He found the phone by the toilet, and hit the button for reception. The call was answered instantly.

‘I need an ambulance,’ said Angel. ‘Now.’

Hendricksen was dying in the hotel room.

He was still dying in the ambulance.

But he died at the hospital.

Chapter LX

Louis received the message on his cell phone as he alighted from the train at Vienna’s Central Station.

Find another hotel, it read. Hndksn 187.

It was the police code for homicide. Louis did not call Angel, but responded with a simple OK. Behind the two letters lay a weight of sudden grief and anger. He had liked Hendricksen a great deal, and Louis did not like very many people at all. He took a few moments to find alternative accommodation to Angel’s, as advised, selecting an upmarket boutique place on Führichgasse. The room was expensive, but six bottles of wine were included in the price, and Louis felt as though he could drink most of them before lunch. He caught a taxi to his lodgings, checked into his room, and waited for Angel to get in touch.

From his window he could see the Albertina. In another life, another time, he might have gone there to view the Dürers in its collection, but not now, not with the weight of the dead pressing upon him. Reflecting on Dürer brought to mind De Jaager, who had enjoyed haunting the Rijksmuseum, and generally adored Dürer, but suffered a curious blind spot when it came to the art of engraving – and the Rijksmuseum, if Louis remembered right, held, with the exception of a single drawing, only Dürer’s engravings. Perhaps, Louis thought, he might visit the Albertina after all, circumstances permitting, because De Jaager would have wanted it.

Two hours went by, then three. He did not move from the bed, and was not in the mood to resume his immersion in Fenimore Cooper. There were books on the shelf in his room, but most of them were in German. The only English work he could find was a volume of essays on morals and ethics. He started reading it before deciding that the best of its contents he already knew, and the rest he didn’t need to know. He opened one of the complimentary bottles of red wine and drank a single glass. From the wall opposite his bed, a life-size photograph of a girl stared back at him. The girl looked poor: an immigrant, or a lost soul. Louis considered it an odd choice of décor, unless it was intended to evoke feelings of guilt in the observer for being able to afford one of the better rooms in Vienna.

His phone rang. He answered.

‘What happened?’ he said.