noticed a trail of dark spots on the bare boards. As they ascended, the smell of vomit receded, only to be replaced by more ominous odors. As they neared the top of the stairs, the landing wall came into view. Rheinhardt stopped, his attention captured by a curious emblem that had been crudely painted on the bare plaster.

“Look, Haussmann.”

“A cross of some kind?”

They finished their ascent slowly. Dark runnels, striping the wall, dribbled down from the strange crooked cross. Rheinhardt reached out and rubbed his forefinger into the dried liquid. Even in the poor light he could see that the gritty particles he had collected were crystalline and rust-colored.

“It's blood, Haussmann. The cross has been painted in blood!”

Rheinhardt, taking pity on his tallow-faced companion, said quietly, “Now might be the time to examine the passage behind Madam Borek's room.”

The assistant detective raised a hand to his mouth and coughed.

“Yes, sir, I think it might be better…”

Rheinhardt nodded. Haussmann, relieved, ran down the stairs.

The inspector withdrew his notebook and sketched a simple equilateral cross. He then added opposing horizontals to the vertical line, and opposing verticals to the horizontal line. He looked again at the original. This strange daubing, and its bizarre method of execution, seemed to indicate the existence of a greater level of evil than Rheinhardt had ever before encountered. Satisfied that his sketch was accurate, he replaced the notebook in his coat pocket and braced himself.

On the first floor, a baleful light filtered through a grimy window. Three doors could be seen from his vantage point-two to the left and one to the right. Rheinhardt moved forward, his footsteps sounding a funereal beat on the bare boards. He pressed his fingertips against the nearest door-the one to his right-and pushed. It swung open and the receding edge revealed-inch by inch-the Grand Guignol tableau within. It was of such unspeakable depravity that Rheinhardt was forced to bow his head.

“Dear God…,” he muttered at his shoes.

The remnants of his childhood faith stirred.

The dusty interior of a provincial church.

Cassocks and incense.

The protective potency of holy water…

Something close to instinct made him want to touch his forehead and cross himself.

A young woman with thick brown hair was lying on a large bed that took up most of the available space in the room. The front of her bloodstained nightdress had gathered in a sopping heap beneath her breasts. As with Madam Borek, her throat had been cut; however, her body had been arranged so that her legs were wide open, exposing the genital area. She had been viciously mutilated. Where her thighs met, a ragged crater had replaced the expectation of a tidy vertical line. An incontinent eruption of gore had flooded the mattress and splashed onto the floor. A flap of skin, covered in matted pubic hair, hung precariously from where it seemed to have stuck on the bedspread.

Rheinhardt felt an involuntary spasm in his gut. A wave of nausea made him feel unsteady. His rational everyday self struggled to comprehend such depravity-such unspeakable savagery.

The scene in the second upstairs bedroom was even more sickening. Another woman, young like the first, had been laid out in a similar fashion. Again, her throat had been cut, but in addition her belly had been sliced open and her intestines scooped out. A bulky segmented length of colon had been looped around her head like a garland. The smell was so revolting that Rheinhardt's head began to swim. He rushed to the window and forced it open. Leaning out, he saw two faces staring up at him.

The senior constable called out, “Unbelievable, isn't it, sir?”

Rheinhardt nodded. There was nothing he could add.

The street was now covered with a thick carpet of snow. In the recess opposite, Saint Joseph and the infant Jesus had acquired an attractive white mantle. The winter weather was cleansing Spittelberg, concealing its poverty beneath a garment of vestal purity. Rheinhardt could not reconcile such beauty with what he had just seen. It seemed impossible that a single world could accommodate such disparities. In the distance, he saw a figure trudging up the incline: it was young Haussmann. Rheinhardt reluctantly resolved to continue with his own ordeal.

In the final bedroom he found the fourth body: a woman lying facedown on the floor. It appeared to Rheinhardt that she had stumbled and had grabbed the bedsheets as she fell. Her right hand, adorned with cheap jewelry, was still closed around a blanket. She was wearing a nightdress, but unlike those of her housemates, its material was relatively clean. There were no bloodstains, splashes, or trails of grume.

Suddenly it occurred to Rheinhardt that the girl might still be alive. He hurried over to the prone body and fell to his knees, anxiously resting a hand on her back. She was cold-very cold-and perfectly still. Refusing to accept that this newly kindled hope should be so precipitately extinguished, Rheinhardt snatched a small hand mirror from a chair by the bedside and wedged it close to the woman's nose and mouth. There was no misting. She was, all too clearly, dead.

Rheinhardt sighed and sat back on his heels. As he did so, he noticed a crusty deposit on the woman's crown. He systematically teased her hair apart, burrowing down toward her scalp. The perfumed fibers became increasingly matted with blood. She had obviously received a fatal blow that had been delivered to the back of the head.

As Rheinhardt rose, he caught sight of an object sticking out from beneath one of the pillows. He flipped the pillow over, exposing a small book bound in worn red leather. He picked it up, opened it, and discovered an inscription on the first page. The spidery scrawl was written in a foreign language, but he recognized the name Ludka. On the next page there were a Star of David and some Hebrew characters. Rheinhardt flicked through the thin, almost transparent pages, and surmised that the item was some kind of prayer book. He placed it in his pocket and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Resting his elbows on his knees, Rheinhardt placed his head in his open hands. He remained in this position for some time, eyes closed, unable to think, and feeling strangely numb, impressions of carnage flaming in the darkness behind his eyelids.

6

Liebermann occupied a window seat in the small coffeehouse near the Anatomical Institute. He dabbed his lips with a starched napkin, and examined the remains of his breakfast: a few croissant flakes and a mauve smear of plum jam. Raising his cup, Liebermann swirled the dark liquid and savored its aroma. It was strong and pungent. When he finally tasted the coffee, he found it to be curiously medicinalbitter but fortifying.

On the street outside, the pedestrians were mostly men, somberly dressed in hats and long winter coats, carrying black leather bags and wearing severe, determined expressions. The exception was an animated young man with astonishingly clear blue eyes, who peered through the window and rapped on the glass. He pointed at himself and then at Liebermann while mouthing the words: “Can I join you?” Liebermann responded by gesturing toward an empty chair.

Stefan Kanner entered the cafe and sat down without removing his coat. He beckoned a waiter and ordered a brauner.

“I've just had my fencing lesson with Signore Barbasetti,” said Liebermann. “The second this week. As a result, I am now in dire need of sustenance.”

“How did it go?”

“Yet again I was roundly thrashed.”

“Should I commiserate?”

“No, not at all. I learned a great deal.” Liebermann took another sip of coffee and examined his friend more closely. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I musn't be late for Professor Pallenberg's ward round.”

Liebermann glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, there's no danger of that.”

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