Mephisto Waltz

by F. R. Tallis

  Liebermann recounted the story of Globocnik’s ill-fated romance with Fräulein Mugoša, and when he reached the point where Bok emptied his bladder over the lovelorn clerk, Rheinhardt said angrily, “Dear God! One wonders what the future holds for mankind. What a creature! Capable of such petty, frivolous malice. Animals do not sink as low.”

  “My sentiments exactly, Oskar—it was an act of such senseless cruelty—made worse by its ease. And worse of all, when Globocnik looked up at that dreadful Mugoša woman, she was smiling—delighting in his degradation.”

  “Is he cured now? Globocnik?”

  “Needless to say, it will take time for him to fully adjust. He has been rudely awakened to a new and brutal reality. But yes, he has recovered, insofar as he no longer escapes his pain by inhabiting a homicidal fantasy. There is, however, a minor problem.”

  “Oh yes?” Liebermann hesitated and appeared somewhat embarrassed. Rheinhardt frowned. “Max?” The syllable was extended and articulated on a rising glissando.

  “When I got back to the hospital today.” Liebermann’s delivery was hesitant. “I was told that he’d absconded.”

  “Should we be concerned?”

  Liebermann offered his friend an uncertain smile. “No. Not yet, anyway.”

  “That doesn’t sound very reassuring.”

  The young doctor drew on his cigar, released a tumid cloud of smoke, and said, “What do you think of the brandy?”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Rheinhardt was awakened by an early telephone call from Schottenring.

  “What did they want?” asked Else.

  “I’m not sure. Something about Haussmann and a tapestry. The duty sergeant isn’t very good with messages. I’ve got to go straight to the Beatrix.”

  A short distance from his apartment, Rheinhardt bought a pork sausage from a street vendor. The steaming meat exuded a spicy fragrance that made him salivate. He covered the sausage in mustard and consumed it in a matter of seconds. The street vendor smiled, “Good?”

  “Very good,” said Rheinhardt.

  “The salt comes from Sečovlje—the pans. You wouldn’t find a better sausage in Ljubljana.”

  Rheinhardt licked his fingers and etched an informal salute. “I’m inclined to agree.”

  Josefstadt and Alsergrund were adjacent districts and the walk to Thurngasse was relatively short. Rheinhardt stepped into the foyer of the Beatrix where he was informed by Herr Okolski that Haussmann had already arrived and was waiting for him in suite four.

  “I hope this is important, Haussmann.” Rheinhardt grumbled as they entered the second bedroom. “I had to rush breakfast.”

  “I think it is, sir,” Haussmann replied.

  Rheinhardt registered the tapestry and remembered the duty sergeant’s garbled message. “Well, what have you found?”

  Haussmann climbed onto the bed and raised the wall hanging, behind which was a hole in the wall. The aperture resembled the mouth of a letter box, although much wider.

  Rheinhardt removed his hat and scratched his head. “Couldn’t you have just told me?”

  “There’s more, sir.” Haussmann reached into the hole and pulled out a rubber hose, which dropped as far as the pillows.

  “I see. You’ve found a hole—and a pipe. Would you care to explain why you think these discoveries merit my immediate attention?”

  Haussmann’s response was unexpected. He sat down, legs outstretched, with his back against the wall. Then, he produced the half-sphere of black rubber—with its short length of tubing—that Rheinhardt had found in the otherwise empty chest of drawers. Haussmann inserted the short length of tubing into the hose. “Exact fit, sir.” He then covered his right ear with the half-sphere. “It’s a means of eavesdropping, sir. You can listen to the people talking upstairs.”

  Rheinhardt’s mouth fell open. It took some time for it to close again. “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask the manager for the register. I thought it best not to say anything until you got here.”

  “And when did you discover this apparatus?”

  “Late last night, sir.”

  “Have you been making use of it?”

  Haussmann nodded. “A man and a woman, sir. Quite well to do, although they didn’t say very much this morning—something about a concert—the ‘Academic Festival Overture’?”

  “Brahms, Haussmann.”

  “And something else about a dean—that’s all. The other end of this pipe comes out in their bedroom. When I listened yesterday I just heard snoring.”

  Haussmann got off the mattress and waited for instruction. Rheinhardt postioned himself in front of his slender junior and let his hands fall heavily on the young man’s shoulders. He then gave him an affectionate shake. “Well done, Haussmann, excellent detection. Whatever made you look behind that tapestry?”

  “It was moving, sir—when by rights it should have been still. A draft, I expect—coming through the hole in the wall. Are we going upstairs, sir?”

  “Yes, Haussmann,” Rheinhardt replied. “We are most certainly going upstairs.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  The door was opened by a Hungarian maid. Her manner was somewhat guarded until she discovered that they were police officers and it was only then that she became more courteous and deferential. “Please, gentlemen—come in. If you don’t mind . . . please sit. I’ll let the férfi know you are here.” Two minutes later a tall, distinguished man entered the room. He was in his fifties and his receding hairline exposed a high, freckled forehead. He wore steel-rimmed spectacles and a vertical strip of hair below his lower lip descended to meet a pointed, tawny beard. The effect resembled an anchor. His shirt sleeves were puffy, he was wearing a blue silk tie, and his waistcoat was fastened with small silver buttons.

  Rheinhardt and Haussmann stood and bowed.

  “Good morning,” said Rheinhardt. “Herr . . .”

  “Seeliger.” The man dipped his head. “Professor Waldemar Seeliger.”

  “My apologies,” Rheinhardt made a penitent gesture. “I am Detective Inspector Rheinhardt of the security office and this is my assistant, Haussmann.”

  “Is this about the murder?” asked Seeliger.

  “Well, yes.” Rheinhardt responded. “I suppose it is.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, inspector,” said Seeliger. “But I really can’t help. I was teaching all day yesterday, my wife was visiting her sister, and my children were at school. I returned late and went straight to bed.”

  “Is your wife here now?”

  “No, I’m afraid you’ve just missed her. She’s organizing a fundraising event at the university—a concert. It takes place this evening and she won’t be back until this afternoon.”

  Rheinhardt looked around the parlor and noticed two packing cases near the window. “Do you live here?”

  “A temporary inconvenience,” Seeliger replied. “Our house in Wieden has structural problems—rotted beams, an insecure wall. We’ll be lodging at the Beatrix until the masons and carpenters have finished their repairs. Annoying, but there it is. I miss having all of my books on hand but the children actually like living in a hotel. They see it as an adventure. Okolski—the manager—is a splendid fellow; always eager to please, so one shouldn’t complain.” Seeliger linked his hands behind his back and raised his chin. “If that is all, inspector, I have a busy day ahead.” Seeliger extended his arm to indicate the direction of the exit, but Rheinhardt and Haussmann didn’t budge. Their blank expressions communicated nothing. “Inspector?” Still, there was no response. Seeliger tugged at his cuffs with fidgety irritation.

  “Where is your bedroom, Herr Professor?”

  “What?”

  “Your bedroom. We would like to see your bedroom.”

  “Why?

  “If you would be so kind . . .”

  Seeliger shook his head and tutted before replying. “I will oblige, inspector; however, I trust that you will not be looking for a murder weapon!
If that is your intention, I can assure you in advance that your search will be unsuccessful and that you will consequently owe me an apology.”

  The sagging flesh beneath Rheinhardt’s eyes seemed to descend a fraction. “Professor, the bedroom please.”

  Suite number eight was identical to suite number four. Seeliger guided the policemen to the second bedroom, which was exactly the same size as its twin on the floor below, although it appeared smaller on account of a few extra items of furniture. In addition to a four-poster bed and a chest there was a large wardrobe and a dressing table, the surface of which was crowded with womanly paraphernalia: a hairbrush, pins, kohl, perfume bottles, pots of rouge, and jars of unguents. Seeliger’s wife was evidently a woman who liked to look her best. There were many books on the floor and a French horn case.

  “Do you play?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “I used to,” Seeliger replied. “I don’t really have the time now. And my technique has suffered through lack of practice.”

  “There is always time for music, professor.”

  “Well, that rather depends.”

  Rheinhardt addressed his assistant. “Haussmann—please clear this area.”

  Haussmann knelt down and rolled the Persian rug into a tight cylinder.

  “What on earth are you doing?” asked Seeliger

  “We are making it easier to move the bed.”

  “Now look here—”

  “Patience, professor. Patience!”

  Rheinhardt and Haussmann pulled the bed away from the wall and then stood a short distance apart, gazing with rapt interest at an aperture in the skirting board that looked very much like a mouse hole—a low arch with rough, scalloped edges. Rheinhardt went down on all fours and peered into the dark opening. “Yes,” he said, looking up as his assistant. “I can see it.”

  “What can you see?” asked Seeliger, hovering behind Rheinhardt, his head bobbing up and down as he tried to get a better view.

  Rheinhardt took out his penknife, pried a nail out of the floorboard, and pulled a length of hose out of the hole. He then stood up, before waving the end of the hose at Professor Seeliger and looping it around one of the bed posts. The professor’s face blanched; he stumbled a few steps backward and walked over to the dressing table, where he sat down and stared at his own reflection.

  “So,” said Rheinhardt. “You understand the significance of our discovery?”

  The professor stirred. “No. What is it?”

  “Really, professor.”

  Seeliger recovered his composure and his eyes met Rheinhardt’s in the mirror. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “All right, feign ignorance if you wish, professor.” Rheinhardt moved closer to the dressing table. “It’s a listening device, a means of eavesdropping on your conversations. The other end of that hose comes out downstairs, in suite number four, where the body was discovered yesterday.”

  “I think you are being fanciful, inspector.”

  Rheinhardt stepped forward again, halting directly behind Seeliger. “Why would anyone be interested in your private conversations, the secrets and confidences that you might share with your wife before sleep?” Seeliger remained silent. “The only reason, as far as I can see,” Rheinhardt continued, “would be to use such information for nefarious purposes. Namely, blackmail. What do you think Haussmann?”

  “Yes, sir,” Haussmann replied. “Nefarious purposes.”

  “And now.” Rheinhardt twisted one of the horns of his moustache. “The individual who was in all probability blackmailing the good professor is dead.”

  “Indeed, sir,” said Haussmann. “A fact of evidence that is very troubling.”

  “Very troubling.” Rheinhardt spoke again to Seeliger’s reflection. “What did he want, professor?”

  “Are you are really accusing me of murder?” Seeliger stiffened. “This interview cannot proceed. I wish to seek legal advice.”

  “That would be most unwise.”

  “Most unwise,” Haussmann echoed.

  “Think about appearances, professor.” Rheinhardt picked up one of Frau Seeliger’s pots and studied the written label. “Why do you need legal advice?” Rheinhardt put the pot back on the dressing table and continued: “Naturally, we will be making extensive enquiries into your affairs—occupational, financial, social. I daresay a picture will emerge. Of course, you could save us a great deal of bother by being more cooperative. And I would urge you to remember that our judges are always well disposed toward those who have shown a willingness to expedite investigations. In my experience, those who obfuscate, delay, or obstruct elicit little sympathy.”

  “I never met the man downstairs.” Seeliger’s voice had become thin and weak. “I never saw him—ever.”

  “His name was Kelbling,” said Rheinhardt. “Gerd Kelbling.”

  Seeliger swallowed. He placed his elbows on his thighs and lowered his forehead onto the heels of his palms.

  “Dear God,” Seeliger groaned. “I’m not a murderer. I didn’t kill him—I didn’t even know that he was here.”

  Rheinhardt took no pleasure in his triumph. He felt sorry for the broken professor and reached out to grip his shoulder. “Perhaps you should tell us what happened.”

  Seeliger turned his chair around and Rheinhardt sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” said the professor. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his waistcoat. His high forehead was glazed with perspiration. “I have debts. There’s an irony for you. I’m a physicist—good with numbers. I developed a system for winning roulette and there were some early successes. But in the end, I lost a great deal. My wife is very ambitious. She wants our daughters to marry well. But it all has to be paid for—the balls, the dresses, the spas.” Seeliger unfastened another silver button. “I am responsible for the management of a large number of bursaries that are awarded through the science department at the university. It was my wife who suggested that I borrow a small amount from these funds, in order to facilitate a little speculation. But my investments were not very profitable and I foolishly continued to abuse my position of trust. One day, I received an anonymous note, a kind of thinly veiled threat—and instructions to meet the correspondent at a location on the Prater. The man who appeared introduced himself as Gerd Kelbling. He knew everything. I thought my wife had been indiscrete. You see, she’s very close to her sister. They talk—as sisters do. But my wife was adamant. She hadn’t breathed a word of our financial predicament—not to her sister nor to anyone.” Seeliger looked over at the hose and grimaced.

  “Who was Gerd Kelbling?” Rheinhardt asked.

  “A total stranger.”

  “And what did he want?”

  “Some documents.”

  “What documents?”

  “I am not at liberty to say. Please, inspector, understand. I am not being evasive or uncooperative. But I cannot be very specific. I have been working on a project for the war ministry—a special project—and I have been sworn to secrecy.”

  “And you can prove this?”

  “Yes, very easily. There is a particular civil servant I answer to. He will vouch for me I can assure you. And if his word isn’t sufficient you can speak to more senior figures at the ministry—if you can get the appropriate authorization, of course.”

  “Did you give Gelbling the documents he wanted?”

  “We met on the Prater again yesterday morning. I gave him adulterated copies.”

  “Weren’t you worried that Gelbling would see through your ruse and pursue his threat of exposure?”

  “He would have to be a very gifted mathematician. He would also have to be an expert on ballistics, chemistry, and certain technical aspects of engineering.”

  “Gelbling—or whoever sent him—would eventually discover your deception.”

  “Perhaps. But I reasoned by that time, I might have returned the monies I had embezzled.”

  “Are you expecting an inheritance
?”

  “No.” Seeliger paused for a moment and massaged his forehead. “I’m working on another system . . . for card games, this time. It’s loosely based on d’Alembert’s observations.”

  “Who?”

  “Jean-Baptiste le Rond d’Alembert. An eighteenth-century French mathematician. He developed the fundamental theorem of algebra and the ratio test.”

  Rheinhardt was unable to resist rolling his eyes.

  “Who do you think Gelbling was working for?”

  “I don’t know. He spoke perfect German although there was something about his speech that wasn’t quite right. One must suppose he was spying for a hostile power.” Rheinhardt offered Seeliger a cigar. “Thank you,” said the professor. They smoked in silence for a while and then Seeliger added, “You know, my wife is fond of saying that, one day, our daughters will mix with archdukes and princes. I doubt that’s very likely now.”

  Rheinhardt leaned forward. “If you tell us the truth, the whole truth, and manage to return the funds you have embezzled—then you might, if all goes well, escape incarceration. But no, your daughters will not be dancing with archdukes.”

  “A new start perhaps?”

  “Yes, a long way from Vienna. Provincial schools are always in need of excellent mathematics masters.”

  The professor looked away and wiped his cheek, but his attempt to dispose of the tear was gauche and his eyes were filmed with a thickening layer of shining transparency.

  FORTY-SIX

  Shafts of light slanted through high, leaded windows, illuminating metals sinks, benches, and glass-fronted cabinets filled with scientific apparatus: measuring cylinders, conical flasks, beakers, and burners. A rabbit in a cage was eating cabbage leaves. Rheinhardt—who was seated at a laboratory bench next to the cage—reached through the bars and scratched the rabbit’s head. “I’m feeling a little hungry too.”