for their murder?”

“He was always loitering aaround here.”

“Outside Madam Borek's?”

“Yes.”

“Doing what?”

“Waiting.”

“Waiting for who?”

“One of the girls-he used to go on about how beautiful she was, and that he wanted to give her something… I don't know.”

“Did you ever see her, this girl?”

“Yes. The small one. Like a child, she was.”

“And what did Krull do? Did he enter the house with her?”

“No. He never went in. Just used to wait outside. He was biding his time, waiting for the right moment.”

Rheinhardt took out his notebook and began to write. “What does he look like?”

“Well, he's short. Not much taller than me.”

“What color is his hair?”

“I don't know-he always wears a hat.”

“And how old is he?”

“Twenty, thirty…” The old man pulled at his beard. “Forty… perhaps.”

Rheinhardt sighed. “Young or old?”

“Young-but then, everyone seems young to me. Oh yes, and he has a limp.”

“Why didn't you tell me any of this before?”

“I didn't know they were dead. You never told me. My daughter told me.”

“Yes, of course,” said Rheinhardt apologetically. “However, once you suspected Herr Krull, you should have got your daughter to contact the police.”

The old man shrugged. “She's simple.”

“Do you know where I can find Herr Krull?”

The old man returned a vacant expression.

“My friend,” said Rheinhardt, trying to keep calm. “It is extremely important that I find this man. Do you know where he lives?”

“Go to the inn and ask the landlord. Herr Jutzet-he knows where everybody lives.”