Vienna Blood

8

Rheinhardt tested the upper register of his voice with an ambitious arpeggio. He held the top note for a few moments and winced.

“No,” said Rheinhardt. “There's definitely something wrong. My pitch is off when I go above middle C.”

“Perhaps it is the cold?” said Liebermann.

“Cold?”

“Yes-cold. Surely the weather hasn't escaped your attention, Oskar?”

“No, it hasn't,” said Rheinhardt, again worrying his refractory high E. “Even so, I should have warmed up by now.”

“There is no instrument more sensitive,” declared Liebermann, “than the human voice.”

“I suppose you're right,” Rheinhardt muttered.

“Perhaps we should finish with something”-Liebermann allowed his fingers to find a simple C-major triad-”undemanding. Something that will be kinder to your vocal cords?”

“An die Musik?” Rheinhardt suggested.

Liebermann's expression changed: a slight, almost imperceptible tensing of the jaw that showed reluctance. This was not because Liebermann disliked Schubert's setting of Von Schober's paean to the “blessed art” of music-making-rather the exact opposite. The words expressed sentiments that he felt so deeply, so profoundly, that for him the song had the qualities of a prayer. Playing An die Musik was like a personal affirmation of faith. If Rheinhardt's voice had been affected by the cold, he didn't want to squander a performance. To do so would be almost sacrilegious.

“Very well, then,” continued Rheinhardt, responding to his friend's hesitation. “How about… Litany for the Feast of All Souls?”

This was another Schubert setting, similar in atmosphere to An die Musik, but with words by the poet Johann Georg Jacobi.

Liebermann rearranged the songbooks on the music stand and brought a Schubert collection to the front. He flicked through the volume in search of the right page.

“The Feast of All Souls…,” he said, abstractedly. “That's around this time of year, isn't it?” He could barely remember the dates of Jewish festivals, let alone those celebrated by the Catholic Church. However, he had some vague notion that All Souls fell around the beginning of winter.

“Yes,” said Rheinhardt, “it's in a few weeks, in fact. The second of November.”

“Here it is,” said Liebermann, smoothing out the page. The piano part had been annotated in pencil where Liebermann had changed some of the fingering and phrasing.

The young doctor looked up at his friend to see if he was ready, and then began. The music immediately suggested majesty and gentle progress. Rheinhardt opened his mouth and, crossing his hands over his heart, sang softly: “Ruhn in Frieden alle Seelen.” Rest in peace all souls.

The accompaniment drifted through some artful changes of harmony, making the melody more poignant. Even though the music was peaceful, the chord changes seemed to reveal the presence of an underlying aching sadness. Rheinhardt's voice became more confident, more controlled, and he accomplished the higher notes with little trouble. Liebermann was surprised by the sudden improvement of tone. He was even more impressed when Rheinhardt's baritone floated above the accompaniment and enjoyed a moment of near-unbearable sweetness-seemingly removed from all worldly suffering. But, as was so often the case with Schubert's composition, this moment of transcendent vision was all too brief, and the demands of the score forced Rheinhardt to surrender one note, then another, then another, until the descending sequence arrived at a prolonged, empty caesura. It was Schubert's genius to place a beat of chilling silence-as still as death, as cold as eternity-within the first verse.

When Liebermann looked up to see if his friend was ready to begin again, he noticed that Rheinhardt's eyes were brimming. The inspector was oddly transported, but he was also sufficiently aware of his surroundings to register Liebermann's attentiveness. Once more, pressing his hand against his heart, Rheinhardt filled the room with plaintive melody. “Ruhn in Frieden alle Seelen.” Rest in peace all souls.

Rheinhardt's rendition of the next verse was even more powerful. When Liebermann had played the final chord, he lifted his hands from the keyboard and respectfully bowed his head. Rheinhardt sniffed once, and Liebermann allowed his friend sufficient time to wipe the tears from his eyes. It was not unusual for Rheinhardt-or Liebermann, for that matter-to be moved to tears by music, but on this occasion the outpouring was so sudden, and so unexpected, that the young doctor could not help speculating about why this should be.

“Well, Oskar,” said Liebermann, closing the songbook and still not looking directly at his friend, “You certainly found your voice in the end. That was exquisite…”

“Thank you, Max,” said Rheinhardt. “It seemed to just… come back.”

The inspector sounded a little bemused.

As was their custom at the end of every musical evening, the two men walked through the double doors leading to the paneled smoking room. Liebermann's manservant, Ernst, had discreetly performed his duties. The fire was roaring, and on Liebermann's new, very modern-looking Moser table the servant had laid out a decanter of brandy, crystal glasses, and two freshly cut cigars. The table, a hollow black cube with an ebony top, was flanked by more traditional armchairs. Rheinhardt lowered himself into the right-hand one, and Liebermann the left. Their respective seating preferences, never negotiated nor commented upon, were-like the sleeping positions of a long-married couple-invariant.

Liebermann poured the brandy and offered his friend a cigar. A few small pleasantries were exchanged before the two men settled down and stared into the fire. Several minutes passed and the room filled with pungent cigar smoke. Finally, Liebermann spoke.

“I am in no doubt, Oskar, that tonight you intend to consult me with respect to a murder inquiry. In spite of your many years at the security office, I think it fair to say that corpses still cause you considerable distress; however, on this particular occasion, I am convinced that you witnessed a scene that was unusually disturbing. In fact, it may be that you have had to examine not just one but two murder scenes. If not, then you have certainly been exposed to more than one body. The exact number is difficult to ascertain, but I think

… two. I am very confident that these bodies were, first, female, second, young, and third, that these young women met with deaths remarkable for their violence.”

Rheinhardt sipped his brandy and said, “Not bad, Max. Not bad at all.”

“I was wrong in some detail?”

“The number of bodies.”

“I see. There were more than two, then?”

“Indeed. There were four.”

“Four?” Liebermann cried out in disbelief.

“Yes-and although you were correct in deducing that most were young, the first was, in fact, middle-aged.”

Liebermann exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke. He looked mildly disappointed.

“Come now,” said Rheinhardt. “You were right in all respects bar a few particulars. I have visited the scene of a vicious multiple murder, and the victims were-as you determined-all women. How did you do it?”

“Well…,” Liebermann replied. “It was the sudden improvement in your singing that attracted my interest. You claimed to be experiencing some problems with pitch in the upper register, but- with the greatest respect-every aspect of your performance this evening was deficient or strained.”

“I couldn't agree more,” said Rheinhardt, shaking his head contritely.

“It was as though your throat were too tight,” continued Liebermann. “I had attributed this loss of tone to the cold weather, but your rendition of Schubert's Litany for the Feast of All Souls was so wonderful, so magnificent, so perfect, that I was forced to question my previous thinking. If your voice had really been impaired by the cold, it would not have recovered so dramatically. I subsequently wondered whether this tightness might be due to some psychological factor? Now, you must have noticed how when people become anxious or are placed under duress their voices become thin? Well, I surmised that something very similar was happening to you. By paying close attention to the music, you were able to keep a memory-an upsetting memory-out of your conscious mind. But it was still exerting an influence, still creating levels of tension sufficient to affect the quality of your voice.

“To end our little concert you chose to sing Schubert's Litany for the Feast of All Souls, the subject of which is, of course, souls-plural-leaving the world behind to be granted eternal rest. From this I inferred that you had recently seen more than just one body, and that these unfortunate individuals had been the victims of some great violence. Why else would you be so anxious that they should be granted eternal rest?

“The combination of Schubert's music and Jacobi's words allowed you to give expression to feelings that were hitherto repressed, and as a result, the song was cathartic and your voice was immediately restored to its former glory.”

Rheinhardt looked perplexed. “But you seem to have based your deductions on an erroneous supposition: that I am able to remember all of Jacobi's words, and the fact is that I can't. Rest in peace, all souls who, a fearful torment past… and-No, you see? I can't do it. Now, I accept that the song itself is uncannily appropriate, given my recent experiences… but when I made the choice, there was nothing on my mind save the apparent technical limitations of my voice.”

“How many times must I remind you, Oskar?” said Liebermann. “The unconscious never forgets. Just because you can't remember the words right now does not mean that they are not in there”-he jabbed his cigar at Rheinhardt's head-”somewhere!”

Rheinhardt squeezed one of the tips of his mustache. “What made you think there were two bodies?”

Liebermann took a sip of brandy and leaned closer to his friend. His expression was solicitous. “I could not help but notice how deeply moved you were by the song…”

“I was,” said Rheinhardt. “My chest was swollen with emotion.”

“Which made me ask myself: what might arouse such strong feelings in my dear friend? And I concluded that the murder scene must have resonated sympathetically with something of great personal significance. And I assumed that nothing could stir the feelings of a father of two daughters more than the demise of two young women. But in this respect, of course, I appear to have strayed.” The look of dejection returned, but was almost immediately dispelled when Liebermann cried, “But perhaps I can redeem myself-a little. The song you chose was a litany for the Feast of All Souls. All souls, note. All souls. The word ‘All’ would suggest a desire to include all of humanity in your prayers- humanity in the round, humanity in its entirety. Which makes me think that the bodies you saw belonged to individuals commonly excluded from society. Pariahs of some description? Out of pity, you wanted to welcome them back into the fold…” Rheinhardt nodded, but said nothing. “In which case,” continued Liebermann, “it is very likely that these murders took place in a brothel!”

“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Rheinhardt. “Exactly right! The bodies were discovered in a brothel in Spittelberg.”

Liebermann, his confidence somewhat restored, rewarded himself with another tot of brandy. “Have the bodies been identified?”

“Yes,” said Rheinhardt. “The man who owns the property where the bodies were found has an agent. We managed to get him to visit the morgue. He did so reluctantly, and I don't blame him-the injuries inflicted on these women were unspeakable. The madam was a woman called Marta Borek. The three girls were Wanda Draczynski, Rozalia Glomb, and the third was called Ludka. The agent didn't know the third girl's full name. At present, we know nothing more about them.”

Rheinhardt rose from his seat and went to the bookcase, where he had previously deposited his bag-a large brown leather case. He released the hasp, opened it up, and took out a small book and a handful of photographs and papers. He returned to his seat and passed the small book to Liebermann.

“I found this in the girl Ludka's room.”

Liebermann examined the inscription. “It's in Yiddish.”

“Yes: To dearest Ludka from your loving grandfather. It's a prayer book.”

Liebermann flicked through the pages. “Are there any other inscriptions?”

“No,” Rheinhardt replied. “She was undoubtedly one of a growing number of Galician women who are routinely sold into prostitution. White slavery has become an international business. Galician girls can be found in the brothels of Alexandria, New York, Buenos Aires, and London. There have even been reports of trafficking operations taking Galician women to Africa, China, and India.”

“She was Jewish,” said Liebermann-his brow furrowing slightly.

“Indeed-most…” Rheinhardt hesitated. “Well, let's say many of these poor girls are.”

“I didn't realize…” Liebermann did not finish his sentence. Instead, he waved his hand, saying, “No matter,” and placed the book next to the ashtray.

“Now,” said Rheinhardt. “I have to warn you. These are extremely unpleasant images.”

“I am a doctor,” said Liebermann.

“Even so-you have never seen anything like these before, I can assure you.”

Rheinhardt handed the photographs to his friend. Liebermann looked at the first image: the madam, Marta Borek, lying in her pool of blood. He then examined the second image: a close-up of the deep cut in her neck. Liebermann worked through the stack mechanically, not dwelling on any one image for very long. He did stop once, however, in order to rotate a particular photograph-to establish whether or not it was the right way up. He showed it to Rheinhardt.

“What's this?”

“Some kind of cross. It was painted on the landing wall-in blood.”

“Whose?”

“Well, we can't say for certain, but it was most probably Marta Borek's. We found her body first, in a room downstairs. There was a trail of blood going up to the landing. The monster must have brought a brush with him specifically for this purpose!”

Liebermann nodded, drained the remains of his brandy, and continued to inspect the photographs. His face was rigid, his jaw tense.

Lacerations, slashes, mutilated pudenda, a thick rope of intestine

…

When he had viewed all of the photographs, he placed them on the table next to the prayer book and said softly: “I don't know what to say.”

Rheinhardt passed Liebermann a large sheet of paper, on which the floor plan of the Spittelberg brothel had been sketched. The walls were shaded, and each room was filled with symbols: a quarter circle to show the arc of an opening door, a large rectangle to show a double bed, and so on. Each object was lettered, and each letter was included on a key: D = Door, B = Bed, F = Fireplace. A narrow barred rectangle showed the staircase, which was transected by an arrow marked “up.”

“Marta Borek's body was found in this room here,” said Rheinhardt, pointing out the location on the plan. “The room on the opposite side of the hall is a rather squalid waiting room. The three girls were found upstairs. Wanda Draczynski was in the first room- she's the one with the…” He suddenly faltered.

“Genital mutilation,” suggested Liebermann.

“Yes,” Rheinhardt continued. “Genital mutilation. Rozalia Glomb was found in the second room. She's the one who had the contents of her belly strewn over the bed. And Ludka was found here.” Rheinhardt tapped the plan.

Liebermann rifled through the stack of horrific images until he came to the photographs of Ludka: a slender girl in a nightdress, her right arm extended and her fingers closed around a blanket that she had almost pulled off the bed.

“She doesn't appear to have been mutilated.”

“No. She was struck on the back of the head. But it was enough to kill her.”

“When did this happen?”

“On Tuesday.”

“And at what time?”

“Late morning or early afternoon.”

“Why were all the women in bed?”

“That is when prostitutes sleep, Max.”

“Yes… of course.” Liebermann was momentarily embarrassed, but he continued. “I wonder how he, the perpetrator, succeeded in committing these atrocities. Surely he would have made some noise? Why didn't one of the women wake up and raise the alarm?”

“I think Ludka did,” said Rheinhardt. “That was why she was struck on the back of the head. She met him at the door, turned, and then received the fatal blow.”

“But I don't see how he-”

“Allow me to explain,” said Rheinhardt.

Liebermann settled back in his chair and adopted a characteristic pose: his right hand pressed against his cheek, three fingers clenched, thumb cocked, and the vertical index finger resting against his temple.

“I believe,” continued Rheinhardt, “that the perpetrator arrived at the front door, confident that only the women were inside. I suspect that he had been observing the house and did not act until he had counted out all those patrons whom he had previously counted in. Then he knocked on the door-which was answered in due course by Marta Borek. He stabbed her in the chest and dragged her limp body to the room in which we found her. After ascending the stairs, he entered Draczynski's room and slit her throat while she slept before doing the same to Glomb. By this time, Ludka was most probably awake and out of bed… After dispatching Ludka, the perpetrator went down the stairs and slit Borek's throat. When he climbed them again, it was with a brush dipped in Borek's blood. He then set about mutilating Draczynski and Glomb, but was disturbed before he reached Ludka.”

“What by?”

“I don't know. Another caller perhaps… The perpetrator then descended the stairs for the last time and made his exit through Borek's window. There's an alleyway at the back of the house.”

“Where does it come out?”

“It divides before joining roads at either side of the brothel.”

Liebermann poured himself and the inspector another brandy.

“He must have been covered in blood,” said Liebermann. “Drenched. He could never have left the apartment in such a state, even if Spittelberg is relatively quiet. He must have changed his clothes before leaving.”

“There were no discarded items of clothing in the area.”

“In which case he would have arrived and left with some kind of receptacle.”

Liebermann picked up the photographs again and found the close-up of Borek's throat.

“The cut is so deep: she's almost been decapitated. The perpetrator must have wielded a large knife or even a sword. During the autopsy Professor Mathias suggested a sabre, which might prove to be a highly relevant observation. Spittelberg lies between two barracks, and Marta Borek's bureau was filled with promissory notes from military men.”

“If it transpires that this carnage is the work of one of His Majesty's soldiers…”

“The emperor will be appalled!”

Liebermann flicked through the images once more and shook his head. “Surely, only a man who had some prior experience of killing would have dispatched so many bodies with such ruthless efficiency.” Liebermann's finger tapped against his right temple. “This is certainly the work of an individual inured to the sight of blood.”

“I am reminded,” said Rheinhardt, “of the famous Whitechapel murders.”

“Oh?”

“You are too young to remember-but they created a worldwide sensation. They took place in one of the poorest districts of London and were attributed to a man whom the English call Jack the Ripper.”

“Ah, yes,” said Liebermann-the name was not unfamiliar to him. “I believe the case is included in the latest edition of Krafft-Ebing's Psychopathia Sexualis.”

“The Ripper's victims,” Rheinhardt continued, “were also prostitutes and it was his habit to mutilate and remove their internal organs. The identity of the killer was never discovered, but I can remember some commentators proposing that his victims had died at the hands of a surgeon.”

“He was never discovered, you say?”

“No.”

“And when did these murders take place?”

“Let me see.” Rheinhardt did some mental calculations. “About thirteen or fourteen years ago.”

The two men looked at each other, raised their eyebrows, and simultaneously shook their heads.

“No,” said Liebermann, smiling awkwardly. “Nevertheless, one cannot help wondering what might have become of such a creature…”

The young doctor offered his friend another cigar, which Rheinhardt gladly accepted. They sat in silence, staring into the flames, both of them deep in thought. Occasionally Liebermann selected from the stack a single photograph, which he examined more intently. After some minutes had passed, he turned to Rheinhardt and said, “Clearly, this is no ordinary murder. Our perpetrator's heinous acts are much removed from the common criminal well-heads of greed, envy, and revenge. His motives are twisted and obscure, yet he is not entirely beyond the reach of modern psychology.”

Liebermann stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray.

“Your perpetrator hates women or, perhaps more precisely, the sexual power of women. This explains his choice of prostitutes as victims. He also chose to mutilate those areas of their bodies associated with reproduction: the genitals and belly. He was not content simply to murder these young women. He needed to annihilate their sex- utterly. I suspect that he is sexually inexperienced-possibly impotent-socially inept, and has at sometime in his life suffered greatly on account of being attracted to, or rejected by, a woman. However, even as I say these words, my account seems woefully incomplete. There is much, much more here…”

“Go on,” said Rheinhardt.

“Such ferocity,” Liebermann continued, “seems to betray a far deeper motivation-the influence of primal memories. Something happened to him in his childhood, something traumatic, that touches upon the erotic instinct but that also shaped his character. Whatever that event was-he blames women.”

Rheinhardt took out his notebook and jotted down a few of Liebermann's comments. Before he had finished writing, he said, “What do you make of that crooked cross? Why on earth did he bother to paint such a thing on the wall?”

“At first, it occurred to me that the perpetrator might be on some kind of religious crusade, working under the delusion that he is God's instrument, empowered to cleanse Vienna of moral impurities. However, if this were the case, then I would have expected him to have executed a more conventional crucifix-a long vertical line transected by a shorter horizontal one. I think, therefore, that this symbol has more personal than religious significance. It is, as it were, his calling card. It is also why I think that he is socially inept or ineffectual. In the absence of real status or achievement, the inconsequential person is often minded to leave his mark-his initials, or some other identifier-carved in a public place. It is his only method of leaving an impression on the world, his only claim on posterity. You will find several examples of such graffiti in the tower of the cathedral… In his sick mind, this atrocity”-Liebermann tapped the photographs-”has acquired the properties of an accomplishment, a proud creation for which he craves and desires recognition. He could not leave without first signing his ‘art.’ The strange cross is his signature.”

Rheinhardt placed the stub of his cigar in the ashtray and took the photographs back.

“Oskar,” said Liebermann, “with so much blood, were there no footprints on the floor? No impressions?”

Rheinhardt shook his head.

“So he is someone who is perhaps aware of police procedures?”

“It would seem so.”

Rheinhardt felt a nagging something at the back of his mind-a vague memory that he could not quite place. His brow furrowed and he twirled his mustache again.

“What is it?” said Liebermann, noticing his friend's mental effort.

“Nothing,” said Rheinhardt. Then, fixing Liebermann with his melancholy sagging eyes, he said, “He will do something like this again, won't he?”

“Yes,” said Liebermann, with economic bluntness. “And very soon, I expect.”