Rheinhardt nodded. “Thank you, Miss Lydgate, thank you. Once again, the security office is indebted to you.”
“My pleasure, Inspector Rheinhardt.”
The detective took a deep breath and walked over to the rabbit cage.
“Of course,” said Liebermann softly, “this doesn't mean that Krull is innocent.”
“No,” said Rheinhardt, “but the evidence is certainly stacking up in his favor. The medical student who lives below Krull has confessed to being a member of a fraternity whose initiation practices involve the theft of body parts from the morgue!”
“Explaining the presence of the metacarpal bone.”
“It would seem so.” The inspector leaned forward, poked a finger through the grill of the cage, and scratched the rabbit's furry head. “And it's a bad day for you too,” he said to the creature, in a somewhat distracted fashion.
“Oh?” exclaimed Amelia. “Why is that, Inspector?”
“Commissioner Brugel asked me to notify him when the test was completed. He fancied his cook could make this poor fellow into a fine stew.”
Amelia Lydgate's brow furrowed. “With respect, Inspector, I would ask that the commissioner reconsider his position. That rabbit is the only animal in Vienna whose blood serum reacts with human proteins. With regular injections he will continue to be reactive. You should retain him as an invaluable member of the scientific staff.”
Rheinhardt almost smiled, but recognized-just in time-that Miss Lydgate was deadly serious.
“Of course,” he said. “I will see if there is a relevant form. Perhaps I could register him as a junior technician.”
Amelia Lydgate's brow lost a furrow or two-as demonstrative a sign of satisfaction as could be expected, given the peculiarities of her temperament. Rheinhardt stole a quick glance in Liebermann's direction and rolled his eyes. The young doctor tried not to laugh, but found to his great embarrassment that his shoulders were shaking.
By early evening Rheinhardt had finished writing his report-to which he appended an official “registration” document. It identified Miss Lydgate's rabbit as a new member of the security-office staff, occupying the position of laboratory assistant. His little joke had proved prophetic. In Austria-Hungary, nothing was deemed so insignificant or inconsequential that it did not warrant recording, licensing, or an official stamp of some kind.
One day this empire will disappear under an avalanche of paperwork!
Rheinhardt stretched, yawned, rose from his desk, and switched off the light.
He was feeling tired, and he decided to clear the fug from his head by walking home instead of taking a cab. The sky had remained cloudless all day, and now the temperature was plummeting. A sharp wind scoured his cheeks, but Rheinhardt was determined to persevere. He passed a streetcar stop, where several gentlemen were waiting in a line, and turned onto the concourse in front of the town hall. It was a broad, open space, divided by an avenue of gas lamps. The flames emitted a yellow sulfurous glow, which was sufficient to illuminate the town hall itself-Rheinhardt's favorite building in Vienna.
“Magical.” He spoke the word aloud, while slowing to admire the prospect.
It was like something out of a fairy story: a Gothic palace consisting of a massive central structure-as big as a cathedral-and five spires. The central spire rose much higher than its companions, and on its summit stood a statue of a medieval knight in full armor. He was barely visible on his lofty perch, but Rheinhardt could determine his shadowy presence against a background of glittering, spiteful stars. The overall impression of the building was one of great intricacy. One could see lanterns, finials, arched mullioned windows, buttresses, and several pitched roofs. It was a glorious sight-made even more glorious by a dressing of niveous garlands. Rheinhardt enjoyed having it all to himself.
He bid the knight good evening, walked around the town hall, and headed off into the backstreets of Josefstadt.
It had been a disappointing day.
If only that test had proved positive…
If only, if only…
When Rheinhardt arrived at his apartment building, he climbed the stone steps leading to the first floor. His heavy footfall announced his arrival. Before he reached the top of the stairs, the door of his apartment flew open, revealing his wife, Else.
“There you are!” she cried. “Where have you been?”
“At work,” said Rheinhardt.
“The security office called…”
“But I've only just left Schottenring!”
“They said you'd been gone for some time.”
“Well, that's true, I suppose. I decided to walk home.”
Else's expression vacillated between anger and relief.
“I was worried,” she said finally.
“Well, there was no need to be,” said Rheinhardt, ascending the last few stairs and planting a kiss on his wife's forehead. “What did they want?”
“You must go to the Ruprechtskirche.”
“Now?”
“Yes. There's been another murder.”
27
THE VENERABLE WAS SEATED on the master's chair, a beautiful throne of carved oak. It was thought to have been made in Scotland around 1690 and given as a gift to one of the earliest Viennese lodgesperhaps even Aux Trois Canons, the very first. He ran his fingers over the carved arm and traced the lines of a raised pentalpha, the Pythagorean symbol of perfection. The five-pointed star was held between twin compasses.
From his vantage, the venerable could look through the body of the Temple toward the entrance. Two great bronze doors were flanked by Corinthian pillars, denominated J and B for Jachin and Boaz-evoking the two columns built by Hiram at the gates of the Temple of Solomon. Above these was a relief equilateral triangle, from within which a single all-seeing eye coldly contemplated the empty pews. On the east wall a mural awaited completion. When finished, it would show the Ark of the Covenant, and Jacob's ladder ascending toward the Hebrew symbol Yod. There is no rush, he thought. We still have plenty of time to prepare…
The venerable raised himself from the chair and walked down the center aisle. Stopping to turn off the gas lamps, he slowly made his way toward the entrance. He pushed one of the bronze doors open and took one of two oil lamps that were hanging from hooks in the wall. The vestibule was relatively small, with two adjoining staircases: one ascending, the other descending. The venerable took the stairs going down-a tight spiral of stone wedges that sank deep into the earth. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he found himself in another antechamber, illuminated by light that was spilling from a half-open door.
“Ah, still here, brother?” the venerable called out.
“Yes,” came the reply. “Still here.”
The venerable pushed the door, which emitted a loud creaking. It opened by degrees to reveal a rectangular room, considerably smaller than the Temple. The walls were almost totally obscured by bookcases, although much of the shelving was unfilled. In the middle of the room were several crates. Two of them were empty and the third contained a collection of leather-bound volumes. A man-seated at a desk nearby-was leaning over and lifting books from the half-full crate, examining them, and carefully entering their details in a large register.
“All of them have arrived safely?” asked the venerable.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good.” The venerable looked down at his pocket watch. “It's getting late, brother. You should go home.”
