of early Icelandic literature that together constitute the principal source of all Norse legends.”
“Yes, sir. However, it wasn't the name of the society that struck me as interesting, but rather where they meet.”
“Which is where?”
“At Baron von Triebenbach's apartment, on Mozartgasse.”
Rheinhardt swallowed. “What did you say?”
“Mozartgasse, sir. I thought that…” The younger man shrugged. “What with all this talk of The Magic Flute… there might be some… connection?” Haussmann touched the map and ran his finger down the length of the Naschmarkt. He stopped at a minor road adjoining a square. “Mozartgasse. It's in Mariahilf-I know it quite well.”
Rheinhardt rested a gentle hand on Haussmann's shoulder. “That is interesting, Haussmann-very interesting.”
“Shall I obtain a list of members?”
“Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, leaning closer, “I am bound to disclose that for some time now I have harbored the suspicion that you are, in fact, a psychic. I swear, the security office's loss would be vaudeville's gain.”
The assistant detective risked a fragile smile.
“Well done, Haussmann!” bellowed Rheinhardt. “Commendable detection!”
52
THE SHELVES OF THE library were now full. The packing cases had been cleared away and the librarian, ever industrious, was working on a more advanced cross-referencing system. All that could be heard was the scratching of his nib on pieces of card, like the movements of a mouse behind a skirting board.
The venerable stepped over the threshold and the librarian looked up.
“Please,” said the venerable. “Do carry on-I did not mean to disturb you.”
The librarian nodded and returned to his task.
In the corner a new and very handsome porcelain stove had been fitted. Leather reading chairs had been placed beneath gas lamps. All in all, the ambience was most welcoming.
The venerable walked across the rectangular space and examined the colorful embossed spines.
Humanitas: Transactions, Societas Rosicruciana, The Order of the Secret Monitor.
Below these was a shelf of much larger volumes. They were extremely old and were concerned with ceremonials of all kinds.
The Kabbalistic Master Ritual, The Egyptian Rite, Anointing and Purification.
Then there were the works on philosophy and alchemy.
“Has he agreed?”
It was the librarian.
The venerable turned and smiled. “Yes, brother.”
“He will be initiated here?”
“Yes. He will stay for a few nights with our friends in Pressburgand then he comes to Vienna.”
The coenobitic librarian put his pen down on the desktop. The venerable noticed that the man was breathing heavily.
“Are you well?”
“Yes, of course,” said the librarian, his face flushing slightly. “Very well. I am simply excited by the prospect…”
The venerable walked over to the desk and laid a hand on the librarian's shoulder. “It is wonderful news. But now we have much work to do: such an auspicious occasion must be celebrated with a unique rite. I have some small modifications in mind… Tell me, brother, where can I find the rituals of the Grand Lodge of the Sun?”
53
MAXIMILANPLATZ WAS A CONVENIENT place for them to meet, being equidistant from the Schottenring police station and the General Hospital. Liebermann was sitting on a bench, watching Rheinhardt- who was in the process of buying a large bag of roasted pumpkin seeds from a street vendor. The coals in the vendor's brazier glowed brightly and the air was filled with a sweet smell-like caramelized sugar. Beyond the pumpkin-seed stall stood the gray stone edifice of the Votivkirche, its twin Gothic spires thrusting up energetically into the clear blue sky.
The small park in which Liebermann sat was surrounded by a wide road around which a merry-go-round of red and white streetcars circulated, seemingly in perpetual motion. This fine spectacle was accompanied by the ringing of bells.
Rheinhardt returned, carrying a paper bag that had become mottled with oil. Liebermann extended his cupped hands and the inspector obligingly filled them with a pile of hot green seeds. They emitted a smoky fragrance that combined the scent of burning wood with honey and spices. Liebermann's stomach tightened and grumbled.
“I've been to see Herr Arnoldt,” said Rheinhardt.
“Who?”
“Hildegard's keeper-at the zoo.” Liebermann nodded, and tipped some of the seeds into his mouth. “It was Salieri,” Rheinhardt added, bluntly.
“You're sure?”
“Herr Arnoldt paid us a visit about three weeks ago, claiming to have recovered his memory-you will recall that the poor fellow had lost consciousness after being struck on the head. It appears that the man who knocked him out had been whistling a tune. Unfortunately, it was young Haussmann who took Herr Arnoldt's statement.”
“I had formed the impression that you thought quite highly of Haussmann?”
“Oh, I do. He's very competent. It was just unfortunate on this occasion because, unbeknownst to me, Haussmann is tone-deaf. As a result I couldn't get him to reproduce Herr Arnoldt's melody.” Rheinhardt sampled some pumpkin seeds, and nodded approvingly. “What with the Spittelberg, Ruprechtskirche, and Wieden murders, establishing the musical tastes of Herr Arnoldt's assailant was not my uppermost priority and I decided to let the matter rest. However, after our meeting in Cafe Mozart, I realized that I had-once again, perhaps-overlooked an important detail. The following afternoon I journeyed out to Schonbrunn. Herr Arnoldt was most helpful and sang me what he was able to remember of his assailant's ditty. Herr Arnoldt doesn't have a terribly strong voice, but the melody he produced sounded very much like this.” Without pause, Rheinhardt began to softly sing: “Der Vogelfanger bin ich ja…”
“ ‘The Bird Catcher's Song!’ ” exclaimed Liebermann.
“Indeed. Thus, we can now be quite certain that it was Salieri who disposed of Hildegard!”
A little boy dressed in a hussar's uniform, with a buckled-on sabre and a pistol in his belt, marched by. He saluted Rheinhardt, who adopted a deadly serious expression and returned the gesture. The diminutive hussar was followed by a pretty nursemaid who was carrying a much smaller child in the crook of her elbow-she smiled at the two gentlemen as she passed. Liebermann felt an unwelcome tug of carnal attraction.
“We know that, in all probability, Salieri will kill again,” continued Rheinhardt. “And we know that his next victim will also correspond with a character in Mozart's singspiel. But which one, Max? If we knew that, then we might have some chance-albeit small-of preventing yet another atrocity.”
Liebermann shook his head. “Salieri might contrive to organize his program of murder according to any number of principles,” said Liebermann. “But he is certainly not following any of the obvious ones: for example, the disposal of characters according to the order in which they appear in the opera, or the elimination of minor roles
