33
ON HIS ROUTE HOME it was Haussmann's luck-or misfortune, depending on his state of mind-to pass a number of beer cellars. He had been looking forward to a Budweiser and had felt cheated when the opportunity was denied him because of Herr Arnoldt's inconvenient arrival. Having been so far frustrated, the prospect of a restorative draft seemed particularly appealing. By the time Haussmann reached Mariahilf, he had persuaded himself that it would do no harm-indeed, it might even do him some good-to stop off at a little place he knew on Stumpergasse. So it was that, shortly after eight o'clock, he found himself sitting next to a large open fire, nursing a tankard of Zwickel beer. It was just what he needed: smooth, full-bodied, and slightly cloudy.
As he relaxed, he mulled over the day's events. The business with Commissioner Brugel had been most embarrassing; still, Rheinhardt had explained the purpose of their vocal gymnastics with remarkable forbearance. When Brugel finally departed, the old curmudgeon had been appeased-but he'd still been unimpressed by Rheinhardt's conduct. The commissioner was a difficult, irascible man, and Haussmann was glad that he did not have to report to him directly. In due course, though, if he were promoted, he too would have to lock horns with Brugel. Consideration of this likelihood prompted the assistant detective to drain his tankard. He gestured to the landlord (by tilting an invisible drinking vessel in the air) that another Zwickel would be most welcome.
Haussmann allowed his thoughts about work to subside and began to take note of his surroundings. The relatively confined space of the cellar vibrated with conversation. Most of the tables were occupied and the atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke. The patrons were male and working-class: the sole exception being three students from the university who were seated in a shadowy nook under a bricked arch. They were clothed in the blue of the Alemania dueling fraternity.
It was not uncommon to see young men of their type wearing bandages. Indeed, among the fraternities the medical dressing was proudly displayed as a badge of honor. A strip of lint was often visible on the left cheek-where a right-handed opponent could more readily land his blow. One of these Alemanians, however, had had his head completely wrapped up in bandages-save for a narrow “window” created for his spectacles. He had obviously been involved in a particularly violent exchange. His jaw was drawn tight above and below the mouth. Haussmann understood that this was to prevent the inadvertent ripping of cuts while eating. Even so, this Alemanian's predicament did not prevent all forms of consumption. A small hole had been made in the bandages, through which he was able to imbibe by using a straw. A Viennese student could survive without food- but not without beer.
The landlord arrived with Haussmann's second Zwickel. He banged the tankard on the table, allowing a fair amount of beer to splash over the sides.
“There you go,” he roared in rough-edged rural German. “Get that down you.” His big red face lowered. “You won't find a better Zwickel anywhere-not nowhere!”
Haussmann noticed that a pamphlet had been discarded close to the tankard. As a river of beer began to run down a wide groove in the tabletop, he moved the pamphlet aside to ensure that the paper would not get wet. As he did so, something printed on the front page caught his attention.
Before the landlord could leave his table, Haussmann grabbed the man's arm.
“What?” The landlord was evidently surprised by the strength of the slight young man's grip.
“This pamphlet. Who left it here?”
“I don't know.”
“Who was sitting at this table-before me?”
The landlord thought for a moment. “Now you're asking. No… no, I can't remember.”
“Was it someone who comes here regularly?”
“S'pose it could have been. I tell you what, my friend: how about letting go of my arm?” Haussmann had been unaware that he was still restraining the landlord. He nodded and pulled his hand away.
“That's better,” said the landlord, smiling broadly. “Ain't it?” He was obviously used to pacifying drunks.
“What did they look like?” Haussmann asked.
The landlord shrugged. “I told you, I can't remember. Why do you want to know, anyway? People leave stuff like that in here all the time-political types. It's all nonsense. I wouldn't bother with it if I were you.”
Haussmann picked up the pamphlet and stared at the front page. The crooked cross was identical to the one that he had seen painted on the wall in Madam Borek's brothel.
34
THE STREETCAR WAS APPROACHING through hazy darkness.
Like all of the new streetcars circling the Ringstrasse, it had no obvious source of power. The emperor had objected to the installation of overhead cables on the Ringstrasse because he believed that they would mar its beauty. But Liebermann, like many of his contemporaries, was fully cognizant of the real reason for the royal edict. Old Franz Josef (ever suspicious of scientific advances) had become obsessed by the idea that an electric cable might fall on his carriage, causing him a serious (if not fatal) injury.
Neurotic, thought Liebermann. Quite neurotic.
As the streetcar rolled to a halt, Liebermann peered through the steamed-up windows and saw that all the seats were taken; however, standing room was available on the back platform. As Liebermann took his place, the bell rang out and the streetcar jolted forward: this sudden precipitate motion made a young woman standing in front of him lose her footing. She stumbled but prevented herself from falling by allowing her open palms to land squarely on Liebermann's chest. The doctor found himself looking down at a pretty, open face-and into a pair of peculiarly arresting green eyes.
“I'm so sorry,” the woman apologized in a husky contralto. “I couldn't stop myself.”
Although her accent betrayed humble origins, Liebermann observed that her gloves were rather expensive: red doeskin and the wrists were trimmed with sable. The rest of her clothes were plain but tastefuclass="underline" a long dark coat, French-style ankle boots, and a wide-brimmed hat with no decoration-not even a ribbon. She was not perplexed by her predicament and seemed in no hurry to extricate herself. Liebermann, assuming that she was waiting for some gallant gesture, gently lifted her hands from his body.
“Thank you,” she said, righting herself and smiling. “You're very kind.”
“Not at all,” said Liebermann. Then, looking over his shoulder, he raised his voice and added, “Perhaps, fraulein, one of the gentlemen inside would be willing to offer you his seat.”
“No!” the woman protested. “No. I'm very happy to stand here.”
“As you wish,” said Liebermann.
The conductor jostled onto the back platform, took a few faresincluding Liebermann's-and returned to his post. As Liebermann was pocketing his ticket, he recognized the same pleasant contralto. “You're a doctor, aren't you?”
The young woman was smiling at him again.
“Yes,” said Liebermann. “How did you know?”
“The way you're dressed.”
She reached out and touched his sleeve.
Liebermann looked down at his astrakhan coat and could detect nothing in its appearance that declared his profession. Perhaps she was teasing him? Before he could formulate a playful riposte, the woman had introduced herself.
“My name is Ida Kainz.”
“Ah,” said Liebermann. “Kainz. Like the actor?”
“What actor?
“Josef Kainz.”
She shook her head and pursed her lips. “I don't go to the theater much.” She pulled a pathetic face that recalled the pitiful melancholy of a disappointed child. “I have no one to take me.”
The streetcar stopped and more people climbed on, forcing Ida Kainz to renew her intimacy with Liebermann's chest. She did not appear distressed by her situation, and Liebermann once more found himself looking down into her eyes, which had narrowed slightly. Her perfume was sweet-like apple blossom.