They entered a large chamber that was lit by electric bulbs suspended on cables. A large pipe, big enough for a man to walk through, projected out from one of the walls. It was a conduit for a steady stream of brown glutinous liquid that tumbled into a fast-flowing river. The river itself entered through an arch on one side of the chamber and exited through an identical opening on the opposite side.
Liebermann peered into the rushing torrent and observed slicks of oily effluent, lumps of excrement, and suds of yellow foam. He gagged on the vile spindrift that moistened the air.
Halfway up the wall on the other side of the noxious river was an elevated iron walkway. Looking down at them from it was Olbricht.
Rheinhardt immediately raised his revolver and shouted over the turbulent waters.
“Do not move, Herr Olbricht, or I shall shoot. Stay exactly where you are.”
The artist's expression was calm and his posture relaxed. From his lofty vantage point he seemed to be studying them with an air of detached inquisitiveness, like an emperor observing his subjects with imperial disdain.
“He could be armed, Oskar,” said Liebermann.
“Herr Olbricht,” Rheinhardt shouted again. “Raise your hands slowly and place them on your head.”
The artist did as he was told. But as soon as he had completed this action the chamber filled with the sound of raucous laughter. Two sewerage workers, holding lamps, suddenly appeared behind Rheinhardt and Liebermann.
“What's goin’ on 'ere, then?”
Rheinhardt was distracted only for an instant. But it was enough for Olbricht. He recognized the opportunity-and bolted. Rheinhardt pulled the revolver's trigger, but it was too late. Olbricht had escaped through an entrance at the end of the walkway.
Rheinhardt turned on the sewerage workers, who drew back, fearful of the gunman.
“I am Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt of the Viennese security office. Where does that walkway lead?” He pointed his smoking revolver upward.
“Upper tunnels,” replied the larger of the two men.
“Do they rise to the surface?”
“Yeah, they do.”
“Where do they come out?”
“Postgasse, Fleischmarkt, Parkring… lots of places.” He spoke in a rough dialect that Rheinhardt could hardly follow.
“How long would it take us to get up there?” Rheinhardt waved his revolver at the elevated walkway.
“Up there?” The worker raised his chin and jutted out his lower lip. “About half an hour?” He looked at his smaller colleague, who nodded but didn't speak.
“You are sure?”
The worker consulted his colleague again, who nodded vigorously.
Rheinhardt turned his tired, world-weary eyes toward his friend.
“Well, Max,” he said, sighing, “For the time being, I think, we must concede defeat.”
76
Dawn was breaking as Liebermann and Rheinhardt arrived back at the artist's studio. A thin light seeped through the windows, illuminating the disordered scene: the smashed glass, the shredded canvas, and, most noticeably, the hole in the floor. Outside, the sound of voices and hammering suggested that some of the businesses in the cul-de-sac were already opening.
Rheinhardt set to work again with his pliers and lifted another two planks, which permitted the removal of the cello case. It was old and battered, its brown leather scuffed and its hasps tarnished. Indeed, it looked so battered and worn that Liebermann suspected it must once have been owned by a professional concert performer.
They picked the case up and placed it on Olbricht's table. The two men glanced at each other, acknowledging the suspense of the moment. Then Rheinhardt tested the hasps.
“Not locked,” he whispered.
They clicked open, and he raised the lid.
The interior, lined with moth-eaten crushed velvet, was crammed full of old clothes. Rheinhardt began removing some of the items: a paint-stained smock, a grubby shirt, a light and heavily creased summer jacket.
Both men gasped.
Removal of the jacket had revealed an ornate sword hilt underneath it.
Liebermann reached into the case and, grasping the hilt, drew out a fine military sabre. The curved edge glinted as he turned it in the morning light.
“Salieri's weapon, I believe,” said the young doctor.
Rheinhardt continued to remove articles of clothing from the case. When it was almost empty, he made a second discovery: a notebook bound in red cloth.
“Ah, yes,” said Liebermann knowingly.
Rheinhardt flicked through the pages. It was densely illustrated with pen-and-ink drawings. These were similar in nature to Olbricht's other works-warriors, maidens, and mythical beasts. In addition, there were quotes, copied out in bold Gothic script. Rheinhardt ran his finger along the page. “What is good? All that heightens the feeling of power in man, the will to power, power itself. What is bad? All that is born of weakness. What is happiness? The feeling that power is growing, that resistance is overcome.” A number of crude arcane sigils occupied the margin.
“What a dreadful sentiment,” said Liebermann.
“I wonder where it comes from?” Rheinhardt turned another page and his eyes widened.
Liebermann shifted position to get a better view.
The page was crammed with detaiclass="underline" curling vines, forest animals, the columns of a temple. At the top was a snake, its body divided into three parts. Below were listed all the characters of The Magic Flute: Tamino, Papageno, the Queen of the Night, the Speaker… Blotches of ink were splattered everywhere as though the artist had worked at speed, digging the nib of his pen into the paper.
“Look,” said Liebermann, “he has inscribed something beside some of the names.” He took out his spectacles and leaned forward to examine the minute writing.
“The Queen of the Night… the number seven… a runic symbol of some kind…”
“Thorr, I believe.” Rheinhardt pointed at what looked like an angular letter P.
“…and the numbers one, five, two, and eight.”
The inspector's finger dropped to another character. “Papagenothe bird catcher… the number twenty-seven, Thorr-and again one, five, two, and eight.”
“The final number sequence is constant-it is only the first number that changes.”
“But he uses another runic symbol after Monostatos and the Speaker of the Temple… and a third after Prince Tamino, and Sarastro. I can't remember what the first is called, but the second is featured in List's pamphlet: Ur-primal fire.”
“Oskar-I think these are dates. When did the Spittelberg murders take place?”
“The seventh of October.”
“And the Czech?”
“The twenty-seventh.”
“So here we have it: the seventh, and the twenty-seventh-he has simply substituted Thorr for October.”
“Why, yes! The professor's servant was murdered on the seventh of November-the rune changes to represent a different month! But why substitute 1528 for 1902?”
“I remember my father once told me that Minister Schonerer has devised his own calendar. His Pan-German followers count their years not after the birth of Christ but after the battle of Noreia-believed to have been the first Teutonic victory over Rome.”
“When was that?”
“I don't know-some time before the birth of Christ.”
“Well, Olbricht can't be using the Schonerian calendar-years would have to be added to 1902, not subtracted from it.”
“In which case, Olbricht has used a much later date. If we subtract 1528 from 1902, we get…” Liebermann paused to do the calculation. “A difference of 374 years.”
“Carnuntum!” Rheinhardt cried. “He has calculated his dates from the battle of Carnuntum! AD 374! Just what one would expect from a devotee of Guido List!”