by F. R. Tallis
Liebermann was about to interrupt in order to prevent Amelia from expounding at length upon an unsuitable subject, but he was beaten to it by his prescient younger sister. “Miss Lydgate,” Hannah cried. “Where did you buy those pearl earrings? I’ve been wanting a pair like that for ages!”
The conversation that followed, with a little judicious steering, flowed more naturally, and the atmosphere became less intense. An aperitif was served, people changed places, and thankfully, Amelia ceased to be the sole focus of attention.
Liebermann leaned toward Hannah and spoke confidentially: “I’m sorry—I’ve been neglecting you.”
“Oh, that’s all right, Maxim. I know you’re always busy.”
“I’ll take you out somewhere soon, I promise. Where shall we go? Julius Epstein is performing at the Bösendorfer-Saal.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Liszt and Chopin.”
“That would be lovely.”
“I’ll get tickets.”
Hannah gave her brother a quick kiss on the cheek and then flicked her eyes at Amelia. “She’s very beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“And that hair—my God—it’s like her head’s on fire.”
“You know, as a compliment, that doesn’t quite succeed.”
Hannah laughed. “She seems to be getting on rather well with Father.”
It was true. Mendel and Amelia were sitting together and they seemed to be engaged in a very animated discussion. Liebermann and Hannah listened.
“Are the bolts of a different circumference?” Amelia asked.
“Yes.” Mendel replied. “Some this big”—he drew a small circle in the air—“others this big.” He then drew a much larger circle.
“Might I make a suggestion?”
“By all means.”
“If you placed the smaller bolts of cloth within the larger bolts,” she slotted her right hand through an arch made with her left, “you would immediately halve your transportation costs.”
“Good God,” said Mendel. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He clapped his hands together. “Ha!”
Everyone stopped talking.
“What is it, Father?” Leah asked.
“Miss Lydgate has an excellent head for figures and has indicated how a number of efficiency savings might be made. These would lead to a significant increase in profit margins—especially with respect to transport.”
At that moment the head servant appeared: “Dinner is served.”
Mendel offered Amelia his hand. “Perhaps we could continue this interesting discussion over the chicken soup?”
“If you wish,” Amelia consented. “I’m happy to do so.”
It was then that Liebermann looked over at his mother. She had hardly said a word all evening and she was staring at Amelia with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The statue of Lady Justice showed no interest in the waltzing couples. A grand staircase spilled down from her throne like a waterfall; the final step—a great semicircle of stone—was like a pool or basin in which the tumbling spate had collected. On either side of the hall was a double layer of arches that emphasized the great height of the glass ceiling. Positioned along parallel balconies were the members of an orchestra who were playing the “Verdicte Waltz” by Eduard Strauss; their elevated concealment created an eerie impression of music delivered from heaven, melodies made in a paradise modeled on Vienna and where celestial coffeehouses lined the principal approaches to the pearly gates. The lawyers’ ball was one of the most important dates in the social calendar and the great and the good were always represented there in large numbers. In addition to the judiciary and allied professions—various legal functionaries and secretaries—there were politicians, chamberlains, senior security office personnel, wealthy philanthropists, and even a few members of the lower aristocracy. The men were attired in black tails and white gloves, the women in exquisite gowns. As the couples rotated, the facets of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds reflected the light from hundreds of decorative lanterns. It was as if the dancers were waltzing through a miniature galaxy of exploding stars.
Standing beneath the lower colonnade, close to the staircase, was the lord marshal. He was speaking to a similarly hawkish gentleman who was wearing a sash, and, like the lord marshal himself, was festooned with crosses and medallions.
“I trust that you are looking forward to your retirement?” said the lord marshal.
“Yes,” Judge Weeber replied. “Very much so, lord marshal, although there are always mixed feelings—a sense of loss, perhaps? The realization that one is no longer relevant . . . I’ll miss the drama, the cut and thrust, the company of my esteemed colleagues. My wife says I won’t know what to do with myself.”
“Any plans?”
“Some travel, I think. I’ve always wanted to visit some of the old battlefields in the southeast. They say that you can still find the skeletons of Ottoman camels—as well as the bones of the men who fought and died there. And then there’s the piano of course. I used to be quite accomplished when I was a young man. I’m looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with C.P.E. Bach.” The judge raised both arms and wiggled his fingers over an invisible keyboard. “Do you play, lord marshall?”
“Sadly not.”
“Pity.”
“Indeed.”
The lord marshal leaned closer to his companion and said, “An aide from the intelligence services visited the Palace yesterday. They’ve received a report from the security office.” He nodded toward Commissioner Brügel who was standing with two generals underneath the arch opposite. “Did you hear about the Favoriten murder?”
“Yes, I did.”
“They suspect that the victim may have been executed by a jury of honor.”
The judge pressed his lips together and harrumphed. “We haven’t had one of those in a long time.”
“Thanks to you,” said the lord marshal, raising his champagne flute.
“Come now.” Weeber’s apparent embarrassment wasn’t very convincing. “You are too kind, lord marshal. I was only doing my job.”
The lord marshal leaned closer. “They—the intelligence bureau—have advised caution.”
Weeber nodded. “I’m always vigilant. Always have been—old habits die hard.”
As the “Verdicte Waltz” came to an end the two men moved apart and the dance floor erupted with cheers and applause.
“Georg, my dear!” A woman was approaching. Her stick-thin body was encased in black brocade and her neck was obscured by a lace ruff. There was something semi-supernatural about her appearance—a hint of witchy charisma. Although her face was wrinkled, her eyes were bright and youthful. “The next dance is ours.” She turned to face the lord marshal, managing to smile and glare at the same time. Here was a woman who would not tolerate contradiction. The lord marshal capitulated with a low bow as the introductory bars of the next waltz floated down from above.
TWENTY-NINE
Well, what shall we finish with?” Liebermann played a trill to strengthen the little finger of his left hand.
Rheinhardt searched through the scores and picked up Schubert’s “Schwanengesang” which he opened roughly at the halfway point. He placed the music on the stand and Liebermann said, “‘Atlas’ . . . very well.”
The young doctor produced a raging storm in the lower octaves of the Bösendorfer and Rheinhardt began to sing, sinking slightly as his knees buckled. He seemed possessed by the songs sentiment, every bone and sinew responding to Heinrich Heine’s poetry. It was Atlas who led the Titans against Zeus, and, when defeated, was condemned to carry the sky on his shoulders. The hammer blows of fate rained down: crushing, devastating, without mercy. Rheinhardt fell back into the curve of the piano and gripped the case with both hands, like a dazed pugilist beaten onto the ropes. The notion of solitary anguish had acquired symphonic grandeur. Schubert’s insistent tonality was like a prison from which no singer could escape and Rheinhardt w
rithed hopelessly, trying to shake off invisible shackles. The central section of the song offered only brief respite, before the torment and terror returned. When Liebermann reached the final valedictory bars, Rheinhardt looked exhausted and emotionally wrung out.
The two men retired to the smoking room and assumed their customary places, facing the fire. Liebermann poured cognac from a decanter and offered Rheinhardt a cigar. It was some time before Liebermann spoke.
“Atlas is a challenging work for any singer, even the seasoned concert artist. It requires a voice of extraordinary power and range. I’ve heard you sing it many times before, Oskar, but never quite so well.”
Rheinhardt patted his stomach. “I’ve been eating more than usual—I’m sure my body becomes more resonant when I’m heavier.”
“Really, Oskar, you don’t expect me to accept that sort of nonsense!”
“No, I don’t. I just wanted to see how long it would take for you to become impatient. Not long at all it seems.”
Liebermann turned to look at his companion and made a small hand gesture—an oscillation that might have found equal utility as a deterrent for mosquitoes. “You chose Atlas because you feel that you are bearing a great burden. Of course, as a detective inspector, you are always bearing a burden—the burden of keeping us all safe, the burden of fighting crime. But tonight, that burden is weighing particularly heavily on your shoulders.” Liebermann drew on his cigar. “What, I wonder, weighs most heavily on the soul of a detective inspector? For a man whose whole existence is bound up with issues of right and wrong, it must be something that weighs on his conscience. Yes, I see it now. You feel guilty about something.”
“Max, you are absolutely right!”
“Atlas was punished by Zeus and the security office has its own Zeus in the person of Commissioner Brügel. So, might I be correct in supposing that you have done something wrong, a professional oversight, perhaps, and that Commissioner Brügel has threatened to remove you from the Favoriten case? He hasn’t given it to another detective, has he?”
Rheinhardt sighed. “No, it’s worse than that.”
“There’s something worse?”
“Oh yes. He’s sent my report to the intelligence bureau. If they get involved it will be intolerable.”
“Why?”
“I’ll have to cooperate with them and I really don’t like their methods. They are always of the opinion that ends justify means.”
“What was your professional oversight?”
“Acid.” A shower of sparks erupted onto the hearth. “Not only can it be used to disfigure faces, but it can also be used to make explosives.”
“I see.”
“Commissioner Brügel said I was being complacent and for once I’m inclined to agree.”
Liebermann tapped the ash from his cigar. “Have the intelligence bureau contacted you yet?”
“No—but they will.” Rhinehardt stubbed out his cigar and lit another. Then, speaking in a less troubled tone of voice, he added, “Haussmann’s been keeping an eye on The Golden Bears. He’s compiling a list of patrons. They’re an odd lot—political types, women who dress in men’s clothes, mystics, eccentrics. I suppose we should interview the lot of them, but it will take up so much time—more time than I have. This city is a madhouse.”
Liebermann smiled. “You don’t need to tell me that.”
THIRTY
Vala Feist’s parlor was tainted with a smell reminiscent of rotten eggs. This was because her humble abode was located between the gasworks, a chemical plant, and the Danube Canal. It had taken her many years to secure such an ideal situation, and unless her circumstances changed dramatically, she would never move out of the third district. Although the local miasma had once bothered her, she hardly noticed it anymore. In fact, she had become inured to unpleasant smells, which was just as well, given how much time she spent traipsing around the sewers.
Razumovsky had made valiant efforts to disguise his discomfort. Even so, Vala had noted the intermittent flaring of his nostrils. Although the unwholesome vapors had very likely diminished his interest in the tea and walnut cake she had prepared for him, they had had no effect on his libido. He casually suggested that they might go to bed together “for old time’s sake” and Vala agreed. She led him up to her bedroom and closed the heavy curtains, leaving a narrow gap that admitted a thin partition of dusty light. After removing her outer garments she sat on a chair, and, kneeling in front of her, Razumovsky removed her coarse woollen stockings and kissed her toes. When she removed the pins from her bun and shook out her gray hair, he arranged it around her face and gazed at her as if, once again, she were young and beautiful. He made love to her as he had always made love, slowly and silently. She allowed herself to believe in his legend and her head filled with images of naked Sabbath witches cavorting with sovereign evil. It brought her to a shuddering culmination and made her whimper with pleasure.
The winter sun descended behind flecked, chainmail clouds. They lay on the bed together for over an hour, smoking cheroots and talking in a desultory fashion. Presently, they dressed and made their way down to the cellar.
Vala lit a paraffin lamp. Its bright, dancing flame illuminated a surprisingly deep and wide underground space. Lined up along one of the walls were several mattresses and a clothes rack on which outfits were hanging—suits, dresses, and military uniforms. Beneath these were a selection of shoes and boots of different sizes for both sexes. A tap at the end of a pipe was dripping into a large chamber pot.
“Have you had any guests this year?” Razumovsky asked.
“No,” Vala replied. “It’s been very quiet.”
“Well, it won’t be quiet for much longer.”
These words made Vala’s stomach flutter.
Razumovsky strolled over to a bank of sagging shelves. Each one was crammed with big glass jars and containers. Leaning closer, he studied the handwritten labels: Sulphuric Acid, Nitric Acid, Glycerine, Mercury, Potash, Methylated Spirit. He opened a rusty metal box that appeared to contain gray string.
“The finest quality,” said Vala.
“Of course,” said Razumovsky. “You wouldn’t accept anything less!” He closed the lid and inspected a tower made of zinc sphere halves, a row of empty tin cans, and some short lengths of iron piping. Beyond these were several washtubs and a pile of concrete blocks. “I doubt that our Swiss friend will find any cause for complaint here—even accepting his pedantry.”
“It was the right decision—wasn’t it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Callari.”
“Yes, without question. The Okhrana have already contacted Professor Seeliger.”
“How do you know that?”
“Kruckel had him followed.”
Vala nodded. “When should I expect a visit from our Swiss friend?”
“Very soon,” said Razumovsky. “I’ve already written to him.” He reached for a length of iron piping, picked it up, and pretended to throw it. They exchanged smiles and Razumovsky laughed. “I miss the good old days.”
THIRTY-ONE
Bok stroked his walrus moustache.
“So, Herr Doctor, how can I be of assistance?”
Liebermann was studying the calculating machine: “Is that a Brunsviga?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And the latest model if I’m not mistaken.”
“Indeed, Herr Doctor—you are not mistaken.”
“Extraordinary—that a mechanical device, an assembly of cogs and gears, can do the work of a human mind?”
“Yes, when you put it like that—I suppose it is.”
“Perhaps, in the distant future, much of our labor will be undertaken by automata.”
“That isn’t something I’ve thought about.”
“Imagine—a world without employment. Good for some, but bad for others I suspect.”
“Herr Doctor?” Bok made a flamboyant show of extracting his watch from the fob pocket of his waistcoat. “Shouldn’t we
be discussing Herr Globocnik?”
“I thought we were.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The machine is his replacement, isn’t it?”
Bok’s expression soured. He pressed his watch back into its pocket and answered. “Yes. I purchased the Brunsviga for my secretary and I don’t regret the expenditure. It seems that Fräulein Mugoša can do everything Globocnik could do—and a great deal more besides.”
“I’m sure she’s very capable.” Liebermann brushed a hair from his trousers. “Actually, I was hoping to speak with Fräulein Mugoša.”
“I’m sorry, but that isn’t possible. She’s at home.”
“At home?”
Bok coughed nervously. “Her home—her apartment.”
“When will she be returning to work?”
“This afternoon . . .”
“Is she ill?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She isn’t at her desk—so I assumed she must be unwell.”
“Fräulein Mugoša has a robust constitution.”
“Have you given her the morning off?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Then why isn’t she here?”
“Herr Doctor, you will appreciate—I hope—that I am a busy man. If you want to discuss Globocnik, then—”
“Yes, of course,” Liebermann cut in. “My apologies.”
Bok grumbled to himself and challenged his inquisitor. “Have you worked out what’s wrong with him?”
“The brain is very complex, Herr Bok—even more complex than a Brunsviga.” Liebermann threw a glance at the calculating machine. “And when the mind goes wrong, you can’t just open the skull—like that machine’s case—and put things right with a few drops of oil. If only psychiatric treatment were that easy! Are you married, Herr Bok?”
“What?”
