Vienna Blood

33

ON HIS ROUTE HOME it was Haussmann's luck-or misfortune, depending on his state of mind-to pass a number of beer cellars. He had been looking forward to a Budweiser and had felt cheated when the opportunity was denied him because of Herr Arnoldt's inconvenient arrival. Having been so far frustrated, the prospect of a restorative draft seemed particularly appealing. By the time Haussmann reached Mariahilf, he had persuaded himself that it would do no harm-indeed, it might even do him some good-to stop off at a little place he knew on Stumpergasse. So it was that, shortly after eight o'clock, he found himself sitting next to a large open fire, nursing a tankard of Zwickel beer. It was just what he needed: smooth, full-bodied, and slightly cloudy.

As he relaxed, he mulled over the day's events. The business with Commissioner Brugel had been most embarrassing; still, Rheinhardt had explained the purpose of their vocal gymnastics with remarkable forbearance. When Brugel finally departed, the old curmudgeon had been appeased-but he'd still been unimpressed by Rheinhardt's conduct. The commissioner was a difficult, irascible man, and Haussmann was glad that he did not have to report to him directly. In due course, though, if he were promoted, he too would have to lock horns with Brugel. Consideration of this likelihood prompted the assistant detective to drain his tankard. He gestured to the landlord (by tilting an invisible drinking vessel in the air) that another Zwickel would be most welcome.

Haussmann allowed his thoughts about work to subside and began to take note of his surroundings. The relatively confined space of the cellar vibrated with conversation. Most of the tables were occupied and the atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke. The patrons were male and working-class: the sole exception being three students from the university who were seated in a shadowy nook under a bricked arch. They were clothed in the blue of the Alemania dueling fraternity.

It was not uncommon to see young men of their type wearing bandages. Indeed, among the fraternities the medical dressing was proudly displayed as a badge of honor. A strip of lint was often visible on the left cheek-where a right-handed opponent could more readily land his blow. One of these Alemanians, however, had had his head completely wrapped up in bandages-save for a narrow “window” created for his spectacles. He had obviously been involved in a particularly violent exchange. His jaw was drawn tight above and below the mouth. Haussmann understood that this was to prevent the inadvertent ripping of cuts while eating. Even so, this Alemanian's predicament did not prevent all forms of consumption. A small hole had been made in the bandages, through which he was able to imbibe by using a straw. A Viennese student could survive without food- but not without beer.

The landlord arrived with Haussmann's second Zwickel. He banged the tankard on the table, allowing a fair amount of beer to splash over the sides.

“There you go,” he roared in rough-edged rural German. “Get that down you.” His big red face lowered. “You won't find a better Zwickel anywhere-not nowhere!”

Haussmann noticed that a pamphlet had been discarded close to the tankard. As a river of beer began to run down a wide groove in the tabletop, he moved the pamphlet aside to ensure that the paper would not get wet. As he did so, something printed on the front page caught his attention.

Before the landlord could leave his table, Haussmann grabbed the man's arm.

“What?” The landlord was evidently surprised by the strength of the slight young man's grip.

“This pamphlet. Who left it here?”

“I don't know.”

“Who was sitting at this table-before me?”

The landlord thought for a moment. “Now you're asking. No… no, I can't remember.”

“Was it someone who comes here regularly?”

“S'pose it could have been. I tell you what, my friend: how about letting go of my arm?” Haussmann had been unaware that he was still restraining the landlord. He nodded and pulled his hand away.

“That's better,” said the landlord, smiling broadly. “Ain't it?” He was obviously used to pacifying drunks.

“What did they look like?” Haussmann asked.

The landlord shrugged. “I told you, I can't remember. Why do you want to know, anyway? People leave stuff like that in here all the time-political types. It's all nonsense. I wouldn't bother with it if I were you.”

Haussmann picked up the pamphlet and stared at the front page. The crooked cross was identical to the one that he had seen painted on the wall in Madam Borek's brothel.