Vienna Blood by Frank Tallis Page B

expression. “We've met before,” Rheinhardt added.
    “Yes,” said the old man. “You're the policeman who told me to move along. You told me to go home and light a fire.”
    “That's right. And today is another bitterly cold day. Why, my friend, are you standing here again? You'll get pneumonia!”
    “I'm waiting for my daughter,” the old man replied. “Sometimes, when she's late, I get worried. I come here, and stand under Saint Joseph.” He pointed up at the little statue with its aureole of metal strips. “From here I can see her coming around the corner.” The old man gestured up the street.
    “What does she do? Your daughter?” asked Rheinhardt.
    “She sells glasses of pickled gherkin juice to schoolboys at the bread market. She's a bit simple.” A gust of wind whipped up a cloud of powdered snow, which made the old man close his eyes. When he opened them again, they were moist and glistening. “Have you caught him yet?” he croaked.
    “Caught who?”
    “Krull—the man who killed them … Frau Borek and the three girls.” The old man pointed his stick toward the abandoned brothel.
    “What did you say?
    “Krull. Have you caught him yet?”
    “Who is Krull?
    “The man who killed them all.”
    “Why do you say that? Why do you think that this Herr Krull is responsible for their murder?”
    “He was always loitering aaround here.”
    “Outside Madam Borek's?”
    “Yes.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Waiting.”
    “Waiting for who?”
    “One of the girls—he used to go on about how beautiful she was, and that he wanted to give her something. … I don't know.”
    “Did you ever see her, this girl?”
    “Yes. The small one. Like a child, she was.”
    “And what did Krull do? Did he enter the house with her?”
    “No. He never went in. Just used to wait outside. He was biding his time, waiting for the right moment.”
    Rheinhardt took out his notebook and began to write. “What does he look like?”
    “Well, he's short. Not much taller than me.”
    “What color is his hair?”
    “I don't know—he always wears a hat.”
    “And how old is he?”
    “Twenty, thirty …” The old man pulled at his beard. “Forty … perhaps.”
    Rheinhardt sighed. “Young or old?”
    “Young—but then, everyone seems young to me. Oh yes, and he has a limp.”
    “Why didn't you tell me any of this before?”
    “I didn't know they were dead. You never told me. My daughter told me.”
    “Yes, of course,” said Rheinhardt apologetically. “However, once you suspected Herr Krull, you should have got your daughter to contact the police.”
    The old man shrugged. “She's simple.”
    “Do you know where I can find Herr Krull?”
    The old man returned a vacant expression.
    “My friend,” said Rheinhardt, trying to keep calm. “It is extremely important that I find this man. Do you know where he lives?”
    “Go to the inn and ask the landlord. Herr Jutzet—he knows where everybody lives.”

17
    T HE STAIRCASE WAS MADE of rough-hewn stone squeezed between two high windowless walls. As it went up, the stairs became both narrower and more uneven. At the very top was an alcove, which contained a plaster cast of Christ on the cross. The scene was bathed in a sickly yellow light that pulsed out of a faulty gas lamp. To reach the first step it was necessary to step across a pool of frozen water, which had collected in a depression where some paving stones were missing.
    Rheinhardt tested the ice with his shoe, and watched a dendritic pattern grow from the point of impact. He applied more pressure. The liquid that welled up between the cracks was more like oil than water.
    “Are we going up, sir?” asked Haussmann.
    “I suppose this must be the address.”
    Herr Jutzet—a big-bellied, red-cheeked publican—had been most obliging.
    Yes, I know Herr Krull. A loner, with a gammy leg. Owes me four krone. Here's his address—I'll write it down for you. You see him, you tell him I want my money. Four krone.