It must have been past two in the morning when the telephone rang.
“Max?”
“Oskar?”
“There’s been another murder.”
“A decapitation?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Saint Ulrich’s-Spittelberg.”
“Do you want me to-”
“Come. Yes, if you don’t mind. I’ll send a police vehicle.”
“Who is it? Do you know?”
Rheinhardt paused before giving his answer. “A man named Jeheil Sachs.”
“Jeheil Sachs…”
“Yes. A Jew. Now, I wonder where that leaves us?”
Part Four
The Vienna Golden
56
Liebermann and Rheinhardt stood beside the headless body. The dead man was obviously impoverished. Liebermann noticed that the leather sole of one of his shoes was worn through and the cuffs of his coat were frayed. Scattered around the corpse were clods of mud, plainly visible in the yellow light that fell from a gas lamp mounted on the church wall.
The two men were situated in a narrow alley that followed the east-facing side of the Ulrichskirche. The featureless stucco of the nave ascended toward a ribbon of starry sky. On the other side of the alley was a large and uninspiring building with regularly spaced windows, all of them black and lifeless. The effect was claustrophobic. Liebermann felt hemmed in.
Rivulets of blood flowed between the cobbles. They formed an inverted delta, the apex of which marked the convergence of the glistening streams. The victim’s head lay beyond, having been encouraged to roll some distance from the body by the alley’s incline.
Close by, the police photographer and his assistant were setting up their equipment.
Liebermann crouched down to examine what remained of the dead man’s neck.
“I can’t see very much,” he muttered.
Rheinhardt produced a flashlight. Pushing the metal bar forward, he released a pulse of illumination that revealed the lurid interior of the stump: fractured bone, muscle tissue, and pale vessels hanging loosely in space. The ferrous smell of fresh blood was almost overwhelming.
“Again,” said the young doctor.
The inspector obliged, and another pulse of light coaxed the nightmarish vision back again. It seemed to emerge slowly out of the darkness, a macabre blossoming like the unfolding petals of a strange carnal flower.
“Just like the others,” said Liebermann. “The cervical structures have been identically displaced.”
“Now,” said Rheinhardt, “look at this.”
The beam of light played on the slick cobblestones. Something glinted, and Liebermann leaned closer. It was a Star of David on a chain.
Standing up, Liebermann surveyed his surroundings. His expression changed suddenly from mild disgust to perplexity.
“What is it?” Rheinhardt inquired.
“There’s no plague column.”
“Yes, there is. You approached the Ulrichskirche from Neustiftgasse. There’s a plague column up there.” Rheinhardt jerked his thumb back. “At the back of the church.”
“I’d like to take a look.”
“Of course.”
Leaving Rheinhardt to speak with the photographer, Liebermann soon found himself standing on a wide, empty thoroughfare. Across the road were tall five-story apartment blocks. Several of the upper windows were illuminated: together with a well-placed street lamp they provided Liebermann with enough light to make his inspection.
The plague column, a vertical scrum of saints and putti, was situated directly behind the church. It was much more like the famous plague column on the Graben than the one he had seen outside the Maria Treu Kirche, being vaguely organic-like the twisted bole of a tree-and designed to convey an impression of frenetic activity. Approximately halfway up, a figure projecting out of the tumbling horde was made even more conspicuous by a radiant sun. At the summit, Liebermann saw a Christlike figure clutching a massive golden cross, and another bearded ancient holding a golden orb. They were separated by an eagle that seemed to hover between them with no obvious means of support.
On either side of the monument were statues of saints, their names engraved in the stone pedestals on which they stood. Saint Barbara, represented like an operatic diva, threw her head back and clasped a chalice to her breast. Her robes had fallen off her shoulder to reveal an impressively lithe figure. She looked commandingly beautiful, and her dishabille imbued her with a subtle erotic charm. Saint Rosalia struck a more modest pose, the copious folds of her abundant gown gathered in one hand, a personification of maidenly virtues.
Rheinhardt appeared from behind the church and joined Liebermann by the column. He offered his friend a Trabuco cheroot, which the young doctor accepted.
“Do you know anything about these saints?” Liebermann asked.
“Saint Barbara was a renowned beauty and, I believe, is the patron saint of artillerymen. As for Saint Rosalia”-Rheinhardt lit Liebermann’s cigar, then his own-“I’m afraid my memory fails me. Although she may have halted a plague once, which is probably why she is here.”
Liebermann nodded and exhaled a stream of smoke.
“How did you discover the victim’s identity?”
“He was carrying some papers. In fact, he lives just around the corner. I’ll be going to take a look at his house once we’ve finished here. Would you care to join me?”
“I can’t,” said Liebermann, shaking his head. “Patients.”
“Of course.”
“Who found the body?”
“A fellow called Bietak, a hotel porter. He was on his way home after work.”
“Did he see anything unusual? Hear anything?”
“No.”
Rheinhardt stepped off the pavement and looked up and down the silent street.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked. “I thought the golem was supposed to protect Jews.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Liebermann, his voice strained by disbelief. “It doesn’t make any sense at all!”
57
Rheinhardt knocked at the door. There was no response.
He observed across the street a plump red face looking out of one of the windows. The pressure of the woman’s nose on the glass had turned it upward, revealing two circular nostrils. Seen through the frost of her condensed breath, she appeared distinctly porcine. She did not avert her gaze when detected but continued to watch with a fixed stare.
Rheinhardt indicated that he wished to speak with her. She blinked at him and then withdrew behind the drapes; however, she did not come to the door immediately.
Because it was still early, Rheinhardt assumed that the plump woman was making herself presentable, if such a thing were possible. He then chastised himself for entertaining this uncharitable thought. After all, his own figure left much to be desired. In due course there was the sound of a metal bolt being drawn, and the door creaked open.
The woman stood squarely, in an attitude of defiance, with ruddy arms folded across a bust of considerable bulk.
“Yes?”
“Good morning. My name is Rheinhardt. Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt.” He produced his identification. The woman squinted, her eyes shrinking in the morning light. “May I ask you a few questions?”
“Questions? What questions?”
“Well, perhaps we could start with your name?”
“Tilde Warmisch.”
“Very good. Now, Frau Warmisch, that house over there.” Rheinhardt pointed at the filthy exterior opposite. “Do you know who lives there?”
“Yes. Herr Sachs.”
“Jeheil Sachs?”
“I don’t know about his first name. I just know him as Sachs, the Jew.”
“When was the last time you saw Herr Sachs?”
“Does he owe money? That wouldn’t surprise me. Let me think.” Frau Warmisch sucked on her lower lip. “Yesterday… at about six o’clock.”