by F. R. Tallis
“Did the Jesuit die?”
“I don’t know,” Mathias shrugged. “Presumably.” The old man turned to pick up what looked like a pair of pliers from his cart.
“Have you found it?” Rheinhardt asked.
Mathias ignored the question and said, “Amore et timore.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“‘Through love and fear’ . . . that was Joseph’s motto. And not a bad motto, if a motto is supposed to be instructive as well as representative. I’m sure your friend Dr. Liebermann would agree that much of the human comedy is shaped by either love or fear.” Mathias craned over the corpse, his elbow moving backward and forward. “This is a little like extracting a tooth. Ah, success. Hold out your hand, inspector.” Rheinhardt did as he was instructed and Mathias dropped the bullet onto the policeman’s palm. “It was lodged in the fifth thoracic vertebra,” Mathias added, with unusual gaiety.
Rheinhardt wiped the bullet clean and held it beneath the electric light.
“What?” Asked Mathias.
“How strange.”
“What’s strange?”
“I think it’s the same.”
“You’re not making much sense, inspector.”
“My apologies, professor. I think it’s identical to the bullet we found in the abandoned piano factory.”
“Projectiles are fairly standard, aren’t they?”
“This one isn’t.”
FORTY-TWO
Rheinhardt was sitting in his favorite armchair, smoking a mild, faintly sweet cigar that baited the palate with hints of toffee and burnt almond. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he turned the pages of the Police Gazette. In the international section he read that the United States Bureau of Identification was about to establish a fingerprint collection. Interesting, he thought. They were clearly convinced of the new method’s utility. He attempted to carry on reading but Therese, the elder of his two daughters, was playing Suk’s D minor “Elegy” for the piano, a sad tune that floated over an insistent, dotted quaver monotone. The result defied categorization and fell somewhere between a funeral march and a lullaby. Mitzi, his younger daughter, was perched on a stool, sketching her piano-playing sister with a piece of charcoal. He returned his attention back to the article and carried on reading until his wife, Else, touched his shoulder. With a minute movement of her head, she communicated that she wished to speak to him in private. Rheinhardt stubbed out his cigar and followed Else out of the room. As they walked down the hallway he admired her figure. The passage of time and the accumulation of avoirdupois had not altered her essential, hourglass shape and he experienced a quick, fiery lick of desire.
They entered their bedroom and when Else turned to face him, she was frowning.
“What is it?” He asked.
“There’s something wrong with Mitzi,” Else replied.
“She’s unwell?”
“No. She’s perfectly healthy, she just isn’t herself. She’s out of sorts.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s been very quiet lately—withdrawn—I’ve caught her crying a few times.”
“Did you ask her what was wrong?”
“Yes, of course . . . but she just shakes her head and says it’s nothing.”
“Perhaps it’s her age.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“All right—I’ll talk to her.”
Else leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry,” Rheinhardt sighed. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You’re busy, I know. It doesn’t matter.” She smiled and combed his hair back with her fingers.
When they returned to the parlor Rheinhardt yawned and stretched his arms. “I need some fresh air. Come along, Mitzi, you can keep me company.”
Therese stopped playing and objected. “What about me?”
“Finish your practice,” Rheinhardt replied. “Another time, perhaps.”
Mitzi placed her charcoal and sketchbook on the table and slid off the stool. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” Rheinhardt replied.
Outside, the evening was fresh and clear. They wandered around side streets talking intermittently about subjects of little consequence: a new ride at the Prater, the possibility of snow, a long postposed ascent of the Kahlenberg. Eventually they found themselves on Josefstädter Strasse, where they stopped to look at the vast number of volumes displayed in the window of Steckler’s bookshop.
“I wonder how long it would take to read all those?” Mitzi asked.
“A lifetime,” Rheinhardt replied. “But a lifetime well spent.” His knees cracked as he lowered himself into a crouch that permitted him to meet his daughter’s gaze. For a few seconds, he was speechless, overthrown by the miniature perfection of her features. Parental pride made Rheinhardt’s chest swell and his eyes prickled with emotion. “You’re mother tells me that you haven’t been happy lately.”
A long silence followed and Rheinhardt had to change position to relieve the pain in his lower back.
“You mustn’t do anything,” said Mitzi anxiously. “You mustn’t arrest anyone.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“There’s this girl at school. She’s bigger than the rest of us. Her name’s Tibelda.”
“And what does Tibelda do that is making you unhappy?”
“Whenever we’re alone she pinches me and pulls my hair and says horrible things.”
“Why don’t you tell your teacher?”
“You get called names for doing that.”
“Yes,” Rheinhardt nodded, sagely. “That’s true. A difficult situation . . .”
A soldier marched past. He was carrying sealed documents under his arm and he was clearly in a hurry. Everything about him suggested that his errand was a matter of importance and urgency.
“Were you ever bullied at school?” Mitzi asked.
“Yes,” Rheinhardt replied, “when I was small. I know it’s hard to believe, but I was smaller than you once. The thing to remember, my dear, is this: bullies are, fundamentally, cowards. They only intimidate those who don’t retaliate. As soon as I realized this, the solution to my predicament seemed relatively straightforward.” Her lower lip was trembling. He could feel her pain and confusion. “Look,” Rheinhardt continued. “Let me show you something. I want you to copy me.” He stood up and presented his left side to his daughter. “Never make it easy for your opponent. The less of you they see, the less they can hit.” He drew his right fist back and pressed it against his hip, the clenched fingers facing skyward. Mitzi imitated the stance. “Good. I’m going to do this slowly.” He extended his right arm and rotated his body counterclockwise at the same time. “You can make a punch so much more powerful if you put the weight of your body behind it. And at the point of impact, give your fist a quick turn. Do you see?” Mitzi reproduced her father’s sequence of movements. “Excellent, now do it as fast you can.” Her mimicry was perfect. “Do you know, my dear, that was rather good.”
Rheinhardt stood squarely in front of his daughter. He opened his coat and said, “Right—now—I want you to imagine that I am Tibelda and I want you to punch me in the stomach as hard as you can.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“But what if it hurts?”
“I’m hoping it will.”
Mitzi reversed her fist. Rheinhardt hadn’t bothered tensing his abdominal muscles because he wasn’t expecting the punch to be very hard. Subsequently, he was surprised when Mitzi’s knuckles twisted into his gut. He threw his head back and laughed at the stars. “Mitzi, you’re a natural! That was quite exceptional! Particularly the twist at the end—I’ll have a bruise tomorrow, almost certainly.” Mitzi laughed along with her father, giddy with empowerment. “Not very ladylike of course,” Rheinhardt continued, “but there you are . . .” He lowered his voice. “Better not tell your mother, eh? I suspect she won’t approve. Do it again,
only harder. See if you can knock me through Herr Steckler’s window.”
Mitzi threw another punch and Rheinhardt pretended to stumble. “Almost!”
A steady, neutral voice said: “Good evening, sir.”
Rheinhardt turned his head and discovered that the voice belonged to Constable Schwacke.
“Ahh . . .” Rheinhardt cleared his throat. “You again.”
“Yes, sir. Me again.” Schwacke repeated.
“Out on your beat?
“Yes, sir.”
“This is my daughter—Mitzi.”
The constable bowed, revealing the sharpness of the spike on his helmet. Mitzi responded with a curtsy. When his upper body was vertical again, Schwacke said, “Might I ask, sir: what are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
“You appear to be encouraging your daughter to deliver punches to your stomach.”
“Do you have any children, Schwacke?”
“No, sir. But I am courting.”
“Well, that’s a start. You see, if you had children, constable, I’d be more inclined to explain myself. As things stands, I’m not at all sure that it would be worth the effort. Anything to report?”
“No, sir. It’s been a very quiet evening.”
“Good, good. Let’s hope it stays that way.”
Schwacke, bowed, clicked his heels, and walked off, his sabre clicking against his boots.
“Can I hit you again?” Mitzi asked.
FORTY-THREE
Rheinhardt arrived at Liebermann’s apartment much later than usual. He was welcomed cordially by the young doctor and they went directly to the piano where they played and sang until eleven o’clock, the hour at which all domestic music makers in Vienna were officially obliged to stop. Their last choice of song was Schubert’s setting of Heine’s “Ihr bild”—Her Likeness—a bitter poem about a man weeping over the image of his former lover. Such genius, thought Liebermann as he played the bare, exposed B flats at the beginning. They were the tonal equivalent of a numb, grief-stricken stare. Rheinhardt adopted a frozen pose and his expressive baritone described the grim reality of lost happiness:
Ich stand in dunkeln Träumen . . .
I stood in dark dreams . . .
Apart from a brief modulation into the key of G flat Major, the music was relentlessly bleak and remarkably explicit. It was obvious to Liebermann that the purpose of the echoing phrases was to contrast the poet’s miserable present with the fading recollections of his happier days.
Rheinhardt invested the last line with terrible, almost unbearable sorrow:
Und ach, ich kann es nicht glauben.
And ah, I cannot believe I have lost you.
Liebermann pounded the last dread chords and the two men waited, motionless, for the notes to fade. A faint reverberation, a residue of the song’s essence, seemed to hang on the air.
The two men entered the smoking room. They lit cigars and Liebermann poured brandy into crystal glasses. After a few minutes Rheinhardt shifted in his seat, cleared his throat, and said, “So. Why did you keep on mentioning Autenburg’s finger nails? What was all that about?”
Liebermann swirled the liquid in his glass and took a sip before speaking. “I suspect that Frau Autenburg would have been of great interest to Krafft-Ebing. I’m sure that if he had had the opportunity to assess her, he would have found room for Frau Autenburg in the Psychopathia Sexualis—between cases 189 and 190.”
“Why those?”
“They were celebrated nymphomaniacs.”
Rheinhardt tutted. “Max, I asked you about Autenburg’s nails.”
“Indeed.” Liebermann continued. “But Autenburg’s onychophagia was clearly caused by his wife’s sexual delinquency. One can imagine the poor man, sitting in his library, tormented by the sound of creaking bed springs and his wife’s groans of pleasure; tortured by imaginings of her pale, naked body writhing on a rumpled sheet, her hair in disarray.”
“Yes, yes, Max.” Rhenhardt made an impatient gesture. “You don’t have to be quite so graphic. I’m perfectly capable of picturing the scene.”
“This is the problem with socialists and anarchists,” Liebermann said with disdain. “They espouse sexual equality, but then go too far, they overcompensate. It isn’t possible to live beyond natural tolerances without having to pay a high emotional price. Autenburg bit his nails because, in reality, however much he pretended otherwise, he could not repress his true feelings. He couldn’t bear the thought of another man enjoying his wife. He only allowed his wife to sleep with Diamant to demonstrate his commitment to a political ideal.” Liebermann hammered his temple with a bent finger. “It was all up here—in his head—an intellectual pipe dream. The real Autenburg—the flesh and blood human being, with a beating heart and emotions—hated himself for yielding his connubial privileges to a younger man, a former protégé no less. Subsequently, he expressed his self-loathing by means of an unseemly act of oral aggression.”
“Nail-biting?” Rheinhardt protested. “Not that unseemly, surely?”
“A finger resembles the male reproductive organ.”
“Oh, come now, Max.”
“His onychophagia was symbolic.”
Rheinhardt sighed. “So he was enacting the punishment that he thought he deserved?”
Liebermann shrugged. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“I’ve heard you use much the same words—and on many occasions.” Liebermann shrugged again and looked away. Rheinhardt crossed his legs, leaned back, and examined the ceiling. “Isn’t it possible that Autenburg bit his nails simply because he was anxious?”
“Yes,” said Liebermann. “And that would be true. But it isn’t a very penetrating or meaningful observation. It doesn’t tell us very much about Autenburg.”
A tongue of flame flickered in the fireplace and seemed to detach itself from a glowing log. It floated for a few moments, like a marsh light, then vanished.
“If your thoughts on Autenburg’s state of mind are accurate,” said Rheinhardt, “what are we to conclude? That ultimately, his aggression found a more natural outlet? That he stopped biting his finger nails and instead, followed Diamant into the night with the intention of killing him?”
“You said that Diamant was carrying a dagger. It appears he was expecting trouble. And then there is the matter of the attempted strangulation.”
“Which was unsuccessful. Do you really believe that a man like Autenburg could overcome a young, athletic duelist?”
“If he managed to creep up on Diamant from behind.”
“Soundlessly? Autenburg?”
“A stealthy approach wouldn’t have been quite so essential if Diamant was inebriated. We know he was fond of beer cellars.”
Rheinhardt considered the possibility and blew a smoke ring that slowly expanded and broke into transparent ribbons. He rested his cigar on the ashtray and reached down to pick up a leather case. Releasing the clasps he opened it and removed a wad of photographs which he handed to Liebermann.
“Ah, the new murder.” The young doctor studied the images.
“His name is Gerd Kelbling,” said Rheinhardt, retrieving his cigar. “He had reserved a spacious suite at the Beatrix for a period of three months. He was traveling with few possessions; however, we found a considerable sum of money, an envelope full of 100 kronen banknotes, in the bureau.”
“Who was he?”
“We don’t know yet. The hotel manager couldn’t tell me anything. Apparently, he was never seen.”
“Another man without qualities . . .”
“Now, it’s interesting that you should say that. The bullet that Professor Mathias dug out of Kelbling’s spine was of a distinctive weight and size—identical to the bullet that killed Callari.”
“Are you sure? I thought the stresses of detonation and impact resulted in significant deformation.”
“Yes, and in many instances it is impossible conclude very much. But these bullets are quite distinctive—
so much so that I suspect, after perusal of the relevant military almanacs, we will be able to determine their provenance.”
“So, the same perpetrator.”
“That is what I believe.”
“What connects our itinerant Italian with this gentleman?” Liebermann held up one of the photographs, a close-up of Kelbling’s face.
“Both of them had a lot of money.”
“A commonality that isn’t very illuminating.”
“I agree. We need to know more about Kelbling.”
“If Callari was condemned by a jury of honor, then it would be reasonable to suspect that the motive for Kelbling’s murder might also have been political.”
Rheinhardt turned toward his friend. “Odd, isn’t it? Callari and Kelbling—Autenburg and Kruckel—Della and Diamant—The Golden Bears. Like links in a chain.”
“Yes, but they don’t quite fit together, do they?”
Rheinhardt was distracted by something on his chair. He pinched his thumb and forefinger together and pulled an adhesive thread off the arm. He held it up and Liebermann realized that his friend was studying a long, red hair. The policeman’s eyes expanded.
“I almost forgot,” Liebermann blurted out. “I have some important news for you.” Rheinhardt released the hair and it fell to the floor. “I managed to get to the bottom of Herr Globocnik’s pseudologia fantastica. It was quite straightforward in the end. As soon as Herr Globocnik had settled and felt more relaxed in my company I was able to use hypnosis. There were some resistances, of course, but these were quickly overcome by employment of the pressure technique—you’ve seen me use it—do you remember?” Rheinhardt nodded. “My original formulation was correct,” Liebermann continued. “The root of the problem was a traumatic memory—an unconscious memory of humiliation.”
