ominous noises that suggested their imminent collapse. Vogl remained at the man’s bedside for two long hours, waiting for the ‘attack’ to run its course. Eventually the coughing stopped and the old general sank back against his pillows. He showed no obvious signs of discomfort and his shallow breathing became stertorous.
As Vogl left the hospital a flash of lightning turned night into preternatural day. A rumble of thunder released a shower of unseasonal hailstones that landed on his hat with casual violence. Such inclemency, thought the doctor, was downright inconsiderate — although he had no idea who he was blaming. This vague sense that the weather was being manipulated with spiteful intent was reinforced when the arrival of a cab coincided with the sudden cessation of the storm.
The journey to his house in the seventeenth district was not a long one. He hoped that his wife would still be awake, but when he finally got to his bedroom there was no light showing under her door. The doctor performed his ablutions, put on his nightshirt and got into bed.
It was impossible for him to estimate how long he had been asleep; however, he sensed that it had not been very long. He was awakened by Kristina, who had evidently risen from her own bed to join him.
‘My darling,’ he said sleepily.
She made herself comfortable, lying on her side with her head resting on her husband’s chest.
They remained in this position for some time — exchanging body heat and caresses. A clock ticked loudly in the darkness. Vogl was on the brink of falling asleep again when the gentle ministrations of his wife’s fingers on his upper thigh prevented him from descending further into oblivion. His subsequent engorgement attracted his wife’s interest, and she shifted down beneath the bedclothes until her lips closed around his rigid organ.
The doctor let out a cry that suggested pain as much as pleasure.
Vogl was a man of the world. He had enjoyed relations with women before his marriage. He was, therefore, highly appreciative of his wife’s readiness to give him such satisfaction. Most women — he had found — were repulsed by the idea.
Kristina dispensed with the eiderdown and mounted her husband with a swift, easy movement. She bore down hard and rotated her hips — maximising the extent of his penetration. Overcome with desire, Vogl reached up and grabbed her breasts. Kristina placed her hands over his and squeezed his fingers until her accommodating flesh was so compressed that it could yield no further. The hardness of her nipples proved too much for Vogl, who experienced the inevitable consequence of such intense excitement.
‘Oh my darling,’ he gasped. ‘My beautiful darling.’
Vogl’s buttocks rose from the bed, lifting his wife in the process. He felt himself pouring into her. Then, when his release was complete, he slumped back down onto the mattress. Spent. Drained. Empty. He was dimly conscious of his wife changing position.
‘Thank you,’ Vogl whispered into the darkness.
Kristina rested a finger against his lips, admonishing him for his gratitude.
Vogl inhaled his wife’s perfume — a heavy, rich scent — that combined musk with subtle registers of lavender. Its soporific qualities ensured his delivery from the world. When he woke again it was the middle of the night, and he found that the bed was empty. Kristina had returned to her room. He turned his head into the pillow, inhaled the lingering perfume one last time, and slept soundly until morning.
29
LIEBERMANN WAS ENGAGED IN the preliminary examination of a woman suffering from abdominal pains which, according to her gynaecologist and gastroenterologist, had no obvious physical causation. He was approximately halfway through his assessment when a nurse knocked on the door, entered, and requested him to ‘step outside’ for a moment. Liebermann frowned and tilted his head, encouraging her to tell him more. The nurse’s eyes warned him that in the interests of his patient he should not press for an explanation. The young doctor stood and followed her outside, where she directed Liebermann’s gaze down the corridor towards the silhouette of a figure wearing a long coat and spiked helmet.
‘Thank you, nurse.’
‘Shall I wait with your patient?’
‘Yes. That would be most helpful.’
Liebermann advanced towards his visitor.
‘Herr Doctor Liebermann?’
‘Yes.’
The constable clicked his heels.
‘You are a difficult man to find, Herr doctor. I’ve been wandering around the hospital without success for some time — I got quite lost, in fact, ended up by the Fools’ Tower. There must be more passageways in here than in the Hofburg! You wouldn’t think so—’
‘Did Detective Inspector Rheinhardt send you?’ Liebermann interrupted.
The constable rolled back on his heels.
‘There has been another …’
‘Murder,’ said Liebermann, helpfully.
‘Yes,’ whispered the constable. ‘In Neubau.’
‘I am afraid I cannot come at once. I am with a patient.’
The constable took out a notebook, wrote down an address, and tore out the page. Handing it to Liebermann he said: ‘What shall I say to Inspector Rheinhardt?’
‘Tell him I’ll do my best to be there within the hour.’
The constable bowed, moved as if to depart, then stopped and asked: ‘I’m sorry, Herr doctor, but … how do I get out?’
‘Proceed down this corridor, turn left at the end, descend the first staircase, turn left again — then right — then left again.’
The constable repeated Liebermann’s instructions, bowed once again, then took his leave, attracting curious glances from two nurses pushing men in wheelchairs.
When Liebermann entered the shabby parlour he experienced a jolt of surprise. Firstly, he had wrongly assumed that he would discover the body in the bedroom and secondly, he had not expected to see any blood. The sight of so much made him hesitate.
Rheinhardt was standing by a chest of drawers. He had obviously been examining the contents, removing papers and documents that were now piled between two iron candelabra. The inspector gestured towards the dead woman, his hand moving uselessly in the air beside him.
The parlour was situated on the second floor of an eighteenth-century apartment building. It was not a large room and the few items it contained created an impression of restricted space. In addition to the chest of drawers, there were two chintz sofas, several potted plants on three-legged stands, a glass-fronted cabinet, and a stove. The glass-fronted cabinet contained some chipped porcelain figures, tarnished silverwear, and an assortment of commemorative plates featuring images of the deceased Empress Elisabeth.
A distinctive rusty taint permeated the air and caught at the back of Liebermann’s throat.
Between the two sofas, lying on the floor, was a woman in her thirties. She was wearing a simple low-cut blue dress, the bodice of which was stained almost black. The hilt of a dagger indicated the location of her heart. No part of the blade was visible. It had been pushed in deep, between her ribs and angled beneath the protective plate of her sternum. The hem of her dress had risen above a pair of scuffed boots and her white legs were spread apart, crooked slightly at the knee. Discarded on the floor beside the body was an undergarment: red silk bloomers with a trim of black lace.
Liebermann crossed the floor to the window, pulled the curtain aside and looked down into a tiny courtyard. The light was failing and the proximity of the opposite wall was claustrophobic. He noticed a walking stick resting
