Vienna Blood Read Online Free PDF

with a plain headboard. The blanket was pulled back, and the undersheet was rucked up. Beyond the bed was a half-open window. Rheinhardt walked around the bloody pool and pulled the curtains aside. A dim, cramped passage ran between the brothel and its neighbors.
    “This is where he made his exit,” said Rheinhardt. “There are bloodstains on the frame and sill. I'd like you to comb the area in due course.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Making his way back to the writing bureau, Rheinhardt turned
    the key and let the lid down. Inside were some papers, a few silver
    coins, and a locked cash box. The papers were promissory notes of
    payment addressed to Madam Borek—almost all of them were signed
    by military men.
    “Lieutenant Lipoš´ak, Captain Alderhorst, Lieutenant Hefner,
    Private Friedel …”
    Rheinhardt took out his notebook and scribbled down their names. Haussmann lifted the cash box and shook it. “Full, sir.” “Indeed. The motive for such wanton carnage is rarely theft.” Haussmann replaced the cash box and Rheinhardt closed the
    bureau.
    “Come, Haussmann. I fear that even greater horrors await us.”
    The two men left Madam Borek's room and climbed the staircase at the end of the hallway. Rheinhardt noticed a trail of dark spots on the bare boards. As they ascended, the smell of vomit receded, only to be replaced by more ominous odors. As they neared the top of the stairs, the landing wall came into view. Rheinhardt stopped, his attention captured by a curious emblem that had been crudely painted on the bare plaster.
    “Look, Haussmann.”
    “A cross of some kind?”
    They finished their ascent slowly. Dark runnels, striping the wall, dribbled down from the strange crooked cross. Rheinhardt reached out and rubbed his forefinger into the dried liquid. Even in the poor light he could see that the gritty particles he had collected were crystalline and rust-colored.
    “It's blood, Haussmann. The cross has been painted in blood!”
    Rheinhardt, taking pity on his tallow-faced companion, said quietly, “Now might be the time to examine the passage behind Madam Borek's room.”
    The assistant detective raised a hand to his mouth and coughed.
    “Yes, sir, I think it might be better …”
    Rheinhardt nodded. Haussmann, relieved, ran down the stairs.
    The inspector withdrew his notebook and sketched a simple equilateral cross. He then added opposing horizontals to the vertical line, and opposing verticals to the horizontal line. He looked again at the original. This strange daubing, and its bizarre method of execution, seemed to indicate the existence of a greater level of evil than Rheinhardt had ever before encountered. Satisfied that his sketch was accurate, he replaced the notebook in his coat pocket and braced himself.
    On the first floor, a baleful light filtered through a grimy window.Three doors could be seen from his vantage point—two to the left and one to the right. Rheinhardt moved forward, his footsteps sounding a funereal beat on the bare boards. He pressed his fingertips against the nearest door—the one to his right—and pushed. It swung open and the receding edge revealed—inch by inch—the Grand Guignol tableau within. It was of such unspeakable depravity that Rheinhardt was forced to bow his head.
    “Dear God …,” he muttered at his shoes.
    The remnants of his childhood faith stirred.
    The dusty interior of a provincial church.
    Cassocks and incense.
    The protective potency of holy water. …
    Something close to instinct made him want to touch his forehead and cross himself.
    A young woman with thick brown hair was lying on a large bed that took up most of the available space in the room. The front of her bloodstained nightdress had gathered in a sopping heap beneath her breasts. As with Madam Borek, her throat had been cut; however, her body had been arranged so that her legs were wide open, exposing the genital area. She had been viciously mutilated. Where her thighs met, a ragged