“Yes. It was feeding time.”
“A keeper was present?”
“Yes. Herr Arnoldt. Cornelius Arnoldt. He was knocked unconscious.”
“While feeding the animal?”
“No, while preparing the food in an adjoining room.”
The tiger's throat rattled. A deep, gurgling sound, like water pouring down a drain.
“Do you know Herr Arnoldt?”
“Yes, of course. I'm familiar with all of my keepers. He's an excellent fellow.”
“So the intruder struck Herr Arnoldt and took the keys?”
“Yes.”
“Then he let himself into the pit?”
“Quite so,” said the director.
The Tiergarten was arranged like a bicycle wheel, with pathways radiating like spokes from a central hub. All the buildings were painted mustard-yellow, just like the adjacent palace, a consistency of color that commemorated the zoo's earlier existence as the royal menagerie. They were heading in the direction of the central octagon, an elegant structure decorated with ornamental urns and braided bas-relief.
“What time do you open?” asked Rheinhardt.
“I'm not sure that we should. Not today. My staff are too… distraught.”
“It would be a shame to disappoint your visitors.”
“Quite so, Inspector, quite so. Like you, we too have a duty to perform.”
“And a very important one. My family and I have spent countless happy afternoons here in the company of the animals.” Rheinhardt continued: “I have two young daughters.” His addendum hung in the air.
The director turned to look at his companion and, smiling faintly, said: “We do our best, Inspector.”
“Quite so,” Rheinhardt replied, mischievously appropriating the director's verbal tic. Somewhere, in a distant corner of the zoo, an unidentified creature, most probably an exotic bird, cawed loudly. Beyond the central octagon the two men veered to the right, finally approaching their destination.
They entered the reptile house through a door at the rear of the building. The atmosphere was warm and humid, in sharp contrast to the icy air outside. A tall zookeeper was standing in the narrow hallway next to an open door.
“This way, please,” said Pfundtner. The keeper pressed his back against the wall, allowing the director and Rheinhardt to pass. The door opened out from a small room, the occupants of which formed an odd tableau. A second keeper, with a bandage around his head, sat on a wooden chair. Next to him stood a sober-looking gentleman in a dark suit (clearly the doctor responsible for the bandage), and to their left was a white slab on which several animal carcasses were laid out. Rheinhardt was dimly aware of an arrangement of pelts-one of them lying in a circular pool of blood.
“How is he?” asked the director, nodding toward the injured keeper.
“Much better,” said the doctor, resting a hand on his patient's shoulder. “A little concussion-but that's to be expected. A few days’ bed rest and he'll be in fine fettle.”
Rheinhardt stepped into the room. “May I ask Herr Arnoldt some questions?”
“Of course,” replied the doctor. “But I'm not sure he'll be able to tell you very much. He's suffering from retrograde amnesia.”
“Which means?”
“Memory loss,” the doctor explained. “Most people lose some memory after a head injury-usually the memory of events leading up to the point where they lost consciousness.”
“But how much?”
“It varies, but Herr Arnoldt can't remember much more than getting up this morning and eating his breakfast.”
“Is that so?” asked Rheinhardt, directing his question at the keeper.
Herr Arnoldt attempted to stand.
“No, Herr Arnoldt,” said the doctor, applying a gentle pressure to the keeper's shoulder. “Please remain seated.”
Herr Arnoldt dropped back into the chair and looked up at Rheinhardt.
“I can remember getting up this morning… eating some eggs and pickled cucumber.”
“And anything else?” asked Rheinhardt.
“No… The next thing I remember is waking up here… on the floor. And Walter… Walter helping me.”
“Walter?”
“That's me,” said the keeper outside. “Walter Gundlach. I was on my way to the hyena enclosure when I noticed the door at the back had been left open. It's usually locked, so I stuck my head in to take a look. Herr Arnoldt was lying on the floor.”
“Where?”
“Half his body was where you're standing, the other half sticking out into the hallway.”
“There's no blood on the floor,” said Rheinhardt. “Has someone cleaned it up?”
“There was no blood,” said the doctor. “There were no lacerations. It seems that Herr Arnoldt was struck on the back of the head with considerable force-but not with a weapon.”
“Then with what?”
“A clenched fist… the forearm, perhaps.” The doctor pointed at his patient's neck. “The cervical area is tender and badly bruised.”
“You didn't notice anything else?” Rheinhardt asked Gundlach. “Anything unusual?”
The keeper shook his head.
“No… I made sure that Herr Arnoldt was comfortable and then I called the director.”
Rheinhardt turned to face the doctor again.
“Is Herr Arnoldt's memory loss permanent?”
“It's difficult to say. Some people recover their memories-others don't. We'll just have to wait and see.”
“But what is the likelihood?” asked Rheinhardt insistently.
The doctor looked down at Herr Arnoldt, narrowed his eyes, and pressed his lips together.
“There is a fair chance,” said the doctor.
Like most medical men, he seemed reluctant to give a definite answer.
Rheinhardt surveyed the circle of faces surrounding him: the doctor, the director, the unfortunate Herr Arnoldt, and his gangly colleague who was looking in from the corridor. They all seemed to be expecting him to say something important. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Rheinhardt said: “Where is the…” He found himself unable to articulate the word “body” and hesitated as he searched for a more appropriate alternative. “Herr Pfundtner, where are the remains?” It seemed a reasonable compromise, neither too anthropomorphic nor too disrespectful.
The director gestured toward a second door, next to the heap of furry carcasses.
Rheinhardt turned the handle and pushed it open. The air that escaped was laden with a strange pungent odor. He stepped over the threshold and examined his surroundings. He had stumbled into a primeval world. The pit resembled a large bowl, one with earthen sides that were scattered with rocks and tropical vegetation. A single stunted tree leaned its crooked trunk out over the depression, which was filled with dark stagnant water. Colonies of algae floated on the surface, creating an emerald archipelago. On the other side of the pit was a featureless wall, over which members of the public might peer.
Rheinhardt could hear the director standing behind him, breathing heavily.
“Who has been in here this morning?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Myself,” said Pfundtner, “and Herr Gundlach.”
“What about you, Doctor?” Rheinhardt called back. “Have you taken a look in here.”
“No, Inspector,” said the doctor. “I've been rather preoccupied with the health of my patient.” He sounded irritated.
Rheinhardt looked back at the director. “Where do we go?”
“Over there,” said Pfundtner, pointing.
“Please follow me very closely, Herr Pfundtner. Try to tread on the rocks rather than the soil.”
“Why?”
“Footprints.”
Rheinhardt negotiated the shallow slope, using the rocks like stepping stones. He felt them sink a little under his weight, making his progress unsteady. The pit was horribly humid, and beads of sweat had begun to trickle down his cheek. As he rounded a large sandy boulder, he caught sight of the animal. Even though he knew what to expect, he found himself surprised by the bizarre spectacle.
The snake was enormous-a mythical beast, a sea serpent or basilisk. But its dimensions were exaggerated still further by the odd way in which the creature had been mutilated.