Part Four
The Vienna Golden
56
L
IEBERMANN AND
R
HEINHARDT 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
R
HEINHARDT 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.”
“What does Herr Sachs do?”
“Do you mean work?”
“Yes. His occupation.”
Frau Warmisch sneered. “He doesn’t do anything. He lives off women.”
“He lives off women?” Rheinhardt repeated.
“This is Spittelberg, Inspector. You know what goes on here.”
“He’s a procurer?”
“Call it what you like.” The woman made a snorting sound—as evocative of the farmyard as her round face—in lieu of laughter. “Pretty girls, some of them, and his own kind too. Yes, always his own kind. What’s he done wrong?”
“Would I be correct in surmising that you are not overly fond of Herr Sachs?”
“Yes, you would be. He isn’t much liked around here.”
“Why?”
“He’s ill-mannered. Rude, dirty, and he…” Frau Warmisch trailed off.
“Yes? What were you going to say?”
“You won’t tell him I told you?”
“That, I can promise you with complete confidence.”
“He mistreats his women,” she went on. “In the summer, with the windows open, you can hear everything. But the noise the last one made was terrible.” She shook her head, and the wattle of flesh that hung beneath her neck swung like a pendulum. “I almost called the police myself. And I haven’t seen her since. Did the ladies send you?”
“What ladies?”
“The two smart young ladies.”
“No. They didn’t. To whom are you referring?”
“They came to see Sachs about a week ago. They were accusing him of something. I think it must have been to do with the last one—you know, his doxy, his girl. They said that they’d got a doctor’s report, and that justice would be done. One of them was furious—banged on his door and shouted about coming back.”
“Had you ever seen them before?”
“No. We don’t get their sort in Spittelberg, Inspector.”
“Could you describe them to me?”
“Well-to-do, smart. One had black hair, the other brown. Their dresses were made of silk. Quite pretty…”
“How tall were they?”
“Not very. They were quite small, really—smaller than me.”
“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. He cringed internally, embarrassed by his careless use of language. Frau Warmisch, however, was not offended. “Any other details?” Rheinhardt asked, eager to move the conversation on.
“I think they were Jews too,” said Frau Warmisch. “They were telling him off for using Jewish women. They said something about how bad it was for him to be making money from his own people.”
Rheinhardt took out his notebook and made some jottings. When he was satisfied that he had learned all that he could, he thanked Frau Warmisch, bowed, and began to walk back toward the main road.
“Inspector?”
Rheinhardt turned.
“Don’t you want to know their names?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The names of the fine ladies.”
“You
know
them?”
“Yes. I heard them introduce themselves. Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl.”
Rheinhardt took out his notebook again and began writing.
“It’s a cold morning, Inspector,” the woman added. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in for a few minutes? Just to warm up.”
Rheinhardt detected a certain lascivious cast in Frau Warmisch’s expression. She was leaning against the doorjamb and had raised her gown a little to reveal a chunky, swollen ankle.
“Most kind,” Rheinhardt replied. “But no, thank you.” He hurried off, his mind filled with nightmarish images of porcine congress.
58
F
RAU
A
RABELLE
P
OPPMEIER ENTERED
the consulting room and hesitated by the door. She had mousy blond hair, bright eyes, and although not beautiful, she might have merited that accolade with the very slightest alteration of her features. Liebermann stood, walked around his desk, and rested his hands on a high-backed chair. It was obvious, from the looseness of her sunny yellow dress and her bulging abdomen, that Frau Poppmeier was pregnant. She saw how Liebermann’s gaze had momentarily lowered, and smiled coyly.
“Please, do come in.”
Exhibiting the ponderous gait typical of gravid women, she walked to the chair and took Liebermann’s offered hand. With this small assistance, she was able to achieve a graceful descent in spite of her condition.
“One moment,” said Liebermann. Snatching a pillow from the rest bed, he lodged it between the base of her spine and the back of the chair. “There, that should be more comfortable.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said.
Liebermann sat behind his desk and opened a file of blank pages.
“So, Frau Poppmeier, how can I help?”
“Well, it isn’t my problem, exactly. But then again, I suppose it
is
my problem—insofar as any problem that affects one’s nearest and dearest also affects oneself. It’s my husband, Ivo. He hasn’t been very well lately. He’s still working, but—”
“What is your husband’s occupation?” Liebermann interjected.
“He’s a salesman for a firm of jewelry designers and manufacturers. They have offices on the Graben.”
Liebermann began to take notes. “And where do you live?”
“On Krongasse.”
“In the fifth district?”
“Yes. Not far from the Naschmarkt. We’ve been very happy there. It’s a little cramped, I suppose…. We already have a daughter, Leonie. She’s four now. But when the little one arrives”—Frau Poppmeier laid a hand on her belly and smiled—“we will probably have to move. I’d like to get an apartment somewhere around here, but Ivo says we can’t afford it. So perhaps it will have to be Landstrasse. It’s not that he isn’t doing well. In fact, he’s been promised a promotion next year. But one can’t help worrying, what with this
problem
of his.” Her lips became a horizontal, bloodless line. “He isn’t himself.”
“How do you mean—not himself?”
“He’s been sickly… less vigorous.”
Liebermann asked a few more questions but found that Frau Poppmeier’s answers were imprecise. She seemed embarrassed. A touch of color occasionally rose to her cheeks. Liebermann assumed that her husband’s
problem
was most probably sexual. The physical changes that altered a woman’s body during pregnancy increased libido in some men while reducing it in others. She had mentioned her husband being less
vigorous
, which sounded like a euphemism; however, it was most unusual for a woman to present on her husband’s behalf. This tended to happen only when the husband had become overly fond of drink. Liebermann decided that it would be in everyone’s interest to expedite matters by being direct.
“Frau Poppmeier, if your husband is suffering from a problem that is affecting your marital relations—”
“Oh, good heavens, no,” she quickly interrupted. Glancing down at her bulge, she added, “Ivo has
always
been able to function as a man. Our relations have become less intimate of late, but that is only because he is concerned for my and the little one’s safety.”
Raising the topic of sex had not caused Frau Poppmeier any awkwardness. What, then, was she so embarrassed about?
“Frau Poppmeier, you have suggested that your husband is out of sorts, unwell, not himself, but could you please try to be a little more specific?”
The young woman sighed, and began to enumerate her husband’s symptoms: indigestion, nausea, constipation, changes of appetite…
Liebermann looked up from his notes.
“Frau Poppmeier, I think there must be some mistake. This is the department of psychological medicine. It sounds like your husband requires the services of a specialist in gastric disorders, not a psychiatrist.”
“We’ve already seen one. Herr Dr. Felbiger.”
“Felbiger?”
“Yes. It was he who suggested we come to see you.”
Liebermann scratched his head. “Are these symptoms making your husband depressed?”
“Not really…” Frau Poppmeier shifted on her chair and grimaced. “This is rather difficult, Herr Doctor. My husband’s nausea tends to happen only in the morning…. He retches but only occasionally vomits. I said that his appetite has changed, but really it would be more accurate to say that he has developed odd food cravings. Fads. And he complains of pressure in his pelvis, tightness of the abdomen, and…” She paused and adjusted the drop of her skirt.
“Yes?” Liebermann prompted.
“Quickening sensations.”
Liebermann put his pen down. Frau Poppmeier looked perfectly sane, but what if she wasn’t? What if everything she had said was an elaborate delusional fantasy? It certainly sounded that way. The young woman detected the change in his expression: the narrowing of his eyes, the setting of his jaw, both suggesting suspicion and doubt.
“Herr Doctor,” Frau Poppmeier continued, “I think you must be well aware of what these symptoms mean.”
Liebermann involuntarily glanced at the woman’s belly.
“What did Dr. Felbiger say?”
“What you are probably thinking but cannot say for fear of sounding foolish. My predicament exactly!” She threw her hands up in a desperate appeal to the heavens. “But yes, you are quite right. My husband appears to have gotten himself pregnant.”