Frank Tallis - Vienna Blood

“How many times must I remind you, Oskar?” said Liebermann. “The unconscious never forgets. Just because you can't remember the words right now does not mean that they are not in there”-he jabbed his cigar at Rheinhardt's head-”somewhere!”

Rheinhardt squeezed one of the tips of his mustache. “What made you think there were two bodies?”

Liebermann took a sip of brandy and leaned closer to his friend. His expression was solicitous. “I could not help but notice how deeply moved you were by the song…”

“I was,” said Rheinhardt. “My chest was swollen with emotion.”

“Which made me ask myself: what might arouse such strong feelings in my dear friend? And I concluded that the murder scene must have resonated sympathetically with something of great personal significance. And I assumed that nothing could stir the feelings of a father of two daughters more than the demise of two young women. But in this respect, of course, I appear to have strayed.” The look of dejection returned, but was almost immediately dispelled when Liebermann cried, “But perhaps I can redeem myself-a little. The song you chose was a litany for the Feast of All Souls. All souls, note. All souls. The word ‘All’ would suggest a desire to include all of humanity in your prayers- humanity in the round, humanity in its entirety. Which makes me think that the bodies you saw belonged to individuals commonly excluded from society. Pariahs of some description? Out of pity, you wanted to welcome them back into the fold…” Rheinhardt nodded, but said nothing. “In which case,” continued Liebermann, “it is very likely that these murders took place in a brothel!”

“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Rheinhardt. “Exactly right! The bodies were discovered in a brothel in Spittelberg.”

Liebermann, his confidence somewhat restored, rewarded himself with another tot of brandy. “Have the bodies been identified?”

“Yes,” said Rheinhardt. “The man who owns the property where the bodies were found has an agent. We managed to get him to visit the morgue. He did so reluctantly, and I don't blame him-the injuries inflicted on these women were unspeakable. The madam was a woman called Marta Borek. The three girls were Wanda Draczynski, Rozalia Glomb, and the third was called Ludka. The agent didn't know the third girl's full name. At present, we know nothing more about them.”

Rheinhardt rose from his seat and went to the bookcase, where he had previously deposited his bag-a large brown leather case. He released the hasp, opened it up, and took out a small book and a handful of photographs and papers. He returned to his seat and passed the small book to Liebermann.

“I found this in the girl Ludka's room.”

Liebermann examined the inscription. “It's in Yiddish.”

“Yes: To dearest Ludka from your loving grandfather. It's a prayer book.”

Liebermann flicked through the pages. “Are there any other inscriptions?”

“No,” Rheinhardt replied. “She was undoubtedly one of a growing number of Galician women who are routinely sold into prostitution. White slavery has become an international business. Galician girls can be found in the brothels of Alexandria, New York, Buenos Aires, and London. There have even been reports of trafficking operations taking Galician women to Africa, China, and India.”

“She was Jewish,” said Liebermann-his brow furrowing slightly.

“Indeed-most…” Rheinhardt hesitated. “Well, let's say many of these poor girls are.”

“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.”