Frank Tallis - Vienna Blood

“Yes, Inspector?”

Rheinhardt had not expected to conduct his interview standing in the middle of a cold half-empty barracks room.

Outside, a bugle sounded, followed by the clatter of hooves. Rheinhardt suspected that the colonel was content to dispense with pleasantries.

“I am investigating the Spittelberg murders.”

The colonel's low oxlike brow creased.

“Murders? In Spittelberg?”

“Yes. You have perhaps read about them in the Zeitung?”

“The Zeitung? Inspector, I haven't read a newspaper in twenty years.”

“Oh…”

“Like His Majesty, the imperial commander-in-chief, I favor the military gazette. What isn't in the military gazette, I don't need to know.”

Unperturbed, Rheinhardt continued. “On Tuesday, four women were murdered in a Spittelberg brothel. A madam and three house girls believed to have recently come to Vienna from Galicia.”

The colonel rotated his bullet-shaped head on his thick bull neck. His rigid expression changed slightly. “Ah yes, the men were talking about this in the mess.”

“You overheard something?”

“Yes.”

The colonel didn't care to elaborate. He remained perfectly still, his eyebrows bristling.

“The women,” continued Rheinhardt, “were horribly abused- their genitals had been mutilated, their throats cut. The incisions were deep. It is possible that some of these injuries were inflicted with”-he glanced down at the colonel's weapon-”a sabre.”

Kabok's crude rustic features remained fixed. His face reminded Rheinhardt of a potato that he had once used to amuse his daughters. After a long silence, the colonel said bluntly, “You wanted my assistance.”

Rheinhardt handed him a sheet of paper. On it were written the names of several military personnel.

“All these men were patrons of the Spittelberg establishment.”

“Where did you get these names?” barked the colonel.

“They were found on promissory notes in the madam's bureau. Do you know any of them?”

“Yes. Lieutenant Lipos?ak, Lieutenant Hefner…” Kabok's eyes moved from side to side. “Renz and Witold.”

“I must speak to them.”

For the first time Kabok moved. He lumbered over to the twin prints of the emperor and the late empress, his spurs producing a dead jangling in the closed space. With his eyes fixed on the image of the imperial commander-in-chief, he said, “In this world, Inspector, nothing is more important to me than the uhlans, and nothing more sacred than regimental honor. I know these men…” He flapped the sheet of paper in his hand. “No one knows them better. You will not find a spot of rust on their swords, a button badly polished, or a single scuff mark on their boots. They are a credit to His Majesty, a credit to the empire. None of them would ever disgrace the regiment. If-as you imply-the abomination you described was perpetrated by one of my men, then I would have failed His Majesty. I would take that pistol from the wall and blow out my brains.”

Rheinhardt shifted uncomfortably.

The colonel looked up. His cheeks had reddened slightly, and a vein on his temple had started to throb.

“I will arrange for you to meet these men. But believe me, Inspector, you are wasting your time.”

RHEINHARDT WAS ESCORTED TO a room located in an outbuilding some distance from the barracks. On the wall hung the obligatory image of Emperor Franz Josef; however, the old print was not a good likeness and the paper was mildewed around the edges. A small stove heated the room, but it was miserably inadequate. Rheinhardt's fingertips were almost numb. He had finished interviewing Lieutenant Harry Lipos?ak (a polite but somewhat taciturn Hungarian) and was now in the process of interrogating Lieutenant Ruprecht Hefner.

Slim, handsome, pale, with blond curls peeping out from under his peaked cap and with a downy, carefully combed mustache, Hefner was the kind of young officer whom Rheinhardt would have expected to encounter on the pages of a romantic novel. His uniform was, as Colonel Kabok had promised, immaculate. The blue of his tunic and breeches was as vivid as a summer sky. His buttons glowed with a lustrous aura, and his fine leather top boots produced a satisfying creak every time he moved. A gold-yellow tassle hung from the pommel of his sabre. The other lieutenant, Lipos?ak, had also sported a pristine uniform, but there was something about Hefner's posture, the straightness of his back, the projection of his chin, the relaxed attitude of his shoulders, that gave him a definite sartorial advantage.

“Where were you on Tuesday morning?” Rheinhardt asked.

“In bed. I wasn't very well.” Hefner's voice was clear and steady, but he spoke with a certain languor. He seemed to be affecting a world-weariness that would have been more appropriate in a man twice his age.

“What was wrong with you?”

“I don't know-I was just sick.”

“Did anyone see you on Tuesday morning?”

“Yerik, my batman.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“Why didn't you call the regimental doctor?”

“I did, later in the day.”

“And what did the doctor say was wrong?”

“He said I had an inflammation of the gut.”

“Which was caused by?”

“I have no idea, Inspector. I'm not a doctor.”

Rheinhardt produced a sheet of paper, which he shunted across the table.

“Do you recognize this?”

“Yes,” said Hefner, calmly. “It is a promissory note, signed by myself. I owed Madam Borek ten kronen.”

“How often did you visit Madam Borek's establishment?”

“Quite often.”

“Why?”

“Isn't it obvious, Inspector?” Hefner's bloodless lips curved slightly. He seemed mildly amused.

“There are many brothels in Spittelberg, Lieutenant. Why Madam Borek's?”

“I was rather fond of one of the girls. She was new there…”

“What was her name? This new girl?”

“Lucca? Something like that.”

“Ludka?”

“Yes, that's it, Ludka. Very pretty…” Hefner smiled again. “And very compliant-if you follow my meaning.”

He lifted his chin a fraction higher in order to clear his stiff high collar. The material was decorated with two gold embroidered stars.

“Madam Borek's establishment did not possess a government trade license,” said Rheinhardt.

“Why should that be of any concern to me?”

“The establishment was illegal.”

Hefner shrugged. “I did not break the law.”

“State-registered prostitutes receive a medical examination twice a week. What precautionary measures do you think Madam Borek took?”

Hefner's lip curled again. “There are always risks, Inspector, wherever one goes in pursuit of pleasure. I am sure that a man of your”-Hefner looked Rheinhardt up and down-”experience appreciates that fact.”

It was an insolent remark, which Rheinhardt did not wish to acknowledge with a response. Instead, he jotted down a few lines in his notebook. When he looked up again, a supercilious smirk was still hovering around Hefner's lips.

“Did Madam Borek have any enemies?”

“How should I know?”

“Did you ever hear of anyone being violent with the women at Madam Borek's?”

“No.”

“Did you ever see anyone there who behaved oddly? Anyone you suspected of being mentally unbalanced?”

Hefner laughed. “Inspector, when I visited Madam Borek's establishment, the behavior of the other patrons was the least of my concerns. Besides, I hardly ever saw them.”

“Did you see Lieutenant Lipos?ak at Madam Borek's?”

“No.”

“What about Renz and Witold?”

“I saw Renz there once… a few weeks ago.”

“Do you know who Captain Alderhorst is?”