Mephisto Waltz

by F. R. Tallis

  A woman was shamelessly flirting with a group of young men from the university, one of whom had a very conspicuous dueling scar. She was in her early thirties, but still slim and vivacious. For a few moments, Razumovsky paused to observe the way she raised her chin to reveal the whiteness of her long neck; the way she laughed and never failed to display her décolletage to best advantage. Razumovsky knew who she was, where she lived, and the key facts relating to her history. Her name was Della Autenburg. She was the wife of Eduard Autenburg, who Razumovsky now imagined sitting at home, comfortably ensconced in an armchair, also surrounded by newspapers.

  Razumovsky took another sip of his bittersweet liqueur and picked up a copy of the Wiener Zeitung. He scanned the pages, registering headlines, until his attention was captured by an announcement. A very senior member of the judiciary was retiring and his distinguished career was to be celebrated at several state functions, including a formal dinner at the Palais Khevenhüller. An as yet unnamed royal personage was expected to attend. Razumovsky had not thought about Georg Weeber for decades—an arrogant lickspittle monarchist puppet, a pettifogging bureaucrat, elevated by a rotten, corrupt system, who had spent a lifetime dispensing punishments in lieu of justice on behalf of the very same inbred emperor who had appointed him.

  Weeber had been instrumental in crushing the movement in Austria. He had sentenced many of Razumovsky’s comrades to hard labor and all of them were now dead. One of their cell had been a woman with whom Razumovsky had had an affair: a brave, spirited soul, with curly auburn hair and a supple, almost muscular body. She had hanged herself in a washroom after only two days of incarceration.

  It had all happened so long ago . . .

  Razumovsky had only one more thing to accomplish in Vienna—and then it would be wise to move on. Yet, he found himself reading and re-reading the announcement and considering possibilities. He had earned a reputation for seizing opportunities—inspired, spontaneous action. Indeed, there were many in the movement who said that this was not only his métier, but his genius. Georg Weeber. In Razumovsky’s mind, the name had a certain synaesthetic ripeness, like an apple, ready to fall from a tree.

  FIVE

  Liebermann was escorting Amelia Lydgate home. They had been to the Court Opera to see “Der Corregidor,” a comedy composed by Hugo Wolf.

  “A sad irony,” said Liebermann. “The poor man died last year—in a private asylum.”

  “Why was he admitted?”

  “Melancholy, delusions—he’d been suffering for many years.” A carriage rolled by and the driver cracked his whip. “I love his songs,” Liebermann continued. “Wolf pays such close attention to the poetry and his accompaniments are so intelligent.”

  When they reached the university, Amelia said: “I attended a cardiograph demonstration yesterday.”

  “Who was the demonstrator?”

  “Professor de Cyon. Have you heard of him?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “He works in Paris and was invited to Vienna by Professor Föhrenholz—they are old friends. De Cyon also brought one of his new machines for the department.” A soldier in blue uniform advanced toward the couple and inclined his head as he passed. “There was a great deal of gossip before the demonstration,” Amelia continued. “Herr Schenkolowski said that de Cyon had had to leave St. Petersburg following protests from his students. He was a harsh marker of examination papers and used to make provocative remarks during his lectures. Consequently, he was pelted with eggs and gherkins.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Disappointingly ordinary: we required no ammunition.” Liebermann smiled, supposing that Amelia was joking, but when he looked at her he found that her expression was neutral. She had simply been stating a fact. Her eyes flashed as they passed beneath a streetlight. “De Cyon said something rather interesting.”

  “Oh?”

  “He said that the cardiograph can be used to detect lies.”

  “The unconscious is always betraying truths. Slips of the tongue, dreams, fidgeting. Involuntary changes of heart rate would be yet another measure of its independence.”

  “Perhaps cardiographs could be used to aid psychoanalysis. They might hasten the process?”

  “Most patients wouldn’t like being connected to a machine. And then there is the issue of propriety. I’m not sure many female patients would be happy loosening their corsets and revealing their feet and legs to a gentleman.”

  “When there are more lady doctors one must suppose that disrobing will be altogether less problematic.”

  “Indeed,” Liebermann replied, feeling that he had received a subtle reprimand.

  They walked past the Votivkirche and entered Alsergrund. Liebermann had been waiting for an opportune moment to broach the subject of his parents.

  “I saw my father the other day.” Amelia said nothing and waited patiently for more. Liebermann swallowed. “He—and my mother—would like to meet you. They’ve invited us to dinner at their apartment.”

  Amelia nodded. “Well, I’m sure that will be delightful.”

  “It might be delightful,” said Liebermann. “But I feel obliged to warn you that there’s a good chance that it won’t be.”

  SIX

  Eduard Autenburg was sitting in his library composing a pamphlet on sexual equality; unfortunately, he had written only half a page in over two hours. The carriage clock struck one. He was agitated and couldn’t concentrate. For the umpteenth time he read the last line he had written: The New Woman of today is the woman of the future. He was satisfied with its direct brevity and he imagined his words painted across a banner held aloft by two viragos, marching at the head of a crowd of their militant sisters. But nothing else followed. No more words came into his mind and the empty, lower half of the page made him feel slightly ill. He rose from his chair and circled the table, biting his fingernails. Eventually he stopped and looked behind the curtains.

  The gas lamps had become ill-defined yellow orbs floating in a sea of mist. The effect was like leaning over the bulwark of a boat in order to observe phosphorescent jellyfish. Obere Weissgärberstrasse was often misty because of the closeness of the Danube Canal.

  Autenburg heard a shriek, laughter, and footsteps on the cobbles outside. He returned to the table, picked up his pen, and attempted to look like a man absorbed by a great and noble undertaking. A few seconds later there was some noise on the landing and the jingle of keys. Autenburg retained his heroic attitude.

  “No—he’s not here. He must be writing . . .” It was Della in the hallway.

  The door opened and she stepped into the library. Strands of loose hair hung over her face and her complexion was flushed. “Ah, there you are.”

  “I’ve been working on the pamphlet,” he replied, stroking his Van Dyke beard.

  “Good. When will it be ready?”

  “Soon.” He was aware of Axl Diamant standing behind his wife. The young man’s fingers curled around her waist. “Where have you been?”

  “Oh, only The Golden Bears. The nihilists were there again. They’re becoming regulars. You should come.”

  “When I’ve finished the pamphlet . . .”

  “Of course.” Della blew Eduard a kiss and said, “We’re awfully tired. We’re going to bed.” She retreated into the hallway and closed the door. Diamant whispered something and Della responded with a low-pitched, lascivious chuckle.

  Eduard read his last line again: The New Woman of today is the woman of the future. He picked up the sheet of paper, balled it up, and threw it across the room.

  SEVEN

  Well, Oskar?” said Liebermann. “What shall we finish with?”

  Rheinhardt turned the pages of the Schubert volume on the music stand. “An den Mond”—To the Moon. It was one of their favorite songs.

  Liebermann began playing an introduction that slyly referenced Beethoven’s celebrated “Moonlight Sonata.” The bass register of the Bösendorfer was darkly sonorous, almost sinister, beneath the
creeping, stealthy progress of the right hand triplets, and when Rheinhardt sang the opening phrase of Ludwig Hölty’s poetry, his warm, fluid baritone conjured a landscape of silvered beech trees and meadows, in the dead of night, populated by fleeting phantoms.

  They were both pleased with the performance and when Liebermann’s hands descended on the final chord, he looked up at his friend and nodded approvingly before the notes had faded. “Wonderful, Oskar—I think your voice is improving with age.”

  The detective sighed. “I am getting older, but would prefer it if you didn’t remind me quite so often.”

  “I was paying you a compliment, Oskar.”

  “Next time, perhaps you could think of a way of praising my voice without referring to my age?”

  Liebermann closed the piano lid, placed the Schubert volume on top of a tower of music books, and folded the music stand. “Perhaps your occupation, which necessitates so much contact with the dead, is making you excessively aware of your own mortality?”

  “Max.” The inspector’s expression was even more world weary than usual. “This evening, I do not wish to be analyzed.”

  They walked across a sparsely patterned rug and entered, through open double doors, a paneled smoking room, where they sat in leather chairs that faced a crackling fire. As was their custom, Rheinhardt took the right chair and Liebermann the left. Between the chairs was a small table designed by Kolomon Moser on which Liebermann’s servant had placed a decanter of brandy, crystal glasses, and a box of cigars. The two men stared into the fire for several minutes before Liebermann poured.

  “So, Oskar—any progress?”

  “None at all; however, I’ve released some information to the press. We’ve told them that the body of a man with webbed feet was discovered in the old Gallus and Sons factory and that we are willing to reward anyone who comes forward with information that leads to his identification.” Rheinhardt produced an envelope and handed it to Liebermann. “Take a look at these.” Liebermann opened the envelope and took out a set of postcard-size photographs. “They show the dead man, exactly as we found him.”

  Liebermann looked at each image in turn and when he had examined the entire series, he started again from the beginning. Halfway through, he stopped, and selected a photograph which he handed back to Rheinhardt.

  “Those three chairs . . .”

  “What about them?”

  “They appear to be lined up.”

  “The middle chair was positioned directly in front of the body.” Liebermann offered Rheinhardt a cigar. “Thank you, Max.”

  “I doubt such a precise arrangement is attributable to chance.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Then . . . were three people present when the man was murdered?” Liebermann took a cigar out of the box and lit it. “If so, was the man subject to some form of interrogation? Did he have information that was of great value to them?”

  “They troubled to conceal the identity of the man by pouring acid over his face—but didn’t bother to move the chairs . . .”

  Liebermann shrugged, opened his mouth, and released a cloud of smoke. “Interrogation is one possibility.”

  “And the other?”

  “Perhaps the chairs were occupied by individuals who sat in judgement. The dead man was the defendant in some sort of sham trial, and after his guilt was determined, he was executed.”

  “A jury of honor?”

  “Professor Mathias found no chaffing or abrasions on his wrists. Perhaps he came to the factory of his own volition, to prove his innocence, but failed to convince his judges.”

  “A jury of honor,” Rheinhardt repeated. “So what are you suggesting? A secret society?”

  “Well, at least a group of individuals who subscribe to a collectively upheld code of conduct.”

  “There are many secret societies in Vienna. But none of the secret societies that have been exposed to date have ever executed errant members.”

  “Then perhaps,” said Liebermann. “The people you’re looking for aren’t Viennese.”

  Rheinhardt picked up his brandy glass, swirled the contents, and took a sip. “A poor man, with sexual predilections that are most probably satisfied in brothels. He is summoned to the abandoned factory in Favoriten, where he is judged by three of his associates. He submits to their will—or is simply taken unawares—and shot through the head. His associates wish to conceal the man’s identity, so disfigure him with acid and remove his coat.”

  “One more thing.”

  “What’s that? “

  “They are disturbed: a noise outside, a dog—something—and they leave quickly, forgetting their conspicuous seating arrangement, and run for the most discreet exit.”

  “A green door at the back of the factory: I found a bloody thumbprint on it.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “The new method,” said Liebermann, pensively. “I wonder if it will have much effect on how you—in the security office—go about your business?”

  Rheinhardt exhaled a cloud of smoke. “We’ll see. I’m quite hopeful.”

  EIGHT

  The day after the Favoriten murder was reported in the newspapers, two women presented themselves at the Schottenring station. They were both married to web-footed men who had recently vanished; however, neither had the right physique—a fact confirmed when the contents of their wardrobes were examined. The missing husbands were tall with wide shoulders, whereas the dead man was of average build and slim. Then followed two uneventful days during which Rheinhardt received no further visitors. On the third day, however, there was a knock on the door, and Haussmann entered with an unkempt man in a tattered frock coat. He wore circular glasses, the lenses of which were rather greasy, and he sniffed continuously, as though he had a cold.

  “Sir: Herr Globocnik,” said Haussmann. “He says he has information.”

  “Please,” said Rheinhardt, “do take a seat, Herr Globocnik.”

  The man sat down and Haussman stood by the door.

  Rheinhardt flicked open a notebook and picked up his pen. “Your full name?”

  “Lutz Vilmos Globocnik.”

  “Address?”

  “Hickelgasse 27.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Office clerk.”

  When Rheinhardt had finished taking down the preliminary details he raised his head. Globocnik continued to sniff, although not once did he search his pockets for a handkerchief.

  “You want information?” said Globocnik. “You want to know who he was—the man you found in the piano factory?”

  “Indeed.”

  “His name was Helmut Bok.”

  “And how do you know this, Herr Globocnik?”

  “It was me who killed him.”

  NINE

  You’re a clever one.” It was something that Jov often said to the young prince. After which the old serf would stroke his brindled beard and qualify his praise: “But don’t think too much, Master Peter. Too much thinking will get you into trouble.” Jov had been right on both counts. The young prince was indeed clever, and, in the fullness of time, thinking had got him into trouble.

  When Razumovsky graduated from the Academy of the Corps of Pages, his record of achievements was unprecedented. The most prestigious military commissions were his for the asking. So when, after considerable and characteristic deliberation, he chose to join a regiment of Cossacks billeted in Siberia, there was much whispering behind closed doors at the imperial court. I’ve always thought him odd—haven’t you? Razumovsky knew what they were saying. He’d always known what they were saying, because closed doors had never prevented him from discovering what he wanted to find out.

  The journey to Irkutsk was long and arduous. He passed starving peasants with skeletal children; he passed through the Eastern labor camps, where convicts mined gold in freezing water; he passed through quarries where men and women dug salt out of the earth with their bare hands. Peasants collapsed in f
ront of his horse, convicts lost consciousness and sank beneath the water. He saw transports arriving from occupied Poland, prisoners, shuffling along the road, linked together with heavy chains.

  He had had so many experiences during the course of his long life, yet it was always these memories that surfaced when he was bored; recollections of the years in which his thoughts had clarified. Up until that point, it was as if he had been looking at the world through unfocused binoculars, and then all of a sudden, the thumbscrew had been turned and everything had become sharp and perfectly clear. After a brief and indifferent military career he had decided that science might be the answer. He studied biology and traveled continents, but he soon realized that science would never be enough. It would take more than science to relieve suffering in the world.

  Razumovsky was standing behind the Palais Khevenhüller, a large, gray, eighteenth-century building in Josefstadt. The back of the palace was rather plain and dreary. Occasionally, a cart would roll up and a steward would come out to accept delivery of foodstuffs for the kitchen. Razumovsky looked at his pocket watch, counted the seconds, and at exactly six o’clock a petite young woman stepped out and trotted nimbly down the stairs. Razumovsky followed her as she made her way across the eighth district and into the seventeenth. She stopped briefly to buy some chestnuts from a man standing next to a brazier. The young woman continued walking and eventually entered a shabby apartment block. Razumovsky followed her in and listened as she crossed the first floor landing. He heard her trip on a loose tile. A door was opened and she called: “Mother—I’ve bought you some chestnuts.”