Although the houses had a certain antique charm, they were mostly dilapidated after generations of neglect. The buildings were of uneven height and size and the stucco paintwork was faded. But vestigial streaks of pink, ocher, and blue betrayed a more colorful and prosperous history.
The carriage negotiated a tight corner and rattled down a gloomy alley that was hemmed in on both sides by ramshackle dwellings. Washing lines hung overhead like oversize threads of spider's silk. Rheinhardt imagined a giant arachnid, its legs folded around its fat abdomen, waiting to pounce. The carriage escaped the squalid street and entered a small square. On one side was an inn, and nearby was a corner of plain walls around which ran a continuous undecorated metal balcony. In front of the inn was a melancholy fountain-a stunted black spire out of which feeble jets of water spurted into separate basins. The carriage turned again, but within moments the horses began to slow.
The driver had had no trouble identifying the detectives’ destination. It was a low two-story house, squashed between larger buildings and guarded by two constables. The men were blowing into their hands and stamping their feet on the ground, trying to stay warm. On the other side of the road, an elderly gentleman in a threadbare coat, scarf, and Bohemian hat had stopped to observe. He leaned on a knotted stick, his crooked back bent at a cruel angle. Apart from this solitary tatterdemalion, there were no other members of the general public present.
The carriage wheels ground to a halt.
Rheinhardt opened the vehicle's door, stepped down, and looked at the houses. The relics of more salubrious times were now clearly visible: relief cherub heads stared out blankly into space from below several window ledges. One building had a domed recess above the front door that was occupied by a figure of Saint Joseph, his aureole represented by radiating metal strips. A plump but weather-beaten infant Jesus was balanced in the crook of his left arm.
The snow was getting heavier: the air was growing dense with feathery flakes. A curious hush seemed to have fallen over Spittelberg, a magical stillness somehow enhanced by a vague impression of constant, mesmeric descent. The horse snorted and shook its bit. One of the constables advanced, his sabre dragging over the cobbles.
“Security office?”
“Yes. I am Detective Inspector Rheinhardt, and this is my assistant, Haussmann.” The constable bowed and clicked his heels. “I presume you and your colleague are from Neubaugasse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you been inside yet?”
“Worst I've seen, sir,” said the constable. “God only knows what happened in there.” He jerked his head toward the half-open door.
“I understand that the landlord's agent discovered the bodies. Where is he?”
“At the station, sir. He gave us the key and refused to come back. Be careful as you go in-he was sick in the hallway.”
A snowflake landed on the constable's eyelashes.
The inspector moved toward the door but then halted suddenly. He turned and marched over to the old man who was still watching.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Rheinhardt.
The old man's eyes were bloodshot. He moved his head backward and forward, trying to bring the speaker into focus. Finally he asked a question in heavily accented German. “What happened?” His mittens were fingerless and he raised a fossilized digit. “In there.”
“Are you acquainted with the householders?” Rheinhardt asked in turn.
“Not at my age,” said the old man. His lips parted to form a gummy smile, the curve of which was broken by a single black tooth. “It's a whorehouse!” He couldn't sustain his laugh. It fractured, turning into a hacking cough. Fluid crackled in his lungs.
Rheinhardt rested a hand on the old man's arm.
“It's cold, my friend. There's nothing for you to see here.” The old man shrugged. “Go home and light a fire,” Rheinhardt urged him.
The veteran lifted his stick and stabbed the cobbles with unexpected violence. Dragging his feet, he created two parallel tracks in the snow as he negotiated the slippery incline.
Rheinhardt walked back to where Haussmann was standing with the constables.
“All right, let's go in.”
The hallway was dim, claustrophobic, and smelled of vomit. A thick soup of half-digested food had been disgorged onto the floor. Haussmann's features twisted, showing his disgust.
“I think we can expect worse than this,” said Rheinhardt stiffly.
To the left was a sparsely furnished room containing a sofa, an armchair, and a small table by the window. On the table was a paraffin lamp, the upper cylinder of which was made of red glass. A potbellied stove stood in the center of the room. Rheinhardt tested the iron with his fingers and found it to be cold. The floor was littered with ashtrays, most of them overflowing with cigar stubs. Three empty champagne bottles stood in the corner.
The unnatural quiet was suddenly disturbed by the sound of ordnance. Outside, the horse began to clop restively on the cobbles.
“The barracks,” said Haussmann.
“Yes. How very convenient.”
They crossed the hall to a second room that faced the first. As they entered, both men recoiled. Haussmann turned his head away sharply. Only by degrees did he then reverse the movement, and slowly, as if the atrocity that confronted him could only be properly apprehended piecemeal.
The victim was a middle-aged woman with slate-gray hair that hung in lank strands around her swollen, bruised face. Her body was sprawled out on the floor with her hands either side of her head, the palms open, suggesting an attitude of submission. She was wearing a blue bathrobe, which had ridden up her legs, exposing the varicose veins of her calves, bony ankles, and dainty feet in embroidered silk slippers. Her throat had been opened with a clean, deep slice, and a vast quantity of blood had escaped from her arteries. The floor around her head was a black lake of coagulated gore. Some cartilaginous material was clearly visible protruding from the wound. The unfortunate woman had been almost decapitated.
Rheinhardt stepped closer and squatted next to the body, making sure that his coat did not make contact with the blood. He pinched the material of the bathrobe and tried to lift it up, but the garment was stuck. Eventually it came away, making an unpleasant ripping sound.
“She was stabbed in the heart too,” he said quietly.
Haussmann did not reply.
“Are you all right, Haussmann?”
“Yes, sir. I think so, sir.”
“Good man.”
Rheinhardt pushed down on his thighs, stood up, and looked around the room. It contained very little furniture: a writing bureau, a tallboy, and a simple bed with a plain headboard. The blanket was pulled back, and the undersheet was rucked up. Beyond the bed was a half-open window. Rheinhardt walked around the bloody pool and pulled the curtains aside. A dim, cramped passage ran between the brothel and its neighbors.
“This is where he made his exit,” said Rheinhardt. “There are bloodstains on the frame and sill. I'd like you to comb the area in due course.”
“Yes, sir.”
Making his way back to the writing bureau, Rheinhardt turned the key and let the lid down. Inside were some papers, a few silver coins, and a locked cash box. The papers were promissory notes of payment addressed to Madam Borek-almost all of them were signed by military men.
“Lieutenant Lipos?ak, Captain Alderhorst, Lieutenant Hefner,
Private Friedel…”
Rheinhardt took out his notebook and scribbled down their names. Haussmann lifted the cash box and shook it. “Full, sir.” “Indeed. The motive for such wanton carnage is rarely theft.” Haussmann replaced the cash box and Rheinhardt closed the bureau.
“Come, Haussmann. I fear that even greater horrors await us.”
The two men left Madam Borek's room and climbed the staircase at the end of the hallway. Rheinhardt
