Frank Tallis - Vienna Blood

“You were seen outside on several occasions. What were you doing?”

Krull rolled his head back. “Why must I lie here like this-are you going to do something to me?”

“No,” said Liebermann patiently. “Now, could you please answer my question? What were you doing?”

“I wanted to see the girl,” snapped Krull.

“Which one?”

“The young one, Ludka.”

“Why did you want to see her?”

Krull squeezed his thick lower lip. Dark crescents showed where dirt had collected beneath his nails.

“I wanted to talk to her.” Liebermann allowed the subsequent pause to lengthen. “I wanted to save her.”

The young doctor raised his eyebrows and glanced at Rheinhardt.

“Save her?” Liebermann repeated.

“Yes, from a life of sin.”

“I see,” said Liebermann. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Did you ever speak to Ludka?”

“Only once.”

“When was that?”

“The first time I saw her: the first time we met. About a month ago-it was by the fountain.”

“And what did you say to her?”

“I had a cold and was sneezing. She gave me her handkerchief. I asked her where she lived and she pointed down the street. I knew the house… That's to say, I knew what sort of house it was. I promised to return the handkerchief. Thing is, her German wasn't very good-I'm not sure she understood what I was saying.”

“And did you keep your promise? Did you return her handkerchief?”

“No, I didn't get the chance to.”

“Where is the handkerchief now?”

Krull appeared to tap his heart-a gesture which Liebermann took to mean that the handkerchief was in one of Krull's pockets.

“May I see it?”

The little man slid his right hand under the left lapel of his jacket and pulled out a small square of white cotton. It was embroidered around the edges with a tiny motif of linked roses.

“Thank you,” said Liebermann.

Krull held the handkerchief up to his nose, sampled its fragrance, and stuffed it back into his jacket pocket.

“I went to the house,” Krull continued. “I don't deny it. I used to stand outside for hours, waiting for her to come out-which was how I got talking to that old gossip Chalupnik.”

“Why didn't you knock on the door?”

“I don't know… embarrassment… shame. I ended up in the inn more often than not, warming myself up with one too many slivovitzes.”

“Are you saying that you never saw her again after that first meeting?”

“No. I did see her again, but only once more. Chalupnik was there. She came out with a cavalryman. Blond tall chap-I suppose you'd call him handsome. They were laughing… I think he was drunk. I felt… I don't know… churned up inside. I turned my back on them and spoke to the old man. She didn't see me.”

“Herr Krull, were you in love with Ludka?”

“Don't be ridiculous! I felt sorry for her. I wanted to help her get out of that place. Those soldiers… I've heard what they get up to. If the emperor knew the truth, eh?”

Liebermann produced a small white object, which he proceeded to hold above Krull's head.

“Do you recognize this, Herr Krull?”

“No.”

“The third metacarpal, I believe-probably belonging to a woman aged around nineteen or twenty years.”

“Meta what? What are you talking about?”

“It's a woman's finger, Herr Krull. And do you know where it was found? In the recess just outside your apartment-among the votive candles.”

“People are always throwing things in there. It probably belongs to the medical student downstairs…”

Liebermann removed the bone from Krull's line of vision.

“Herr Krull, why were the clothes in your wardrobe covered in blood?”

“You know why-I've told the inspector.”

“Yes, but I want you to tell me.”

“My clothes were covered in blood because I work in an abattoir. It's pig's blood.”

“Do you normally leave bloody clothes in your wardrobe?”

“Yes. There's nowhere else to put them. If I don't get to the bathhouse, then my clothes don't get washed.”

THE SMALL COFFEEHOUSE near the Anatomical Institute was a short walk from the Schottenring police station. Liebermann found himself once more by the window seat, observing the passing traffic. Across the table, Rheinhardt was admiring the involuted structure that occupied his plate. It was a generous portion of tiroler strauben-crisp, freshly fried curls of pancake mixture, flavored with schnapps and sprinkled with sugar. Rheinhardt sliced off a coil of the light brown confection with his fork and lifted it to his mouth.

“Oh yes,” he said, chewing vigorously. “Very good indeed-just like I had in the Tyrol last summer.”

Liebermann sipped his schwarzer and drummed a five-finger exercise on the edge of the table.

“Well?” said Rheinhardt, finally.

“I'm thinking,” said Liebermann.

“My dear fellow,” said Rheinhardt, “I had already guessed that you weren't counting streetcars. Perhaps you would be so kind as to share your thoughts?”

Liebermann sighed and looked toward his friend. “I am deeply troubled by Herr Krull's appearance.”

“Indeed. When I saw him for the first time, I thought to myself, Here is a face that proves Lombroso's theories. I know you do not hold with Lombroso, Max, but the man looks like-forgive my incivility- an ape. I once saw an illustration showing an artist's impression of the creature from which Homo sapiens is said to have evolved. It could have been Krull's brother.”

“And therein lies the problem,” Liebermann said. “We see his face and are prejudiced immediately. Moreover, the brute does little to dissuade us otherwise. His manners and toilet are appalling. Did you see his fingernails?” Liebermann gave a mock, theatrical shudder. “Yet,” he continued, “that is precisely why one must be cautious.”

Rheinhardt stopped eating his strauben and placed the fork down on his plate. “With respect, Max,” he said slowly, “I'm not altogether sure what you mean.”

Liebermann steepled his fingers. “It is all too easy to see how a pathetic figure like Krull might come to commit an atrocity: lonely, impoverished, and disappointed, a man rejected by his peers-and by women-because of his misbegotten appearance. Embittered, he angrily rejects society and embraces God, becoming the hapless acolyte of a fanatical priest. He preys on prostitutes, his violent feelings vindicated by a religion that urges him to eradicate corruption from the world. He is well equipped for such a mission, his sensibilities having been blunted by the daily slaughter of animals. Each murder is dedicated to his redeemer during a private ceremony-a trophy having been removed from the corpse and laid among votive candles.”

Rheinhardt leaned forward, the skin around his eyes growing hatched with lines of interest. Liebermann allowed his hands to open.

“Now imagine, if you will, the following: into this dark, desolate, cold existence comes a vision of compassion. He encounters a woman, Ludka, who is beautiful and bestows on him an act of kindness. It is a rare and exquisite pleasure. Her smile is like vernal sunlight. Our man is torn. He knows that Ludka is a prostitute-an anathema-but for the first time in years the balm of pity has been applied to his psychic wounds. He is deeply disturbed: vacillates, ruminates, procrastinates, and attempts to anesthetize his pain with drink. Eventually he finds a way to resolve the dreadful conflict, and the psychological defense of rationalization comes into play. He will liberate the poor child from earthly suffering and deliver her to the gates of heaven. He will, in effect, save her from a life of sin. When he dispatches Madam Borek and the other two women, his anger is undiluted. He kills them without mercy and mutilates their bodies. Ludka, however, he cannot profane… Her act of kindness sticks in his soul. Her handkerchief will never be far from his heart.”