Vienna Blood by Frank Tallis Page A

made me ask myself: what might arouse such strong feelings in my dear friend? And I concluded that the murder scene must haveresonated sympathetically with something of great personal significance. And I assumed that nothing could stir the feelings of a father of two daughters more than the demise of two young women. But in this respect, of course, I appear to have strayed.” The look of dejection returned, but was almost immediately dispelled when Liebermann cried, “But perhaps I can redeem myself—a little. The song you chose was a litany for the Feast of All Souls. All souls, note. All souls. The word ‘All’ would suggest a desire to include all of humanity in your prayers— humanity in the round, humanity in its entirety. Which makes me think that the bodies you saw belonged to individuals commonly excluded from society. Pariahs of some description? Out of pity, you wanted to welcome them back into the fold. …” Rheinhardt nodded, but said nothing. “In which case,” continued Liebermann, “it is very likely that these murders took place in a brothel!”
    “Extraordinary!” exclaimed Rheinhardt. “Exactly right! The bodies were discovered in a brothel in Spittelberg.”
    Liebermann, his confidence somewhat restored, rewarded himself with another tot of brandy. “Have the bodies been identified?”
    “Yes,” said Rheinhardt. “The man who owns the property where the bodies were found has an agent. We managed to get him to visit the morgue. He did so reluctantly, and I don't blame him—the injuries inflicted on these women were unspeakable. The madam was a woman called Marta Borek. The three girls were Wanda Draczynski, Rozalia Glomb, and the third was called Ludka. The agent didn't know the third girl's full name. At present, we know nothing more about them.”
    Rheinhardt rose from his seat and went to the bookcase, where he had previously deposited his bag—a large brown leather case. He released the hasp, opened it up, and took out a small book and a handful of photographs and papers. He returned to his seat and passed the small book to Liebermann.
    “I found this in the girl Ludka's room.”
    Liebermann examined the inscription. “It's in Yiddish.”
    “Yes: To dearest Ludka from your loving grandfather. It's a prayer book.”
    Liebermann flicked through the pages. “Are there any other inscriptions?”
    “No,” Rheinhardt replied. “She was undoubtedly one of a growing number of Galician women who are routinely sold into prostitution. White slavery has become an international business. Galician girls can be found in the brothels of Alexandria, New York, Buenos Aires, and London. There have even been reports of trafficking operations taking Galician women to Africa, China, and India.”
    “She was Jewish,” said Liebermann—his brow furrowing slightly.
    “Indeed—most …” Rheinhardt hesitated. “Well, let's say many of these poor girls are.”
    “I didn't realize …” Liebermann did not finish his sentence. Instead, he waved his hand, saying, “No matter,” and placed the book next to the ashtray.
    “Now,” said Rheinhardt. “I have to warn you. These are extremely unpleasant images.”
    “I am a doctor,” said Liebermann.
    “Even so—you have never seen anything like these before, I can assure you.”
    Rheinhardt handed the photographs to his friend. Liebermann looked at the first image: the madam, Marta Borek, lying in her pool of blood. He then examined the second image: a close-up of the deep cut in her neck. Liebermann worked through the stack mechanically, not dwelling on any one image for very long. He did stop once, however, in order to rotate a particular photograph—to establish whether or not it was the right way up. He showed it to Rheinhardt.
    “What's this?”
    “Some kind of cross. It was painted on the landing wall—in blood.”
    “Whose?”
    “Well, we can't say for certain, but it was most probably Marta Borek's. We found her body first, in a