Mephisto Waltz

by F. R. Tallis

  Later, Razumovsky stood outside the young woman’s apartment and listened. He heard her talking to an old woman—and a small child coughing.

  The next morning, Razumovsky was waiting for the young woman in the foyer. He heard her walking along the landing and when she reached the bottom of the stairs he smiled, raised his hat and bowed. “Fräulein . . .” She was startled by his presence. It was still dark outside. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you—I swear, I mean you no harm.”

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “A friend—I give you my word.”

  “What do you want?”

  The young woman was still not reassured.

  “Please, allow me to explain. I won’t keep you long and what I have to say will be of considerable interest. I would like to offer you a chance to improve your circumstances, not only you, of course, but also your mother and child.” A dry bark broke the silence. “That cough: it sounds rather bad to me,” Razumovsky continued. “I hope you’ve been able to afford good medical advice.”

  TEN

  May I introduce my colleague,” said Rheinhardt, addressing Globocnik. “Herr Doctor Liebermann.”

  The clerk stood up, clicked his heels and bowed. His upper body remained bent over for longer than was necessary and when he finally raised his head, his eyes narrowed. “A doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “But there’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Rheinhardt ignored Globocnik’s objection. It was one that he had heard many times before. “Please sit, Herr Globocnik.” Rheinhardt offered Liebermann a chair and soon all of them were seated.

  Liebermann crossed his legs and leaned forward. “Herr Globocnik, who is Herr Bok?”

  Globocknik looked quizzically at Rheinhardt. The inspector treated the look as a question and replied, “Please answer Doctor Liebermann.”

  The clerk sniffed. “Bok was a bad man.”

  “And what did he do that was bad?”

  “I think he must have always been bad—from birth. It was, for him, quite natural, to do bad things. Do you believe that this is possible, Herr Doctor? For a man to be born bad?”

  “Herr Globocnik, my opinion concerning philosophical niceties is really rather secondary to our purpose. You say that Herr Bok was a bad man. Why? What did he do that was bad?”

  The clerk sniffed again, this time managing to invest his sharp inhalation with a certain amount of disdain. “Even the church acknowledges the doctrine of original sin. Which means that no one is truly pure. One must suppose all of us have the potential to do wrong. But even casual observation of the way humans behave suggests that this potential is more likely to find expression in some more than others.”

  Liebermann nodded. “All right. Herr Bok was a bad man; a man who was born bad. So what did he do to you? How were you wronged?”

  Globocnik answered elliptically. “It’s a question of morality . . . personal morality.” Then he fell silent.

  “What was the nature of your relationship with Herr Bok?” Liebermann asked.

  “We were acquaintances.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “Here—in Vienna. It was a long time ago.”

  “How long?”

  “My memory for dates has never been very good, but recently it has become considerably worse.”

  Liebermann glanced at Rheinhardt who returned a sly, knowing smile. It was particularly expressive, so much so, he might have said aloud, I told you so.

  The young doctor continued his interview. “What were you and Herr Bok doing in the abandoned piano factory?”

  “We had to go somewhere,” Globocnik answered.

  “Did you lure him there? Did you get him to accompany you under false pretenses?”

  “Lure? No . . . I didn’t lure him there.”

  “You were carrying a gun?”

  “Yes. I was carrying a gun.”

  “Then you planned to shoot Herr Bok. That was your intention?”

  “I wanted him dead, certainly.”

  “What kind of gun do you have?”

  “A pistol.”

  “Manufactured by?”

  Globocnik’s brow furrowed. “Borchardt?” Then he added with more confidence, “Yes, Borchardt.”

  “And where did you get it from?”

  “Does that matter, Herr Doctor? How is that relevant?”

  Globocnik took off his spectacles and cleaned them with a handkerchief. The handkerchief was torn, and when he put the spectacles on again it was apparent that his efforts hadn’t met with success.

  Liebermann tried again: “Herr Globocnik? Why did you murder Herr Bok?”

  The clerk considered the question as though it had never been put to him before. “He was a bad man. I think he must always have been a bad man. From birth I imagine.”

  The interview continued, proceeding in a circular manner, and during which Liebermann’s questions repeatedly failed to elicit clear answers. The clerk’s manner of speech was always vague. Intermittently, his mind wandered and he stared vacantly at a stain on the floor. Liebermann signaled to Rheinhardt that he had heard enough. The inspector straightened his back and said: “Thank you, Herr Globocnik.”

  Rheinhardt showed Liebermann out of the room, where a constable was standing guard. The two men walked along the corridor to the bottom of a staircase.

  “Well,” said Rheinhardt, “what do you think?”

  Liebermann paused for a moment then declared: “He didn’t shoot the man you found in Favoriten. He wasn’t even there.”

  “And why do you say that?”

  “You had already noted the oddness of his speech. The way he provides approximate answers to straightforward questions.”

  “Indeed, that’s why I wanted you to see him.”

  “What we have here is a case of pseudologia fantastica.”

  “What?”

  “Pathological lying: it’s a rare condition, and only recently described in the literature. Naturally, I haven’t seen many patients who would merit this diagnosis, but I would judge Herr Globocnik to be very severely affected.”

  “Does he know that he is lying?”

  “I suspect that he has very little insight.”

  “Why would someone confess to a murder they didn’t really commit? Does he want to be hanged?”

  “There may be an unconscious, suicidal wish—yes. Although, the main reason he is lying is probably in order to feel more powerful or dangerous. Something happened to him, something traumatic, and he has constructed an elaborate fantasy as a kind of defense—a bastion against a reality that he cannot accept because it threatens his sanity.”

  “You think he’s sane?”

  “I think he is saner than he would be if his psychological defenses had not been deployed. Have you sought to discover if a man called Bok really exists?”

  “No. I wanted to hear your opinion first. But, yes, that is what I intend to do next.” Rheinhardt removed a packet of small cigars from his pocket and the two men smoked in silence for a minute or so. Their cloudy exhalations twisted up the stairwell. Rheinhardt ventured one more piece of information: “The bloody thumbprint I found on the factory door doesn’t belong to Globocnik . . .”

  Liebermann nodded, but he was clearly absorbed by his own thoughts. He tapped his cigar and some ash drifted to the floor. “What are you going to do with him?” Rheinhardt shrugged and Liebermann continued. “I’d be more than happy to admit him to the hospital. Pseudologia fantastica . . . it’s a fascinating condition.”

  ELEVEN

  Rheinhardt had been sitting at his desk for over an hour, staring at the wall and toying with a pencil, while considering the meager facts of the Favoriten case. The exercise had not resulted in any fresh insights. Eventually, he shook his head, opened a drawer, and removed a tin of biscuits that his wife, Else, had baked the previous evening. He worked the lid off with his thumbs and studied the contents: shortbread stars of various sizes, some sprinkled with ic
ing sugar, others crusted with a pale, zesty rime. His hand was poised over the tin and he had already begun to salivate when there was a knock on the door.

  “Enter.”

  Haussmann appeared.

  “A woman’s just arrived, sir. She’s come about the reward.”

  “Well, I suppose you’d better send her in.”

  Haussmann disappeared and returned with a petite young woman whose décolletage, cheap jewelery, and bright red lips betrayed her profession.

  “Fräulein Lurline Król,” said Haussmann. Rheinhardt indicated that the woman should sit. “That will be all, Haussmann. Thank you.” Haussmann left the office.

  Rheinhardt wrote the name down and then studied the woman. Her restless hands suggested unease. She reminded him a little of his eldest daughter, who sometimes put on her mother’s hat and stole when pretending to be an adult in a game.

  “So, Fräulein Król,” Rheinhardt smiled. “You have some information.”

  “In the newspapers it said you’d pay?”

  “Indeed.”

  “How much?”

  “Well, that rather depends on the information. If it’s useful then you will be remunerated accordingly.”

  Fräulein Król looked over her shoulder as if she suspected a trap. There was something about her nervy, feral agitation that reminded Rheinhardt of a fox. “I work as . . . ,” she hesitated, unsure of how to proceed.

  Rheinhardt spared her unnecessary embarrassment. “You work in Spittelberg?” The area was full of brothels.

  “Yes.” Fräulein Król looked relieved. “Yes, that’s right. There was a man. He used to see me once a week. What you might call a regular. A foreign gentleman.”

  “Where was he from?”

  “Italy—I think.”

  “You think?”

  “We never talked about where he came from, but he had an accent—and his skin was quite dark.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Tab.”

  “That doesn’t sound very Italian.”

  “It’s what he called himself. And that’s what the people around Spittelberg called him.” Rheinhardt made some notes and when he looked up again his informant continued. “For two months he’d been coming—every week. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped.”

  “When was that, exactly?”

  “Last week. He had a regular time. He didn’t come last Tuesday and he didn’t come this Tuesday either. I went and knocked on his door—because he owes me some money—but he wasn’t in.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Just around the corner from me.”

  Rheinhardt picked up the biscuit tin and held it in front of Fräulein Król. Her face lit up with childlike excitement.

  “My wife made them.”

  Król selected a large star and bit off one of its five points. “She’s a good cook.”

  “An excellent cook.” Rheinhardt helped himself to a smaller star and sat back in his chair. “Fräulein Król, you will recall that the man we seek to identify had a distinctive anatomical feature.”

  “Webbed feet,” Król replied. “Yes. Tab had webbed feet. He used to joke about it—said he was half lizard.” She pressed the last piece of the biscuit she had been eating into her mouth and stared at the tin. Rheinhardt supposed that she might actually be hungry. “Please, take another if you wish.”

  “Thank you.” Król looked for a second large star and her eyes widened when she found one.

  “Forgive me, Fräulein Król, but I must ask you a rather delicate question. Did this man—Tab—have any unusual predilections? Did he ever ask you to—”

  Fräulein Król spoke with her mouth full and a few crumbs tumbled onto her bosom. “He liked being beaten.”

  “What with?”

  “A riding crop: he used to bring one with him.”

  “I see.”

  The innocent pleasure that this young woman derived from eating biscuits was difficult to reconcile with her professional activities. Rheinhardt felt a strong urge to offer her some fatherly advice, but he said nothing. He had long since learned that the ladies of Spittelberg were immune to any form of moral guidance.

  “Well,” said Fräulein Król, “have I been helpful?”

  “Yes,” Rheinhardt replied, “you’ve been very helpful.” He took out his wallet and laid a banknote on the table. It was more than the usual amount paid to informants, but the fact that Fräulein Król reminded him of his daughter had affected his objectivity.

  “For me?”

  “Yes, for you.”

  Fräulein Król pawed the note off the table and her hand disappeared among the folds of her dress.

  “Do you think it’s him then—the man you found?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Do I have to visit the morgue?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. But I’d be grateful if you would provide me with Herr Tab’s address.” When Rheinhardt had finished writing he said, “Would you like some more biscuits—for later, perhaps?”

  Fräulein Król nodded. “Yes . . . please.”

  TWELVE

  Professor Waldemar Seeliger and Frau Professor Seeliger were enjoying a short break in a spa town that had been recommended by the dean of the university. They had left their daughters in the care of Frau Professor Seeliger’s sister. Although Danuta and Gabriela were very loveable, they were also very demanding.

  Frau Seeliger had retired early and the professor, in a somewhat agitated state, informed his wife that he was going for a walk. His wife, who was sitting up in bed, surrounded by large pillows, replied, “Very well, but take care when you return. I don’t want to be woken up.”

  “Of course, my dear,” said the obliging professor. He put on his frock coat and made his way down to the hotel foyer where he paused to light a cigar before stepping outside. From the porch of the hotel he could look up and down the length of a pleasant valley; the town tumbled away beneath his feet, illuminated by strings of decorative light bulbs and a gloriously refulgent full moon. He set off and walked along a road that resembled a seaside esplanade. He was at liberty to enjoy the view to his right, but occasionally, he would turn his head to the left to look at the white stucco villas, fountains, and bandstands. Some of the shops—particularly the coffeehouses—were still open. Through the windows he observed well-heeled ladies and gentlemen eating assorted pastries and chocolate cake.

  Another gentleman, a rather grand fellow wearing a homburg and fur-collared coat, was coming toward Professor Seeliger. They said “good evening” to each other and raised their hats a fraction. As he proceeded, Seeliger encountered other similarly overdressed individuals. They were mostly from the sanatoria—although none of them looked particularly ill. Legitimate convalescence was being replaced by a form of hypochondriacal tourism. His wife was no different, really. She loved coming to spa towns and usually drank large quantities of foul-tasting water which she swore “calmed her nerves.” She also made every effort to make the acquiantances of any dowager from Vienna who might prove useful on their return. The ink in her address book was rarely dry.

  This time, Professor Seeliger had needed to get away from Vienna too. Life was getting far too complicated.

  What did they say? There was a phrase that people often used to describe the problem of modern living: hurry and haste—that was it. Hurry and haste. There was already too much speedy travel in trains and carriages, and some people were predicting an increasing number of motorcars. So much noise, so much pollution—and things were getting worse. Paradoxically, the desire for more speed was causing everything to slow down. Sometimes the roads in Vienna were so full of carriages and trams that traffic came to a standstill. A gentleman might be delayed in a side street for some considerable period of time when he was on his way to an important appointment. That couldn’t be good for the heart. Professor Seeliger recognized that he was much like everybody else. He was in a hurry too. Indeed, spurred on by his wife, his hurry and haste might hav
e become reckless in recent months.

  The attraction of spa towns was that they were supposed to be the opposite of the city. They represented purity and a return to nature. But as Professor Seeliger walked along the carefully constructed walkway, he saw nothing but artifice. He had hoped that the waters might help him too. But his nerves were just as bad and the mountebanks who masqueraded as doctors were unable to give him any helpful advice. His indigestion had been particularly troublesome and sleep was becoming ever more elusive.

  Eventually, Professor Seeliger arrived at the Grande Hotel, where the porter recognized him. “Better luck this evening, sir.”

  “I hope so,” Seeliger replied. He descended the stairs to the basement where he stationed himself close to the roulette wheel. The air was perfumed and smoky and the table was surrounded by languid and vaguely reptilian men and women.

  Professor Seeliger was not a casual observer. This much was obvious from his tense posture and the sudden expressive movement of his eyes. He watched, remembered outcomes, and calculated probabilities.

  Ah, he almost cried aloud. Now I see it. Now I understand where I went wrong last night.

  He performed more calculations and managed to convince himself that he had the answer. Everything would be fine after all. He prepared to place his first bet. . . .

  Professor Seeliger spent over an hour at the roulette table, and when he left the Grande Hotel he did so a much poorer man. He’d have to find a bank tomorrow.

  “How did it go, sir?” asked the porter.

  “It could have gone better.”

  “Well, everyone says that.”

  “No—it really could have gone better.”

  “Maybe tomorrow, sir? Maybe tomorrow will be your lucky night.”

  “I’m going home tomorrow.”

  “Vienna?”

  “Yes. Vienna.”

  “Beautiful city—I’ve only been once. Yes, the tables can be disappointing, but it can’t be that bad? Eh, sir?”

  “Actually—” Seeliger stopped himself from saying any more. What on earth was he doing talking to this idiot? The porter was only being sociable because he wanted a tip—and Seeliger didn’t have a single heller in his pocket. The professor made a dismissive gesture and said brusquely, “Goodnight.”