Sprenger’s tram turned off Franz-Josefs-Kai and began its transit across the Danube canal. Liebermann grabbed a support to stop himself from falling as they careered around the same section of track. Through the window Liebermann noticed a steamboat, eructating smoke from a long funnel and tugging two barges. It was heading east, churning the grey-green water and leaving a frothy trail. The slow, almost imperceptible, passage of the flotilla was oddly calming.
On the other side of the bridge Sprenger’s tram came to a halt. As the people waiting at the stop converged around the open platforms, Liebermann caught sight of Sprenger’s shirtsleeves in the throng. The undertaker made no attempt to run and was threading his way in an unhurried manner through the crowd.
Liebermann jumped off before his tram stopped and walked briskly around the press of bodies. He emerged on the other side to see Sprenger no more than ten metres away. Unfortunately, it was also at that precise moment that Sprenger chose to check if he was being followed. On recognising Liebermann, the undertaker immediately took off again.
The brief respite on the tram had done Liebermann a great deal of good. He had recovered his breath and the pain in his stomach was no longer quite so distracting. Indeed, he seemed to be catching up with Sprenger.
The undertaker disappeared around a corner and Liebermann followed, skidding on the pavement which was slippery with squashed fruit. A number of barrows were parked at the kerb and costermongers were shouting the prices of apples and apricots. Just ahead, some Hassidic Jews were descending the steps of a synagogue.
Liebermann shouted: ‘Stop that man!’
The Hassidim froze but did nothing.
‘Stop him!’ Liebermann tried again. None of them were prepared to stand in the undertaker’s way.
Sprenger dashed past the synagogue and entered one of the buildings on the same side of the road. Liebermann was so close by now that he could almost touch him. Inside was an empty, lightless vestibule, with a broad staircase curving upwards. Liebermann chased Sprenger up the stairs, across a landing, and down a hallway. At the end of the hallway Sprenger tried one of the doors, violently shaking the handle. It was locked. Behind him was a window. There was no escape. He stood, his hands by his side, looking at Liebermann.
The sound of their breathing was loud and ragged. Liebermann drew the back of his hand across his forehead to wipe off the perspiration. He considered shouting for help but knew that he couldn’t count on anybody’s assistance. The tenants would probably be as reluctant to get involved as the Hassidim had been. Liebermann was aware of voices but they did not seem to be coming from anywhere inside the building, which was eerily quiet.
‘You must come with me to the Grosse Sperlgasse police station,’ said Liebermann.
Sprenger shook his head.
‘I don’t think so, Herr doctor.’ His blue eyes caught the soft light and flashed brightly. ‘You’re not armed — are you?’ Liebermann did not answer. ‘No. It was the inspector who had the gun.’
‘You can’t get away, Herr Sprenger.’
‘Perhaps not …’
A faint smile.
‘If you accompany me to Grosse Sperlgasse …’
‘Spare me!’ The smile vanished. ‘Spare me the horse-trading and the empty bargaining! I will hang, Herr doctor. Whether I am docile and come with you like a lamb — or whether I skin you alive with my penknife.’
Liebermann was not confident that he could better Sprenger if he was forced to defend himself. His courage deserted him: his racing heart felt swollen in his chest, his mouth, dry.
‘I was right — wasn’t I?’ His voice sounded thin. ‘Death is significant to you.’
‘Death is significant to everyone, Herr doctor. You should appreciate that more than most, by virtue of your profession. Death cures all diseases!’
‘No. I mean personally significant.’ Sprenger’s gaze was steady. ‘Death excites you?’
The undertaker tilted his head and, ignoring Liebermann’s question, asked one of his own.
‘What did you see in my mouth?’
‘A possible defence.’
‘What?’
‘A legal defence. Something that might save you from the gallows: you must have noticed it yourself?’
‘Speak plainly, Herr doctor.’
‘The bluish line that runs along your gums. It is a sign.’
‘Of what?’
‘Lead poisoning. You dye your hair with lead oxide — it has damaged your brain. You are not responsible for your actions. A judge would have to take such evidence into consideration before passing sentence.’
Sprenger laughed.
‘I can assure you that I am completely responsible for my actions. I know exactly what I have done.’
‘You may think that, Herr Sprenger.’
‘I believe I have made my position quite clear with respect to bargains.’
‘Then you will hang.’
‘Perhaps …’ Sprenger took a step forward. Liebermann’s muscles tensed. ‘I would rather face an executioner than spend the rest of my life in a prison cell or — even worse — an asylum for the criminally insane.’
Sprenger took another step.
‘Stay where you are.’
‘Are you frightened of me, Herr doctor?’
Liebermann considered his response carefully.
‘Yes. I am frightened of you.’
Sprenger sighed.
‘“Night is the other half of life, and the better half.”’ It was a quotation from Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship.
‘Are you fond of Goethe?’ Liebermann asked. The question sounded weak — a transparent attempt to engage Sprenger and stall his advance.
The undertaker did not reply. His eyes were fixed on Liebermann. His expression was intense and focused.
Voices — laughter — the sound of cutlery.
Where is it coming from?
Sprenger came forward again. Liebermann raised his hands and took a step backwards.
‘Herr Sprenger. I really must insist that you stay where you are.’
‘“Night is the other half of life, and the better half,”’ Sprenger repeated. His voice was a whisper. Liebermann saw the undertaker’s lips moving, but he produced no sound. He was repeating the sentence to himself, again and again.
Suddenly, Sprenger turned on his heels — and ran for the window.
Liebermann cried out: ‘No!’
Sprenger’s body shattered the glass and dropped from view. When the tinkling had subsided, there was a piercing scream. Liebermann rushed down the hallway. Immediately below the window, hanging from the exterior of the building, was a striped awning. A man dressed in a white shirt and black tails — a waiter — was kneeling beside Sprenger’s body.
Liebermann hurried down the stairs and out into the street. He sprinted towards the coffee house. The people who had been sitting at the tables outside were standing up and looking at Sprenger, aghast. A woman with a large floral hat was sobbing against the shoulder of a male companion.
‘I’m a doctor,’ said Liebermann, dropping to his knees and clutching Sprenger’s wrist. At first he thought he was imagining it, the sluggish, feeble beat. But it was definitely there. Sprenger had survived the fall.
49
Rheinhardt was sitting in Liebermann’s office at the General Hospital feeling tired and extremely hungry. He took the Luger pistol from his pocket and studied its construction: the long barrel, the crescent trigger and elegant handgrip.
A perfect example of the gun manufacturer’s craft.