“How do you know that?”
Rheinhardt offered Liebermann a sheet of paper. “His suicide note.”
Liebermann took the paper and began to read:
I, Lieutenant Ruprecht Georg Hefner, being of sound mind, depart from this life a man of honor…
Liebermann scanned the introductory paragraphs.
My sabre I leave to Lieutenant Trapp and my pistols to Lieutenant Renz…
My horse Geronimo I leave to the regimental doctor-who has been of considerable assistance on many occasions…
Further on, there were references to some outstanding gambling debts that Hefner regretted he would not be able to pay.
Rheinhardt pointed to a passage lower down on the page. “Look at this.”
Liebermann continued reading:
It is all over. The sun is setting on our people and there are too few good men willing to speak out. A lone voice here, a lone voice there: but it is not enough. The cowards in the parliament building and the town hall do nothing. Our glorious city has become infested. I did what I could. But Vienna cannot be saved…
A malicious diatribe followed, denouncing the enemies of the German people: the Jews, the Slavs, the Catholic Church-the southern races.
“There you are!” exclaimed Rheinhardt. “It must be him. It's as good as a confession!”
Liebermann turned the paper over. Nothing was written on the other side.
“We know that he frequented Madam Borek's brothel,” Rheinhardt continued, excitement widening his eyes. “He was a member of the Eddic Literary Association and a member of the Richard Wagner Association. He carried a sabre and wished to save Vienna from all those peoples and institutions despised by Guido List. It must be him. He must be Salieri!”
“No, Oskar,” said Liebermann. “I'm afraid you're mistaken.”
Rheinhardt snatched Hefner's note from Liebermann's hand and read out aloud, “Our glorious city has become infested. I did what I could.”
The sentence hung in the air between them.
“He means dueling, Oskar-that is all. He obviously took great pleasure in provoking those whom he counted as enemies: Jews, Czechs, Hungarians… people like Freddi Lemberg.”
Rheinhardt sighed, suddenly deflated. “But the evidence, Max… Madam Borek's, the sabre.”
“Salieri would not have been able to resist mentioning The Magic Flute.”
“He is a member of the Richard Wagner Association.”
“And then there are Miss Lydgate's findings.”
“She must have made a mistake.”
“As I have said before, I very much doubt it.”
Rheinhardt suddenly turned on his friend. He could not keep the irritation from his voice. “Max, how can you be so sure!”
Liebermann smiled and clapped his hands on Rheinhardt's shoulders.
“I can be sure, Oskar, because tonight you and I will be paying Salieri a house call.”
73
COUNT ZABORSZKY LOOKED ACROSS the low Turkish table at Otto Braun. He sucked the mouthpiece of his hookah and blew out a cloud of pungent smoke. The candle flickered in the draft created by his opiated exhalation.
“So,” he said. “The fool is dead?”
“Yes,” Braun replied. “It was reported in the late edition of the papers.”
The count's lips parted, and he showed his sharp teeth. Braun took it to be a smile.
“You Germans…”
Braun tutted. “He was Austrian. Born in Vienna.”
The count dismissed Braun's remark with a sneer and a languid gesture.
“…with your ridiculous code of honor.”
The sound of a squeaking mattress came from above. A repeated, querulous rhythm. The count's eyes flashed toward the ceiling. “Have you tried the new girl yet? The Galician?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“I don't have any money.” Braun spoke these words deliberately.
The count slid his hand into his pocket, took out a small leather purse, and tossed it onto the table. The younger man picked it up, weighed it in his hand, and put it into his pocket.
The squeaking stopped.
“How did you do it?” asked the count.
“It's easy… I used to do something very similar in my magic show at the Blue Danube Theatre. A little routine built around a wager in which I always won. A quick swap-it was nothing.”
“Yes. But how?”
Braun shook his head. “That would be telling.” Then, assuming a mock-dignified pose, he added, “No honorable magician would break the code.”
The count sucked gently on his hookah and allowed himself a gravelly dry laugh. “Very good, Braun. Very good.”
A door opened and closed upstairs. The sound of footsteps on the landing, and boots making unsteady progress down the stairs. A cavalryman appeared out of the darkness.
“Good evening,” said the count. “I wonder whether you would care to join us for a game of cards.”
The Uhlan's cap was perched at an acute angle. “I am duty bound to warn you-I have a formidable reputation.”
“I'm sure you do,” said the count. “Please…” He gestured toward the seat next to Braun. The magician produced a deck of cards, which he dropped next to the candle. “What shall it be?” he asked, throwing a wicked glance in the count's direction.
Part Four
74
THE COBBLED STREET ROSE up, leading to a short, elevated cul-de-sac. It was a dark place, illuminated by a solitary gas lamp, and somewhat desolate. All the squat two-story buildings had been converted for commercial use, and their occupants had long since concluded their business for the day. Large wooden signs identified the premises of a wheelwright, a blacksmith, and a carpenter. The cul-de-sac was overlooked by the fenestrated eminence of a tall apartment block. Lights shone from a few of the higher windows, suggesting that not all of the residents were asleep.
Earlier that evening the warm, dry fohn wind had descended from the mountains, melting all the snow and ice in a matter of hours. The air was filled with the sound of trickling and dripping as rivulets of running water sought out drains. This freakish meteorological phenomenon could raise the temperature by more than twenty degrees Reaumur.
Liebermann opened his coat and loosened his necktie. “It's associated with insanity, you know.”
“What? The fohn?” Rheinhardt responded.
“Yes. Ask any hospital psychiatrist. The patients get restless and there are always more admissions.”
“How does it have its effect?”
“We have absolutely no idea.” The young doctor sighed. “It's not a good omen.”
