But he didn’t object to Fabian’s talk. Indeed, he found his nephew’s nonsense quite comforting, like familiar music played softly in the background, and once in a while Fabian said things that allowed Schmidt to gauge opinion among his nephew’s peers-the all-important youth of Vienna. Many of Fabian’s friends were disaffected, and Schmidt could see why. What kind of future could they hope for? Too many people, too few jobs, and an unremitting stream of parasites coming in from the east. As soon as people really grasped the gravity of the situation, they would be moved to take action-of that he was sure. It was just a question of giving them something on which to focus their minds.
Schmidt was suddenly aware of a certain accord between his private thoughts and his nephew’s chatter. Fabian was reaching the end of a story, and Schmidt sensed that he had missed something that might be important.
“What did you say?”
“He stopped him… stopped him from giving the last rites.”
“Did I hear you mention von Kortig?”
“Yes, it was the young Baron von Kortig who was denied.”
“And where did this happen?”
“The General Hospital.”
Schmidt’s mastication slowed. “How do you know about this?”
“Edlinger!” Fabian realized that his uncle had not been listening. He pulled a petulant face and sighed. “My friend Edlinger. We play cards together with Neuner and Fink. He’s a character, Edlinger, always getting himself into scrapes. He’s the one who insulted Eisler’s wife and got challenged to a duel.”
“And where did Edlinger hear this?”
“He was there when it happened! He’s an aspirant. He was covering for one of his colleagues. Platen, I think. He’d gotten some tickets for the opera and wanted to take a friend.”
Fabian winked.
“And the priest?” said Schmidt. “Do you know the priest’s name?”
Fabian shrugged.
“Could you find out?” Schmidt pressed.
“Why do you want to know the priest’s name, Uncle Julius?”
“Never you mind. Could you find out?” he repeated.
“Well, I can ask Edlinger, if you like.”
“I would like that very much. When will you be seeing Edlinger again?”
“Tomorrow, actually.”
“Good,” said Schmidt. “Now, isn’t this zwiebelrostbraten splendid?”
Schmidt allowed another piece of meat to flake into nothingness. It was like manna, and he permitted himself an inner self-congratulatory smile.
11
“DisgracefuL,” said detective inspector Alfred Hohenwart, tossing the folded copy of Vaterland onto his desk. He was a stout man with short gray hair and a square mustache that occupied only the space between the bottom of his nose and his upper lip. He was an experienced officer, and one whom Rheinhardt respected.
“I can only assume,” said Rheinhardt, “that the censor does not make a habit of reading through Catholic newspapers-otherwise it would never have been published.”
“How did you find it?”
“My informant was one of Stanislav’s confreres, another Piarist called Brother Lupercus.”
“So it would seem that Brother Stanislav wasn’t as popular as the abbot wanted you to believe.”
“The abbot was a kindly old man, and, for what it’s worth, I judged him to be a decent fellow. He probably wasn’t aware of Stanislav’s hateful essays.”
“Or he was deliberately withholding information to protect the reputation of his community.”
Rheinhardt shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“Stanislav,” Hohenwart continued, thinking hard. “Stanislav. I seem to recall…” His sentence trailed off before he suddenly said, “Excuse me a moment.” Hohenwart rose from his desk and vanished into an adjoining room. Sounds issued from beyond the half-open door-noises of rummaging, papers being flicked through, and a private grumbling commentary. In due course, Hohenwart produced a triumphal “Eureka!” and emerged holding a large cardboard file. A paper label had been gummed to the spine, on which was written Christian Nationalist Alliance.
“Do you remember Robak? Koell was the investigating officer.”
“Yes,” said Rheinhardt. “The Jewish boy…”
“Found beaten and stabbed to death on the Prater. He was discovered after a rally. A rally held in Leopoldstadt and organized by the Christian Nationalist Alliance.”
“Who are they?”
“A fringe political group. They’re an odd coalition of Catholics, pan-German sympathizers, and extreme conservatives. In reality, the various factions of the alliance don’t have very much in common. What holds them together is anti-Semitism.” Hohenwart opened the file and laid it in front of Rheinhardt. “Stanislav! I thought the name was familiar. Brother Stanislav was one of the speakers at the Leopoldstadt rally. The local Jews were offended by his immoderate views. They protested, a fight broke out, and the constables from Grosse Sperlgasse had to be called. No one was seriously hurt-but Robak’s body was found later.”
“Did you interview Stanislav?” Rheinhardt asked.
“No. We were too busy helping Koell trace alliance members. I’d already collated this file on them, which contains several names and addresses. Needless to say, the murder investigation took priority. We didn’t have time to pursue the lesser infringement of religious agitation, and the troublesome monk was quite forgotten.”
12
Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl were seated in the parlor of the Katzer residence in Neutorgasse. It was a pleasant room with landscape paintings on the walls and old-fashioned furniture. Opposite Anna and Olga sat Gabriel Kusevitsky and his older brother, Asher. Although Asher shared his brother’s diminutive physique, he was generally judged to be the better-looking of the pair. The prescription for his lenses was not so strong, and his beard had been finely groomed to conceal his receding chin. In Asher, Gabriel’s weak, neurasthenic appearance was transformed into something more appealing: artistic sensitivity, the romantic glamour of the consumptive-and the small dueling scar on his right cheek advertised that he was not without courage. He also affected a more bohemian style of dress, which was only fitting for a playwright.
The women had been speaking about the congress they had attended in Frankfurt the previous October, the German National Conference on the Struggle Against the White Slave Trade. In philanthropic circles there were many-mostly matrons with thickening waistlines and jowly, powdered faces-who were deeply suspicious of Anna’s and Olga’s involvement with good causes. Their fashionable dress and frequent appearance at gala balls made them seem more like dilettantes than fund-raisers. Yet there could be no denying that their coquettish charm had successfully loosened the purse strings of several famous industrialists.
“It is a shameful business,” said Anna, pouring the tea. “Jewish girls are sold by our own people, a fact that many find hard to accept. They cry ‘False accusation, slander!’”
“And one can see why,” said Asher. “The town hall would almost certainly use these reports against us-yet another example of Jewish immorality! Even so, I agree it is far better that the problem should be addressed than denied. There will be trouble when it all comes out, but it’ll be just one more unpleasant thing to deal with!”
“Why now?” asked Gabriel. “Jewish brothels have always been relatively rare.”
“The pogroms,” said Olga. An uneasy silence prevailed, as if the room had been preternaturally chilled by a
