‘Herr Sprenger,’ said Liebermann, ‘your back is covered in scratches.’
‘I know. What of it?’
‘Some of them are very deep.’
Sprenger flashed an angry glance at Rheinhardt. ‘Look, inspector, what’s the purpose of this?’
Rheinhardt joined Liebermann.
‘How did you get these injuries, Herr Sprenger?’
‘It was the woman — the Galician woman on Sunday night. She went wild.’
‘These injuries were not sustained on Sunday,’ said Liebermann. ‘I’d say they were sustained earlier. About two weeks ago.’
‘Well, that’s easily explained. I often go to Spittelberg.’
Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows: ‘Do all of the women you have relations with go
‘It’s not uncommon, inspector. May I get dressed?’
Rheinhardt crossed to the window and drew the curtains aside to let more light in.
‘Does the name Bathild Babel mean anything to you?’
‘No.’
‘What about Adele Zeiler?’
Sprenger paused before answering: ‘Yes, I do know that name. She was murdered. I read about it in the newspapers.’
‘And what about Selma Wirth and Cacilie Roster — do those names mean anything to you?’
Sprenger picked up his shirt.
‘Cacilie Roster was a singer. She was murdered too.’
‘On Sunday night.’
‘Oh, I see. You suspect me?’ Sprenger laughed. ‘That’s ridiculous. You have the wrong man, inspector. I’m sorry.’
Sprenger fastened the buttons of his shirt.
Liebermann coughed to attract his attention: ‘Do you dye your hair, Herr Sprenger?’
Sprenger rolled his eyes.
‘As it happens — yes, I do.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think, Herr doctor? Why do most men dye their hair? I’m going grey.’
‘Would you be so kind as to open your mouth?’
The unexpected request made Rheinhardt turn around sharply.
‘What?’ asked Sprenger.
‘Open your mouth wide — and pull your lower lip down.’ Liebermann demonstrated by tugging at his own lip. ‘Like this.’
Sprenger copied him.
‘Thank you,’ said Liebermann. ‘You are not going grey, Herr Sprenger. You are a young man. Further, you have been dyeing your hair black for many years. You started long before greyness would have been an issue. No, Herr Sprenger, you do not dye your hair because you are going grey. You dye your hair for a quite different reason. The fact that you dye your hair black — the opposite of your natural blond — provides us, I believe, with some indication as to why you do it. By dyeing your hair black you distance yourself from the realm of day and associate yourself with the night. It is symbolic — is it not? Black is the colour of mourning, the colour of death. And death has special significance for you.’
Sprenger did not move. Although his stare was fixed on Liebermann’s his expression was oddly vacant, as though he, Sprenger, had retreated into himself. It was therefore something of a shock when Liebermann felt Sprenger’s fist slam into his stomach. The blow was powerful and lifted him off his feet. Liebermann was propelled backwards and landed awkwardly on Rheinhardt. The pain was excruciating and Liebermann was blinded by the tears which filled his eyes. The next thing he saw was Haussmann, curled up on the floor and with blood pouring through the fingers that covered his face. Sprenger was no longer there.
48
LIEBERMANN PITCHED HIMSELF AT the door. He felt a pang of guilt — the moral traction of his Hippocratic obligation — as he leapt past Haussmann’s writhing body. Yet he was not delayed by his conscience. The imperative of catching Sprenger was sufficiently powerful to negate all other considerations, including that of his own safety.
At the end of the hallway Sprenger was opening a small window.
‘Max, get down!’ Rheinhardt shouted, aiming his pistol.
Liebermann threw himself on the floor.
A shot rang out.
Sprenger was still moving and showed considerable athleticism as he slipped beneath the sash.
Liebermann scrambled to his feet and followed, but he found the window less easy to negotiate than he had expected. He was dimly aware of Rheinhardt’s approach and guessed that the inspector would have some difficulty squeezing through the narrow gap. Rolling over the windowsill, Liebermann landed on a cast-iron platform which formed part of a fire escape. The whole structure shook as Sprenger made his descent.
When Liebermann reached the ground he found himself in an alley separating two apartment blocks. Sprenger had interposed a distance of some twenty metres between them and was only a few strides from the exit and the streets beyond.
Another shot.
Sprenger veered off to the right and disappeared from view.
Liebermann heard Rheinhardt cursing. The expletive bounced off the opposite wall and sounded like the voice of an enraged god. Liebermann continued his pursuit, his feet pounding the cobbles until he was disgorged into a dilapidated backstreet. He caught sight of Sprenger, who was heading north towards the Danube canal. Sprenger’s punch had left a bolus of pain in Liebermann’s stomach. The young doctor was finding it more and more difficult to breathe, his chest ached and his limbs felt heavy.
The distance between them was widening.
This repeated exhortation created an insistent beat which he willed his legs to keep time with. It was like self-hypnosis. Liebermann became less aware of his surroundings and the world shrank, becoming nothing but the rhythm of his running, the pain in his gut, and Sprenger’s receding shirtsleeves.
They spilled out onto the busy thoroughfare of Franz-Josefs-Kai: people, carriages — the general hubbub of the Ring — the sound of a barrel organ and the smell of sausages on a brazier. Across the canal Liebermann could see the public baths. He persevered, pushing himself to the limits of endurance. Sprenger was eclipsed by some pedestrians and then appeared again, running in the road with the traffic. Liebermann’s spirits plummeted when he saw Sprenger getting on a tram. A bell sounded over the din, and Liebermann watched in despair as the vehicle moved away. He clenched his fist and shook it at the sky. Then he noticed something that made him start. There was a tram parked next to him, an ‘L’. Liebermann looked at Sprenger’s tram — also an ‘L’. He jumped on board and addressed the driver: ‘My name is Liebermann. I am an honorary agent of the security office. There is a dangerous and wanted man travelling on the tram ahead and by the authority invested in me by His Majesty the Emperor I command you to follow it.’
The driver was not convinced of Liebermann’s authenticity and, having previously observed him venting his frustration and anger at the clouds, said flatly: ‘Are you mad?’
‘Quite the contrary — I’m a psychiatrist.’ Liebermann removed one of his visiting cards from his coat pocket
