Vienna Blood

59

“FASTER!”

The driver cracked his whip and yelled another imprecation at the horses. Inside, the portly inspector felt like a mariner caught in some dreadful storm, his little vessel being tossed from one wave to the next. Rheinhardt tried to peer out of the window but could see very little. Covered shop fronts and yellow gaslights flashed past. He gave up and closed his eyes. The vestigial tatters of an interrupted dream were still flapping around, incomprehensibly, in his mind.

A great ballroom, viewed from above.

Couples rotating in triple time beneath a glorious chandelier, each pair like cogwheels in a great machine, endlessly turning. And then a sentence, spoken by a pleasant, pensive, world-weary voice: “No one escapes The Eternity Waltz, my friend. As you will see, it goes on forever.”

The Eternity Waltz? What would Max make of that?

A pothole in the road made Rheinhardt's buttocks part company with the seat. He landed with a dull thump, which returned him, somewhat rudely, to the present. The carriage shook and Rheinhardt's forehead bumped against the glass. He cursed loudly.

Only twenty minutes earlier he had been fast asleep in a warm, comfortable bed. A tactile memory teased his peripheral nerves: his wife's soft, accommodating body, the reassuring feel of her breasts beneath the cotton of her nightdress. Something of her scent still lingered in his nostrils, as homely as freshly baked bread and as sweet as honeysuckle.

The telephone had rung out with unusual harshness. The rotating couples in his dream had spun into oblivion and he had sat bolt upright, staring into the shadows, his heart pounding as loudly and insistently as the kettledrum in a Brahms symphony. A sense of horror had overwhelmed him long before his critical faculties had engaged sufficiently to invest the impatient bell with meaning. Eventually, though, the horror connected with a name: Salieri.

The carriage slowed and came to a halt. Immediately, Rheinhardt opened the door and stepped down. The horses snorted violently and rapped the cobbles with their restive hooves. Flecks of foam had appeared on their steaming haunches. The driver leaped off his box and pressed some crystallized sugar between the lips of the nearest animal.

“Fast enough for you?”

“Yes,” said the inspector, bluntly.

“Another murder, is it?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“And here of all places.”

Rheinhardt looked across the deserted Neuer Markt, which was dominated by the Donner fountain. Nude figures, each of which represented a tributary of the Danube, lounged and stretched on its rim. The edifice was covered in a salty rime that sparkled like mica. The sky above was cloudless, and the stars looked as if they had been strewn across the firmament by a careless angel. The effect was one of negligent perfection.

One of the horses rocked its head from side to side, its bridle producing a silvery carillon.

“Nothing's sacred, eh?” added the driver.

Rheinhardt turned and looked upward. The Kapuzinerkirche was not an attractive building-it resembled a child's drawing of a house, with its steep triangular roof and few distinguishing features. An arched niche in the gable contained a figure carrying a crucifix, and below this was a simple arrangement of three windows and a porch. The lack of ornament suggested grim austerity-mortification and self-denial. Adjoining the church was a square-shaped annex, the entrance to which was a large half-open door. It led to the Habsburg crypt. A solitary constable stood outside, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together.

Rheinhardt approached the young man and introduced himself.

The constable could barely respond. His teeth were chattering and a water droplet hung precariously from the end of his pointed, murine nose.

“You should stand inside,” said Rheinhardt with concern.

“But I've been given orders, sir.”

“No one will be wandering in off the street at this time. Come, now. If there are any questions, tell your seniors I insisted.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the constable. “You are most kind.”

The young man entered the building and guided Rheinhardt to a steep staircase. A faint light came from below.

Rheinhardt began his descent, pressing against the reassuring presence of the wall with his fingertips. His eyes had not properly adjusted to the darkness and his step was cautious. The air became redolent with a distinctive waxy perfume, and he could hear a faint, eerie susurration.

The light grew stronger, and when he reached the foot of the stairs, he discovered another constable standing next to a tall candelabra.

“Inspector Rheinhardt?”

“Yes.”

“Constable Stroop, sir.”

“Good man.”

“It… he… the body, sir.” He gestured into the shadowy distance. “Down there.” The constable's eyes shone, emphasizing his youth but also suggesting fear.

Rheinhardt nodded, and carefully lifted a candle from its clawed sconce. He proceeded to walk into the cold, whispering darkness. The sound of his boots echoed on the stone flags. He moved between two rows of hexagonal bronze caskets, vainly attempting to protect the wick of his candle with a cupped hand. The nervous flame flickered and flared, fitfully illuminating the casket decorations: grinning death's heads, floral wreaths, and ghostly coils of ivy. Rheinhardt's attention was suddenly captured by an arresting cast of a human skull, incongruously adorned with a veil and crown. The inspector glanced at the superscription and registered the name of a long-dead Habsburg monarch. He was reminded of something he had once heard concerning the royal burial rite. Traditionally, the faces of the Habsburg emperors were stoved in so that they would not appear vainglorious before the Almighty. They were also equipped with a bell and bellpull with which to sound an alarm should they find themselves buried alive. Rheinhardt imagined the interior of the casket: fragments of smashed bone beneath a dusty periwig-a skeletal hand reaching for the bellpull handle. He was surprised by an involuntary shudder. Raising his candle to press back the darkness, he continued his journey.

Rheinhardt's breath preceded him, clouding the frozen air. Through the billowy haze he detected two winking lights that grew brighter as he drew closer. The inchoate sibilance increased in volume, resolving itself into the regularities of language-one that Rheinhardt recognized.

“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine…”

Forms began to appear-penumbral outlines that might be human figures-and there was not one voice but several, each chanting a different prayer.

“Da, quaesumus Dominus, ut in hora mortis nostrae…”

At first, it seemed to Rheinhardt that he was approaching a scene that could not be real. Three hooded figures knelt between seated females in flowing gowns. Above them, apparently floating in the air, he could discern a couple-facing each other and separated by a ghostly cherub.

“Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…”

A little closer, and the mystery was revealed. Three Capuchin monks were kneeling in front of a monumental casket. The other figures were life-size bronzes-the two women leaning out from an ornate prow with the couple and cherub perched on its lid. The weak candlelight did not illuminate much beyond the casket, but Rheinhardt suspected that the canopy of darkness concealed a dome or cupola. In front of the three Capuchins was a supine body.

Rheinhardt's pace quickened.

One of the monks looked up, made the sign of the cross, and stood to greet the inspector. As he approached, he rolled back his hood. His hair had receded, but as if to compensate he had grown a large snowy beard and mustache.

Rheinhardt bowed. “I am Inspector Rheinhardt-from the security office.”

“God bless you, my son. Thank you for coming so swiftly. My name is Brother Ignaz.”

Even though the light was poor, Rheinhardt could see that the Capuchin's eyes looked raw and bloodshot. He had clearly been crying.

“I am so sorry…” Rheinhardt's sentence trailed off. His instinct was to console, but he wondered whether he could really offer the holy man anything that the man's spiritual convictions had not already provided. “Have any of my colleagues arrived yet?”

“No, my son-only the two constables.”

“Father, I am obliged to examine the body. And very soon there will be others here… my assistant, the photographer.”

Brother Ignaz nodded. “Of course.”

He shuffled over to the other monks, who had not broken their intense, hushed chanting, and whispered something that Rheinhardt could not hear. The two monks made the sign of the cross, rose, and, taking one of the candles, silently retreated into the shadows. Brother Ignaz beckoned to Rheinhardt.

“Have you touched the body?”

“Why, yes-does that matter?”

Rheinhardt sighed. “No-it doesn't matter.”

The dead monk's limbs had been arranged so that his feet were together and his arms crossed on his chest. Rheinhardt crouched down and brought the candle closer to the corpse's face. It was wrinkled, bearded, and the eyes were closed. The flagstones on the left side of the body were covered in blood.

Rheinhardt tugged at the loose sleeves of the man's robe and uncrossed the arms. He then traced a slow circle with the flame and observed-consistent with his expectations-that the coarse brown fabric had been slashed with a sharp blade. Between the precise straight edges of the material the man's blood had coagulated.

“Who is he?”

“Brother Francis.”

“What happened?”

“We had come to the church to pray. He had excused himself and said that he was going down to the crypt. He had been asked to recite a special prayer at the tomb of the Empress Maria Theresa, by a…” Brother Ignaz hesitated, before adding, sotto voce, “By a royal personage. It was getting late and I decided to come down to the crypt myself. Francis has been unwell-I was concerned for his health. As I came down the aisle, I saw something on the floor. At first, I thought he had simply collapsed. I ran and…” The monk shook his head.

“What is it?”

“I think-I can't be sure…”

“What?”

“I think I heard someone-somebody running up the stairs. Francis was lying facedown… and there was so much blood. I rolled him over and tried to revive him-but, of course, there was nothing I could do. In due course I returned to the church, where I found two young brothers-Casimir and Ivo. I dispatched the younger, Ivo, to the Schottenring police station. Casimir and I returned to Francis, in order to pray.” The old Capuchin shook his head. “We have been visited by an unspeakable evil. Who would do such a thing? On sacred soil, in this most holy place. It is an abomination!”

Rheinhardt lowered the candle again and inspected Francis's wizened features.

The dead man's eyelids trembled for a moment, and then-quite suddenly-flicked open. A gout of black blood oozed from his mouth as his chest convulsed.

Rheinhardt gasped, drew back, and allowed his candle to drop to the floor.

“Blessed Jesus,” cried Brother Ignaz. “He is still alive. It is a miracle.”

Suppressing an instinctive wave of horror and fear, Rheinhardt placed a hand on the old man's blood-soaked chest. There was a slight, barely perceptible movement.

“He is alive.”

“A miracle, Inspector. Benedictus Dominus Deus. A miracle.”

Brother Francis wheezed and his lips quivered. He seemed to be attempting speech.

“Brother Francis-my name is Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt. I am from the Viennese security office. Can you hear me?”

He grabbed the monk's cold, papery hand.

“Can you hear me, Brother Francis?”

There was no response. But the monk's lips continued to quiverand his whistling respiration acquired a marked rhythmic quality.

“Who did this to you? Who attacked you?”

Rheinhardt pressed his ear against the monk's thin blue lips.

A liquid rattle increased in volume, followed by a whisper-an inflected expulsion of air that suggested a syllable or two with form and meaning.

“Brother Francis?”

A final crepitating sigh…

Rheinhardt pulled back, just in time to see the old man's eyes closing.

He knew that this time Brother Francis really was dead-as dead as the Habsburg emperors and empresses in their caskets of bronze. Yet he dutifully removed the hand mirror from his inside pocket and held it beneath the old monk's nose. There was no condensation. Rheinhardt looked up at Brother Ignaz and shook his head.

“Did he say anything?”

“Yes, he did.”

“What, my son? What did he say?”

Rheinhardt's face shadowed with uncertainty.

“I asked him who did this.” Rheinhardt was speaking more to himself than his companion. “And he replied-well-at least, I believe I heard him reply-‘a cellist.’ ”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A cellist,” Rheinhardt repeated.

From the entrance came the sound of footsteps and voices. The others had arrived.