Frank Tallis: Vienna Blood

The snow was getting heavier: the air was growing dense with feathery flakes. A curious hush seemed to have fallen over Spittelberg, a magical stillness somehow enhanced by a vague impression of constant, mesmeric descent. The horse snorted and shook its bit. One of the constables advanced, his sabre dragging over the cobbles.

“Security office?”

“Yes. I am Detective Inspector Rheinhardt, and this is my assistant, Haussmann.” The constable bowed and clicked his heels. “I presume you and your colleague are from Neubaugasse?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you been inside yet?”

“Worst I've seen, sir,” said the constable. “God only knows what happened in there.” He jerked his head toward the half-open door.

“I understand that the landlord's agent discovered the bodies. Where is he?”

“At the station, sir. He gave us the key and refused to come back. Be careful as you go in-he was sick in the hallway.”

A snowflake landed on the constable's eyelashes.

The inspector moved toward the door but then halted suddenly. He turned and marched over to the old man who was still watching.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Rheinhardt.

The old man's eyes were bloodshot. He moved his head backward and forward, trying to bring the speaker into focus. Finally he asked a question in heavily accented German. “What happened?” His mittens were fingerless and he raised a fossilized digit. “In there.”

“Are you acquainted with the householders?” Rheinhardt asked in turn.

“Not at my age,” said the old man. His lips parted to form a gummy smile, the curve of which was broken by a single black tooth. “It's a whorehouse!” He couldn't sustain his laugh. It fractured, turning into a hacking cough. Fluid crackled in his lungs.

Rheinhardt rested a hand on the old man's arm.

“It's cold, my friend. There's nothing for you to see here.” The old man shrugged. “Go home and light a fire,” Rheinhardt urged him.

The veteran lifted his stick and stabbed the cobbles with unexpected violence. Dragging his feet, he created two parallel tracks in the snow as he negotiated the slippery incline.

Rheinhardt walked back to where Haussmann was standing with the constables.

“All right, let's go in.”

The hallway was dim, claustrophobic, and smelled of vomit. A thick soup of half-digested food had been disgorged onto the floor. Haussmann's features twisted, showing his disgust.

“I think we can expect worse than this,” said Rheinhardt stiffly.

To the left was a sparsely furnished room containing a sofa, an armchair, and a small table by the window. On the table was a paraffin lamp, the upper cylinder of which was made of red glass. A potbellied stove stood in the center of the room. Rheinhardt tested the iron with his fingers and found it to be cold. The floor was littered with ashtrays, most of them overflowing with cigar stubs. Three empty champagne bottles stood in the corner.

The unnatural quiet was suddenly disturbed by the sound of ordnance. Outside, the horse began to clop restively on the cobbles.

“The barracks,” said Haussmann.

“Yes. How very convenient.”

They crossed the hall to a second room that faced the first. As they entered, both men recoiled. Haussmann turned his head away sharply. Only by degrees did he then reverse the movement, and slowly, as if the atrocity that confronted him could only be properly apprehended piecemeal.

The victim was a middle-aged woman with slate-gray hair that hung in lank strands around her swollen, bruised face. Her body was sprawled out on the floor with her hands either side of her head, the palms open, suggesting an attitude of submission. She was wearing a blue bathrobe, which had ridden up her legs, exposing the varicose veins of her calves, bony ankles, and dainty feet in embroidered silk slippers. Her throat had been opened with a clean, deep slice, and a vast quantity of blood had escaped from her arteries. The floor around her head was a black lake of coagulated gore. Some cartilaginous material was clearly visible protruding from the wound. The unfortunate woman had been almost decapitated.

Rheinhardt stepped closer and squatted next to the body, making sure that his coat did not make contact with the blood. He pinched the material of the bathrobe and tried to lift it up, but the garment was stuck. Eventually it came away, making an unpleasant ripping sound.

“She was stabbed in the heart too,” he said quietly.

Haussmann did not reply.

“Are you all right, Haussmann?”

“Yes, sir. I think so, sir.”

“Good man.”

Rheinhardt pushed down on his thighs, stood up, and looked around the room. It contained very little furniture: a writing bureau, a tallboy, and a simple bed with a plain headboard. The blanket was pulled back, and the undersheet was rucked up. Beyond the bed was a half-open window. Rheinhardt walked around the bloody pool and pulled the curtains aside. A dim, cramped passage ran between the brothel and its neighbors.

“This is where he made his exit,” said Rheinhardt. “There are bloodstains on the frame and sill. I'd like you to comb the area in due course.”

“Yes, sir.”

Making his way back to the writing bureau, Rheinhardt turned the key and let the lid down. Inside were some papers, a few silver coins, and a locked cash box. The papers were promissory notes of payment addressed to Madam Borek-almost all of them were signed by military men.

“Lieutenant Lipos?ak, Captain Alderhorst, Lieutenant Hefner,

Private Friedel…”

Rheinhardt took out his notebook and scribbled down their names. Haussmann lifted the cash box and shook it. “Full, sir.” “Indeed. The motive for such wanton carnage is rarely theft.” Haussmann replaced the cash box and Rheinhardt closed the bureau.

“Come, Haussmann. I fear that even greater horrors await us.”

The two men left Madam Borek's room and climbed the staircase at the end of the hallway. Rheinhardt noticed a trail of dark spots on the bare boards. As they ascended, the smell of vomit receded, only to be replaced by more ominous odors. As they neared the top of the stairs, the landing wall came into view. Rheinhardt stopped, his attention captured by a curious emblem that had been crudely painted on the bare plaster.

“Look, Haussmann.”

“A cross of some kind?”

They finished their ascent slowly. Dark runnels, striping the wall, dribbled down from the strange crooked cross. Rheinhardt reached out and rubbed his forefinger into the dried liquid. Even in the poor light he could see that the gritty particles he had collected were crystalline and rust-colored.

“It's blood, Haussmann. The cross has been painted in blood!”

Rheinhardt, taking pity on his tallow-faced companion, said quietly, “Now might be the time to examine the passage behind Madam Borek's room.”

The assistant detective raised a hand to his mouth and coughed.

“Yes, sir, I think it might be better…”

Rheinhardt nodded. Haussmann, relieved, ran down the stairs.

The inspector withdrew his notebook and sketched a simple equilateral cross. He then added opposing horizontals to the vertical line, and opposing verticals to the horizontal line. He looked again at the original. This strange daubing, and its bizarre method of execution, seemed to indicate the existence of a greater level of evil than Rheinhardt had ever before encountered. Satisfied that his sketch was accurate, he replaced the notebook in his coat pocket and braced himself.

On the first floor, a baleful light filtered through a grimy window. Three doors could be seen from his vantage point-two to the left and one to the right. Rheinhardt moved forward, his footsteps sounding a funereal beat on the bare boards. He pressed his fingertips against the nearest door-the one to his right-and pushed. It swung open and the receding edge revealed-inch by inch-the Grand Guignol tableau within. It was of such unspeakable depravity that Rheinhardt was forced to bow his head.