Zoltan Zaborszky?' Then, feeling that further explanation was necessary, he added: 'We arrived at the same time – outside.' It was as though Bruckmuller wanted to clarify the nature of their relationship by stressing that they had not come together. They were companions by coincidence rather than choice.
The Count inclined his head slightly and raised his cane, the top of which was a small gold likeness of a jaguar's head baring its teeth. He moved forward – an unhurried, swaying swagger.
'The body is in the sitting room?' His German had a distinctive Magyar accent.
'Yes,' replied Rheinhardt.
'I must see it.'
It was clear that the Count had no intention of asking Rheinhardt for permission. He simply sashayed towards the sitting-room door, barely acknowledging the Inspector's presence. Although tempted to assert his authority, Rheinhardt was also curious to see how this odd man would react and followed in his scented wake – the fragrance was like stale pot-pourri.
The Count stepped through the broken door frame and positioned himself by the large circular table. He peered through the gloom, which was immediately dispersed by another magnesium flash. Fraulein Lowenstein's corpse leapt out of the darkness.
The Count's nostrils flared.
'Evil,' he whispered softly. 'I smell evil.' His face was entirely without emotion – an inscrutable blankness. Taking a small ivory crucifix from his waistcoat pocket, he kissed the figure of Christ and placed it on the table. 'God protect us,' he whispered.
His eyes flicked from side to side, as though trying to locate a concealed demon.
6
THE PUBLIC HOUSE – a gloomy cellar, illuminated by flickering gas lights and the red glow from a squat cast- iron stove – was situated in the working-class suburb of Meidling. A beggar sat in the corner, scraping tunelessly at his violin, while three old men, seated at a central table, argued loudly. The atmosphere was dense with pipe smoke. At the bar a woman with yellow skin was picking at a plate of sliced cucumber and chewing on a black rusk.
Otto Braun emptied the last drops of vodka into his glass and ran a hand through his hair. It was long and kept on falling into his eyes.
One of the old men called out: 'Gergo! Gergo, where the hell are you?'
Braun tilted his head back and swallowed. The alcohol was finally beginning to work, making him feel pleasantly detached.
Beyond the bar, two boots (with red trim) appeared on the staircase, followed by a heavily built Ruthenian who called out: 'All right, all right . . .' He was wearing loose trousers and a greasy satin waistcoat.
'Well, well.' The voice floated into Braun's consciousness. 'Haven't seen you here before.'
Braun looked up. The woman from the bar was standing by his table.
'I've been watching you,' she said, taking the seat next to him.
'Have you?'
'Oh yes. And I've been thinking, there's a man who could do with some company.'
Before Braun could answer, the woman had caught the landlord's arm. 'Gergo?'
'What?'
She held up the empty vodka bottle.
'The gentleman's finished.'
The landlord looked from the bottle to Braun.
'You want another?'
Braun looked at the woman and inspected her features. Although her skin was sallow, her eyes had retained a suggestion of former beauty.
'Yes,' said Braun. 'Why not?'
The woman smiled, and a network of creases tessellated her face.
Perhaps Braun had overreacted. It was inevitable that the police would be involved. Crossing the deserted square, he had seen the two officers outside the main entrance to Lotte's apartment building: constables, in long blue coats and spiked helmets – and armed with sabres. He had hidden himself behind an abandoned market stall in order to observe what was happening. Herr Bruckmuller and the Count had arrived at the same time, and after some questioning had been allowed in. Not long after, Holderlin and his irritating wife had arrived. Braun had acted instinctively, turning away without thought and keeping close to the wall as he crept back the way he had come. He had responded like an animal. It was probably the wrong thing to do but it would give him an extra day or two – and sometimes an extra day or two made all the difference.
The landlord returned with another bottle of vodka and banged it down in the middle of the table.
'So,' said the woman. 'What's your name, then?'
'Felix,' said Otto.
'Mine's Lili.'
Otto lifted the bottle and tilted the neck over his glass. He had tipped it too steeply, and the clear liquid began to splash out, over the rim and onto the deeply scored table top.
'Hey, hey,' said Lili, straightening his hand. 'Take it easy, Felix.'
She guided the bottle back to its upright position, letting her hand linger on Otto's. One of the old men was shouting something about the battle of Solferino, and the fiddler suddenly burst into a discordant but recognisable gypsy folk melody. Otto picked up the glass and poured the contents down his throat. The cheap vodka was rough and excoriating.
An image entered his mind, uninvited and vivid.
He shouldn't have asked her for more money and he certainly shouldn't have hit her. But the argument had escalated. And suddenly there she was, framed in the doorway, brandishing a kitchen knife. Otto shook his head, and made a gesture – as though trying to push the memory out of his mind.
'What's the matter?' said Lili.
'Nothing,' Otto replied. He turned to look at the violinist who, except for a pair of cloudy white irises, was almost invisible in his shadowy recess. The vagrant was sawing his bow with a crude violence. The sound he created was diabolical – as were his mephitic exhalations.
Lili poured another drink and, without looking to Otto for approval, drained the glass herself. She then caressed the arm of his jacket.
'Very nice,' she said. 'Velvet. And so well cut.'
She leaned back and looked at Otto more carefully, inspecting his clothes and estimating their value. Although somewhat dishevelled, he was a handsome young man. His long dark hair and the squareness of his jaw gave him the look of a Romantic poet.
'So what do you do, eh?'
Otto didn't reply.
'An artist?'
He pushed his fringe back, plastering the hair over his crown with the sweat from his forehead.
'Of a kind.'
'How d'you mean?'
Otto took Lili's hand and deftly removed a paste ring from one of her fingers.
'Oi!'
'Quiet,' said Otto. 'Watch.'
He then presented Lili with two closed fists.
'Which hand is it in?'
Lili smiled and touched his left. Otto showed her that it was empty. She then touched his right – which also proved empty.
