He bid the knight good evening, walked around the town hall, and headed off into the backstreets of Josefstadt.
It had been a disappointing day.
If only that test had proved positive…
If only, if only…
When Rheinhardt arrived at his apartment building, he climbed the stone steps leading to the first floor. His heavy footfall announced his arrival. Before he reached the top of the stairs, the door of his apartment flew open, revealing his wife, Else.
“There you are!” she cried. “Where have you been?”
“At work,” said Rheinhardt.
“The security office called…”
“But I've only just left Schottenring!”
“They said you'd been gone for some time.”
“Well, that's true, I suppose. I decided to walk home.”
Else's expression vacillated between anger and relief.
“I was worried,” she said finally.
“Well, there was no need to be,” said Rheinhardt, ascending the last few stairs and planting a kiss on his wife's forehead. “What did they want?”
“You must go to the Ruprechtskirche.”
“Now?”
“Yes. There's been another murder.”
27
THE VENERABLE WAS SEATED on the master's chair, a beautiful throne of carved oak. It was thought to have been made in Scotland around 1690 and given as a gift to one of the earliest Viennese lodgesperhaps even Aux Trois Canons, the very first. He ran his fingers over the carved arm and traced the lines of a raised pentalpha, the Pythagorean symbol of perfection. The five-pointed star was held between twin compasses.
From his vantage, the venerable could look through the body of the Temple toward the entrance. Two great bronze doors were flanked by Corinthian pillars, denominated J and B for Jachin and Boaz-evoking the two columns built by Hiram at the gates of the Temple of Solomon. Above these was a relief equilateral triangle, from within which a single all-seeing eye coldly contemplated the empty pews. On the east wall a mural awaited completion. When finished, it would show the Ark of the Covenant, and Jacob's ladder ascending toward the Hebrew symbol Yod. There is no rush, he thought. We still have plenty of time to prepare…
The venerable raised himself from the chair and walked down the center aisle. Stopping to turn off the gas lamps, he slowly made his way toward the entrance. He pushed one of the bronze doors open and took one of two oil lamps that were hanging from hooks in the wall. The vestibule was relatively small, with two adjoining staircases: one ascending, the other descending. The venerable took the stairs going down-a tight spiral of stone wedges that sank deep into the earth. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he found himself in another antechamber, illuminated by light that was spilling from a half-open door.
“Ah, still here, brother?” the venerable called out.
“Yes,” came the reply. “Still here.”
The venerable pushed the door, which emitted a loud creaking. It opened by degrees to reveal a rectangular room, considerably smaller than the Temple. The walls were almost totally obscured by bookcases, although much of the shelving was unfilled. In the middle of the room were several crates. Two of them were empty and the third contained a collection of leather-bound volumes. A man-seated at a desk nearby-was leaning over and lifting books from the half-full crate, examining them, and carefully entering their details in a large register.
“All of them have arrived safely?” asked the venerable.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good.” The venerable looked down at his pocket watch. “It's getting late, brother. You should go home.”
The librarian lifted his head, placed his pen on the table, and stretched his arms. “It's the last crate. I may as well finish.”
The venerable smiled and approached the desk. He picked up the book that the librarian was in the process of recording, and examined the spine. It read: Journal fur Freymaurer, 1784-1786, Volume IV.
“Do we have all twelve volumes?” asked the venerable.
“Of course,” said the librarian.
“Excellent,” said the venerable, stroking the binding. “All of the Truth and Unity papers. It will be an invaluable addition to our collection.”
The librarian picked up his pen again and began to scratch another entry into his register. The venerable was about to leave, but was momentarily distracted by a book lying open and facedown on the desk. He picked it up and glanced at a mezzotint illustration. Beneath the picture was a caption: Schaffer's design reproducing Schikaneder's staging. The illustration showed a snake cut into three sections.
Part Two
28
RHEINHARDT DID NOT FEEL comfortable in the morgue. Even when its hollow emptiness was enlivened by the sound of human voices it remained a forbidding, misanthropic place. For the umpteenth time he curled his finger into the fob pocket of his vest and tugged the chain. The hands on the watch face had hardly moved.
Where is he?
Suspended from the ceiling was an electric light. Its beam was directed by means of a low conical shade onto sheets, the topography of which suggested a recumbent human form. Beyond this concise column of illumination was an impenetrable expanse of darkness.
The cold was excruciating but Rheinhardt had given up blowing into his locked fingers. He had accepted that the nagging ache in his joints would in due course become a singing pain. Thereafter, he could only hope for the unsatisfactory solace of an anesthetic numbness.
The dense silence-so compressed that it had become tintinnabulary-was ringing in Rheinhardt's ears. He began to whistle a jaunty spirit-rallying tune of his own devising. When he reached the end of the second phrase, the caesura was filled by a long, protracted groan. Disconcertingly, it came from nearby. The faint yet disturbing rise and fall of the mortuary sheets confirmed that it was the corpse who had produced this mournful sound.
Rheinhardt was gripped by a paralyzing jolt of fear. His head pulsed and his heart knocked against the wall of his chest.
Is he still alive?
Impossible!
Rheinhardt ripped the uppermost cover off, revealing the face of a man in his fifties. It was a broad Slavic face, with high cheekbones and swept-back greasy hair. The blue lips were parted. Rheinhardt nervously placed the palm of his hand over the corpse's mouth but felt nothing.
“What on earth do you think you're doing, Rheinhardt?”
The inspector jumped. “Oh, Professor Mathias.”
The pathologist shuffled in and took off his hat and coat. “What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost!”
“He groaned,” said Rheinhardt, gesturing toward the body. “I swear it. He groaned-like this.” Rheinhardt produced a plaintive moan.
“It's the gases, Inspector-the compounds released as the bacteria get to work on his last meal. They rise up and stimulate the voice box.”
Mathias hung up his coat and hat and took an apron down from a row of pegs. After slipping the top loop over his head, the old man tied the dangling side cords behind his back and shuffled over to the table.
“Good evening, sir,” he addressed the corpse. “And who-might I ask-do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“His name is Evzen Vanek,” Rheinhardt replied.