Vienna Secrets

8

THE GOLDEN HORNED SPHERE on top of the plague column was struck by sunlight, and a flare of white radiance ignited beneath the Virgin’s feet. Two stone figures, casually perched on the Maria Treue Kirche facade, legs dangling into space, looked curiously unimpressed by the spectacle. Their raised hands directed the eye toward the ornate clock face instead of the Virgin, suggesting that the passage of time was a matter of much greater significance than divine pyrotechnics.

Rheinhardt circumnavigated the plague column and placed himself just inside one of the two doorways that flanked the central and much larger entrance to the church.

A woman, with a small child in tow, crossed the concourse and laid a wreath by the lamppost beneath which the mutilated remains of Brother Stanislav had been discovered. Others had already paid their respects. The ground was covered with floral tributes that formed a makeshift garden, the colors of which blazed in the brilliant light. The woman urged her son to say a prayer, but he was too young to understand the purpose of his mother’s manipulations-the joining of his hands, the closing of his eyes, and the guiding of his tiny fingers to the four points of the cross. His mother let him go, and he walked back to the plague column, where he peered through the railings at the assembly of saints, angels, knights, and cherubs. A carriage came rattling down the road, and the boy turned, emitting a gurgle of pleasure at the sight of two piebald horses.

His mother bowed her head, closed her eyes, and her lips moved silently as she recited a Hail Mary. The central door of the church opened and two monks emerged from the darkness. They were both middle-aged but differed greatly in build: the first was tall, pale, and emaciated, while the second was short, ruddy, and plump.

The woman opened her eyes. They were bright with tears.

The two monks halted.

“Romy, come over here-at once.” The little boy ran to his mother, but on arrival hid behind her skirts, clutching the coarse material in his hands. “Don’t be shy, Romy. Say good morning to the holy fathers.”

The boy peeped out from his hiding place, but said nothing. The short monk rested his hands on the projecting shelf of his stomach and smiled indulgently.

“I brought a wreath,” said the woman.

“Thank you,” said the short monk.

“He was so kind, so caring. I don’t know what I would have done without his help. After my husband died, I had no one.” She wiped the tears from her face as soon as they appeared. “He was a saint.”

“Pray for him,” said the short monk.

“Yes, pray for him,” repeated his lean companion. “It is what Brother Stanislav would have wanted, and it is all that we poor sinners can do now.”

The woman reached for her son’s hand and began walking back to the road. When she was out of earshot, the short monk exclaimed, “A saint!”

“Indeed!” said the tall monk, raising his gaze irreverently to the heavens.

They stepped over the wreath and made their way toward the nearest school entrance.

Rheinhardt emerged from his hiding place.

“One moment, please.” The two monks turned around abruptly. Rheinhardt showed his identification. “Security office. Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”

The two monks looked at each other.

“And you are?” the shorter one inquired.

“Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt.”

“I am sorry, Inspector,” the short monk continued, “but the children are waiting. We have classes to teach.”

“Then perhaps I could arrange to speak with you some other time-when it is more convenient?”

The short monk wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.

“Brother Stanislav,” said the tall monk hesitantly, “had a reputation for saintliness; however, those who knew him well-”

“Lupercus!” the short monk interrupted. Again, the two Piarists looked at each other, saying nothing, but obviously engaged in a silent battle of wills. Eventually the shorter monk conceded defeat. He bit his lower lip, and his shiny cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red. “I must go.” Marching briskly toward the school, he departed without bothering to excuse his rudeness.

“Brother Lupercus?” Rheinhardt prompted. “You were saying?”

The tall monk surveyed the empty concourse.

“If you want to know what Brother Stanislav was really like, read the articles he wrote for Das Vaterland.” Rheinhardt detected a slight foreign accent in the monk’s speech.

“Vaterland? What’s that?”

“A Catholic newspaper.” The school entrance on the opposite side of the concourse opened, and the monk froze. He held his breath until a small boy emerged. “I can say no more,” he added with decisive finality. “Good morning, Inspector.” He turned his back on Rheinhardt and loped across the cobbles, his loose sandals slapping against the soles of his feet.

“Vaterland,” Rheinhardt muttered. He took out his notebook and wrote the name down in a quick but barely legible scrawl.

Two women, each with small children, had left the road and were coming in his direction. Both of them were carrying wreaths.