Sent to the Devil by Laura Lebow

laughed. “Ah, sir, I see you’ve never served in the army. Generals never walk in their sleep. My master slept deeply all night, and was a man of action during the day. No, I’d swear he was wide awake. He was walking briskly, with purpose—as if he were going to an appointment.”
    *   *   *
    â€œNo paper was found by the general’s body,” Benda said as we entered the palais.
    â€œAnd none by Alois,” I said. “Troger would have mentioned it.”
    â€œI’ve sent him a message, asking him to find that war protester. You know, Da Ponte, the more I think about it, the more I believe that these two killings are definitely connected. The murderer is making some sort of pronouncement against the war.”
    I wasn’t so sure. I paused to gather my thoughts as we entered a large foyer. A grand staircase, its balusters and newel posts made of red stone veined with white streaks, dominated the room. Benda gestured for me to leave my satchel on the floor, and then led me up the wide marble stairs.
    â€œWell, I agree with you that it is the same man committing these murders,” I said. “The victims were killed with the same type of weapon, and each body was mutilated in some way. Both victims were killed near some sort of monument, and the bodies were found in the same position. But—”
    â€œYes,” Benda said excitedly. “It’s as if the killer were arranging each victim in a sort of display. That’s why I believe the murders are related to the war. Both murders were committed in busy areas of the city—he wants all of Vienna to see his handiwork.”
    We reached the first landing and stopped between two large doorways.
    â€œBut what about the differences in the treatment of the bodies?” I asked. “The burning of the general’s legs and lower torso, and the strange marks on Alois’s forehead? What could those mean?”
    Benda waved off my objections. “We just don’t understand it all yet. But after we question that protester, we’ll know more. Remember, the baker heard him argue with the general, and saw him running from the scene of the murder.”
    My thoughts returned to the horrible morning outside the cathedral. The protester had arrived soon after Alois’s body had been discovered. Had he simply been attracted by the size of the crowd, seeing a large audience for his speeches, or was he the killer, standing on his crate exulting in the scene beneath the Capistran chancel? I couldn’t imagine that such evil could exist in another human being.
    I wasn’t ready to agree with Benda’s theory, however. While I could understand that if a killer wished to murder for political reasons he might choose a great war hero like the general as a victim, I could not fathom the reason he had also killed my dear friend, who had never involved himself in politics, and who had wished for nothing but to pass his remaining days with his beloved books. Benda was grasping at conclusions too quickly. I sighed. It was clear to me that I would play the uncomfortable role of challenger to his speculations. But if I must, I would. Jumping to conclusions had gotten me nowhere in my investigation two years ago, and my myopia had resulted in the death of someone I had held dear.
    I opened my mouth to voice my disagreement. “I think—”
    Benda motioned me toward a smaller door on the right-hand side of the landing and shook his head. “Ah, there you are, my love!” Benda cried as he entered the room. I followed him into a large salon. The room was square, its walls covered with rich blue damask, its high ceiling painted with a complicated scene of buxom young women cavorting in a pine forest. Tall windows draped in the same damask as the walls lined the right-side wall. A long sideboard sat along the left wall. The seating had been pulled to the center of the room to make the