Vienna Blood (6 page)

“That is wonderful news. Wonderful.” He looked at Olbricht and the professor. “We are most fortunate. Truly.” Then, addressing Von Triebenbach again, he added, “Herr Baron, I beg you, when the meeting is adjourned—may I play him the overture to my opera? It is based on his great novel
Carnuntum.
It would be such an honor. Such an honor.”

The young man's eyes were a clear powder-blue—and they positively flashed with eagerness. He was breathless with excitement.

Von Triebenbach, amused—as always—by the energy and zeal of his young favorite, threw his head back and laughed heartily.

“We can but ask him, my dear friend. And perhaps he will condescend to hear your work. He is a man of generous spirit.”

Aschenbrandt inhaled deeply, and his chest expanded. “Such an honor,” he repeated, his thin lips curling to form a slightly lopsided smile.

8

R
HEINHARDT 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.”