Vienna Blood

76

Dawn was breaking as Liebermann and Rheinhardt arrived back at the artist's studio. A thin light seeped through the windows, illuminating the disordered scene: the smashed glass, the shredded canvas, and, most noticeably, the hole in the floor. Outside, the sound of voices and hammering suggested that some of the businesses in the cul-de-sac were already opening.

Rheinhardt set to work again with his pliers and lifted another two planks, which permitted the removal of the cello case. It was old and battered, its brown leather scuffed and its hasps tarnished. Indeed, it looked so battered and worn that Liebermann suspected it must once have been owned by a professional concert performer.

They picked the case up and placed it on Olbricht's table. The two men glanced at each other, acknowledging the suspense of the moment. Then Rheinhardt tested the hasps.

“Not locked,” he whispered.

They clicked open, and he raised the lid.

The interior, lined with moth-eaten crushed velvet, was crammed full of old clothes. Rheinhardt began removing some of the items: a paint-stained smock, a grubby shirt, a light and heavily creased summer jacket.

Both men gasped.

Removal of the jacket had revealed an ornate sword hilt underneath it.

Liebermann reached into the case and, grasping the hilt, drew out a fine military sabre. The curved edge glinted as he turned it in the morning light.

“Salieri's weapon, I believe,” said the young doctor.

Rheinhardt continued to remove articles of clothing from the case. When it was almost empty, he made a second discovery: a notebook bound in red cloth.

“Ah, yes,” said Liebermann knowingly.

Rheinhardt flicked through the pages. It was densely illustrated with pen-and-ink drawings. These were similar in nature to Olbricht's other works-warriors, maidens, and mythical beasts. In addition, there were quotes, copied out in bold Gothic script. Rheinhardt ran his finger along the page. “What is good? All that heightens the feeling of power in man, the will to power, power itself. What is bad? All that is born of weakness. What is happiness? The feeling that power is growing, that resistance is overcome.” A number of crude arcane sigils occupied the margin.

“What a dreadful sentiment,” said Liebermann.

“I wonder where it comes from?” Rheinhardt turned another page and his eyes widened.

Liebermann shifted position to get a better view.

The page was crammed with detail: curling vines, forest animals, the columns of a temple. At the top was a snake, its body divided into three parts. Below were listed all the characters of The Magic Flute: Tamino, Papageno, the Queen of the Night, the Speaker… Blotches of ink were splattered everywhere as though the artist had worked at speed, digging the nib of his pen into the paper.

“Look,” said Liebermann, “he has inscribed something beside some of the names.” He took out his spectacles and leaned forward to examine the minute writing.

“The Queen of the Night… the number seven… a runic symbol of some kind…”

“Thorr, I believe.” Rheinhardt pointed at what looked like an angular letter P.

“…and the numbers one, five, two, and eight.”

The inspector's finger dropped to another character. “Papagenothe bird catcher… the number twenty-seven, Thorr-and again one, five, two, and eight.”

“The final number sequence is constant-it is only the first number that changes.”

“But he uses another runic symbol after Monostatos and the Speaker of the Temple… and a third after Prince Tamino, and Sarastro. I can't remember what the first is called, but the second is featured in List's pamphlet: Ur-primal fire.”

“Oskar-I think these are dates. When did the Spittelberg murders take place?”

“The seventh of October.”

“And the Czech?”

“The twenty-seventh.”

“So here we have it: the seventh, and the twenty-seventh-he has simply substituted Thorr for October.”

“Why, yes! The professor's servant was murdered on the seventh of November-the rune changes to represent a different month! But why substitute 1528 for 1902?”

“I remember my father once told me that Minister Schonerer has devised his own calendar. His Pan-German followers count their years not after the birth of Christ but after the battle of Noreia-believed to have been the first Teutonic victory over Rome.”

“When was that?”

“I don't know-some time before the birth of Christ.”

“Well, Olbricht can't be using the Schonerian calendar-years would have to be added to 1902, not subtracted from it.”

“In which case, Olbricht has used a much later date. If we subtract 1528 from 1902, we get…” Liebermann paused to do the calculation. “A difference of 374 years.”

“Carnuntum!” Rheinhardt cried. “He has calculated his dates from the battle of Carnuntum! AD 374! Just what one would expect from a devotee of Guido List!”

Liebermann did not share Rheinhardt's happiness at breaking the code. Instead he remained silent, his expression deeply troubled.

“What is it?” asked Rheinhardt, concerned.

“If you are correct, then it would seem that Olbricht killed Papagena two weeks ago-a murder of which we know nothing-and intends to commit a double murder in a few days’ time: Prince Tamino, and Sarastro.” Liebermann tossed the sword back into the cello case and closed the lid. “Oskar, it has been an extraordinary night-and if I am unable to find a coffeehouse in the next half hour, I swear I shall expire.”