Vienna Blood (34 page)

Stupid little slut. … It was bound to happen some day.

Hefner forced himself to look at the chanteuse, who was now swinging her hips in front of the inebriated doctor and reaching out to toy with his curly black hair. She winked, gay syllables tripping off her tongue in a cascade of suggestive nonsense.

“Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na”

The interview with Rheinhardt had not been unduly long, and Hefner had treated the policeman with all the contempt he deserved. But the lieutenant had still been unable to get away in time for the morning drill, and Kabok had reprimanded him severely. Hefner had tried to explain the situation but the old martinet had given him what-for, his verbal lashing finally degenerating into a series of half-muttered execrations that made immoderate and audible use of words such as “whoring,” “syphilis,” and “shit for brains.” Hefner knew better than to respond. The humiliation was intolerable.

That evening he had gone to the opera, but had been unable to enjoy the performance. He had become obsessed with the notion that he was being followed, and that a particular sharp-featured young man was one of Rheinhardt's spies. He was on the brink of challenging the fellow when he thought better of it. What was the point? Besides, he knew that he would be able to lose the scoundrel in the crowd as it spilled out onto the Ringstrasse.

As Hefner left the Opera House, he was confident that he had achieved his objective. The youth was nowhere to be seen in the cloakroom and did not appear to be waiting in the foyer. But the uhlan had only got as far as Schillerplatz when, to his astonishment, he became painfully conscious of footsteps following close behind him. He turned around abruptly, expecting to see the sharp-featured young man, but was taken aback by the sight of a curious-looking gentleman in a fur coat and pongee suit. He was carrying a cane, the top of which was shaped in the likeness of a jaguar, and a monocle hung from his vest on a length of black ribbon. The gentleman's face was broad, and he sported an oriental drooping mustache and a small goatee beard. His eyes could barely be seen below the wide brim of his hat.

“Do I know you, sir?” asked Hefner.

The stranger took a few leisurely steps forward and smiled. A frigid smile that seemed more like a grimace.

“No.” His breath condensed in the frozen air. “But I believe that
you
are familiar—very familiar—with my sister.”

His accent was Hungarian.

“Your sister?”

“The countess? You remember the countess?”

Hefner shook his head.

The stranger then produced a string of colorful and quite shocking insults, each one delivered with an almost gleeful relish. Occasionally he would slip back into his native tongue—presumably because he could not find a German word sufficiently plosive to express the desired degree of opprobrium that his insult required. He spat out harsh consonants and flattened vowels. From this cataract of curses and maledictions the nature of the gentleman's accusation gradually became clear. Hefner had misled his kind, good-hearted sister, taken advantage of her, and in doing so had ruined her good reputation.

The eighteenth had been stationed in Hungary that summer at a godforsaken outpost on the banks of the Tisza. There had been absolutely nothing to do there, and Hefner had been forced to relieve his boredom with a few inconsequential assignations: a milkmaid, a doctor's wife … and yes, there
had
been a countess, a countess whose family had fallen upon hard times. What was her name?

That was it—Záborszky.

Countess Borbala Záborszky.

Hefner was in no mood for a confrontation of this kind. It had all been such a long time ago—he could hardly remember the woman.

“Look, my friend,” Hefner said, somewhat dismissively. “I think you have the wrong man.”

The stranger shook his head. “No. There has been no mistake.”

Languidly—almost lazily—he pulled at the fingers of his glove, stretching the material covering each digit in turn. Eventually the thin, adhesive material snapped off, contracting in the process. The stranger then raised the glove up, with its pathetic cluster of drooping, shriveled udders, and said, “Consider yourself slapped.”

A small group of well-dressed men had gathered close by. They too had probably been to the opera. The stranger's raised glove was enough to signal what was happening.

In matters of honor there were three categories of slur. The simple slight, the direct insult, and the blow or slap. The first two might be resolved without bloodshed—but not the third.

Hefner executed a brief bow, then he and Záborszky exchanged the names of their seconds. The uhlan made his way back to the Café Haynau, where he found Renz and Trapp at their usual table. They were immediately dispatched to the Café Museum, instructed to liaise with the stranger's seconds: Doctor Jóska Dekany and Herr Otto Braun.

“Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na”

Mathilde rotated her hips provocatively in front of the doctor's face. The men sitting at adjacent tables began to clap and yell.

“Lipje su Bahtrh p drva kxleci

Nego Ri
fe
injice v htmarah svkci”

The girls from Bakar collecting wood for the fire

Are more beautiful than the girls from Rijeka

Sitting in solemn attire …

The door of the café swung open, and Renz and Trapp appeared. The smoke eddied around their feet and a few stray snowflakes followed them in.

“Well?” asked Hefner.

The two men slumped down and removed their caps. Snow had collected on their shoulders.

“Yes, all done,” Trapp replied.

“Where is it to be?”

“In a private room above Kryschinski's whorehouse.”

“What?”
Hefner looked from Trapp to Renz, as if Trapp had declared himself a lunatic and could no longer be trusted.

“They insisted on an American duel,” said Renz.

“An American duel!” cried Hefner. “And you
agreed
?”

“When we left, you said
anything
—it was
all the same
to you.”

“God in heaven, I can't believe it!” said Hefner shaking his head. “An American duel …”

Trapp and Renz exchanged worried glances.

“Renz is right,” said Trapp. “You
did
say
anything.
It's what you
always
say.”

“But an American duel …”

A loud cheer went up, and the three men turned to see the busty chanteuse straddling the lap of the regimental doctor.

“Tan ta-na-na-na, ni-na ne-na”

“Well,” said Hefner, “at least this time we won't be needing his services.”

59

“F
ASTER!
”

The driver cracked his whip and yelled another imprecation at the horses. Inside, the portly inspector felt like a mariner caught in some dreadful storm, his little vessel being tossed from one wave to the next. Rheinhardt tried to peer out of the window but could see very little. Covered shop fronts and yellow gaslights flashed past. He gave up and closed his eyes. The vestigial tatters of an interrupted dream were still flapping around, incomprehensibly, in his mind.

A great ballroom, viewed from above.

Couples rotating in triple time beneath a glorious chandelier, each pair like cogwheels in a great machine, endlessly turning. And then a sentence, spoken by a pleasant, pensive, world-weary voice: “No one escapes The Eternity Waltz, my friend. As you will see, it goes on forever.”

The Eternity Waltz? What would Max make of that?

A pothole in the road made Rheinhardt's buttocks part company with the seat. He landed with a dull thump, which returned him, somewhat rudely, to the present. The carriage shook and Rheinhardt's forehead bumped against the glass. He cursed loudly.

Only twenty minutes earlier he had been fast asleep in a warm, comfortable bed. A tactile memory teased his peripheral nerves: his wife's soft, accommodating body, the reassuring feel of her breasts beneath the cotton of her nightdress. Something of her scent still
lingered in his nostrils, as homely as freshly baked bread and as sweet as honeysuckle.

The telephone had rung out with unusual harshness. The rotating couples in his dream had spun into oblivion and he had sat bolt upright, staring into the shadows, his heart pounding as loudly and insistently as the kettledrum in a Brahms symphony. A sense of horror had overwhelmed him long before his critical faculties had engaged sufficiently to invest the impatient bell with meaning. Eventually, though, the horror connected with a name: Salieri.

The carriage slowed and came to a halt. Immediately, Rheinhardt opened the door and stepped down. The horses snorted violently and rapped the cobbles with their restive hooves. Flecks of foam had appeared on their steaming haunches. The driver leaped off his box and pressed some crystallized sugar between the lips of the nearest animal.

“Fast enough for you?”

“Yes,” said the inspector, bluntly.

“Another murder, is it?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“And here of all places.”

Rheinhardt looked across the deserted Neuer Markt, which was dominated by the Donner fountain. Nude figures, each of which represented a tributary of the Danube, lounged and stretched on its rim. The edifice was covered in a salty rime that sparkled like mica. The sky above was cloudless, and the stars looked as if they had been strewn across the firmament by a careless angel. The effect was one of negligent perfection.

One of the horses rocked its head from side to side, its bridle producing a silvery carillon.

“Nothing's sacred, eh?” added the driver.

Rheinhardt turned and looked upward. The Kapuzinerkirche was
not an attractive building—it resembled a child's drawing of a house, with its steep triangular roof and few distinguishing features. An arched niche in the gable contained a figure carrying a crucifix, and below this was a simple arrangement of three windows and a porch. The lack of ornament suggested grim austerity—mortification and self-denial. Adjoining the church was a square-shaped annex, the entrance to which was a large half-open door. It led to the Habsburg crypt. A solitary constable stood outside, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together.

Rheinhardt approached the young man and introduced himself.

The constable could barely respond. His teeth were chattering and a water droplet hung precariously from the end of his pointed, murine nose.

“You should stand inside,” said Rheinhardt with concern.

“But I've been given orders, sir.”

“No one will be wandering in off the street at this time. Come, now. If there are any questions, tell your seniors I insisted.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the constable. “You are most kind.”

The young man entered the building and guided Rheinhardt to a steep staircase. A faint light came from below.

Rheinhardt began his descent, pressing against the reassuring presence of the wall with his fingertips. His eyes had not properly adjusted to the darkness and his step was cautious. The air became redolent with a distinctive waxy perfume, and he could hear a faint, eerie susurration.

The light grew stronger, and when he reached the foot of the stairs, he discovered another constable standing next to a tall candelabra.

“Inspector Rheinhardt?”

“Yes.”

“Constable Stroop, sir.”

“Good man.”

“It … he … the body, sir.” He gestured into the shadowy distance. “Down there.” The constable's eyes shone, emphasizing his youth but also suggesting fear.

Rheinhardt nodded, and carefully lifted a candle from its clawed sconce. He proceeded to walk into the cold, whispering darkness. The sound of his boots echoed on the stone flags. He moved between two rows of hexagonal bronze caskets, vainly attempting to protect the wick of his candle with a cupped hand. The nervous flame flickered and flared, fitfully illuminating the casket decorations: grinning death's heads, floral wreaths, and ghostly coils of ivy. Rheinhardt's attention was suddenly captured by an arresting cast of a human skull, incongruously adorned with a veil and crown. The inspector glanced at the superscription and registered the name of a long-dead Habsburg monarch. He was reminded of something he had once heard concerning the royal burial rite. Traditionally, the faces of the Habsburg emperors were stoved in so that they would not appear vainglorious before the Almighty. They were also equipped with a bell and bellpull with which to sound an alarm should they find themselves buried alive. Rheinhardt imagined the interior of the casket: fragments of smashed bone beneath a dusty periwig—a skeletal hand reaching for the bellpull handle. He was surprised by an involuntary shudder. Raising his candle to press back the darkness, he continued his journey.

Rheinhardt's breath preceded him, clouding the frozen air. Through the billowy haze he detected two winking lights that grew brighter as he drew closer. The inchoate sibilance increased in volume, resolving itself into the regularities of language—one that Rheinhardt recognized.

“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine …”

Forms began to appear—penumbral outlines that might be human figures—and there was not one voice but several, each chanting a different prayer.

“Da, quaesumus Dominus, ut in hora mortis nostrae …”

At first, it seemed to Rheinhardt that he was approaching a scene that could not be real. Three hooded figures knelt between seated females in flowing gowns. Above them, apparently floating in the air, he could discern a couple—facing each other and separated by a ghostly cherub.

“Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum …”

A little closer, and the mystery was revealed. Three Capuchin monks were kneeling in front of a monumental casket. The other figures were life-size bronzes—the two women leaning out from an ornate prow with the couple and cherub perched on its lid. The weak candlelight did not illuminate much beyond the casket, but Rheinhardt suspected that the canopy of darkness concealed a dome or cupola. In front of the three Capuchins was a supine body.