young constable who greeted Rheinhardt was somewhat overawed by the inspector’s theatrical debouche. The constable was already in an excited state, and his nervous energy found easy expression in garrulous speech.
“The man who found the body, sir-Herr Quint-he’s in the church with my colleague. He was walking home after spending an evening with friends-Well, that’s what he said, but I think it more likely that he’d been enjoying the company of a lady. He discovered the body and then ran over to the hotel.” The constable pointed across the road. “The night porter called the station. We’re in Dommayergasse-not far, just around the corner-and we got here within minutes. Would you like to see the body, sir? Horrible it is, horrible, the sort of thing that’ll give you nightmares-and so soon after the other one. A priest, wasn’t it? I never thought we’d see the likes of this up here, not in Hietzing. This way, sir, this way.”
Rheinhardt grabbed the constable’s arm.
“Just one moment.”
The constable, sensing the detective inspector’s disapproval, froze. “Very good, sir.”
Dawn was breaking, and a thin mist hung in the air. They were standing on a large cobbled concourse where several roads met. The buildings in the vicinity were rather grand. One had a double-domed turret, the smaller dome sitting on top of the larger, while another possessed a fine stone balcony. But the most commanding architectural landmark was a parish church-white, baroque, with a tall spire adorned with finials and crosses.
“Maria Geburt?” Rheinhardt asked.
“Yes,” said the constable. “The empress Maria Theresa used to attend services there.” He then pressed his lips together tightly to ensure that no further irrelevancies could escape.
Above the large wooden door was a triple lancet window decorated with quatrefoil tracery. On either side, saintly figures stood on square columns beneath ornate canopies. Extending out from the side of the church was an aerial corridor linking the place of worship to a row of eighteenth-century buildings. It formed an arch over a passage through which similar houses could be seen. The terrace continued to where Rheinhardt was standing, but was interrupted by an entrance, above which was written Volksschule der Stadt Wien.
Another school, thought Rheinhardt.
“It’s by the side of the church, sir.”
“What?”
“The body.”
“Yes, of course. You’d better show me.”
They walked across the concourse, and the mutilated remains came into view.
The victim was dressed in a smoking jacket, casual linen trousers, and a pair of slippers. He was wearing an expensive wristwatch, and on his right hand was a gold ring set with diamonds. A pool of blood had collected around his shoulders. Rheinhardt reconstructed events in his mind: the vessels severing, the hot fluid spurting out, the hiss and splash of grisly rain…
“Where’s his head?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Over there,” said the constable, holding a finger out but shying away in the opposite direction.
Rheinhardt felt a tingling sensation rise up his spine, accompanied by a strong impression of deja vu. He was looking at a pillar of stone, on top of which was a figure of the Virgin, her head circled by a halo of stars. It was a plague column, though smaller than the one in front of the Maria Treue Kirche.
“Next to the monument, sir,” the constable added.
Rheinhardt pulled a box of cigars from his pocket and lit a slim panatela.
“Wait here,” said Rheinhardt. He could see that the young man was not keen to join him. “If anyone comes along, don’t let them walk anywhere near the body. Make them walk on the other side of the road.”
“Yes, sir,” said the constable, clicking his heels.
A breeze corralled wispy threads of mist around the hem of the Virgin’s robe. She gazed expectantly up into the gray sky, her head tilted to one side. The effect was peculiarly dreamlike, and for a moment the detective inspector wondered whether he was still lying in his bed, and whether, in a few more seconds, he would wake up, throw his arms around his wife’s soft belly, and bury his nose in the sweet-smelling dishevelment of her hair. However, the scene did not dissolve and deliver him to his bed, but instead became more intense and more insistently real.
The shadows at the foot of the monument seemed to shift with Rheinhardt’s approach, breaking up and coalescing into new forms. This process of clarification eventually revealed the dead man’s head. He was probably in his fifties, and his expression was strangely peaceful: eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Rheinhardt managed to block out the dreadful glistening interior of the man’s neck, the sickening flounce of stretched skin, but his stomach still contracted, and he had to fight the urge to retch. He puffed on his cigar to steady his nerves.
The monument’s column twisted organically like a deformed tree, its trunk swelling and bulging with uneven excrescences. Cherub heads, with little wings sprouting out like oversize ears, adhered to the lumpy surface. They increased in number as the column spiraled upward, and at its summit the stone blistered with a chaotic outcrop of faces-some ecstatic, some anguished, others upside down. The entire edifice was supported by a cross-shaped pedestal, each arm of which was occupied by a large angel. Their expressions were inscrutable, having been worn down to vacant smoothness by the weather. One was kneeling in the throes of religious rapture-or grief-while another seemed to be flexing its wings, preparing to take off.
Rheinhardt moved away from the plague column and dropped what was left of his cigar into a drain. He heard the sound of hooves and the jangling of a bridle. Looking up, he saw the glow of carriage lamps in the haze. The vehicle halted next to him, and his assistant, Haussmann, jumped out, landing with effortless grace and stirring something close to envy in the portly inspector.
“What kept you?” said Rheinhardt.
Haussmann’s brow wrinkled. “I came as soon I could, sir. The driver didn’t arrive until-”
“Never mind,” said Rheinhardt, swatting the air.
Haussmann glanced toward the church, where the constable stood by a conspicuous mound.
“Is that the body, sir?”
“Yes. You’ll find the head by the plague column.”
“Like Josefstadt?”
“Identical.”
“Who is it, sir?”
“I don’t know. He’s rich, though. He’s wearing some very expensive jewelry. I’m going to talk to the witness. Start with a plan of the location and instruct the photographer when he arrives.”
Rheinhardt set off for the church but stopped when he felt the ground sucking at his feet. He looked down at his shoes and noticed that they were filthy. The cobbles were covered in mud. He squatted and tested its consistency, pressing his fingers into the mush. The clods were thick and sticky, like clay. He remembered doing the same thing outside the Maria Treue Kirche. Once again, there were no tracks to suggest that mud had fallen off the wheels of a carriage. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands clean.
What could it mean? So much mud…
His handkerchief now looked as if it had been smeared with excrement. He put it back into his pocket, guiltily, knowing that his wife would surely discover it in the laundry and scold him.
“Haussmann?” he called out. “Be sure to get some samples of this mud.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rheinhardt stood up, privately lamenting the stiffness of his joints, and marched to the church door.
The interior was gloomy, illuminated by a single tree of candles. Nevertheless, the light found the reflective surfaces of a fabulously ornate altar that was decorated with gilded statues and flanked by marble columns. A man was sitting in one of the front pews, talking in a low voice to a constable. When Rheinhardt entered, they both stood up. The constable gripped the hilt of his sabre.
“It’s all right, Constable. You won’t be needing that! I’m Detective Inspector Rheinhardt, from the security office.” He advanced, showing the policeman his identification. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to join your colleague outside while I interview Herr Quint.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I thought you-”
“It doesn’t matter.”
The constable bade Herr Quint farewell and made his way down the aisle. The noise of the closing door resonated loudly in the empty church.
