Vienna Blood (2 page)

“Which means?”

“Memory loss,” the doctor explained. “Most people lose some memory after a head injury—usually the memory of events leading up to the point where they lost consciousness.”

“But how much?”

“It varies, but Herr Arnoldt can't remember much more than getting up this morning and eating his breakfast.”

“Is that so?” asked Rheinhardt, directing his question at the keeper.

Herr Arnoldt attempted to stand.

“No, Herr Arnoldt,” said the doctor, applying a gentle pressure to the keeper's shoulder. “Please remain seated.”

Herr Arnoldt dropped back into the chair and looked up at Rheinhardt.

“I can remember getting up this morning … eating some eggs and pickled cucumber.”

“And anything else?” asked Rheinhardt.

“No. … The next thing I remember is waking up here … on the floor. And Walter … Walter helping me.”

“Walter?”

“That's me,” said the keeper outside. “Walter Gundlach. I was on my way to the hyena enclosure when I noticed the door at the back had been left open. It's usually locked, so I stuck my head in to take a look. Herr Arnoldt was lying on the floor.”

“Where?”

“Half his body was where you're standing, the other half sticking out into the hallway.”

“There's no blood on the floor,” said Rheinhardt. “Has someone cleaned it up?”

“There was no blood,” said the doctor. “There were no lacerations. It seems that Herr Arnoldt was struck on the back of the head with considerable force—but not with a weapon.”

“Then with what?”

“A clenched fist … the forearm, perhaps.” The doctor pointed at his patient's neck. “The cervical area is tender and badly bruised.”

“You didn't notice anything else?” Rheinhardt asked Gundlach. “Anything unusual?”

The keeper shook his head.

“No. … I made sure that Herr Arnoldt was comfortable and then I called the director.”

Rheinhardt turned to face the doctor again.

“Is Herr Arnoldt's memory loss permanent?”

“It's difficult to say. Some people recover their memories—others don't. We'll just have to wait and see.”

“But what is the likelihood?” asked Rheinhardt insistently.

The doctor looked down at Herr Arnoldt, narrowed his eyes, and pressed his lips together.

“There is a fair chance,” said the doctor.

Like most medical men, he seemed reluctant to give a definite answer.

Rheinhardt surveyed the circle of faces surrounding him: the doctor, the director, the unfortunate Herr Arnoldt, and his gangly colleague who was looking in from the corridor. They all seemed to be expecting him to say something important. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Rheinhardt said: “Where is the …” He found himself unable to articulate the word “body” and hesitated as he searched for a more appropriate alternative. “Herr Pfundtner, where are the remains?” It seemed a reasonable compromise, neither too anthropomorphic nor too disrespectful.

The director gestured toward a second door, next to the heap of furry carcasses.

Rheinhardt turned the handle and pushed it open. The air that escaped was laden with a strange pungent odor. He stepped over the threshold and examined his surroundings. He had stumbled into a primeval world. The pit resembled a large bowl, one with earthen sides that were scattered with rocks and tropical vegetation. A single stunted tree leaned its crooked trunk out over the depression, which was filled with dark stagnant water. Colonies of algae floated on the surface, creating an emerald archipelago. On the other side of the pit was a featureless wall, over which members of the public might peer.

Rheinhardt could hear the director standing behind him, breathing heavily.

“Who has been in here this morning?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Myself,” said Pfundtner, “and Herr Gundlach.”

“What about you, Doctor?” Rheinhardt called back. “Have you taken a look in here.”

“No, Inspector,” said the doctor. “I've been rather preoccupied with the health of my patient.” He sounded irritated.

Rheinhardt looked back at the director. “Where do we go?”

“Over there,” said Pfundtner, pointing.

“Please follow me very closely, Herr Pfundtner. Try to tread on the rocks rather than the soil.”

“Why?”

“Footprints.”

Rheinhardt negotiated the shallow slope, using the rocks like stepping stones. He felt them sink a little under his weight, making his progress unsteady. The pit was horribly humid, and beads of sweat had begun to trickle down his cheek. As he rounded a large sandy boulder, he caught sight of the animal. Even though he knew what to expect, he found himself surprised by the bizarre spectacle.

The snake was enormous—a mythical beast, a sea serpent or basilisk. But its dimensions were exaggerated still further by the odd way in which the creature had been mutilated.

“Hildegard,” said the director.

Rheinhardt thought that he detected a slight catch in the director's voice. He did not find it difficult to sympathize with his companion.

The snake had been cut into three sections: head, trunk, and tail. These body parts were ordered correctly, perfectly aligned, and separated by gaps of approximately one yard—they had been arranged in a curve that followed the arc of the water's edge. The effect was striking and curiously aesthetic. Taken together, the three segments were longer than a streetcar. The central section had a diameter wide enough to accommodate a small child.

When the two men had completed their descent, Rheinhardt clambered onto a large rock near the snake's head. Hildegard's eyes and nostrils were set high up on her flat pointed skull, and a delicate forked tongue protruded from between powerful jaws that had been propped
open with a small stone. The device seemed to serve no purpose other than artistic effect. Her skin was green—the same shade as the water—and mottled with black egg-shaped patches. Rheinhardt was fascinated by the textured surface, each scale a tiny blister of jet or obsidian. The snake's innards were revealed in vivid cross section where the central segment had been cleanly sliced.

“Extraordinary,” said Rheinhardt. “Quite extraordinary.”

“It must have been a madman,” cried the director. “A lunatic escaped from Am Steinhof.”

The soil around the water's edge was light brown and stained with dark splashes of ophidian ichor.

“Is it a python?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Good heavens, no,” said the director. Hildegard is—was—an anaconda, a water boa.”

“Nonvenomous?”

“Quite so.
Eunectes murinus
is a constrictor. In the wild,
murinus
lies submerged underwater and grabs prey as it arrives to drink.”

“Then it kills by asphyxiation?”

“Yes, or by drowning. The jaws are very strong. It can hold a large animal down with relative ease.”

“How large?”

“An adult deer would not escape those jaws. Large anacondas like Hildegard have even been known to kill big cats—like jaguars.”

“What about human beings?”

“Some attacks have been confirmed, but it is an exceedingly rare occurrence.”

Rheinhardt contemplated the snake's enormous size. He only just stopped himself from uttering
What a monster!
fearing that he would hurt the director's feelings.

“How long is Hildegard?”

“Nearly thirty feet. Pythons grow longer, though they are not so heavy.”

“Even if one knew that anacondas rarely attack human beings, entering her domain would still have been a daunting prospect.”

“Quite so,” said the director yet again. “But the villain would never have been in any real danger. This pit has been Hildegard's home for more than twenty years. She is—” The director corrected himself. “She
was
accustomed to human company—which almost always signified the arrival of food. In spite of appearances, she was a very docile creature.”

Rheinhardt scratched his head.

“Herr Pfundtner, have any of the keepers reported seeing anything irregular—a patron acting suspiciously, or showing excessive interest in Hildegard?”

“No. Besides, Hildegard had so many devoted admirers that it would be difficult to say.”

“What about persons who might bear the zoo itself some grudge? Do you know of any?”

“Inspector, we are the most well-loved institution in Vienna.”

“Indeed, but I was thinking that perhaps you might have dismissed a keeper, who—”

“No!” interrupted the director. “No one has been dismissed. And relations between the board of governors and the keepers have always been excellent. You mark my words, Inspector,” said Pfundtner, pointing his finger at the mutilated anaconda. “This abomination is the work of a madman!”

“You may well be right, Herr Director,” said Rheinhardt, taking his notebook from his pocket. As he did so, the door to the snake-pit opened and Walter Gundlach appeared.

“Inspector—your assistant is here.”

Rheinhardt called out, “All right—I'm on my way.” Then, turning to Pfundtner, he added more softly, “Remember, Herr Director, tread only on the stones.” Then he dropped his empty notebook back inside his coat pocket.

The two men made their way back up the slope, occasionally stretching out their arms to keep their balance. When they reached the door, the director politely allowed Rheinhardt to go through first. The doctor was still standing next to his seated patient. Walter Gundlach gestured Rheinhardt toward the hallway, where young Haussmann, the inspector's assistant, was waiting. He looked flushed and was breathing heavily as though he had been running. Without saying a word, Rheinhardt joined his junior, and they walked along the corridor until they could speak without being overheard.

“Please accept my apologies, sir. There was a—”

Rheinhardt did not want to hear any excuses. Haussmann was only a little late. Rheinhardt was disinclined to reprimand his assistant and so cut his apology off with a question: “Do you know what's happened here?”

“No, sir. I left the security office as soon as I learned of your whereabouts.”

Haussmann took out his notebook and waited for the inspector to speak. His pencil hovered over the blank paper. Rheinhardt's baggy eyes suddenly sparkled with a playful light.

“The victim is a thirty-foot female—approximately five hundred fifty pounds. She is known only as Hildegard and is said to be a personal favorite of the emperor.”

The young man stopped writing and looked up at his superior.

“You
are
joking, sir?”

“It's a snake, Haussmann—a snake!”

“A snake?”

“An anaconda, to be precise. Death was probably instantaneous
after decapitation. Subsequently the intruder mutilated his victim by cutting off her tail. He gained entry into the snake-pit after knocking out one of the keepers, Herr Arnoldt. He's the poor fellow with the head bandage. Get a police photographer down here at once and prepare a floor plan. Take impressions of the director's shoes and those worn by the two keepers—Herr Arnoldt and Herr Gundlach—then see if you can get a cast of any prints in the snake-pit. Herr Arnoldt has lost his memory, but the doctor says that there's a fair chance it will return. I'll try interviewing him in a couple of hours: he might have more to say by then.”

The assistant looked up from his notebook. “This is all very unusual, sir.”

“Haussmann, you have a gift for understatement.”

Rheinhardt turned and began walking toward the exit.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Haussmann?”

“Where are you going?”

“To inspect the perimeter fence for damage.” Rheinhardt paused for a moment and then added, “Oh yes, and see if you can find a murder weapon. If it's here, it'll be easy to find. Something large, I suspect—an axe or some sort of sword.”

After the stifling heat of the reptile house, the fresh morning air was a delight.

3

T
HE DINING ROOM WAS
large and grandly decorated. An ornate chandelier hung from a high ceiling, and one of the walls was dominated by an intricately carved Biedermeier chest. It was a massive piece of furniture that stood almost as high as the cornicing. Liebermann—a man whose aesthetic preferences were decidedly modern—found its involutions too fussy and its stolid virtues dull. On the opposite wall was a large canvas by a popular landscape artist depicting trees and a distant horizon of snowcapped peaks. It was blandly titled
Vienna Wood.

Since his engagement to Clara, Liebermann had found himself eating with the Weiss family at least once a week. Whenever he chose to visit Clara, Jacob or Esther (Clara's parents) would invariably insist that he stay for supper. Dining with the Weisses was not as exacting as dining with his own family—which was always a somewhat tense affair—but it represented, nevertheless, an obligation that was beginning to pall. In addition to Clara and her parents, several other members of the Weiss family were present: Clara's adolescent sister, Rachel, her older brother, Konrad, and his wife, Bettina. Konrad and Bettina's two infant sons—Leo and Emil—were asleep in a bedroom upstairs.

The company had just finished the main course, which consisted of boiled beef with green vegetables, and the servants were clearing the plates.

Clara was in full spate.

“You will never guess who I saw yesterday—Fräulein Stahl. Outside Lobmeyr's. I haven't seen her for ages—apparently she went to Franzenbad this year, although she didn't have a single good thing to say about the place.”

“Where did she stay?” asked Esther.

“The Hotel Holzer. She said that the people there were very stuck-up.”

“Yes, I'd only go to Meran now,” Jacob proclaimed. Turning to Liebermann, he spoke more softly. “We went there in the summer, of course.” Then, addressing the table at large, he added, “A much nicer atmosphere. I don't know why we've never been before. The grapes were particularly good.”

“Fräulein Stahl said the water in Franzenbad tasted disgusting,” said Clara. “Even so, she was made to drink buckets of the stuff because her doctor—what's his name—Rozenblit—thinks she has a weak liver and he believes the waters of Franzenbad are particularly good for such complaints. Do you know him, Max? Rozenblit?”