by F. R. Tallis
Rheinhardt glanced at the photograph of Franz Josef. “The empire is very, very large. Marianské Lazne, Przemyśl, Split, Trento. Pécs, Braşov, Ivano-Frankivsk. Endless marshes, remote salt pans, and an infinite number of mountain passes. Perhaps we could come to some arrangement with the army. The garrison stationed in the Sanjak of Novi Pazar must generate quite a lot of paper work. That’s well off the beaten track and even the most enthusiastic assassin would have trouble getting there.”
“The Sanjak of Novi Pazar?” Haussmann queried.
“Not now, Haussmann.” Rheinhardt shook his head and leaned forward again. “Who killed Angelo Callari?”
“Callari was a traitor.”
“And who did he betray?”
“The movement.”
“What movement?”
“We are an international collective, committed to the eradication of poverty and the provision of equal rights for all.”
“Activists . . .”
“Is it wrong to pursue a noble ideal, inspector? To feel compassion for those ill-favored by fortune?”
“Callari, Herr Autenburg, you were telling us about Callari.”
“He was selling information to the Okhrana, the Russian secret police.”
“What information?”
“Names, addresses, anything he overheard of interest. The Russians are generous sponsors and they pandered to his needs, his predilection for orgies and the sting of a whip. A pattern emerged. Wherever Callari went, trouble was sure to follow. Some of our people lost their lives. He was a fool, complacent and careless. He believed that he could persuade a jury of honor of his innocence and carry on enjoying the Okhrana’s largesse; however, he was gravely mistaken.”
“There were three chairs facing Callari at the piano factory. You had been sitting on one of them. Who occupied the other two?”
Autenburg pulled at his Van Dyke beard. His hand was shaking. “Inspector, you haven’t given me any assurances that appropriate measures will be taken to ensure my safety.”
“Your willingness to assist will be taken into account,” said Rheinhardt.
“That isn’t much of an assurance.”
“It would be sheer folly to stop aiding our inquiry at this juncture, Herr Autenburg. I would urge you to proceed.”
Autenburg’s body seemed to deflate. He nodded and continued: “The other two were very senior. The first was my immediate superior.”
“What is his name?”
“No. Not his name, her name. My immediate superior is a woman.” Autenburg hesitated, grimacing as he struggled to overcome his scruples. “Vala Feist. She lives near the gas works. But it wasn’t her, she didn’t execute Callari. It was the third member of our jury. I can’t give you his name, because it isn’t known to me. He is a veteran of our movement. I can only give you his code name.” Autenburg hesitated again before saying: “Mephistopheles.”
Haussmann’s expression communicated skepticism and mild amusement. He was unimpressed by the excessive theatricality of the code name, which carried with it suggestions of melodrama and burlesque. It erected a proscenium in the brain, beneath which a man wearing a cape and top hat was stepping out of shadow into the glare of a stage light. When Rheinhardt returned his attention to Autenburg, he was surprised to see that the publisher’s face had become a rictus of terror, as if he had just uttered a magical incantation that might summon a diabolical manifestation from hell.
“Can you give us a description of this . . . Mephistopheles?” Rheinhardt asked, feeling self-conscious as he did so.
“No. I can’t.” Autenburg did not look well.
“Why not?”
“Because he was wearing a hood. Only senior figures in our movement know what he looks like.”
Rheinhardt frowned. “Why did Mephistopheles shoot Gerd Kelbling?”
“Who?”
“Gerd Kelbling. The projectiles that killed both Callari and Kelbling were of the same caliber, weight, and general appearance. Quite unusual, in fact.”
Autenburg shook his head rapidly from side to side. “I’ve never heard of Gerd Kelbling.”
“You might have known him by some other name, perhaps? He was staying at the Beatrix Hotel where he was spying on Professor Seeliger, a physicist who lectures at the university.”
“Kelbling? Seeliger? No, I’ve never heard of them.”
“What about the Beatrix? Do you know anybody connected with that hotel?”
Autenburg continued shaking his head. Twisting the horns of his moustache, Rheinhardt’s eyes narrowed and became two doubting slits.
“Inspector.” Autenburg pleaded. “Surely you do not mean to implicate me in a third murder!”
FORTY-NINE
Professor Freud had been listening very carefully to Liebermann’s account of Herr Globocnik’s treatment. He had raised a finger to indicate when he had a question. These interruptions had been few in number and always considered. Mostly, he had remained silent, smoking cigars and toying with the ancient statuettes that populated the top of his desk. By the time Liebermann had reached his conclusion, Freud was peering through a taupe fog.
“Pseudologia fantastica,” Freud enunciated the term as if each syllable was moist and succulent. “Perhaps, when you have ordered your case notes, you would be willing to present this patient at our Wednesday evening Psychological Society?”
“I would be delighted,” said Liebermann.
Freud offered Liebermann a cigar. “These are very good: woody with hints of aniseed.”
“Thank you,” said Liebermann, removing a cigar from a box and lighting it with a match.
“One wonders,” Freud continued, “to what extent the dynamics of the love triangle you have described represent another recapitulation of what is now becoming a familiar Sophoclean theme. Was this drama rooted in an unresolved conflict that can be traced back to the nursery? Did the little clerk wish to kill the factory owner because the factory owner had become associated with paternal authority? Did the coquette resemble the clerk’s mother? And was there some connection between the clerk’s choice of weapon—a letter opener, a blade—and fear of castration? Regrettably, we will never know. Your recourse to the suggestive method of Charcot and Janet, although expedient, provides us with few insights into ultimate causation. Even so, the material you bring us will—I am sure—provide a stimulus for much profitable debate.”
Liebermann couldn’t determine whether he had just been praised or admonished and he thought it judicious to change the subject as quickly as possible. A book had been laid next to the ink stand, the pages open and facing down. On the spine, Liebermann read: Psychologie des foules—the psychology of crowds.
“You are reading Le Bon,” Liebermann observed, affecting a nonchalant air.
“Yes,” Freud nodded. His brow became smooth and a vague sense of unease dissipated. “I am a great admirer of this work.” He tapped the cloth cover. “We can only know the unconscious by indirect means, for example, through the interpretation of dreams, slips of the tongue, and memory failures. At present, these means are somewhat limited in scope and number. Consequently, I have been exploring other possibilities, other phenomena that might give us further insights into unconscious mental life, and among these phenomena, I have—of late—been giving particular consideration to the behavior of crowds.” Freud paused and picked up one of his statuettes which he placed on the book cover. It was a falcon-headed figure made of wood.
“Le Bon,” Freud went on, “suggests that the particularities of the individual become obliterated in groups. Distinctiveness vanishes. We might say that the superstructure of personality is removed, and the unconscious foundations—which are similar in everyone—stand exposed to view.” He placed a blue brachycephalic dwarf next to the falcon-headed figure and continued moving other statuettes along similar trajectories to the same destination. “Once absorbed by the group, the individual feels invincible. He yields to instincts which he would perforce have kept under restra
int. He becomes anonymous and his sense of personal responsibility disappears entirely. He becomes impulsive, less thoughtful. By the mere fact that he is now part of a group, a man descends several rungs down the ladder of civilization. Isolated, he may be a cultivated individual; in a crowd, he is a barbarian—a creature animated by primitive drives. A crowd is vengeful, fickle, and prone to extremities of purpose; a crowd is quick to persecute and bay for blood; a crowd is always close to becoming a mob.”
“Do you think,” Liebermann inquired, “that Le Bon’s psychology is also applicable to political groups and movements?”
“Of course,” the professor answered. “Politicians are always oversimplifying, always engaging the public by making emotional appeals that owe more to prejudice than rationality. They are buoyed up by the people who stand behind them, carried forward on waves of feeling. Yes, a political party is just another form of crowd.”
Liebermann noticed that a large number of statuettes were now standing on the splayed cover of Le Bon’s opus. While talking, the Professor had inadvertently constructed his own diminutive assembly. Freud realized at once that he had created a scene to accompany his thoughts and he acknowledged his embarrassing transparency with a wave of his hand.
Liebermann reflected: “It is often men who desire most strongly to improve the lot of their fellows that do the greatest harm.”
The professor picked up a bronze vulture and held it up to the light to see it better. “The nationalist declares his vile calumnies while thinking that he is in fact making the world a better, purer place. When the anarchist throws his bomb, he is convinced that he is ridding the world of oppression and poverty. But really, they are both in the thrall of the unconscious.” Freud made some room for the vulture on the book and then smiled at his young friend. “So . . . Mandelbaum goes to see his doctor, Zingel, in order to get his test results. Zingel has the papers from the laboratory in his hand. He looks over his spectacles and says, ‘I have some good news and some bad news.’ Mandelbaum says, ‘Tell me the good news first.’ Zingel nods and says, ‘All right. The good news is that you’re not a hypochondriac.’”
Liebermann laughed, but he was still thinking about politics and the statuettes that Freud had collected together on the book cover.
FIFTY
Rheinhardt rubbed condensation from the carriage window and peered through a porthole of transparency at the four large gas towers. They were impressive redbrick constructions with meniscus roofs, each surmounted by the industrial equivalent of an architectural lantern. There was something grand and ominous about these buildings that demanded musical accompaniment, something dark and Wagnerian. “Siegfried’s Funeral March,” perhaps? Rheinhardt grumbled a bar or two and imagined the orchestration, restless flurries in the lower strings, stabs of brass and timpani.
A little farther on Rheinhardt instructed the driver to stop.
“Wait here,” he called up as he stepped down onto the cobbles. The air smelled unpleasant. He walked along the canal, observing a plume of black smoke rising from a tall chimney and eventually spied his assistant, standing discretely behind a derelict street-vendor’s cabin.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Haussmann.”
“She left early, was gone for about an hour, and came back about ten minutes ago carrying a full shopping basket.”
“Is there anyone else in the house?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
Rheinhardt studied the ramshackle group of small dwellings on the other side of the road. They had been positioned in a haphazard way, none of them sharing the same orientation. Many had been enlarged by the addition of lean-to structures abutting windowless walls. It wasn’t a pleasing prospect.
“Right,” said Rheinhardt. “Let us proceed.”
They came out from behind the stall and walked over to a squat house, the exterior of which was badly in need of repair. Damp stains striped rendering that retained only mottled remnants of paint. Rheinhardt knocked on the door and presently it was opened by woman in a high-necked blouse and a brown skirt. A bun of gray hair was neatly pinned on her crown. Her leanness created an initial flattering impression of a woman in the early middle years of life, but on closer inspection, the lines that spread out from the corners of her eyes and the vertical creases above her thin, colorless lips suggested that she was, in fact, much older.
“Fräulein Feist?” said Rheinhardt.
“Yes,” the woman replied.
“I am Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt and this is my assistant, Haussmann.”
“Security office?”
“Yes. We would like to ask you some questions.”
“Me?” Her voice was incredulous and she touched her flat chest.
“Yes,” Rheinhardt confirmed.
“Well,” the woman responded. “You had better come in.” She turned and started walking. “This way please. Would the young officer be good enough to close the door behind him? Thank you.” She led them into a musty parlor where she offered them seats at a table. “I’ll make some tea and get some walnut cake.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Rheinhardt.
“No, I must.”
“With respect, we have no—”
“You are my guests,” Feist interrupted. She disappeared into an adjoining kitchen and preparatory sounds followed—the clatter of plates and cutlery, the boiling of a kettle. When Feist reemerged she was carrying a tray, crowded with tea things, which she set out on the table. “Excuse me,” she said, and returned to the kitchen.
Haussmann leaned closer to his superior and whispered, “Have we been tricked, sir?”
Rheinhardt emitted a low, pensive growl. “Why would Autenburg lie?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Haussmann shrugged. “But this . . . situation.” He circled his hand above his head. “It doesn’t look very promising.”
Feist returned carrying a walnut cake which she placed beside the teapot and began to cut and serve. “It’s a very old recipe—possibly Greek.”
Rheinhardt was momentarily distracted by the fragrance of the flecked yellow slice that landed beneath his flaring nostrils. Haussmann coughed—a sharp, impatient bark.
“May I ask.” Rheinhardt captured Feist’s attention. “How long have you lived in this house?”
“Oh, two or three years, perhaps. I moved in just after they’d finished building the gas towers.”
“And where were you living before?”
“The sixteenth district,” Feist replied, pouring the tea. “I’ve always lived on my own. Rather bookish you see—an odd term, bookish—and sometimes employed as a pejorative. I can’t think why. Please . . . your walnut cake.”
“Thank you,” said Rheinhardt, picking up his fork. The sponge was dense and full of large pieces of crushed walnut. “Do you have an occupation, Fräulein Feist?”
“I was fortunate enough to inherit a sum of money from my father. Not a great deal, but enough. I’ve always been a conscientious housekeeper, you see. Prudence: a much underrated virtue.” She sampled her cake and her expression suggested satisfaction. She nodded reflectively then continued. “I teach a little—kindergarten, mostly. And I have also found occasional employment with charitable institutions undertaking administrative and secretarial work.”
“Tell me, Fräulein Feist. Does the name Autenburg mean anything to you?”
She stopped chewing. “Yes, it does. Herr Autenburg the publisher?”
“You know him?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say I know him. That would imply we are better acquainted than we actually are. I met Herr Autenburg last November. He gave a public lecture which was held under the auspices of the Socialist Education Alliance and the General Austrian Women’s Association. I believe the subject of Herr Autenburg’s talk was the inevitability of political reform. A rather dry talk, as I recall, but the event was relatively well attended, all things considered. The hall is usually only full when our guest spea
ker is a famous actress or singer. Herr Autenburg was kind enough to donate some of his recent publications to the Alliance’s lending library.”
“Did you ever meet Herr Autenburg’s wife?”
“Yes, I did, and she—” Feist checked herself. “One shouldn’t gossip.”
“What were you going to say, Fräulein Feist?”
“She is a very colorful character, that’s all.” Feist smiled. “Do you like the cake, inspector? Not too sweet?”
“No,” Rheinhardt replied. “It’s very good—and certainly not too sweet.”
Feist addressed Haussmann. “What about you, young man? Is the cake satisfactory?”
Haussmann inclined his head. “Yes, very satisfactory. Thank you.”
“The Socialist Education Alliance . . . ,” Rheinhardt continued.
“Yes?” Feist tilted her head. “What of it, inspector?”
“I wonder if you ever met an Italian gentleman at one of these public lectures? A gentleman called Callari. Angelo Callari.”
Feist raised her tea cup and sipped. “Callari. The name is familiar.” Sudden recognition widened her eyes. “I read about him in a newspaper. Yes. Callari. Wasn’t he—” She hesitated and her voice descended to a lower register. “Wasn’t he murdered?”
“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt.
“A ne’er-do-well,” Feist continued. “That’s how he was described. I do not associate with ne’er-do-wells, Herr Inspector. And whatever makes you think a man like that would attend a public lecture?”
“He was actually very interested in socialism. We know that he attended educational evenings organized by Clement Kruckel.”
“Really? Clement Kruckel? I used to read his column—many years ago. Amusing but always rather spiteful, I thought. Too spiteful, his malice undermined his arguments, which were otherwise well-constructed and persuasive.” Feist drained her tea cup. “Herr Inspector, I am not at all clear why you are asking me these questions. I cannot help but feel that you under some misapprehension.”
