by Frank Tallis
“Most kind,” Rheinhardt replied. “But no, thank you.” He hurried off, his mind filled with nightmarish images of porcine congress.
58
Frau Arabelle Poppmeier entered the consulting room and hesitated by the door. She had mousy blond hair, bright eyes, and although not beautiful, she might have merited that accolade with the very slightest alteration of her features. Liebermann stood, walked around his desk, and rested his hands on a high-backed chair. It was obvious, from the looseness of her sunny yellow dress and her bulging abdomen, that Frau Poppmeier was pregnant. She saw how Liebermann’s gaze had momentarily lowered, and smiled coyly.
“Please, do come in.”
Exhibiting the ponderous gait typical of gravid women, she walked to the chair and took Liebermann’s offered hand. With this small assistance, she was able to achieve a graceful descent in spite of her condition.
“One moment,” said Liebermann. Snatching a pillow from the rest bed, he lodged it between the base of her spine and the back of the chair. “There, that should be more comfortable.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said.
Liebermann sat behind his desk and opened a file of blank pages.
“So, Frau Poppmeier, how can I help?”
“Well, it isn’t my problem, exactly. But then again, I suppose it is my problem-insofar as any problem that affects one’s nearest and dearest also affects oneself. It’s my husband, Ivo. He hasn’t been very well lately. He’s still working, but-”
“What is your husband’s occupation?” Liebermann interjected.
“He’s a salesman for a firm of jewelry designers and manufacturers. They have offices on the Graben.”
Liebermann began to take notes. “And where do you live?”
“On Krongasse.”
“In the fifth district?”
“Yes. Not far from the Naschmarkt. We’ve been very happy there. It’s a little cramped, I suppose… We already have a daughter, Leonie. She’s four now. But when the little one arrives”-Frau Poppmeier laid a hand on her belly and smiled-“we will probably have to move. I’d like to get an apartment somewhere around here, but Ivo says we can’t afford it. So perhaps it will have to be Landstrasse. It’s not that he isn’t doing well. In fact, he’s been promised a promotion next year. But one can’t help worrying, what with this problem of his.” Her lips became a horizontal, bloodless line. “He isn’t himself.”
“How do you mean-not himself?”
“He’s been sickly… less vigorous.”
Liebermann asked a few more questions but found that Frau Poppmeier’s answers were imprecise. She seemed embarrassed. A touch of color occasionally rose to her cheeks. Liebermann assumed that her husband’s problem was most probably sexual. The physical changes that altered a woman’s body during pregnancy increased libido in some men while reducing it in others. She had mentioned her husband being less vigorous, which sounded like a euphemism; however, it was most unusual for a woman to present on her husband’s behalf. This tended to happen only when the husband had become overly fond of drink. Liebermann decided that it would be in everyone’s interest to expedite matters by being direct.
“Frau Poppmeier, if your husband is suffering from a problem that is affecting your marital relations-”
“Oh, good heavens, no,” she quickly interrupted. Glancing down at her bulge, she added, “Ivo has always been able to function as a man. Our relations have become less intimate of late, but that is only because he is concerned for my and the little one’s safety.”
Raising the topic of sex had not caused Frau Poppmeier any awkwardness. What, then, was she so embarrassed about?
“Frau Poppmeier, you have suggested that your husband is out of sorts, unwell, not himself, but could you please try to be a little more specific?”
The young woman sighed, and began to enumerate her husband’s symptoms: indigestion, nausea, constipation, changes of appetite…
Liebermann looked up from his notes.
“Frau Poppmeier, I think there must be some mistake. This is the department of psychological medicine. It sounds like your husband requires the services of a specialist in gastric disorders, not a psychiatrist.”
“We’ve already seen one. Herr Dr. Felbiger.”
“Felbiger?”
“Yes. It was he who suggested we come to see you.”
Liebermann scratched his head. “Are these symptoms making your husband depressed?”
“Not really…” Frau Poppmeier shifted on her chair and grimaced. “This is rather difficult, Herr Doctor. My husband’s nausea tends to happen only in the morning… He retches but only occasionally vomits. I said that his appetite has changed, but really it would be more accurate to say that he has developed odd food cravings. Fads. And he complains of pressure in his pelvis, tightness of the abdomen, and…” She paused and adjusted the drop of her skirt.
“Yes?” Liebermann prompted.
“Quickening sensations.”
Liebermann put his pen down. Frau Poppmeier looked perfectly sane, but what if she wasn’t? What if everything she had said was an elaborate delusional fantasy? It certainly sounded that way. The young woman detected the change in his expression: the narrowing of his eyes, the setting of his jaw, both suggesting suspicion and doubt.
“Herr Doctor,” Frau Poppmeier continued, “I think you must be well aware of what these symptoms mean.”
Liebermann involuntarily glanced at the woman’s belly.
“What did Dr. Felbiger say?”
“What you are probably thinking but cannot say for fear of sounding foolish. My predicament exactly!” She threw her hands up in a desperate appeal to the heavens. “But yes, you are quite right. My husband appears to have gotten himself pregnant.”
59
“Does the name Jeheil Sachs mean anything to you?” asked Rheinhardt.
Anna Katzer was wearing a crisp white blouse and a pink skirt. She straightened her back, frowned, and said, “Yes, unfortunately it does.”
Rheinhardt flicked his notebook open.
“How did you become acquainted?”
Anna’s frown became more pronounced.
“I wouldn’t call Herr Sachs an acquaintance, Inspector.”
“Why not? Didn’t you pay him a visit last week?”
Anna was evidently surprised. “Who told you that? He hasn’t made a complaint, has he?”
“No,” said Rheinhardt calmly. “No, he hasn’t.”
Anna scowled.
“Well, Fraulein Katzer?” Rheinhardt asked. “Why did you go to see Herr Sachs?”
“Inspector, do you know the new warmestube in Spittelberg?”
“Yes.”
“On Wednesday, a Galician woman named Kadia Pinski fainted there. A doctor was called, and he discovered that she had been badly injured. She was a prostitute, and the man she named as her attacker was also her procurer-Jeheil Sachs.” Anna paused and secured one of her hairpins. “Apparently Fraulein Pinski had wanted to end her association with Herr Sachs, and he had responded by violating her person in the cruelest way imaginable. You see, Inspector…” She touched her neck and looked away. “Fraulein Pinski’s injuries were internal, and had been inflicted with the handle of a brush.” Rheinhardt winced. “Had she not received medical attention, she most probably would have died.”
“Where is she now?”
“Recovering in the hospital. We were able to make arrangements for her care.”
“We?”
“Myself and my dear friend Olga Mandl. As you can imagine, Inspector, we were horrified-and we resolved to pay Herr Sachs a visit in order to issue him with a warning, before he assaulted some other poor wretch.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“We did, but Fraulein Pinski was too frightened to make a statement. Besides, as I am sure you are aware, Inspector, the police are disinclined to assist women of her nationality and profession.”
Anna looked directly at Rheinhardt. She
was tacitly challenging him to deny her allegation. He couldn’t: What she had said was perfectly true. Rheinhardt sighed, the exhalation carrying his next question. “What did you say to Herr Sachs?”
“I can’t remember exactly,” Anna replied. “We told him that we knew what he had done, that we had a doctor’s report, that we would be taking things further…”
“And how did he react?”
“At first he wasn’t very much bothered. He was clearly confident that the police wouldn’t be interested. He admitted introducing Fraulein Pinski to some soldiers, so that she could have, as he called it, ‘a good time,’ but denied everything else. He became angry only when we refused to leave.”
“What did he do?”
“He shouted and pushed me out of the way.”
Rheinhardt tilted his head quizzically.
“I was holding his door open,” Anna explained. “He had to get me out of the way to close it.”
Rheinhardt made some notes.
“It was a foolish thing that you did, you and your friend-going into Spittelberg to rile a man like Sachs. You could have been hurt as a consequence. What did you hope to achieve?”
“We thought we might scare him,” said Anna.
Rheinhardt had to make a conscious effort not to laugh out loud.
“Inspector,” Anna asked, “why are you here, asking me these questions? Is Herr Sachs involved in one of your cases?”
“Yes,” said Rheinhardt. “You could say that.” He squeezed one of the horns of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it to sharpen the point. “Apart from the police-and the doctors who are taking care of Fraulein Pinski-have you spoken to anyone else about Sachs?”
“My parents and…”
Rheinhardt detected a certain hesitancy.
“Yes?”
“Another friend.”
Her voice had softened.
“What is your friend’s name?”
“Gabriel. Gabriel Kusevitsky.”
Rheinhardt looked up. “And where might I find this gentleman?”
60
Herr Poppmeier was a dapper man in his early thirties. His hair was a fair reddish-brown color and was parted in the center. He looked quite young for his age, almost cherubic, and his mustache-which was also fair and meticulously combed-did little to mitigate a first impression of immaturity. His clothes were finely tailored, and his tiepin (a flamboyant coral reef of colored stones) looked conspicuously expensive. He was in the habit of constantly making small adjustments to his cuffs, and his use of cologne was so liberal that he had been preceded by a cloud of blossomy fragrances long before his actual arrival.
“Were you a happy child?” Liebermann asked.
“Happy enough… I got on well with my mother and father.”
“And your brothers and sisters?”
“I don’t have any.”
“An only child…”
“Yes. I’m sure my mother and father wanted more children, but there must have been a problem. I used to see my cousins occasionally-but not very often.” He blinked and pushed out his lower lip. “Is this relevant?”
The tone of the question was confused rather than belligerent.
“What were they like, your mother and father?”
“They were very loving, but also rather anxious. I suppose this was because I was their only child. They tended to mollycoddle me. If I so much as sneezed, they would keep me home from school. Of course, I was delighted with their behavior at the time, but I grew to regret it in adult life.”
“Did you enjoy school?”
“Not much. I’ve never been very academic, and the school I went to was a grim place: whitewashed walls and hard benches that made your bones ache. The teachers were awful, strict disciplinarians-and petty. They used to cover the windows in the summer so that we wouldn’t be distracted, and we had only one break, ten minutes, standing like miserable wretches in a stuffy hall.”
“If your parents were so concerned about your welfare, why didn’t they send you to a better school?”
“There wasn’t a better school. It was supposed to be the best in our neighborhood.”
Liebermann nodded sympathetically. He asked Herr Poppmeier more questions about his childhood, and formed a picture in his mind of a rather lonely, unhappy boy, somewhat stifled by his overprotective parents.
“You said that your mother and father wanted more children…”
“Yes.”
“How do you know that?”
“My mother and father used to tell me that I was going to have a little brother or sister… but he or she never arrived. I imagine that my mother was getting”-he hesitated and winced-“pregnant.” Then, knitting his brow, he persevered with his unfinished sentence: “And while in the first flush of excitement, they would share their good news with me. But my mother must have miscarried.”
“Were you disappointed, when the promised brother or sister did not arrive?”
“Not desperately. I was accustomed to having the exclusive attention of my parents. I’m not sure that I was eager to share them with anyone else.”
“Can you remember your mother and father becoming sad?”
“Yes, I can. But in due course these episodes of sadness became less frequent. They must have stopped trying.”
Liebermann summarized his thoughts with great economy, writing only Self-blame? in his notes.
After discussing Herr Poppmeier’s childhood, Liebermann then asked him about his work. He immediately appeared more comfortable.
“I’m a salesman, for Prock and Hornbostel. I take samples of our jewelry around Vienna, but I am also required to travel quite a lot: Pressburg, Linz, Budapest. I once had to go as far as Trieste. We cater for all tastes-and classes.” Herr Poppmeier then went into an extensive and detailed description of the contents of the Prock and Hornbostel catalogue. His intonation immediately changed, acquiring the persuasive strains and cadences of a seasoned salesman. “The Belvedere range has been crafted to the highest possible standards; the brooch with pendant is quite exquisite: beaten gold leaves, inlays of pearl and shell, with a suspended tear of topaz and diamond.”
Liebermann thought that it would be prudent to interrupt. “Thank you, Herr Poppmeier. That is all very interesting, very interesting indeed.” He leaned forward to arrest the salesman’s pitch. “May I ask, when was it that you first became aware of your symptoms?”
Herr Poppmeier’s expression darkened. Clearly his well-rehearsed patter had brought him some small relief-temporary deliverance-from the shameful strangeness of his condition.
“About three weeks ago… I think I experienced the initial bout of morning sickness around the time when Arabelle’s pregnancy started to show. When she started wearing maternity dresses.”
“Did you get any of these symptoms when your wife was pregnant before?”
“No. I was perfectly healthy.”
Liebermann paused to make some notes, but before he had finished, Herr Poppmeier said, “She was pregnant another time… just over a year ago. Sadly, we lost the child. The labor was complicated. Arabelle almost died. The child was stillborn.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been dreadful.”
“Yes, it was. And I was away when Arabelle went into labor. On one of my trips… I got a telegram.”
“Where were you?”
“Lin-” The syllable slipped out before he corrected himself. “No, Steyr.”
Liebermann made a note of the blunder. The arrival of momentous news was indelibly associated with the circumstances of the recipient. The brain absorbed everything, suspending the tragic communication in a preservative of easily accessible sense memories. Why would Poppmeier have made such a slip?
“Herr Doctor?”
Liebermann looked up.
“Will I have to stay here… in the hospital?”
“For a short period, for observation, yes-after which it might be possible to treat you as an outpatient. Let’s s
ee.”
“What is the matter with me?”
“That is what we must find out.”
“These symptoms… I know what they are, obviously.” Again, Poppmeier winced, and a hectic rash appeared on his neck. He loosened the stud holding his collar. “I was once told that you psychiatrists treat people by learning the meaning of symptoms. Well, you don’t have to be a psychiatrist to understand the meaning of my symptoms. I know what they mean already, and they still won’t go away.”
“You are quite right, symptoms often remit when patients discover their significance; however, there are meanings-and then there are hidden meanings. It is the latter that are most important.”
“I don’t understand. Hidden?”
“Hidden in your own mind.”
“But if they are hidden, how can we find them? And where are they hidden?”
Liebermann smiled. “Tell me, Herr Poppmeier, what did you dream last night?”
61
Councillor Schmidt was sitting in his room at the town hall, smoking a cigar and thinking about his mistress. She had started to make unreasonable demands. From his experience, all women were the same in this respect. They became over-curious, meddlesome. They always wanted more. Private dining rooms, trinkets, and bouquets were no longer sufficient to keep them happy. They became morose, subdued in the bedroom, and maddeningly inquisitive.
Where are you going tomorrow night? Is it an official engagement? Will there be any society ladies present?
And so on…
He treated these questions as he might the singing of a canary, being barely conscious of the incessant warbling until its cessation.
Inquisitive mistresses were a liability. He did not want them, or anyone, to know his whereabouts. His plans (and he now had many of them) could be endangered by loose talk. The less people knew, the better.
Schmidt leaned back and rested his feet on his desk. The cigar tasted good. It was expensive and had been given to him, with other incentives, by a business associate in return for a small favor. The associate’s lawyer had needed to study a certain title deed in the town hall archive. A promise of future preferment was all it had taken to persuade the archivist to hand him the desired document.
