Read Online Vienna Blood by Frank Tallis - Free Book Online Page A

influence of primal memories. Something happened to him in his childhood, something traumatic, that touches upon the erotic instinct but that also shaped his character. Whatever that event was—he blames women.”
    Rheinhardt took out his notebook and jotted down a few of Liebermann's comments. Before he had finished writing, he said, “What do you make of that crooked cross? Why on earth did he bother to paint such a thing on the wall?”
    “At first, it occurred to me that the perpetrator might be on some kind of religious crusade, working under the delusion that he is God's instrument, empowered to cleanse Vienna of moral impurities. However, if this were the case, then I would have expected him to have executed a more conventional crucifix—a long vertical line transectedby a shorter horizontal one. I think, therefore, that this symbol has more personal than religious significance. It is, as it were, his calling card. It is also why I think that he is socially inept or ineffectual. In the absence of real status or achievement, the inconsequential person is often minded to leave his mark—his initials, or some other identifier—carved in a public place. It is his only method of leaving an impression on the world, his only claim on posterity. You will find several examples of such graffiti in the tower of the cathedral. … In his sick mind, this atrocity”—Liebermann tapped the photographs—”has acquired the properties of an accomplishment, a proud creation for which he craves and desires recognition. He could not leave without first signing his ‘art.’ The strange cross is his signature.”
    Rheinhardt placed the stub of his cigar in the ashtray and took the photographs back.
    “Oskar,” said Liebermann, “with so much blood, were there no footprints on the floor? No impressions?”
    Rheinhardt shook his head.
    “So he is someone who is perhaps aware of police procedures?”
    “It would seem so.”
    Rheinhardt felt a nagging something at the back of his mind—a vague memory that he could not quite place. His brow furrowed and he twirled his mustache again.
    “What is it?” said Liebermann, noticing his friend's mental effort.
    “Nothing,” said Rheinhardt. Then, fixing Liebermann with his melancholy sagging eyes, he said, “He will do something like this again, won't he?”
    “Yes,” said Liebermann, with economic bluntness. “And very soon, I expect.”

9
    T HE CHAMBER WAS FULL and the air hummed with the low drone of conversation. Those present were well dressed (tending toward sobriety) and were seated in the horseshoe arrangement of pews. The atmosphere was similar to that in a theater just before the curtain rises, but it was also ecclesiastical: an odd combination of excitement and reverence. In the front pew, close to the wooden throne, stood Professor Foch, Andreas Olbricht, and Hermann Aschenbrandt. The professor removed a watch from his fob pocket, flicked open the case, and observed the time.
    “He's late,” said Olbricht.
    “Yes,” replied the professor, dryly.
    The door at the back of the chamber creaked open, and a short plump man entered. His cheeks were glowing and he was evidently in good spirits. The smile on his face was broad and radiant. He stopped to shake hands with one or two members of the assembly and was seen to nod vigorously in response to their inquiries.
    “Hannisch looks happy,” said Olbricht.
    “Then he must have arrived,” said Aschenbrandt.
    Soon the monotonous drone that had filled the chamber was replaced by the rustling sibilance of subdued voices. Certain words and phrases became distinct:
    “He's here. …”
    “… genius …”
    “… greatness …”
    “… reputation …”
    The plump man took a seat that had been reserved for him on the other arm of the horseshoe and gestured a greeting toward the professor, who replied with a brief downward jerk of the head, like a bird pecking.
    Suddenly the door opened again, and a voice called out,