Vienna Blood Read Online Free PDF Page A

landlord's agent discovered the bodies. Where is he?”
    “At the station, sir. He gave us the key and refused to come back. Be careful as you go in—he was sick in the hallway.”
    A snowflake landed on the constable's eyelashes.
    The inspector moved toward the door but then halted suddenly. He turned and marched over to the old man who was still watching.
    “Good afternoon, sir,” said Rheinhardt.
    The old man's eyes were bloodshot. He moved his head backward and forward, trying to bring the speaker into focus. Finally he asked a question in heavily accented German. “What happened?” His mittens were fingerless and he raised a fossilized digit. “In there.”
    “Are you acquainted with the householders?” Rheinhardt asked in turn.
    “Not at my age,” said the old man. His lips parted to form a gummy smile, the curve of which was broken by a single black tooth. “It's a whorehouse!” He couldn't sustain his laugh. It fractured, turning into a hacking cough. Fluid crackled in his lungs.
    Rheinhardt rested a hand on the old man's arm.
    “It's cold, my friend. There's nothing for you to see here.” The old man shrugged. “Go home and light a fire,” Rheinhardt urged him.
    The veteran lifted his stick and stabbed the cobbles with unexpected violence. Dragging his feet, he created two parallel tracks in the snow as he negotiated the slippery incline.
    Rheinhardt walked back to where Haussmann was standing with the constables.
    “All right, let's go in.”
    The hallway was dim, claustrophobic, and smelled of vomit. Athick soup of half-digested food had been disgorged onto the floor. Haussmann's features twisted, showing his disgust.
    “I think we can expect worse than this,” said Rheinhardt stiffly.
    To the left was a sparsely furnished room containing a sofa, an armchair, and a small table by the window. On the table was a paraffin lamp, the upper cylinder of which was made of red glass. A potbellied stove stood in the center of the room. Rheinhardt tested the iron with his fingers and found it to be cold. The floor was littered with ashtrays, most of them overflowing with cigar stubs. Three empty champagne bottles stood in the corner.
    The unnatural quiet was suddenly disturbed by the sound of ordnance. Outside, the horse began to clop restively on the cobbles.
    “The barracks,” said Haussmann.
    “Yes. How very convenient.”
    They crossed the hall to a second room that faced the first. As they entered, both men recoiled. Haussmann turned his head away sharply. Only by degrees did he then reverse the movement, and slowly, as if the atrocity that confronted him could only be properly apprehended piecemeal.
    The victim was a middle-aged woman with slate-gray hair that hung in lank strands around her swollen, bruised face. Her body was sprawled out on the floor with her hands either side of her head, the palms open, suggesting an attitude of submission. She was wearing a blue bathrobe, which had ridden up her legs, exposing the varicose veins of her calves, bony ankles, and dainty feet in embroidered silk slippers. Her throat had been opened with a clean, deep slice, and a vast quantity of blood had escaped from her arteries. The floor around her head was a black lake of coagulated gore. Some cartilaginous material was clearly visible protruding from the wound. The unfortunate woman had been almost decapitated.
    Rheinhardt stepped closer and squatted next to the body, makingsure that his coat did not make contact with the blood. He pinched the material of the bathrobe and tried to lift it up, but the garment was stuck. Eventually it came away, making an unpleasant ripping sound.
    “She was stabbed in the heart too,” he said quietly.
    Haussmann did not reply.
    “Are you all right, Haussmann?”
    “Yes, sir. I think so, sir.”
    “Good man.”
    Rheinhardt pushed down on his thighs, stood up, and looked around the room. It contained very little furniture: a writing bureau, a tallboy, and a simple bed