Vienna Blood (7 page)

“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.”

9

T
HE CHAMBER WAS FULL
and the air hummed with the low drone of conversation. Those present were well dressed (tending toward sobriety) and were seated in the horseshoe arrangement of pews. The atmosphere was similar to that in a theater just before the curtain rises, but it was also ecclesiastical: an odd combination of excitement and reverence. In the front pew, close to the wooden throne, stood Professor Foch, Andreas Olbricht, and Hermann Aschenbrandt. The professor removed a watch from his fob pocket, flicked open the case, and observed the time.

“He's late,” said Olbricht.

“Yes,” replied the professor, dryly.

The door at the back of the chamber creaked open, and a short plump man entered. His cheeks were glowing and he was evidently in good spirits. The smile on his face was broad and radiant. He stopped to shake hands with one or two members of the assembly and was seen to nod vigorously in response to their inquiries.

“Hannisch looks happy,” said Olbricht.

“Then
he
must have arrived,” said Aschenbrandt.

Soon the monotonous drone that had filled the chamber was replaced by the rustling sibilance of subdued voices. Certain words and phrases became distinct:

“He's here. …”

“… genius …”

“… greatness …”

“… reputation …”

The plump man took a seat that had been reserved for him on the other arm of the horseshoe and gestured a greeting toward the professor, who replied with a brief downward jerk of the head, like a bird pecking.

Suddenly the door opened again, and a voice called out, “All rise for the first steward of the Order Primal Fire.”

The assembly stood up. Gustav von Triebenbach, wearing a ceremonial red cloak with ermine trim, entered the chamber. He was carrying an ornate staff, which he used to propel himself like a gondolier punting his boat. Von Triebenbach was followed by a liveried servant, whose right arm was linked through the left arm of an extraordinary companion—a man in his fifties, with a long unruly gray beard and an enormous, incongruously dark bushy mustache. He was wearing a rather shapeless velveteen flat cap, which would not have appeared out of place on the head of a Renaissance courtier. However, the most striking feature of his appearance were the lint bandages that had been wound around the top half of his head. Nothing of his face could be seen above the tip of his nose.

As the three men walked to the front of the chamber, the congregation began to clap, and soon the enclosed vaulted space was reverberating with the noise of an enthusiastic reception.

The liveried servant helped the bandaged man onto the wooden throne, but his progress was faltering: the sudden movement of his hands—plunged desperately into empty space—suggested a moment of anxious uncertainty. Eventually, however, he was able to lower himself between the volute chair arms, and the liveried servant bowed and withdrew.