by F. R. Tallis
A man stepped out of the darkness and into the pool of light. He looked like a down-at-heel impresario: long coat, broad-brimmed hat, and baggy, ripped trousers. Vala couldn’t see his face very clearly, but his nose was abnormally large, so much so, that she was reminded of Pulcinella.
“Can I help you?” Vala asked.
He sniffed—as if he were trying to detect her scent.
“Do you need light?” Vala tried again. “I can give you a candle if you wish?”
He came forward quickly, arms outstretched, fingers spread. Vala lowered her paraffin lamp and lifted her chin so as to make it easier for him to grab her neck, which he did. She wanted to keep his hands occupied and she was confident that the metal ribs she had sewn into her high collar would prevent him, at least initially, from crushing her windpipe. She felt some constriction, but not enough to induce panic. The man’s breath was foul and his eyes were burning with deviant pleasure. Vala reached into her skirt pocket, removed a small pistol, and pressed the barrel against her attacker’s chest. She saw him register the sensation and made sure that her smile was broad when she pulled the trigger. A loud report was reproduced several times, becoming less distinct with each repetition. The man’s fingers weakened and his legs gave way. His sudden collapse was almost comic, like an ill-judged theatrical stunt.
Vala put the pistol back in her pocket and hung the lamp on a conveniently placed metal hook. She rolled the body to the edge of the water and then found some loose bricks which she stuffed down the man’s trousers. Finally, she rolled him into the stagnant canal. The dead man sank quickly and after his disappearance, air bubbles disturbed the slick, oily surface. A large rat swam by, changing direction to avoid the suction from below.
PART TWO
The Course of History
SEVENTEEN
Liebermann was standing in the doorway of his bedroom gazing at Amelia Lydgate. Her hair was bright and fiery against the whiteness of the pillow. She was positioned on her side and her exposed back was faintly luminous, reflecting light like an alabaster nude in a museum. Although Amelia was perfectly still, Liebermann could hear her breathing, which made him think of surf on sand, the mesmeric regularity of the sea. A carriage rattled along the cobbled street and Amelia began to stir; however, the noise wasn’t loud enough to wake her. Liebermann derived an inordinate amount of pleasure from observing Amelia asleep. He enjoyed the stillness and the intimacy.
But was it right, what he was doing?
Of course, marriage was a ludicrous institution and completely redundant in the modern world. The idea that sexual relations should be postponed until the completion of a religious ceremony was absurd in the extreme. Even so, it was considerably easier for a man to adopt a modern outlook than a woman, because there were no costs for men. Women, on the other hand, paid dearly. If—for whatever reason—their relationship ended and they separated, Amelia would have immense difficulty finding another suitor. She would be judged harshly for her “libertinage.” It was abhorrent, but this was the social reality.
They had discussed the matter again and again, but Amelia had always been adamant. “If our goal is to create a truly civilized society, then there must be absolute equality between the sexes. The human animal is a biological organism. It isn’t shameful to eat or sleep, and likewise, neither is it shameful to satisfy the erotic instinct. We must be rational. We have a duty to live in a way that is consistent with our values.” It was peculiar how comfortable Amelia was with the dismissal of bourgeois prohibitions. She was less confused, less troubled by outmoded moral strictures, whereas Liebermann’s thinking was still being affected by gentlemanly scruples, the result of which was a pervasive sense of guilt. And his parents would be horrified . . .
Amelia changed position and the gentle rhythm of her breathing faded to silence. Her eyes opened and she sat up. A crease appeared in the middle of her forehead and she said, “Why on earth do people still take Hegel seriously?”
“I beg your pardon?” Liebermann asked.
“He lacks clarity.”
“Do you really wake up thinking about philosophy?”
“Yes,” Amelia replied. “Often . . .”
Liebermann began to laugh but the vertical crease that divided Amelia’s forehead simply deepened.
EIGHTEEN
Herr Bok’s factory was in Favoriten and not far from Gallus and Sons. As Rheinhardt approached the entrance, he saw a large, red-faced man waiting outside. He was wearing a suit and sported a shaggy walrus moustache that drooped over his mouth. When the man saw Rheinhardt approaching, he threw his cigar aside and stepped forward. “Inspector Rheinhardt?” It was impossible to see his lips moving when he spoke.
“Indeed,” Rheinhardt responded. “Herr Bok?”
The man nodded and bowed. “Good morning, inspector.”
Rheinhardt followed Bok into the building and through a large, open space where twenty or more women were at work. The clatter of sewing machines was occasionally drowned out by a loud hissing noise which predicted the appearance of a cloud of steam.
“What do you make, Herr Bok?”
“Quality shirts for sale at competitive prices. We supply a large number of gentlemen’s outfitters in Vienna but we also have a thriving export business—all of the major cities of the empire—as well as London and Paris.” Bok bounced a finger in the air. “Each of these women has one small job to do—which makes the process of manufacture fast and efficient. We can finish making a shirt every two minutes this way. The collars are made separately—just over there.” At the end of the production line Bok picked up a shirt and held it up for the inspector’s approval.
“Very good,” said Rheinhardt. He was not a connoisseur and judged it unwise to be more specific.
They entered an office in which two desks were positioned to form an L shape. Behind the smaller desk, a young woman was turning the crank handle of a bulky Brunsviga calculating machine.
“This is Fräulein Mugoša,” said Bok. The young woman stood and Bok addressed her less formally. “Milica, please make Inspector Rheinhardt a cup of tea.” She made a note in her ledger and then left the room, her shoes clicking on the floorboards like a metronome. “Please sit, inspector.” The two men lowered themselves into chairs and Bok slid his hands together over his substantial stomach. “So,” he continued, “you want to talk to me about Globocnik? Where is he?”
“In the General Hospital.”
“That doesn’t surprise me in the least.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Just over a week ago: he had some sort of fit and then ran off. I haven”t seen him since.”
“Fit? What kind of fit?”
“He became horribly agitated.” Bok pointed to the smaller desk. “That’s where he used to sit. He was working quietly when all of a sudden he got up and started ranting and raving. He picked up the letter opener—threatened to stab me—and called me all sorts of names. Some of his language was extremely intemperate.”
“Why would he do a thing like that?”
“I have no idea. It was completely out of character. As I said: a fit.”
“What did you do?”
“I ordered him to leave.”
“And he complied?”
“Yes, although it took a while.”
Fräulein Mugoša returned with a tray. As she prepared the tea Rheinhardt noticed that she was rather well-dressed for a secretary. Moreover, the ring on her finger appeared to be a large garnet.
“Was anyone else present?” Rheinhardt asked.
“Yes, Fräulein Mugoša.” Bok shifted to face his secretary. “Milica, tell the inspector what happened last week—tell him about Herr Globocnik.”
“He went mad,” said Fräulein Mugoša. Her German was accented. “Shouting—swearing—waving the letter opener.”
Rheinhardt scooped four sugars into his tea. “Were you frightened?”
“Yes,” the secretary replied. “It was like he was
possessed by the devil.” She made the sign of the cross.
“How long had he worked here?”
“Just over a year,” Bok replied. “He could be a little irritating at times and he sniffed a lot—he always seemed to have a cold—but he was very reliable and hard-working.”
Fräulein Mugoša was about to add something else but Bok frowned at her and she retreated.
“Do any of his relatives live in Vienna?”
“He didn’t mention any.”
“What about friends?”
“It was my impression that he was something of a loner. He kept himself to himself.”
“Do you know if anything happened to him recently that might explain his sudden loss of reason? Bad news—a shock of some kind?”
Bok shook his head. “Do drink your tea, inspector, or it’ll get cold.”
NINETEEN
The Golden Bears was thick with smoke. Every oil lamp was surrounded by a trembling aureole and separated from its neighbor by a belt of shadow. Most of the patrons were inebriated and the floor was awash with spilt beer. Two occultists were arguing loudly about the classification of demons in an arcane work called the Liber Octo Quaestionum; an artist in a paint-spattered kaftan was giving an incoherent, slurred lecture on symbolism; and a gaggle of women—dressed in men’s clothes—were burning a copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis in the stove.
Razumovsky was seated at his usual table, listening and observing. The object of his interest was Della Autenburg, who was, as usual, flirting outrageously with a group of male students. One of her admirers, a lean young man with a dueling scar, was showing signs of possessiveness. He frequently shifted position in order to interpose himself between Della and his competitors and, at one point, Razumovsky saw him remove an insolent hand from Della’s buttocks. Della laughed, quaffed one stein after another, and seemed completely oblivious of the small dramas that were developing around her—the vying for attention, the hostile glaring, the pushing and shoving. Razumovsky, however, wasn’t fooled. Everything she did was clearly calculated to excite desire.
The young men had started to brag in order to impress her. There was much swaggering and showing off. At first, they boasted about minor, inconsequential acts of sedition—small provocations and protests. Then, one-upmanship emboldened them, and their braggadocio escalated. They spoke over each other, disclosing their plots and plans—sabotage, arson, blackmail. As the bluster and rodomontade continued, the stakes were getting higher and higher.
“You’re all lily-livered cowards!” the young man with the dueling scar cried, waving his stein above his head and showering the company with beer. “Cowards! The lot of you.”
“Axl,” Della whined while retaining a mischievous smile. “You mustn’t be rude to your friends.”
“Yes, Diamant, calm down,” said a youth with a goatee beard. “Why do you always have to be so uncivil?”
Diamant ignored their counsel. “Talk, talk, talk!” He simulated a chattering mouth with his free hand. “That’s all you lot do. But it’s time for direct action now.”
Della straightened her back and the sudden trespass of her cleavage into Diamant’s line of vision made him stop and blink before he was able to continue. “I’m going to change everything. One morning, you’ll all wake up and discover that you are living in a different world.”
A student wearing pince-nez sneered. “What are you talking about?”
“From the Tyrol to Silesia, Galicia to Dalmatia . . . you’ll see. No more tinkering at the edges, no more empty gestures; someone has to be prepared to do what has to be done, someone has to be man enough.” Diamant beat his own chest with a clenched fist like an ape in the zoo.
“And what would that be?” asked the student with the goatee.
“The old fool,” roared Diamant. “We’ve got to get rid of him—and it would be so easy—he’s such a creature of habit. Every morning he goes to have breakfast with that ghastly actress. The coachman waits just around the corner from Gloriettegasse. People often gather there—hoping to catch a glimpse of him.”
Razumovsky leaned closer. Was this young hothead talking about the emperor?
“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed the student wearing the pince-nez.
Diamant responded angrily. “Lucheni managed it!”
“And he’s rotting away in prison.”
“Why wasn’t he hanged?” someone inquired in a higher register.
“He was tried in the Canton of Geneva,” the student with the goatee replied. “They’ve abolished the death penalty there.”
One of the occultists raised his voice: “The Jagiellonian Princess Zymburgis is reputed to have been so strong she could straighten horseshoes with her bare hands. How could this be? I suspect that this was achieved with supernatural assistance . . .”
Razumovsky wanted to silence the occultist with his cane, but resisted the urge. Instead, he was obliged to wait patiently for the man to complete a lengthy account of the defeat of the Teutonic knights by the Polish and Lithuanian armies at the battle of Tannenberg.
“It would never work,” said the student with the goatee.
“You’ll see,” Diamant responded. “I’ve thought it through. It’s possible, believe me.”
Della pressed up against Diamant and allowed him to wrap his arm around her waist. He drew her closer and she kissed his dueling scar. “You wouldn’t, would you? You wouldn’t dare!”
The others laughed. The student wearing pince-nez called out to the landlord’s wife. “Kamilla—over here—two more jugs of the usual.”
Razumovsky sipped his cognac and waited for the burn. Skalicky and his wife only stocked cheap bottles. The burn came.
If this imbecile made an attempt on the emperor’s life then it could ruin everything. The intelligence agencies would be alerted and there would be increased security everywhere. Razumovsky put his glass down on the table and hummed. The low note could be felt but not heard.
It might prove necessary to do something about Axl Diamant.
TWENTY
The lord marshal—whose office was responsible for the house of Habsburg’s legal business—had met Georg Weeber many times over the years, and it was only right that the Palace should acknowledge the judge’s retirement from public service. Be that as it may, the function at the Palais Khevenhüller was not high on the lord marshal’s list of priorities and he hoped that his meeting with Kuhlbert von Behring would be relatively brief. Von Behring was a colleague of Weeber and one of the principal organizers of the Palais Khevenhüller event.
“We have engaged a choir,” said von Behring.
The lord marshal’s pen hovered over his notebook. “Which one?”
“The St. Valentin’s parish choir for indigent children. It’s one of Georg Weeber’s charities.” Von Behring waited for the lord marshal to stop writing before he continued. “Father Johann, the choirmaster, will make the necessary arrangements, and needless to say, he will be conducting the boys. We thought they might sing while dinner is being served.”
“An excellent idea.” The lord marshal’s nib scratched on the paper. He raised his head and asked: “Who will choose the programme?”
“Father Johann.”
The lord marshal sat back in his chair. He was in his late fifties but age hadn’t softened his features—quite the reverse, in fact. His expression was often described as “hawkish.” His beard was closely trimmed and his stiff moustache projected horizontally. He stared at von Behring for such a long time without speaking that the judge became uncomfortable, and said, “Lord marshal?”
“I am sure,” said the lord marshal, “that Father Johann will do his utmost, and that he will select pieces appropriate to the musical ability of the children; however, as you know, His Majesty has expressed a desire for the Palace to be represented at this celebration, in which case . . .” The sentence remained incomplete.
“Lord marshal?”
“Might I make a suggestion?�
��
“By all means, lord marshal.”
“Perhaps Father Johann could be urged to rehearse a few pieces that reflect the empire as a whole and the diversity of its people? Something Hungarian or Czech? A Galician folk song?”
“Why, of course.”
The lord marshal noticed that one of his many medals was slightly skewed. He paused for a moment to untangle a ribbon and then made another note. While he was still writing he said, “The pianist . . .”
“Yes. Herr Curtius.”
“I haven’t heard of him.” The lord marshall sat back in his chair again.
“Actually,” von Behring continued, “he was recommended by someone in your office.”
“Oh. Who might that be?”
“Brinkerhoff. Curtius teaches his daughter.” A further uncomfortable pause ensued. Von Behring cleared his throat and added, “Curtius is Vienna’s finest exponent of Galant keyboard works.”
“Forgive me. Is that . . . relevant?”
“Judge Weeber is a great lover of the Galant style. C.P.E Bach and so forth.”
“Another suggestion if I may?”
“By all means, lord marshal.”
“Perhaps Herr Curtius should be invited to consider performing one or two accessible pieces.”
“Accessible?”
“Popular.”
The lord marshal interpreted von Behring’s momentary hesitation as resistance and frowned. Von Behring knew better than to challenge the lord marshal. “What, specifically, did you have in mind?”
“My dear fellow,” said the lord marshal disingenuously. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering. It’s up to you. That said, you really don’t want to see any bored expressions.” The lord marshal tapped the side of his nose.
“Do we have any indication, as yet, as to who will be representing the Palace?”
