Vienna Blood

40

PROFESSOR HAYEK'S BEDROOM WAS a shadowy cavern, the air of which was tainted with a pungent, musky fragrance. Like all olfactory sensations it provoked and teased memory. Liebermann had certainly smelled it before, but it was a few seconds before he remembered where-a rather sordid club in Leopoldstadt that he had once frequented as a medical student. The source of the smell was hashish.

On a bedside cabinet a single candle burned with a steady yellow flame. It illuminated the figure of a man in full evening dress, seated on the mattress. Professor Hayek had distinctive features. His skin was brown and leathery, with deep vertical creases scoring his cheeks, but his beard and mustache were short, neatly trimmed, and pure white. The professor's hair was white too, but it was also comically horripi-lated. There were frequent convulsive tic-like movements of his face and the muscles of his neck. His eyes were open, green like emeralds, and staring blankly into his lap, where his fingers coiled around one another with the slow sinewy movements of a nest of serpents.

Liebermann pulled up a chair and sat down directly in front of the aged archaeologist.

“Professor Hayek?”

There was no response.

“Can you hear me?”

Liebermann passed his hands in front of the professor's eyes. Hayek did not blink.

“What's wrong with him, Max?”

Rheinhardt was standing patiently by the door.

“Severe trauma can sometimes produce a dissociative hypnoid state-a narrowing of consciousness. He has also developed a tic affecting the right sternocleidomastoid.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He's in shock, Oskar.”

“Indeed… But can you do anything to help him?”

The young doctor passed his hands in front of the patient's eyes again.

“I don't know-but I'm perfectly willing to try.”

With that, Liebermann stood up and eased the professor's coat and jacket from his shoulders. Then he unbuttoned the professor's vest. With great care, he loosened the old man's necktie and removed the stiff collar. Taking the candle from the bedside cabinet, he returned to his seat in front of the professor and swung the flame from side to side over the old man's lap. The solitary miniature beacon flared with each oscillation.

“Watch the flame, Professor,” said Liebermann. “Watch it carefully. Concentrate on the light. See how it dances. See how it burns. How beautiful it is-see how the flame conceals patterns. The more closely you attend, the more obvious they become.”

Liebermann continued talking in this manner, gently but insistently, and as he did so the professor's head began to dip and swing with a distinct pendular motion. The young doctor lifted the candle, and the professor's head began to rise so that he could follow it with his stare. Rheinhardt was reminded of an Indian snake charmer coaxing a cobra out of a basket.

“Observe the flame,” continued Liebermann. “Its light is now very strong, and your eyes are tired. Your eyelids are becoming heavier… heavier and heavier… and soon you will fall into a deep, comfortable sleep. A special sleep, in which you will still be able to hear my voice and answer my questions.”

The professor's eyelids began to flicker.

“It is almost impossible to keep your eyes open. On the count of three you will close your eyes, on the count of three you will sleep. One… two…” Liebermann threw a quick triumphant glance at Rheinhardt. “Three.”

The professor's eyelids fell.

“Can you hear me, Professor Hayek?”

“Yes,” came the reply. A dry, parched voice.

“I must ask you some questions. And you must reply with absolute honesty. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Liebermann leaned back in his chair. “Where have you been this evening, Professor?”

“I went to the opera.”

“On your own?”

“Yes.”

“Was it a pleasant evening?”

“Delightful.”

“And what did you do after the performance?”

“I had coffee at the Imperial-as is my custom-before returning home.”

A muscle on the professor's neck stood out and he grimaced.

“No harm can come to you now,” said Liebermann encouragingly.

“I knocked on the door,” the professor continued. “Expecting Ra'ad to answer.”

“Ra'ad?”

“My servant.”

“The black man?”

“Yes. I took out my key and entered the house. The door of the reception room was open. I called out, ‘Ra'ad, where are you, my boy?’ But there was no reply. There was a strange smell in the air… I knew that something was wrong. I stepped into the reception room and saw…” Again the professor's face and neck went into a rigid spasm.

“No harm can come to you, Professor,” Liebermann said emphatically.

“Ra'ad… My beautiful boy… dead. Murdered.” The register of the professor's grating voice changed, becoming more animated. “His lustrous hair, his smooth soft skin… How could anyone perform such an act of wickedness on such a perfect, noble creature?”

Rheinhardt shifted from one foot to the other, somewhat embarrassed by the professor's eulogy.

“What did you do? When you saw Ra'ad's body?”

“I was overcome with terror… panic… I ran into the street and pleaded with a gentleman for help. He came into the house, saw poor Ra'ad, and ran out… And then… And then…”

“Yes, Professor?”

“Nothing. Nothing but darkness.”

“Where does Ra'ad come from, Professor?”

“He is a Nubian. He has been my servant-and my companion- for some five years. I found him in Kerma when I was supervising an excavation. The great cemetery… a complex of tunnels and tumuli full of remarkable treasures. Ra'ad was one of our guides.”

The tic returned and a tensed network of facial muscles appeared. The old man looked as if he were in pain.

Liebermann leaned forward and placed the palm of his hand on Hayek's cheek.

“The muscles are becoming loose… looser, looser. Feel the heat on the side of your face-a gently penetrating heat, like that of the sun. It warms and soothes-the tension melts away. There is no tension in your face, no tension in your neck…” When Liebermann removed his hand, the thick raised cords of muscle had vanished. “It is time for you to rest, Professor.”

The young doctor bent down and removed the professor's shoes. He then lifted Hayek's legs onto the bed, rotating the professor's body in the process. He then touched the man's forehead and commanded, “Lie back.”

The old man's head went down slowly, landing comfortably on a pillow.

“You must sleep now,” said Liebermann. “A deep restorative sleep-it will be peaceful-calm-tranquil-and undisturbed. When you wake, you will remember all that has happened to you this evening-but these memories will not overwhelm, frighten, or confuse you. Now sleep… Sleep, Professor.”

The professor's breathing became shallow and stertorous. Liebermann signed to Rheinhardt that they should leave.

Outside, on the landing, Rheinhardt offered Liebermann a cigar.

“He should be all right,” said Liebermann. “I was only using the simple suggestion method employed by Charcot and Janet, but it can be effective if the dissociative process is interrupted early. Make sure that one of your men is here in the morning, to assist him when he wakes.”

“Of course,” said Rheinhardt, striking a Vesta. As the match flared, both men became aware of a massive sarcophagus propped up against the wall. “Well, Max,” continued Rheinhardt, lighting Liebermann's cigar. “A madam, three prostitutes, a Czech poultry seller, and a Nubian servant. How are they connected?”

“I don't know,” said Liebermann. “It is incomprehensible.”

Rheinhardt lit his own cigar and blew a cloud of smoke toward the sarcophagus. “There must be some link, some relation. Is it possible for a mind to rebel so violently against reason?”

“The fact that two of the prostitutes-it might have been three if he had had the opportunity-and the man downstairs were sexually mutilated must be of some significance. But then why did the perpetrator fail to inflict the same kind of injury on the Czech?”

“Perhaps he was interrupted again.”

“He had sufficient time to conceal that padlock. If he'd really wanted to castrate the Czech, he could have done so.”

“None of the victims have so far been natives of Vienna.”

“That is true, Oskar. But if xenophobia was the perpetrator's guiding principle, he could have killed any number of foreigners more conveniently-and at less risk of discovery-by operating in the purlieus of the city: Favoriten, Landstrasse, Simmering. And why would a xenophobe choose to sexually mutilate his victims? Cutting their throats would have been quite sufficient for his purposes. I agree, Oskar, that there must be a scheme-a design behind his actions, some kind of logic, however obscure. But I am at a loss as to what that might be.”