Vienna Blood

51

A LARGE MAP OF Vienna hung on the wall behind Rheinhardt's desk. The heart of the city was clearly demarcated by the Ringstrassereally a horseshoe, the ends of which connected with the Danube Canal. Farther north was the wide diagonal of the mighty Danube itself. To the east were the open grassy spaces of the Prater, and to the west the foothills of the famous Vienna Woods. In the bottom left corner of the map was a complex grid that represented the paths and gardens of the Schonbrunn Palace. A tack with a broad silver head had been planted within the boundary of the imperial zoo. There were three more: one just outside the eastern curve of the Ringstrasse, one in the town center, and one in Wieden-close to a delta of black railway lines that terminated under the word Sudbahnhof.

Rheinhardt connected the tacks with four strokes of an imaginary pen. The exercise produced a mental impression of something that looked vaguely like a kite. The inspector wondered if-in the unfortunate event of more pin-tacks being added-a more significant pattern might possibly emerge. Salieri clearly had a weakness for programs and symbols. He could autograph the entire city by striking in carefully chosen locations.

The inspector's thoughts were disturbed by the sound of Haussmann turning the pages of his notebook.

“We've been keeping a close eye on the List residence for three weeks now,” said the assistant detective.

Rheinhardt raised and lowered himself on his toes, unaware that he was doing so. “Indeed.”

“And, in spite of his infirmity,” continued Haussmann, “or perhaps because of it, he has been receiving many visitors. His eye doctor, of course; the Englishman, Chamberlain; Counselor Schmidt; a student called Hertz; the actor, Bernhard-I've never heard of him but I understand that he's supposed to be quite famous.”

“Yes, yes, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, trying to hide his growing impatience. “But if I'm not mistaken you told me this last week.”

Haussmann turned another page. “Quite right, sir. Please accept my apologies. In addition to the aforesaid gentlemen, Herr List has also received… Viktor Grasz, a publisher; August Haddorf-another actor, and a well-known patron of the arts called Gustav von Triebenbach.”

Rheinhardt trained his melancholy baggy-eyed gaze on his assistant. Trying hard not to sound impatient, he said, “Haussmann, do you actually have something interesting to report?”

The assistant detective reddened slightly. “Yes, sir-although it may only be interesting in my estimation, you understand.”

“I am happy to proceed on that basis.”

The younger man blinked, unsure how to interpret the inspector's arch expression. “All these people,” he continued warily, “are affiliated with associations and societies. For example, the Richard Wagner Association, the German League, the Alemania Dueling Fraternity, and the Aryan Actors’ guild.”

“Well, given the nature of Herr List's writings it does not surprise me that he mixes with individuals who share his Pan-German sympathies.”

“Yes, sir. But Baron von Triebenbach…”

“What about him?”

“He is the president of a small group who call themselves the Eddic Literary Association.”

“The Edda, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, suddenly striking a pedagogical attitude, “are the two collections of early Icelandic literature that together constitute the principal source of all Norse legends.”

“Yes, sir. However, it wasn't the name of the society that struck me as interesting, but rather where they meet.”

“Which is where?”

“At Baron von Triebenbach's apartment, on Mozartgasse.”

Rheinhardt swallowed. “What did you say?”

“Mozartgasse, sir. I thought that…” The younger man shrugged. “What with all this talk of The Magic Flute… there might be some… connection?” Haussmann touched the map and ran his finger down the length of the Naschmarkt. He stopped at a minor road adjoining a square. “Mozartgasse. It's in Mariahilf-I know it quite well.”

Rheinhardt rested a gentle hand on Haussmann's shoulder. “That is interesting, Haussmann-very interesting.”

“Shall I obtain a list of members?”

“Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, leaning closer, “I am bound to disclose that for some time now I have harbored the suspicion that you are, in fact, a psychic. I swear, the security office's loss would be vaudeville's gain.”

The assistant detective risked a fragile smile.

“Well done, Haussmann!” bellowed Rheinhardt. “Commendable detection!”