Vienna Blood

72

IN THE CENTER OF the room was a small circular table-around which three chairs were arranged. One of them was occupied by Lieutenant Ruprecht Hefner. His legs were wide apart and his head was thrown back. His right hand looked as though it had been thrust into his mouth. On closer inspection it was possible to detect the dull metallic barrel of a small pistol, as well as burn marks and blisters. A large pool of blood had collected behind the chair, its still surface broken by lumpy gray nuggets of brain tissue. Remarkably, Hefner's uniform was in pristine condition: the blue was unstained and the brass buttons were as bright as marigolds.

Liebermann stepped closer and squatted down. A ragged hole had been blasted through the back of Hefner's skull, out of which droplets of fluid were still falling at irregular intervals.

“He was discovered earlier this morning by his batman,” said Rheinhardt. “He lost an American duel.”

“How do you know that?”

Rheinhardt offered Liebermann a sheet of paper. “His suicide note.”

Liebermann took the paper and began to read:

I, Lieutenant Ruprecht Georg Hefner, being of sound mind, depart from this life a man of honor…

Liebermann scanned the introductory paragraphs.

My sabre I leave to Lieutenant Trapp and my pistols to Lieutenant Renz…

My horse Geronimo I leave to the regimental doctor-who has been of considerable assistance on many occasions…

Further on, there were references to some outstanding gambling debts that Hefner regretted he would not be able to pay.

Rheinhardt pointed to a passage lower down on the page. “Look at this.”

Liebermann continued reading:

It is all over. The sun is setting on our people and there are too few good men willing to speak out. A lone voice here, a lone voice there: but it is not enough. The cowards in the parliament building and the town hall do nothing. Our glorious city has become infested. I did what I could. But Vienna cannot be saved…

A malicious diatribe followed, denouncing the enemies of the German people: the Jews, the Slavs, the Catholic Church-the southern races.

“There you are!” exclaimed Rheinhardt. “It must be him. It's as good as a confession!”

Liebermann turned the paper over. Nothing was written on the other side.

“We know that he frequented Madam Borek's brothel,” Rheinhardt continued, excitement widening his eyes. “He was a member of the Eddic Literary Association and a member of the Richard Wagner Association. He carried a sabre and wished to save Vienna from all those peoples and institutions despised by Guido List. It must be him. He must be Salieri!”

“No, Oskar,” said Liebermann. “I'm afraid you're mistaken.”

Rheinhardt snatched Hefner's note from Liebermann's hand and read out aloud, “Our glorious city has become infested. I did what I could.”

The sentence hung in the air between them.

“He means dueling, Oskar-that is all. He obviously took great pleasure in provoking those whom he counted as enemies: Jews, Czechs, Hungarians… people like Freddi Lemberg.”

Rheinhardt sighed, suddenly deflated. “But the evidence, Max… Madam Borek's, the sabre.”

“Salieri would not have been able to resist mentioning The Magic Flute.”

“He is a member of the Richard Wagner Association.”

“And then there are Miss Lydgate's findings.”

“She must have made a mistake.”

“As I have said before, I very much doubt it.”

Rheinhardt suddenly turned on his friend. He could not keep the irritation from his voice. “Max, how can you be so sure!”

Liebermann smiled and clapped his hands on Rheinhardt's shoulders.

“I can be sure, Oskar, because tonight you and I will be paying Salieri a house call.”