Chapter 3
Vienna
Finishing her hot chocolate, Elena paid the bill and left the old world charm of Demel and, stepping through the doors, moved 200 years forward in time. One of the oldest coffee shops in Vienna, Demel had a good claim to have invented the famous Sachertorte. Whether or not they had, they remained the best place in the city to enjoy a drink and cake, which seemed to come in every colour imaginable, all carefully arrayed behind the glass, wood and bronze display cases. Family owned, little, in front of the scenes anyway, had changed since the Victorian era, guaranteeing the coffee house a place on most tourist itineraries and a devoted following amongst Vienna’s haute bourgeoisie.
It was not just the cold which made her gasp as she walked along Kohlmarkt; it was the change in atmosphere. Seconds before, she could have been in early nineteen hundreds Vienna, a city of art, culture, civilisation and possibly decadence. She could imagine writers, philosophers, and composers talking and arguing over steaming cups of chocolate and piles of cake, their silk waistcoats glistening in the candlelight, eyes sparkling in the omnipresent mirrors. She could even picture the failed artist in the corner, his small moustache coated with cream as he railed against his enemies to any who would listen.
Such illusions were no longer possible, she sighed as she dodged tourists, buskers and anonymous “businesspeople” as she made her way up the street. Whereas previously, each shop would have been family owned, the product lovingly crafted with artisanal skill, they had slowly been replaced with the lowest common denominator of the global retail experience, the stores one could find in every city in every country of the world. Her only satisfaction came from knowing that Starbucks had been refused permission to open. Who needed Starbucks when one had Demel?
Turning right, she moved on to Shauflerg, the baroque splendour of the Hofburg to her left. Although the Habsburgs’ summer palace at Schonbrun was arguably better know, its bright yellow classicism and majestic gardens establishing it as central Europe’s Versailles, she had always preferred the city palace, built on a curve, its grey stone columns towering upwards, topped by the stately green of the copper cupola.
Sadly, she was not going to the palace, but the somewhat more austere buildings across the road from it. Towering walls interspersed with leaded windows and massive oak doors studded with iron knobs lined her side of the street, and through the Judas gate in one of them she stepped to be greeted by a concierge, an elderly woman who looked almost as old as the building itself. A lick of paint would have been in order, but the building was not run-down, more shabby chic, in the way that only certain countries, Italy being another, have been able to pull off. The cracks in the paintwork and occasional missing stair rail paled into insignificance given the overall magnificence of the architecture.
The elderly lady was in obvious distress, being comforted by a uniformed police-woman, snuffling into a tissue. She had seen a lot, the old lady, all Viennese of her age had, and Elena was confident, if not entirely charitable, in assuming that she would soon head off to her favourite coffee shop to regale her cronies about her macabre discovery that morning.
Taking the stairs up to the third floor, the staircase sweeping round in a long, lazy arc, Elena was greeted by more policemen, and a swarm of white suited technicians, combing every inch of the threadbare carpet. Through the solid oak door ahead on the left, a camera flashed. Showing her badge, Elena stepped through into a sumptuously furnished apartment.
Originally built to house the veritable army of servants needed to keep the Habsburg monarchy in the style to which it had become accustomed, the building and its neighbours had, in these more democratic times, be turned into grace and favour apartments for high functionaries of the Austrian State. Given the low rent charged, Elena had heard that it had not increased since the 1970’s, they were a highly sought-after perk for those who had dedicated their lives to serving their country.
The high ceilings, with ornate rococo borders, towered over duck egg blue wall paper with a subtle fleur de lis pattern. One wall was dominated by a scene of the crucifixion, doubtless by one of the more junior old masters, its heavy brass frame sparkling where the spotlights installed metres above hit it. The other side of the room was home to a large display cabinet, dedicated, as far as Elena could tell, to Japanese netsuke, small figurines designed to keep bags closed and attached to their owners in mediaeval Japan, a time before pockets had been invented.
Whoever lived here was obviously someone of impeccable taste, probably quite fastidious, certainly used to the better things in life. And certainly dead. For on the floor, between the two leather Chesterfield sofas, next to the Biedermeyer side table, lay the corpse of Dr Fleicher, his silk dressing gown gaping open, leaving little to the imagination.
Elena thought back to their previous conversation, the unmistakable hand of guilt settling lightly on her shoulder. After the good doctor’s outburst concerning the spear, Elena had found one of the uniformed constables and had her take him home. Over loud protestations, the threat of arrest had eventually worked and the mundane business of police-work had taken over.
The curator had phoned in the next day, announcing that he needed to rest and would take the next two weeks off. His assistant, Dr Gruber, would supervise the operations at the gallery. With a great deal of discretion, a skill Austria excelled at, given its history, the ransacked room had been closed for “redecoration”, the emptied cabinets restocked with similar trinkets from the museum’s extensive collection of spares housed beneath the ground.
The spear was altogether more difficult to replace, being a unique piece, and the focus of some historical controversy, so, with the knack for diplomacy produced by 60 years of political neutrality, it was decided that the lance had been removed for cleaning. In the meantime, as a sop to the horde of internet nutcases with nothing better to do than concoct fantasies, a replacement was being assembled quietly by the museum’s craftsmen.
The pathologist she recognised from Boxing Day approached. “Same shooter” he said blankly.
Elena was impressed by his command of American police slang, less impressed by his certainty. “How can you tell?”
“The wounds are exactly the same, one shot dead centre of the forehead, another to the side. Either there are two crack shots in Vienna targeting museum employees, or it’s the same guy. Didn’t Holmes always favour the simplest explanation?”
Elena didn’t give a shit what Holmes favoured; he was made up, invented by a man who believed in fairies. She did see the logic in his argument though. The shots at the museum had been great, a product of incredible accuracy. It was unlikely that they could have been replicated by another, particularly given the relatively small population of the city.
“When?” she asked, distaste obvious in her tone. There was something about this man she didn’t like. The slang and literary references spoke too much of a man trying too hard to impress, a characteristic she loathed. One more reason for her continuing singleness.
“A while ago. Rigor has fully set in. I need to get him back to the lab, run some tests, but I’d say at least a week, maybe more.” There was a pallor about the face, except of course for the ruby hole at its apex, a waxiness, that spoke of the effects of decomposition. And yet, no smell. The bacteria which prey on corpses go to work instantly, releasing noxious gases as their excretion, one reason why countries in hot climates favour quick burials.
“He was clever, our man. The window was left open.” Elena glanced over, and sure enough, there was a healthy gap. “Given the weather we’ve had, it was freezing in here. It was almost as if the good Doktor was in the fridge since it happened.”
Elena knew that bacteria were highly temperature-sensitive; cool them low enough and they would hibernate, effectively shutting down all systems until the environment improved. It would not stop decomposition taking place slowly, but it was enough to delay it substantially. It had snowed every day since the break-in, so she could understand why he looked so relatively good for one in his condition.
“Anything else?”
“No. It’s pretty open and shut really. If I find anything else, I’ll call you, otherwise it will be in the report. Cause of death: gunshot wound to the head. Can I take him?”
“I’ll want the effects sent to the police lab. After they’ve got that, you can take the body.” Having eavesdropped discretely, two constables began to undress the corpse, their gloved hands slipping everything into airtight plastic bags. Elena herself pulled on a pair of gloves and began to look around the apartment.
The bookshelf told of a man who was obsessed with art. All the volumes were about some sort of creative endeavour, from Roman mosaics, to Old Masters, to the art of turn-of the-century Vienna. All of which was interesting, if not particularly helpful for her present purposes.
The desk was spotless. Dr Fleicher was obviously not the sort who believed in (dis)organised chaos. The pens were perfectly perpendicular to the edge, paper, embossed with his name and address sat in the centre of the antique blotting pad. A couple of sepia photos of a stolid Viennese couple sat in Art Deco silver frames at the top right corner. Fleischer’s parents?
Elena stood back and thought. That the Doktor was neat was obvious from their meeting. Even in the middle of the night, he looked like he had taken extreme care with his appearance. Most in his position would have shown signs of rushing, hair askew, tie unknotted, but not the Doktor. He had looked as if he had just arrived for a day in the office. It was thus no surprise that the apartment was neat.
What was a surprise though, was that the assailant had obviously been equally neat. In Elena’s experience, after a murder, the surrounding premises were usually ransacked, books pulled off shelves, drawers yanked out of desks, papers strewn on the floor. If someone was looking for something, or even just wanted the police to think they were looking for something, that was what they did.
But that was not what Elena saw here. The apartment was untouched. She would have to wait for confirmation from the lab, but she was pretty sure that they would find nothing. So what did that mean? It meant that the murderer was only interested in murder. Following the law of parsimony, he had gone there to kill the Doktor, had killed him and presumably left. Nothing more. No effort even to pretend otherwise.
That led Elena to two unsettling conclusions. First, someone had really wanted the good Doktor dead. Sure, they would look into his background, try to find some sort of motive, but she was doubtful they would find anything. Spurned lovers could rarely afford to hire someone so obviously professional. This man had powerful (and rich) enemies, and that was concerning.
Second, and if anything more worrying, the assassin was obviously good. And confident. So confident that he had not even bothered to try to distract them, misdirecting the investigation by feigning a break-in. He had done his job and left, not worried about any comebacks. This was a man who did not think he would get caught. Over-confidence was always dangerous, but after the museum, Elena doubted that they would find any evidence. Putting herself in the assassin’s head, Elena saw another reason. The assassin had not bothered to distract the police because he knew they would never get him. A killer this skilled would always be aware of the chance of a random slip-up and would be expected to plan accordingly. Yet his actions showed a belief in his own invulnerability, an almost military precision. This man knew that he could not (or would not be allowed to) be caught.
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