Vienna Blood

32

THEY WERE SITTING IN the Budweiser beer parlor-a favorite haunt of homesick Czechs. Jiri Zahradnik was nervous. He sat hunched over his tankard, stealing quick glances to the left and right.

“What's the matter?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Nothing.”

“You think that the person who killed your friend will come after you-if you're seen talking to me?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

Rheinhardt shrugged and took out his notebook.

“Please, Inspector,” said Zahradnik. “Not in here.”

“Very well.” Rheinhardt slipped the notebook back into his coat pocket and sipped his drink. “I am a great fan of your Czech beersBudweiser particularly.”

Zahradnik ignored the inspector's small talk.

“Forgive me, Inspector, but I mean to be brief. Before Evzen was murdered, he said that someone had been bothering him at the market. This man, he was always questioning Evzen's prices. He called Evzen a swindler and a thief. Of course, Evzen wasn't charging any more for his birds than the next man. But this-”

“Just one moment,” Rheinhardt interrupted. “What did he look like? Did Evzen say?”

“He wore good clothes.”

“That isn't terribly helpful.”

“And he was a German.”

“How do you mean? A German?”

“Like you.”

“A German speaker, you mean?”

“Like I said-a German.”

Rheinhardt did not insist on qualifying the terms of their discussion.

“Go on.”

The Czech was distracted by the arrival of three musicians: a clarinettist, an accordion player, and a man struggling with a double bass. They were soon joined by an attractive young woman in a rustic dress who was carrying a tambourine. There was a smattering of applause, an inebriated cheer, and one or two gentlemen called out in Czech.

“Hej Slovani… Where is my home?… Hej Slovani.”

Rheinhardt assumed that they were making requests. The clarinettist caught Zahradnik's eye and smiled.

“You know him?” asked Rheinhardt.

“An acquaintance. That's all. Sometimes we play marias together.”

“What?”

“The card game!”

“Did he know Evzen too?”

“Maybe-I don't know.”

The woman with the tambourine counted out a four-beat introduction and the band started up. The double bass thumped out a simple two-note figure over which the other musicians played intricate ornaments. The woman raised the tambourine high above her head and shook it violently. Then, waving the ample folds of her dress with her free hand, she opened her mouth and produced a gloriously raw sound, untrained but powerful. Some men at the bar began cheering. It was obvious to Rheinhardt that the musicians had chosen to begin with a patriotic crowd-pleaser.

Zahradnik jerked his head around, almost like a tic, and continued his account: “So this German, he started to threaten Evzen. Told him to go back home-and said that if he didn't go back home, he'd be sorry.”

“Why didn't Evzen call the police?”

“The police! Why would Germans want to help him?”

“Because this is Vienna-and the Germans who live here have a very different attitude from those whom you may have encountered in Bohemia.”

Zahradnik smiled and pointed toward a boarded-up shattered window.

“Not that different, Inspector.”

When Rheinhardt returned to the security office, Haussmann was still at his desk. Thankfully, there was no sign of the agitated zookeeper.

“Ah, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, warming at the sight of his junior attending to the kind of paperwork that he himself so assiduously avoided. “I do apologize for my precipitate departure.”

Haussmann turned the pen in his hand, unsure of how to respond to a penitent superior (inspectors at the security office were not renowned for treating their assistants with anything more than the minimum amount of respect).

“I trust the meeting with Zahradnik went well, sir?”

Rheinhardt took off his coat. “It seems that Herr Vanek was threatened by a gentleman who did not think Vienna should extend a warm welcome to Czechs. Moreover, the gentleman in question wore good clothes. And that, in essence, is all that I have learned.”

“Not very productive, then, sir?”

Rheinhardt hung his hat and coat on the stand. “No, although the beer was excellent. How about you? How did you fare with Herr Arnoldt?” The assistant detective offered Rheinhardt the completed statement. The inspector shook his head. “Just summarize, Haussmann-the key points will suffice.”

Haussmann placed the statement neatly on top of a folder marked Hildegard.

“Very good, sir,” said Haussmann. “First: it would seem that Herr Arnoldt's memory has returned. Second: he can now remember that the assailant who struck him from behind approached with a quick step and was whistling a tune.”

Rheinhardt leaned back, resting his rear on the edge of his desk. “And?”

Haussmann looked at the statement again, hoping that something might have escaped his attention. “No. That's it, I'm afraid. There is no third point-or any other material point to follow, sir.”

Rheinhardt twirled his mustache. “Why on earth did he think that was so important?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“Did he recognize the tune?”

“No, sir, but he could remember it-in fact, he insisted on singing it to me. It did sound quite familiar.”

“How did it go?”

“What-you want me to sing it, sir?”

“Yes.”

“I'm afraid that I don't have much of a voice, sir.”

“It doesn't matter, Haussmann. You're not auditioning as a principal at the Court Opera!”

The assistant detective coughed, and produced-in the thinnest tenor imaginable-a melody that leaped and jerked between at least three keys.

“No, no, no. That isn't how you do it!” Rheinhardt went over to Haussmann, letting his hands fall on the young man's shoulders. He gave them a little shake. “Relax. Now breathe deeply.” The inspector demonstrated. “And let your whole body resonate. Like this.” He produced an ascending scale of one octave. “Now you try.”

Haussmann, wholly mortified but constitutionally unable to disobey his chief, produced a weak and tonally insecure imitation. At which point the door opened, revealing the stocky figure of Commissioner Brugel. He fumed silently for a few seconds, his complexion darkening through several shades of purple before he erupted. His opprobrium fell on the unfortunate inspector like scalding volcanic ash.

“Rheinhardt! In the last month this city of ours has been visited by the worst carnage in living memory. I had assumed that you would be applying yourself tirelessly to the task of bringing the maniac responsible for the Spittelberg and Ruprechtskirche murders to book. Now-if I am not very much mistaken-you seem to be giving your assistant a singing lesson. Would you care to explain yourself?”