by F. R. Tallis
“Just wait here a moment. I’m going to call Oskar.”
Liebermann excused himself and went to use the coffeehouse telephone.
“Max? Where are you—it’s very noisy.”
“Café Central. Oskar, there’s a way of getting Vala Feist to answer questions even if she refuses to speak. It was suggested to me by Miss Lydgate.”
“Ah, Miss Lydgate, do you still see her?”
“Occasionally. Well, not very often.” Liebermann cleared his throat and added, “Hardly at all, in fact.”
An electrical crackling preceded Rheinhardt’s prompt. “You were saying?”
“Yes, I was saying. You must contact Professor Föhrenholz at the university. Have you ever heard of a machine called a cardiograph?”
“No.”
“We’re going to need one.”
FIFTY-FIVE
It was almost midnight and the ward was silent. Rheinhardt was exhausted but he had dragged himself to the hospital in order to sit with his assistant for an hour or so. Haussmann lay in bed, a bandage wrapped around his head, breathing softly. He had not roused or eaten since being knocked unconscious by the grenade blast. He looked pitiful and wasted. His skin was pale and its tightness showed too much of the skull’s curvature beneath. A horrible reminder of mortality.
Rheinhardt reached out and rested his hand on the starched bed cover. He could feel the solid curve of Haussmann’s arm. “Don’t give up, my boy. Never give up.”
It occurred to Rheinhardt that although he had spent a great deal of time with Haussmann over the last three years, he knew very little about him; a few scraps of information. Haussmann didn’t like old paintings but he enjoyed poetry. He had been awarded a volume of Greek legends after entering a poetry competition at school. Their relationship was professional—good-humored, but distant.
Rheinhardt found himself addressing the ceiling. “Please spare him. He has served the people of this city well.” Was it a prayer? Was he praying? Yes, he probably was. “Please, Lord. If you’re listening . . .”
The wall clock ticked.
Haussmann’s breath was barely discernable.
A pretty young woman appeared in the doorway. She was smartly dressed and clutched her hat in her hand. “Oh?” she said.
Rheinhardt stood up. “Fräulein . . . ?” She appeared confused so he continued. “My name is Rheinhardt. Detective Inspector Rheinhardt.”
The young woman smiled and then laughed. “Of course! You’re just as he described you! I’m Ava. Ava Fey.” Rheinhardt’s evident perplexity encouraged her to add, “We are . . . ,” she indicated Haussmann. “Together?” She stepped into the room and offered Rheinhardt her delicate little hand. He bowed, raised her fingers to his lips and said, “My pleasure, Fräulein Fey. Please, take this seat.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“Really, you must.” She thanked him and sat with her hat balanced on her lap.
“You are visiting at a very late hour, Fräulein Fey.”
“I’ve been doing a show.”
“A show?”
“I dance. There was a late performance this evening at Ronacher’s. The nurses have been very kind. They said I could visit whenever I wanted. I was here earlier, you see. The doctor seemed quite worried.”
“Oh, Haussmann’s a strong fellow. I’m sure he’ll pull through.” It was a trite thing to say and Rheinhardt instantly regretted this careless assurance.
Ava fiddled with an artificial flower on her hat. “He talks a lot about you. He says you have a dry sense of humor and that you make him laugh.”
Rheinhardt nodded, unsure of how to respond. Finally he said, “Would you like me to leave? Perhaps you would prefer to spend some time with him alone?”
“No,” Ava replied. “Please stay—stay as long as you want.”
“A few more minutes then.”
Rheinhardt found a chair outside in the corridor and brought it back into the room. He placed it on the opposite side of the bed to Ava.
“Look at him.” Ava found Haussmann’s hand and took it out from beneath the cover. “He will be all right, won’t he?”
Rheinhardt felt obliged to supply a more honest answer. He dispensed with platitudes and said, “I hope so.”
Ava noticed Rheinhardt’s dressing. “Were you caught in the blast too?”
“Yes. But for some reason I managed to escape serious injury.”
“The woman who did this must be wicked.”
Rheinhardt twisted the points of his moustache. “No. I don’t think she is wicked. Misguided, perhaps; deluded even—but not wicked. She believes that she is on the side of good, that she is making the world a better place.”
“By throwing grenades and planting bombs?” The question was rhetorical. Ava raised Haussmann’s hand and pressed the back of it against her cheek. “Oh, look at him,” she repeated. Rheinhardt saw that Ava’s eyes were glistening.
They sat in silence. Occasionally, Ava would look up and attempt a smile. But she could not conceal her misery.
Rheinhardt thought that he should probably leave. He stood up, gazed down at Haussmann and sighed.
Haussmann opened one eye. “Sir?”
“Haussmann?”
“Why am I in bed, sir?”
“My dear boy . . .”
“Walnut cake—we were eating walnut cake.”
“Don’t worry about the walnut cake, Haussmann. Look,” he urged Haussmann to roll his head on the pillow. “Look who’s here.”
Haussmann turned. “Ava? What’s going on?”
Tears were coursing down the young woman’s face. “You were knocked out by a blast? Don’t you remember?”
“No,” Haussmann replied. “I can only remember eating walnut cake.”
He tried to sit up but failed.
“You must rest, Haussmann.” Rheinhardt moved the pillow to better support Haussmann’s head. “One step at a time, eh?”
The young man opened his other eye. “Is this a hospital?”
“I’ll get a doctor,” said Rheinhardt. He moved into the corridor, leaned against the wall, and allowed himself two convulsive sobs of relief. He then marched toward a nurse humming Johan Strauss the elder’s “Philomelen Waltz” rather too loudly. As he approached, she gave him a stern look. “I’m sorry.” He grinned. “But I have good reason to be cheerful.”
FIFTY-SIX
His dream had been vivid. It wasn’t a dream though—it was a memory, a very distant memory.
The old serf had said to him, “What are you doing, Master Peter?” Razumovsky was a boy and studying an ants’ nest. “You’ve been staring at those little creatures all day—what’s so interesting, eh? Come inside, Magda’s made you some vegetable soup.”
“Look at them, Jov.” His voice was a refined treble. “Do you see how busy they are, how they carry and exchange food and cooperate?”
“What about it?”
“There’s no one in charge—look. No one is giving orders. How do they know what to do? It’s . . . extraordinary.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Master Peter. Come inside. Please—or your father will have something to say. And we don’t want that, do we?”
One of the ants reared like a horse and its tiny antenae waved in the air.
“They have no rulers—no generals or chamberlains, no government—but everything is highly organized.”
Jov grunted. “Same as a peasant village, Master Peter—we all get along very well without taking orders. Every man does what he has to do and that’s enough.”
The room was dark, the bed cold. The dream had stopped but the memories continued to rise into awareness.
Jov had been right. Razumovsky saw peasant villages for himself when he was in Siberia. Everyone cooperated and no one served anyone else. At the time, these minature outposts of egalitarianism had made him think of his father’s estate: thirteen hundred serfs on the land and sixty in the principal residence. Did they really need eight coachmen and twenty
horses, six cooks and eighteen elderly gentlemen to wait upon them when they ate their dinner? And then there were the countless serving girls, some of whom he’d used, because when he was a lusty youth he hadn’t know better. Just thinking about them made him feel guilty; girls with ruddy complexions and rough hands, lying naked in barns, offering themselves freely in exchange for some idiotic, cheap bauble.
Does it make me look like a lady?
He remembered the winter balls during which his father would employ even more staff—armies of liveried servants and grooms. Escaping the estate had felt good, liberating. Even when he hadn’t eaten for days and it was 60 degress below zero he did not regret his decision. The cold and hunger were cleansing—they made him feel pure.
In his knapsack he always carried a copy of Alexander von Humbolt’s Cosmos and several books on natural history. He read On the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin and found it utterly fascinating. Yet, he wasn’t entirely persuaded by Darwin’s thesis. Certain observations made him question the English biologist’s authority. Everywhere in the natural world, Razumovsky saw cooperation rather than competition. Instead of drinking vodka with his regiment, he would go for long walks and observe the behavior of deer. They would often gather together, for no other reason, so he deduced, than to keep each other warm. He saw ruminants standing in a ring to resist the attack of a wild horse. Herds, flocks, shoals, swarms, colonies—organisms frequently worked in concert and enjoyed a common advantage. Nature constantly supplied examples of mutual aid. Somehow, mankind had become divorced from nature. Mankind had lost its way. . . .
The cold and hardship of Siberia reminded him that the luxuries of his former life were entirely expendable. A man did not need gilded chairs, Venetian mirrors, and diamond tiepins. It was all so meaningless. He began to view the accumulation of possessions as not only morally bankrupt, but also an encumbrance. He didn’t have very much in his knapsack, but anything that he identified as being surplus to his immediate requirements he disposed of.
There was, in fact, only one item that he treasured: his notebook. A battered leather volume in which he noted all of his observations, made sketches, and developed his critique of Darwin. He summarized his work in a letter that he sent to Lavochkin, a professor of zoology at the university in Moscow. Lavochkin was impressed and they became correspondents. In one of his missives, Lavochkin announced that he was planning a scientific expedition to the Americas. He invited Razumovsky to be his assistant—a young man with a military training would make an ideal traveling companion. Razumovsky agreed, although he was obliged to remain in Siberia with his regiment for another year.
It was a long year and almost his last. He was attacked by bandits and knocked unconscious. He would have frozen to death, were it not for a passing peasant, who by chance, came across his rigid, frost-covered body and lit a fire.
On returning to Moscow, Razumovsky studied with Lavochkin for six months before they embarked on their American adventure. They collected samples, undertook geological surveys, and encountered red Indians. While crossing upstate New York they came across a utopian community in which all of the adult men and women lived as if married to each other, in a condition that they called “complex marriage.” Monogamy was rejected and the children were raised by the collective. It was an interesting social experiment. While in America, Razumovsky acquired a Colt pistol. He liked the weight and feel of the weapon and never replaced it.
On returning to Moscow, he refined his theoretical position and realized that his thinking was as relevant to politics as it was to biology.
Darwin was correct—but only in part. Organisms do compete for resources, but only when those resources are limited. When resources are sufficient, however, organisms cooperate.
In human society, the nobility and capitalists had grabbed all the land and commandeered the means of production. Resources were being artifically limited. In order for a small number of bloated parasites to live in decadant splendor, the rest of humanity must live in squalor. Redistribution of wealth was the obvious solution. Sufficiency would encourage mutual aid and the world would become a much better place. It might even become a kind of paradise.
Although his argument was unassailable, he did not expect the parasites to cede their wealth and power without a struggle. They would greedily hang on to everything they possessed. So, they would have to be persuaded by other means.
When Razumovsky’s father died, Razumovsky was the sole beneficiary of the will. He inherited the estate, the properties, an African gold mine, an art collection of considerable worth, and several precious heirlooms gifted to the Razumovsky family by Ivan the Terrible. Razumovsky sold everything and the first thing he did was negotiate a generous financial settlement for the thirteen hundred and sixty serfs, the eight coachmen, the six cooks, eighteen servants, and sundry serving girls of unspecified number. Then, he appointed stock brokers in various European capitals to manage a truly vast portfolio of investments. It amused him to finance a war on capitalism using funds generated by capitalism itself.
A year passed. He had long neglected society and few people inquired as to the whereabouts of the young prince. He had been living on his own in a log cabin. And so the day finally came when he packed his meager belongings into his old napsack and left the wood, meaning never to return. The open door banged in the wind as his boots crunched on the snow.
On the road a gypsy hag stopped him and begged him for some money. I don’t have any, he replied. He was telling the truth. His pockets were indeed empty. The gypsy could tell by his accent that he was nobility and cursed: “May the devil take you! You look like one of his demons!”
Memories, memories, memories . . .
FIFTY-SEVEN
Rheinhardt was seated behind his desk facing Captain Hoover. Once again, the intelligence officer was accompanied by his lieutenants—Wax and Hellwitz—both of whom stood in silence by the door. Liebermann was leaning against the wall, looking out of the window while tapping a finger against his lips.
“So,” said Rheinhardt, “have your methods met with any success?” He was unable to conceal a sneer.
Hoover raised his chin. “I am of the opinion that Feist’s capacity to resist is weakening.”
“And on what evidence do you base that assertion?”
“I have considerable experience in these matters.” Hoover cracked his knuckles and continued. “There are certain signs. And I see no merit in your proposal.”
“Signs?” said Liebermann, without turning away from the window. “What signs?”
“I have undertaken many interrogations, Herr Doctor. One learns to read people as if they were books. I can see it in her eyes—the doubt, the resignation. She will break soon.”
“With respect, Captain Hoover, you are very much mistaken. Fräulein Feist is a fanatic and she will never answer your questions. Her resolve is unshakable. She would rather die than betray her comrades. That is what I saw in her eyes. The cardiograph will give us some purchase on her thoughts. There is no need to resort to barbaric practices when science is plainly showing us a way forward.”
Hoover shifted position and his sabre clattered against the chair legs. “Time is passing, Herr Doctor. And Vienna is in grave peril.”
“Precisely,” said Liebermann, turning to meet Hoover’s gaze. “We need answers. We need answers now and you aren’t going to get any.” Liebermann positioned himself next to Rheinhardt. “The cardiograph is already here. It was transported from the university this morning and it is being set up as we speak.”
“By who?”
“Miss Amelia Lydgate,” said Rheinhardt. “She is a protégé of the blood specialist Landsteiner and has recently studied the cardiograph and its operation under the tutelage of the world’s leading expert.”
“Professor de Cyon,” Liebermann interjected.
“Miss? Why do you say Miss?” Hoover frowned. “Is she English?”
“Yes,” Rheinhardt continued. “But you will
discover that her German is faultless. We are most fortunate to count a female scientist among our associates. It is my understanding that the procedure is quite invasive, isn’t that so, Herr Doctor?”
“Indeed,” Liebermann nodded. “The preparation of the subject requires some disrobing.”
“The security office cannot risk accusations of impropriety,” said Rheinhardt, eyeing each of the three intelligence officers in turn.
Hoover stroked his moustache with his index finger; a single, slow, outward movement from the philtrum to the corner of his mouth. “Can she be trusted, this English woman?”
Rheinhardt smiled. “She has been of service to the security office before. I trust her implicitly.”
“I don’t know,” said Hoover, stroking his moustache a second time. “I am of a skeptical disposition and have developed a profound mistrust of technology. During military exercises, it always seems to be the latest machine or electrical system that breaks down—and usually at the most critical stage.”
Liebermann was not discouraged. “When we experience intense emotion the heart quickens and we can do nothing to conceal this response. It happens automatically—unconsciously. The cardiograph will provide us with precise measurements. If we ask Feist carefully worded questions, then the magnitude of her responses will permit us to make educated guesses concerning what her answers might have been if she had chosen to speak.”
“For example . . .”
Rheinardt came to his assistance. “We could ask: Is Mephistopheles still in Vienna?”
“And if he is,” Liebermann continued, “we can expect to see a significant increase in Fräulein Feist’s heart rate. She will be anxious to mislead us and her anxiety will betray her. Her heart will beat faster and the cardiograph can detect even the slightest change.”
Rheinhardt opened the drawer of his desk and took out a box of cigars. He offered one to Hoover. The intelligence officer put the cigar in his mouth and waited for Lieutenant Wax to come forward and light it for him. The room became tense and silent while Hoover puffed and the room filled with smoke.
