Mephisto Waltz

by F. R. Tallis

  “One of my former patients,” Liebermann corrected. Once again, Mendel stopped himself from saying something. “Father,” Liebermann continued. “I thought very carefully about the propriety of our friendship.”

  “And she is fully recovered?”

  “Completely.”

  Mendel was evidently unconvinced.

  The pianist was now playing a piece that Liebermann didn’t recognize, a mazurka in a minor key.

  “I take it that your association is more than just a dalliance.”

  “Considerably more.”

  “So when, exactly, did you intend to tell your mother about this development?”

  “The opportunity never seemed to present itself.”

  Mendel stroked his beard. “English, you say?”

  “Well, not exactly,” said Liebermann, toying with a crescent of apple. “Her father is English and her mother is German.”

  “Is she from a good family?”

  “Her grandfather was a court physician.”

  Mendel evaluated this response and nodded. “I’m sure your mother would be very keen to meet this . . . Amelia.”

  “Yes, I’m sure she would,” Liebermann agreed, his voice brittle.

  “Why don’t you bring her to dinner?” Mendel leaned back in his chair. “One Friday night, perhaps?”

  “Another night would be preferable.”

  Mendel tilted his head. “She’s not . . . ?”

  “Jewish? No.”

  Mendel’s face became inscrutable, a mask behind which he could hide his disappointment. “A governess . . .”

  “No. Not anymore,” Liebermann explained. “She’s is now enrolled at the university and occasionally works with Landsteiner—the blood specialist. He has given her special permission to undertake research in his laboratory.”

  “Does she intend to practice medicine too?”

  “Either that or pursue a scientific career. She hasn’t decided yet.”

  Liebermann wondered how many times he might get away with postponing the proposed dinner engagement. Twice—perhaps—three times if he were lucky? Now that his mother knew about Amelia, her life would have but a single purpose. She would be indefatigable.

  “What’s wrong with your apfelschmarrn?” Mendel asked. “You’ve hardly touched it.”

  TWO

  Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt was standing in the middle of a long, functional workshop. He couldn’t remember the precise date when Gallus and Sons had been declared bankrupt, but their demise was relatively recent. No more than a year was his considered estimate. Against the exposed brickwork of the opposite wall were the empty carcasses of several unfinished pianos: two uprights and a concert grand. Another two uprights were standing back to back between two pillars. None of these cases had been polished and the wood was mottled with green mold. Every object and surface was subdued by a patina of dull, wintry light that refracted through high, latticed windows. In the far corner he saw a tangled mass of metal strings, hammers, keys, and tuning pins. Water had dripped through the ceiling and collected on the floor in shallow puddles, amplifying the cheerless atmosphere of dereliction and decay.

  The dead man was seated on a wooden chair. His legs were extended and the soles and heels of his shoes were exposed. They showed signs of considerable wear. His collarless shirt was woven from a coarse, gray material, the kind often worn by workmen or farm hands. Rheinhardt stood behind the chair and studied the hole in the back of the man’s head. It was roughly circular. Several yards in front of the dead man were three evenly spaced empty chairs. The central chair was directly ahead and it seemed unlikely that this alignment was accidental.

  Resolve was required to overcome the revulsion that—at least initially—prevented Rheinhardt from returning his attention to the front of the dead man’s head. The cartilage of the nose had dissolved, exposing the nasal cavity, and the orbits of the eyes were filled with a clear, gelatinous substance. Singed hair hung over melted, blistered flesh and there were no lips to hide a maniacal grin. The smell was overpowering.

  Rheinhardt’s assistant, Haussmann, entered the factory and marched over to his superior. “Nothing outside, sir. No footprints, nothing.” The inspector nodded and crouched in front of the chair. He made his right hand resemble a gun and held it under the dead man’s chin. “The bullet must be embedded in that oak beam. Would you be so kind as to dig it out for me?”

  “It’s quite high up, sir.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And we don’t have a ladder, sir.”

  “Haussmann, I was hoping that you would show some initiative.”

  The young man looked around and his eyes expanded when he noticed the upright piano cases. Pointing, he said: “Do you think one of those would support my weight, sir?”

  “There is, I would suggest, only one way to find out.”

  “Very good, sir.” Haussmann clicked his heels, bowed, and crossed the factory floor.

  A few minutes later the police photographer and his apprentice appeared. The photographer acknowledged Rheinhardt and silently set up his tripod and camera in front of the body. When he had finished his preparations he caught the detective’s eye and his expression soured.

  “I know,” Rheinhardt nodded. “It’s not very pleasant.” Then he added, “I would be most grateful if—in addition to routine photography—you would also include some wider perspectives. Those three chairs . . . I would like some images that include those three chairs and the body.”

  “Of course, inspector.”

  The photographer burrowed under a black cloth and the apprentice struck a match. There was a brilliant flash and the dead man’s fixed grin and appalling disfigurement became garish and monstrous.

  Rheinhardt turned away. He had not gone very far when he came across a volume of music on the floor. Picking it up, he let the torn pages fall open and he hummed the notes on the treble stave: the opening of Mozart’s Piano Sonata number 16 in C Major. Respectfully, he laid the volume on an empty crate, and continued walking, but the innocent melody haunted his inner ear, a bizarrely inappropriate accompaniment to the vivid horror that inhabited each of the repeated magnesium flashes. Smoke wafted through the air, its arrival presaged by the odor of invisible fumes. Through a curtain of haze, Rheinhardt could see Haussmann standing on an upright piano case, inspecting the beam behind the dead man.

  At the back of the factory was a green door. Rheinhardt pushed it open and stepped outside. There wasn’t much to see, a cluster of small buildings in the middle distance, and beyond these, the land rising slowly, bringing the horizon forward and concealing Vienna. It was a bleak prospect. The Mozart melody was still flowing through Rheinhardt’s mind: grace notes, trills, effortless invention. As he turned to re-enter the building he noticed a mark on the door—a small dark oval—and when he leaned forward to examine it more closely, he saw that it was composed of a pattern of minute concentric rings. The blackness of the impression suggested that it had been made with ink—or blood.

  Rheinhardt called his assistant, who jumped off the piano case and came running over.

  “Sir?”

  “Look at this, Haussmann. Can I assume that you have been keeping up with the latest forensic developments as reported in the Police Gazette?”

  “Yes, sir. The new method. Not everyone agrees . . .”

  “There is some debate, that’s true. But—if I’m not mistaken—this is a thumbprint, and a very good one. See how clear the ridge pattern is. It would be remiss of us to overlook evidence of this quality. Get me some tape, a piece of cardboard, and a saw.”

  “We didn’t bring a saw, sir.”

  “In which case, get me a screwdriver instead. We’ll take the door off its hinges.”

  “You’re going to take the door back to Schottenring, sir?”

  “Well, what else would you suggest, Haussmann?”

  “Sir,” Haussmann reached into his pocket and extended his hand. In the middle of his palm was a mi
sshapen bullet.

  “Good man,” said Rheinhardt, taking it from his assistant. “I was expecting it to be more compressed.”

  “The beam was rotten, sir.”

  “Just the one?”

  “Yes, sir. Just the one.”

  THREE

  Professor Mathias was positioning and re-positioning his tools on a metal trolley, unable to find a satisfactory arrangement. He cursed, muttered something unintelligible, and finally chanced upon a layout that dispelled his agitation. Rolling up his shirt sleeves, he put on his apron and turned to face Rheinhardt: “A lady friend of mine—don’t look so surprised, inspector—yes, a lady friend of mine, who possessed an exquisite contralto singing voice, owned a Gallus and Sons piano. I’m not very musical, but even I could tell the tone was poor. She sold it to an impecunious music teacher.”

  The door opened and Liebermann appeared.

  “Max!” Rheinhardt cried, “Thank you so much for coming.”

  “My apologies,” said Liebermann. “I was delayed by a late admission—a middle-aged woman whose principal symptom was continuous, compulsive laughter.”

  “Ha!” Mathias scoffed. “Perhaps she’s simply more perceptive than the rest of us.”

  Liebermann bowed, clicked his heels, and spoke with reserved courtesy: “Good evening, Professor Mathias. I trust you are well?”

  Mathias nodded and continued: “Laughter. Ultimately, the only rational response to the human condition.” It was impossible to tell whether he was being serious or joking. Liebermann assumed a neutral expression and remained silent.

  An electric light with a wide conical shade hung over the peaks and troughs of the mortuary sheets. The old man shuffled closer to the dissection table and uncovered the body. Beneath the sustained, unremitting brightness of the electric light, the melted face glistened.

  Liebermann did not flinch. “Who is he?”

  “We have no idea,” Rheinehardt replied. “He was found in the derelict Gallus and Sons piano factory, propped up on a chair and shot through the head.”

  “Who found him?”

  “Two businessmen who have an interest in buying the land. The factory is in Favoriten—on the edge of the city.”

  Mathias felt the coarse cloth of the dead man’s shirt sleeve. “He’s dressed like a laborer.”

  “Yes,” said Liebermann. “But he obviously isn’t a laborer. Look at his hands.”

  “Well observed,” said Mathias. His voice acquired the condescending cadences of a pedagogue. “A laborer would, of course, have abrasions and callouses. You will also have noticed, no doubt, the absence of chafing or abrasions on the man’s wrists. He was never tied up . . .”

  “What are his teeth like?” Liebermann asked. “Perhaps they could be matched with the records of a local dentist?”

  Mathias put on some very tight gloves and proudly displayed his covered hands to his companions. “Rubber gloves: invented a few years ago by an American surgeon. I’ve just started using them. They provide protection but you hardly know you’re wearing them. They’re like a second epidermis.”

  “Ingenious,” said Rheinhardt, throwing a weary glance at Liebermann.

  “Yes,” Liebermann agreed. “Quite ingenious.”

  Mathias prised the dead man’s jaws apart. The opened mouth immediately made the dead man look as if he were screaming. “Several extractions,” said Mathias. “Wisdom teeth too—that must have been painful, poor fellow. But really, Herr Doctor, how many dentists are there in Vienna, or Austria for that matter? And are they all conscientious record keepers? Your suggestion is entirely impractical.”

  Liebermann walked around the table and studied the hole in the man’s skull. The cavity was deep and shadowed. Catching Mathias’s eye, Liebermann asked, “Did you remove his coat, Professor?”

  “No.” Mathias replied.

  “He wasn’t wearing a coat,” said Rheinhardt. “It must have had a shop label sewn on the inside, or something else that would have helped us to identify him.”

  “I wonder if he’s famous?” said Mathias. “Perhaps that’s the reason for the disfigurement?”

  “If he’s famous,” Rheinhardt responded, “then his absence will soon be noticed. But look at those shoes.”

  “I suppose we can assume,” said Liebermann, “that he was shot and then disfigured, rather than disfigured and then shot?”

  “That was certainly my assumption,” said Rheinhardt. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? With respect to motive? And if he wasn’t tied up . . .”

  “Gentleman,” said Mathias “May I proceed?”

  “By all means,” Rheinhardt replied.

  Professor Mathias picked up a large pair of scissors and started to make cuts in the dead man’s clothes. When he had completed this task he was able to undress the man by pulling away strips of material.

  “Well,” Mathias said, lifting one of the dead man’s arms, “What have we here?” Mathias’s breath condensed in the cold air as his rigid forefinger traced three dark stripes that disappeared beneath the dead man’s body. “Gentlemen, some assistance, please?”

  Liebermann and Rheinhardt helped Mathias turn the corpse over. It was an awkward maneuver and the slap of flesh on the table was uncomfortably reminiscent of meat on a butcher’s chopping board. The dark stripes were now entirely visible. They were scabby and formed a V shape that converged at the base of the spine.

  Mathias produced a magnifying glass. “He’s been flogged—and very recently. With a riding crop.”

  “Dear God,” said Rheinhardt, shaking his head. “Torture too?”

  “No,” said Liebermann. “Quite the contrary. These injuries were inflicted in the bedroom. If he’d been flogged by the same person or persons who killed him then I suspect these injuries would have been far worse.”

  “You see, that’s the trouble with you psychiatrists,” said Mathias. “Always something sexual.”

  “Do you disagree?” Liebermann asked.

  Mathias studied the stripes again. “The bleeding was superficial. And I have to admit, I’ve seen a great deal worse.”

  “A small woman,” said Liebermann.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Rheinhardt.

  “She was positioned directly behind him—bringing her arm down with moderate force. And he was probably standing up against a bedpost. His upper back is untouched.”

  “A prostitute?”

  “That is very likely. But one should not assume that violence performed for the purpose of sexual gratification is confined to Vienna’s brothels. It is my impression that the practice is more widespread than many psychiatrists are willing to acknowledge.”

  “You see,” said Mathias. “That patient of yours, Herr Doctor, the one who can’t stop laughing—she has a point.”

  “With respect, Herr Professor, sexual deviation is—in most cases—perfectly comprehensible. Those who insist on being beaten in the bedroom usually think, albeit unconsciously, that they deserve it.”

  Mathias shook his head. “The dead are so much more straightforward than the living.”

  Rheinhardt was growing impatient. “Is there nothing here that might help us to identify him?”

  Mathias used his magnifying glass again. “His skin is uncommonly clear, the odd blemish, but nothing particularly memorable.” He raised his head, noticed that the dead man was still wearing shoes and socks and addressed the corpse. “Oh, I beg your pardon.” He walked to the end of the table and, grasping the heel of each shoe, removed both simultaneously. After putting them aside, he peeled off the socks, hesitating slightly before dropping them onto the trolley. He studied the dead man’s bare feet and began to smile.

  “What is it, professor?” Rheinhardt asked.

  “Come here.”

  Mathias separated a big toe from its neighbor, revealing a translucent membrane. “The next two toes are fused, but the last three are similarly connected.” The effect was like opening a lace fan. “He has webbed feet, inspector.”


  “Well, well,” said Rheinhardt, suddenly more cheerful. “That is distinctive.”

  FOUR

  Peter Nikolayevich Razumovsky was seated at a table next to a stove, sipping Becherovka and peering through thick smoke. Paraffin lamps provided a weak, fitful light.

  The beer cellar was situated halfway along a blind alley in a ramshackle corner of Leopoldstadt populated by Hasidic Jews. Most of the patrons who drank there called it The Golden Bears, but there hadn’t been a sign on the door for years and even the local residents were barely conscious of its existence. Admission necessitated a perilous descent down steep stone stairs that plummeted into shadow and the shutters were never open. Given that The Golden Bears was some distance from the Innere Stadt, it was surprisingly busy. All the tables were occupied and many patrons were standing in small, animated groups.

  Razumovsky could easily identify the various parties: artists, occultists, radicals. All had their own way of dressing. The nihilists were the easiest to identify—shoulder-length hair, bushy beards, red shirts, and knee boots. Their female companions styled their hair in a neat bob and concealed their shapeliness with loose, baggy dresses. Some of their number had taken to wearing blue-tinted spectacles and all of them smoked without pause, the glowing remnant of one Egyptian cigarette being used to light the next.

  A lean youth took a flute from its case and an artist with a wide-brimmed hat and tasseled scarf encouraged his neighbors to clap. After some preparatory fussing, the musician raised the instrument to his lips and began a demanding moto perpetuo that immediately won yet more applause. A solitary man, with the melancholy visage of a jilted lover, had become too drunk to stand and fell to the floor. The proprietor—a burly Czech called Pepik Skalicky—emerged from a trap door, kicked the supine customer, shrugged, and joined his perspiring, fleshy wife who was serving bowls of liver dumpling soup and rye bread from behind a simple counter made from trestles and planks.

  The surface of Razumovsky’s table was covered in newspapers. Perhaps the body hadn’t been found yet? Or perhaps the police were wary of releasing the details? The Viennese were so highly strung, so nervous, even symphonies got them agitated. Either way, it didn’t really matter. The purpose of his perusal of the press reports was simply to satisfy his curiosity. He had always been something of a showman, and, like any vainglorious actor, he wanted to read his reviews.