Vienna Blood

17

THE STAIRCASE WAS MADE of rough-hewn stone squeezed between two high windowless walls. As it went up, the stairs became both narrower and more uneven. At the very top was an alcove, which contained a plaster cast of Christ on the cross. The scene was bathed in a sickly yellow light that pulsed out of a faulty gas lamp. To reach the first step it was necessary to step across a pool of frozen water, which had collected in a depression where some paving stones were missing.

Rheinhardt tested the ice with his shoe, and watched a dendritic pattern grow from the point of impact. He applied more pressure. The liquid that welled up between the cracks was more like oil than water.

“Are we going up, sir?” asked Haussmann.

“I suppose this must be the address.”

Herr Jutzet-a big-bellied, red-cheeked publican-had been most obliging.

Yes, I know Herr Krull. A loner, with a gammy leg. Owes me four krone. Here's his address-I'll write it down for you. You see him, you tell him I want my money. Four krone. And if he doesn't pay soon, I'll be around to collect it myself.

The two detectives began their ascent. On either side, large nails had been driven into the walls, and from these a gallery of grim detritus hung: a cracked old mirror, some lengths of string, and an assortment of dirty rags.

Almost immediately, Rheinhardt slipped. It was difficult to find reasonable purchase on the raked stairs. He reached out and touched the wall to steady himself.

“Are you all right, sir?” asked Haussmann.

“Yes, thank you,” Rheinhardt replied-but he was not altogether confident that they would reach their destination without sustaining serious injuries. They progressed slowly, pausing on each step before attempting the next. Finally they reached the top, where they both stopped to inspect the crucifix, which was housed in an ambry and protected by an iron grill. The effigy itself was chipped and faded; however, it looked as if Christ's crown of thorns and the spear wound in his side had been recently retouched with generous amounts of red paint. A number of candle stubs lay at the foot of the cross, and Christ's legs had been blackened with soot. Red and white wax had spilled over the lip of the ambry and congealed in runnels that had stuck to the plaster.

“It's rather ugly, isn't it?” said Rheinhardt.

“Yes,” Haussmann replied. “And this is a horrible place.”

The younger man's shoulder shook with an involuntary shiver.

“What's that?” Rheinhardt lowered his head and peered into the aumbry. The light was extremely poor, but he could see something small and pale inside. He searched his pocket for a box of Vestas and lit a match. In the flare the object became more visible.

“Do you see it?” Rheinhardt was whispering now.

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll light another match. See if you can get the thing out.”

In the phosphorescent glare Haussmann thrust his long fingers through the grill and caught the object with a scissoring movement. He slowly dragged it out, and lifted it up. The fitful gaslight provided just enough illumination.

“My God,” said Rheinhardt.

“It looks like…” Haussmann did not finish his sentence.

“It's a bone.”

The younger man shuddered again. “Human?”

“It could be.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

Haussmann lowered his voice again, so much so that Rheinhardt needed to lean closer in order to hear him. “Do you think it is wise for us to be here like this-just the two of us? We haven't notified the security office of our whereabouts. If Krull is responsible for the terrible things we saw…”

Rheinhardt took the bone from his colleague and turned it between his thumb and forefinger. He slid it into his coat pocket. When he withdrew his hand, he was holding a revolver.

“I would not place your life in danger, Haussmann,” he said firmly. Then, putting the revolver back into his pocket, he placed a hand on his companion's shoulder. “Come, Haussmann. We have work to do.”

The two men walked into the shadows and found a door. Rheinhardt felt for a knocker but could not find one. Instead, he clenched his fist and hammered against one of the panels. They waited.

“Who is it?” came a muffled voice.

“Police. Open the door,” said Rheinhardt.

There were a number of sounds. Bolts being drawn back, chains rattling, and a key turning. Finally the door was unlocked. Rheinhardt could not see the features of the man who'd opened it. The only significant source of light was coming from a paraffin lamp behind him.

“Herr Krull?”

“Yes.”

“Detective Inspector Rheinhardt-and my assistant, Haussmann. May we come in?”

The man's head moved quickly, looking at Rheinhardt first, then at Haussmann, then back again to Rheinhardt.

“You're not wearing uniforms. How do I know whether you're with the police or not? You could be anybody.” Krull's accent was rough and hard-edged. There was no music in his German, which was spoken largely from the back of the throat. He could have been hawking rather than speaking.

Rheinhardt sighed and took out some identification documents. Krull examined them for a few seconds and nodded.

“Very well, then-come in. You can't be too careful here, believe me.”

Krull ushered them in. The room was little more than a hovel. A table, a chair, and a small stove. On the table was a large leather-bound volume-it looked like a Bible. Through an adjoining door could be seen a shadowy bedroom: a pallet lay on the floor and there was an oversize wardrobe. The air was fetid. Rheinhardt noticed a figurine of the Virgin Mary in the recess of a tiny square window. Krull limped to the chair and sat down.

“What is the matter with your leg?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Clubfoot,” said Krull.

“Is it painful?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Can be,” said Krull.

Rheinhardt took a step forward and made sure that there was nothing that Krull might use as a weapon in easy reach.

“So what's this about, eh?” Krull demanded.

Observing the irate little man, Rheinhardt could not determine whether it was more appropriate to feel disgust or pity. Among the variety of human types, Krull was a most unfortunate specimen. A criminologist sympathetic to Galton and Lombroso's ideas would immediately identify Krull as a murderer. His features were entirely atavistic: low forehead, ears like jug handles, and a bony ridge over the orbits of his sunken eyes. A flat nose and prognathous jaw completed the simian ensemble.

“We are conducting a murder investigation, Herr Krull.”

“I don't know anything about any murders.” He shook his head.

“Perhaps not, but I believe that you may be able to help us with our inquiries.”

“Believe what you like-but I know nothing.”

Haussmann slipped discreetly behind Krull's chair; however, he was not sufficiently discreet to escape Krull's notice. The little man glanced over his shoulder, and looked anxiously back at Rheinhardt.

“What are you dong here? What do you want with me?”

“Herr Krull-I am sure you are aware of the recent atrocity that took place in Spittelberg.”

“I keep myself to myself.”

“Well, not entirely. I understand that you are well acquainted with Herr Jutzet.”

Haussmann had discovered another religious image and he held it up briefly behind Krull's back. It was a small woodcut of Saint Francis of Assisi offering his benediction.

Krull's jaw seemed to project out even farther.

“Herr Jutzet sent you?”

“It was he who gave us your address. Incidentally, the good landlord is also somewhat anxious that you should pay him a visit in order to abrogate your pecuniary embarrassment.”

“What?”

“The matter of your debt, Herr Krull. The sum of four krone was mentioned.”

“Three krone. He's added another krone as interest. The man's worse than a Jew. He probably is a Jew.”

Rheinhardt looked over Krull's shoulder. Haussmann had stepped backward into the bedroom.

“Herr Krull,” Rheinhardt continued. “Earlier today I spoke to a gentleman of your acquaintance, a certain Herr Chalupnik.”

“Who?”

“Herr Chalupnik. An old gentleman. He often waits for his daughter under the statue of Saint Joseph.”

Krull sniffed. “I don't know his name. I presume you mean the old Czech.”

“Yes. Big hat, long beard-walks with a stick. You do know him.”

“I wouldn't pay much attention to what he says.”

“Why not?”

“He's senile.”

“He might be old, and his memory might be failing, but you, Herr Krull, seem to have made quite an impression on him.”

Haussmann opened the door of the wardrobe. He had tried to do it quietly, but the door emitted a loud creak.

Krull turned around abruptly.

“What are you doing? Get away from there. Get away from there at once.”

The grotesque little man raised himself up and started for the bedroom.

“Herr Krull,” Rheinhardt called. “Please remain seated.”

Krull ignored the inspector and rushed toward the younger detective; however, by the time Krull reached Haussmann, a bundle of clothes had already tumbled out of the wardrobe and now lay on the floor. Even in the half-light, stains were clearly visible.

“Sir…,” Haussmann called.

“You don't understand,” said Krull. “You're making a mistake. You're making a big mistake.”

Rheinhardt entered the bedroom and hunkered down next to the stinking pile of clothes. He lifted a shirt. The material was stiff and gritty with crystals of dried coagulated blood.