Liebermann stepped out of his tenebrous hiding place and called out: “Let her go.”
The leering duo turned. It was impossible to see their faces in the half-light.
“Let her go,” Liebermann repeated.
One of the men laughed.
“What are you gonna do about it?”
“I must insist that you let her go.”
A stream of profanities ended in humorless guffaws.
“Leave us alone,” the other man said. “Leave us alone, all right? Or you're gonna get hurt. Badly.”
“Yeah, run along—college boy.” This came from the man who was restraining the woman. She began to wriggle. “Keep still, you Gypsy bitch,” he hissed. The woman groaned as the villain tightened his grip.
Liebermann stood firm.
“Right,” said the nearest man. Liebermann saw him make a swift movement—and the glint of a blade flashed in the man's hand. He began to move forward. “Let's see if I can change your mind.”
“As you wish,” Liebermann replied.
The young doctor had been holding his sabre under his arm. Grabbing the hilt, he pulled it from the scabbard—producing as he did a satisfying ring of resonant steel—and held the sword aloft. Its appearance was greeted with a gasp and another stream of profanities. However, the man with the razor continued his approach, and his companion followed.
Liebermann could now see his adversary's features. He was bald, with swollen ears, a snout nose, and a scar that crossed his lips, disfiguring his mouth. It was a brutish countenance, suggesting the haphazard adhesion of lumps of clay. Liebermann searched the eyes for signs of intelligence but found only savage stupidity and an appetite for mindless violence.
The man jumped forward with surprising speed, swiping his razor close to Liebermann s face. But Liebermann had the superior weapon. Before the man could retreat, the young doctor's sabre had slashed through his forearm. The thug cried out, dropping the razor and falling to his knees. His companion, however, had armed himself with a large plank of wood, from which projected several nails. He was taller than the bald man, and more agile. Dodging Liebermann s first lunge, he swung the plank hard against the doctor's side. It was not a painful blow, but had sufficient force to make Liebermann stumble.
While Liebermann was trying to right himself, the tall man landed a second blow on his shoulder. This time it was extremely painful—sharp and searing. A nail had penetrated his skin, and as he pulled away, he heard the sound of ripping.
“Again,” the bald man shouted.
His companion raised his makeshift club, but on this third occasion he lifted it too high, exposing his torso and conceding the vital second that Liebermann required. The young doctor swung his sabre horizontally, creating a glimmering semicircle, the edge of which, if it had been displaced by another two inches, might well have proved fatal. The tall man buckled over—a torrent of blood gushing from his abdomen.
Liebermann waited until the tall man's rapidly weakening legs gave way, and then marched over to the woman and her captor.
“Release her,” he ordered.
The broad-shouldered man looked over in the direction of his accomplices, both of whom were now cursing and crawling toward the alleyway. He swore, and pushed the woman forward with such force that she crashed into Liebermann, making him reel back. However, the maneuver was not a continuation of the fight. The coward simply ran off, and the wretched trio disappeared, yelling florid imprecations.
“You had better sit down,” said Liebermann.
He gestured toward a crate. “Are you hurt?”
The woman shook her head.
Liebermann bent down and examined her face. She pulled back a little, alarmed at the sudden proximity.
“I'm sorry, do forgive me. Your face… Your face is grazed.… I'm a doctor.” Liebermann touched her cheek gently. He could smell her perfume—a distinctive combination of fragrances. “There may be some swelling there tomorrow.”
He withdrew and stood up straight.
“Thank you,” the woman said. “Thank you, Herr Doctor… ?”
“Liebermann.”
“Liebermann,” she repeated. There was something odd about her intonation, as if she had expected his name to be Liebermann and was satisfied that the expectation had been confirmed.
“My pleasure,” said the young doctor, bowing.
She glanced toward the alleyway.
“We shouldn't stay here.” She spoke with a slight Magyar accent. “They could come back… and with more of their friends.”
“But are you recovered?” said Liebermann. “Perhaps a few more minutes—to compose yourself?”
“Herr Doctor, I am perfectly capable of walking.”
There was a note of indignation in the woman's voice, a note of pride. It was almost as if she had construed Liebermann's solicitous remarks as a slur—an imputation of weakness. Liebermann also noticed that, for someone who had just survived such a terrible ordeal, she was preternaturally collected.
She stood up, straightened her head scarf, and adjusted her clothing. She was wearing the short jacket favored by Hungarian women and a long, richly embroidered skirt. Liebermann offered her his arm, which she took—naturally and without hesitation.
On entering the alleyway, Liebermann picked up the bag he had discovered earlier. It was remarkably heavy.
“This must be yours.”
“Yes, it is. Thank you.” She took it, and they proceeded to the street.
“Well, Herr Dr. Liebermann.” The woman halted and released his arm. “I am indebted… a debt, I fear, that it will be impossible for me to repay. You have shown uncommon courage and kindness.” She took a step backward. “Good night.”
“A moment, please,” said Liebermann. “If you mean to walk these streets unaccompanied, I cannot allow it. I am obliged—as a gentleman—to escort you home.”
“That will not be necessary.”
Liebermann was dumbfounded. “But… but I insist!”
She smiled, and the proud light in her eyes dimmed a little.
“I have already caused you enough trouble.” She reached up and gently brushed his shoulder, where a hank of silk lining sprouted from the torn astrakhan.
“Think nothing of it,” said Liebermann, crooking his arm. “Now, where do you live?”
“Near the canal.”
“Then you must show me the way. I am not familiar with the third district and—to be perfectly honest—I was quite lost when I heard your cries.”
She nodded—and there it was, again. A curious, fleeting expression, as if his words had merely confirmed something that she knew already.
The woman set off, taking them through a maze of empty back-streets.
“What happened?” asked Liebermann, flicking his head back in the direction from where they had come. “How did you get into that…” He paused before adding “Predicament?”
“I had been to visit a friend,” said the woman “And was simply walking home. When I passed that alleyway, those… animals jumped out and grabbed me.”
Liebermann felt her shuddering.
“Did you not know that it is unwise for a woman to walk the streets at this time?”
“I am new to Vienna.”
“Well, one should be very careful.”
“I will be in the future.”
“It was most fortunate that I was carrying my sabre.”
“Yes, I was wondering—”
“A fencing competition,” Liebermann interjected. “Earlier this evening.”
“Did you win?”
“No, I lost. And quite ignominiously”
Liebermann asked the woman a few polite questions about her origins (she was indeed Hungarian) and expressed an earnest hope that the evening's events would not prejudice her opinion of Vienna and its inhabitants. She responded by saying that nowhere could ever displace Budapest in her affections—but that she would make every effort to comply with his request.