by F. R. Tallis
“Tell me,” said Rheinhardt, “what does the bureau know about Mephistopheles?” Hoover’s expression remained impassive, like a card player wishing to give no inkling of the quality of his hand. “Captain,” Rheinhardt sighed, “might I remind you that—at least theoretically—we are on the same side.”
Hoover continued his internal deliberations for a few more seconds before nodding. “We know next to nothing. The name Mephistopheles has come to our attention during the course of numerous international operations. Some say he was a member of the Paris commune, the revolutionary government that ruled Paris over thirty years ago. Others say he is a disaffected noble from a Russo-German family. At least two informants have said that he is a Swiss scientist: a biologist of some description. We have no photographs, no descriptions.” Hoover exhaled another cloud. “Even so, we have good reason to believe that he is connected with several atrocities. It is even rumored in certain radical circles that he had some involvement in the assassination of the empress. I am inclined to believe that this is merely an invention circulated in order to feed his legend. The only thing we can say for certain about Mephistopheles is that he is dangerous.”
Hoover stubbed out his cigar and stood up. He looked directly into Liebermann’s eyes, glanced back at Rheinhardt, and then glared at Liebermann again. “Very well, let’s try this damnable machine! But if we don’t get a swift result I’ll be removing Feist from your custody and employing whatever means I deem necessary to protect the interests of His Majesty and his people.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
Feist was sitting on a chair with both hands and one of her feet immersed in large tubs of salt solution. The hem of her skirt and her petticoats had been rolled up above her bony knees. A single shoe, containing a compressed gray woolen stocking, had been set aside. Liebermann and Rheinhardt registered the bruise on the left side of the woman’s face and exchanged furious glances. The inspector shook his head. Now was not the time to start trading insults with Hoover. Next to Feist was a gargantuan piece of electrical apparatus, parts of which were covered in knobs and glass dials. It was more like a collection of separate instruments than a single device. An assembly with a metal wheel, mounted within a braced frame, reminded Rheinhardt of his wife’s Pfaff sewing machine. Another object looked like a very fat microscope. Two wires were visible and they appeared to connect one of the tubs to a panel covered with small, colored bulbs. The overall impression was of something quite makeshift, a gimcrack construction that would teeter and collapse if anyone leaned on it. Rheinhardt glanced at Hoover, whose expression was suspended somewhere between horror and incredulity.
Amelia Lydgate was studying an array of dials and making notes on a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. She was dressed in a dark skirt and a simple white blouse; however, her reassuring, professional appearance was undermined by her hair, which seemed to ignite whenever she passed beneath the rays that lanced through the tall laboratory windows. She was subject to intermittent transformations, becoming several times during the transit of short distances less a scientist and more like an allegorical figure as imagined by Gustav Klimt.
Rheinhardt, Liebermann, Hoover, and his two lieutenants were seated in a wide semi-circle. Hoover was whispering something into the cocked ear of Hellwitz, producing a conspicuous sibilance. Amelia raised her head to address her audience. “Gentlemen, I must ask you to respect the necessity for absolute silence until the procedure is completed.”
Hoover mumbled his consent.
Amelia returned her attention to the dials and then said, “Fräulein Feist, I am going to ask you a series of questions. I would very much like you to supply answers, but if you prefer to remain silent, then that is your prerogative. Let us begin.” Amelia’s pencil hovered over the clipboard. “Is green your favorite color?” Amelia paused, made a note and continued: “Who was Julius Caesar?” Again she made a note. Vala Feist closed her eyes and her compressed lips whitened.
It was an odd spectacle, a mature woman, with exposed knees, entangled in the workings of a large electrical behemoth. The fact that Feist had tried to kill Rheinhardt (and his assistant) made no difference to him, he still pitied her. She had already been horribly humiliated. The thought of Hoover slapping her, his gloved knuckles making contact with her cheek, made Rheinhardt’s stomach turn. And now she was being made to pose like an exhibit in a freak show. But what was the alternative?
“Do you like topfenstrudel? Have you ever experienced intimate relations with a gentleman? Does the Pope lives in Rome?” Hoover was becoming restless. He changed position and allowed one of his boots to land heavily on the floor. Amelia turned her bright, cool gaze on the intelligence officer and a vertical crease appeared on her forehead. Her expression was sufficiently severe to elicit an abreviated salute that served as Hoover’s apology. Amelia peered at the dials and continued as before—questions, followed by pauses, followed by the scratching of her pencil. Then, finally: “Is Mephistopheles still in Vienna?” Feist showed no signs of surprise or agitation. “Did Mozart write operas? Does the naked male body please you? Is Budapest the capital of Hungary? Is there a plan afoot to plant a bomb in Vienna?” Amelia placed her clipboard on a bench and turned some knobs on a raked panel. There was a faint buzzing sound that became louder and subsided. She picked up her clipboard and repeated all of her questions, after which she concluded, “Thank you for your cooperation, Fräulein Feist. If you are uncomfortable you may remove your limbs from the water. A towel has been provided.” Turning to face her audience she added, “Gentlemen. The first trial is completed. Let us retire.”
As they filed out of the laboratory and into an adjacent room, Rheinhardt addressed two constables. “Keep an eye on the prisoner. We’ll be out shortly.” The young men clicked their heels and joined Feist.
Rheinhardt closed the door. The room was empty apart from a table and a few chairs. Liebermann pulled one of the chairs out and offered it to Amelia, but she refused to sit and everyone remained standing.
“Why did you ask her so many irrelevant questions?” Hoover demanded.
“For the purpose of comparison,” Amelia replied. “We cannot form any notion of what constitutes a significant response without first having established certain arbitrary values as a guide. That is why I asked her both neutral questions and questions likely to provoke emotion.”
“Well?” said Hoover, inhaling and expanding his chest. “What can you tell us?”
Amelia consulted her clipboard and replied, “Fräulein Feist’s heart rate increased most when asked about the man known as Mephistopheles and the putative act of terror. Although one cannot be absolutely certain, it is reasonable to suppose that, on the balance of probabilities, Mephistopheles is resident in Vienna and that an incident of propaganda by deed has been planned.”
“Can you provide us with more specific answers?” asked Hoover.
“No,” Amelia replied. “All that I can do is infer significance from the magnitude of Fräulein Feist’s responses.”
“We need more than this,” said Hoover. “This isn’t enough.”
“We could try to locate Mephistopheles by reading through the districts of Vienna and—”
“What good would that do? We can’t search every apartment in a whole district!”
“Narrowing the search would be better than nothing,” said Rheinhardt.
“And the same systematic method,” Liebermann agreed, “could also be employed to ascertain where Mephistopheles intends to plant his bomb.”
Hoover shook his head. “Fräulein Lydgate.” He bowed and clicked his heels. “This has been a very interesting academic exercise, but all that you have demonstrated is the inadequacy of your equipment. Your science is not yet so advanced that we can afford to dispense with interrogation.” He took a step closer to Rheinhardt. “I must ask you to release Fräulein Feist from your custody. She will be returning with me to the War Ministry.” He produced some official, stamped papers and tossed them onto the ta
ble. “I have the authority and I would advise you most strongly not to question it.”
An argument ensued, in which Rheinhardt and Liebermann voiced their objections but it was evident that Hoover had made his decision and was not prepared to discuss the matter any further. Now that Mephistopheles’s presence in Vienna had been confirmed, Hoover clearly felt that his methods were even more justified. “Enough, inspector! I will not endure your petulant haranguing a moment longer! Vala Feist is returning to the War Ministry with me and I do not want to hear another word of complaint. You would have me risk the safety of our city on account of some absurd notion of gentlemanly conduct. That woman,” he jabbed his finger at the door, “and her associates, would happily erect gallows on the Heldenplatz and watch the emperor’s corpse swing without feeling a whit of compunction. How can you be so naïve, Rheinhardt?”
Before Rheinhardt could answer this largely rhetorical question, there was a knock on the door and one of the constables who had been charged with “keeping an eye” on Feist entered.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” said the young man. “Bit of a problem.”
“Why?” said Rheinhardt. “What’s happened?”
“The prisoner . . .” The constable looked distinctly uncomfortable. “She said she wanted to use the convenience, sir. We escorted her to the said place of relief and now she’s locked herself in. She won’t come out.”
FIFTY-NINE
Rheinhardt clenched his fist and banged on the water closet door. “Fräulein Feist, are you all right?”
“Of course she’s all right!” said Hoover.
Rheinhardt listened for the sound of the sliding bolt. “With respect, you must come out now.”
“This is intolerable,” Hoover fumed. He glanced at Wax. “Break the door down. We’ll drag her out if necessary.”
Wax raised his leg, swiveled his hip, and thrust his boot out, making contact with his heel. There was a loud boom followed by the sharp crack of splitting wood. The metal bolt on the other side was ripped off its brackets and clattered onto the tiles and the door flew open, crashing against the wall. It was a deep closet, more like a truncated corridor, and at the far end was a toilet on which Feist was slumped. She was properly dressed, although her hair was in a state of considerable disarray, and her eyes were closed. She looked as if she had fallen asleep. The air was tainted with the smell of excrement.
Liebermann was the first to enter. “Fräulein Feist?” He advanced and when he reached her, he pressed his fingers against the side of her neck. Then he lifted her chin and raised one of her eyelids with his thumb. Her expression did not change and when he released the eyelid it closed instantly.
“What’s wrong with her?” asked Rheinhardt.
“I don’t know,” Liebermann replied. Feist coughed and her lips moved. “Fräulein Feist?” He tapped her gently on the cheek, choosing the unblemished side of her face. “Can you hear me, Fräulein Feist?”
Her eyes flicked open and she smiled. “You are already too late,” she whispered, and closed her eyes again.
“What did she say?” Hoover demanded.
“You are already too late . . .”
“What does that mean?” asked Wax.
“It means,” said Hoover, “that we’ve wasted far too much time and we must get her back to the War Ministry immediately.”
Liebermann lifted Feist’s arm and laid his fingers across her wrist. “I’m afraid there’s no point in doing that.”
“Why?”
“Because she’d dead.”
“What?”
“Her heart has stopped.”
“Shouldn’t you try to revive her?”
“There’s nothing I can do.”
“Damnation!” Hoover stormed out of the closet, slapped his palm against the wall, and returned shouting. “It was that ridiculous machine! The electricity must have fried her nerves. I knew I shouldn’t have agreed. Damnation!”
“Might I suggest, Herr Captain,” Amelia addressed Hoover, without emotion, “that the evidence—”
“Enough,” Hoover cut in. “Enough, woman!”
“Your reasons for making such an observation escape me. My gender—I would hope—has always been self-evident.” Hoover glared at Amelia but before he could respond she was speaking again. “Let me assure you, Herr Captain, that no nerves have ever been—as you would say—fried, by a cardiograph. The procedure is entirely safe. Fräulein Feist is dead because she killed herself.”
“How? I see no means.”
“That is because you haven’t looked here.” Amelia reached into the wash basin. She then held up a broken capsule.
“Poison?”
“Yes,” said Liebermann.
Hoover positioned himself in front of Rheinhardt; so close, that their noses were almost touching. “Damnation! You’ll pay for this, Rheinhardt. You incompetent fool. Why didn’t you search her?”
“We did search her.”
“Not very well it seems! One wouldn’t want to do anything improper!”
“The security office has in its employ a lady especially for the purpose. A former nurse, now retired, who can be trusted to undertake a thorough examination.” Speaking euphemistically, he added, “Her examinations are, how shall I put this . . . as penetrating as any medical investigation.”
“Then your confidence is misplaced!”
“Quite the contrary, Herr Captain. This lady is highly respected and still lectures at the Rudolfinerhaus.”
Hoover withdrew. He paced out of the closet and returned again. “Herr Doctor?”
“The explanation is very simple,” Liebermann replied. He was still looking down at the dead woman. “When Fräulein Feist realized that her chemical store was about to be discovered, she resolved to escape. She recognized that she might not be successful and that she might be captured and ultimately questioned by the intelligence bureau. I am sure that she knew what to expect. She swallowed a capsule made from an indigestible substance containing a quick acting poison. While we were conferring she expelled the capsule and swallowed the contents.” Liebermann looked up and engaged each member of his audience in turn. “She got what she desired most.”
“Death?” Wax queried incredulously.
“No,” Liebermann replied. “Martyrdom.”
SIXTY
Herr Dorsch worked for the postal service delivering telegrams. The uniform that he had to wear was rather grandiose, with gold piping, two rows of buttons, and a hooded green cloak. He looked more like an officer in some special army unit than a man whose station was only slightly above that of a common messenger boy. He liked his job because it didn’t tax his brain. This meant that he could channel all of his considerable mental resources into enthusiasms: geology, archaeology, botany, and astronomy. And there were many more, some of which were very curious and obscure. He was also an inveterate walker. At least once a week, he would exchange his stiff, itchy uniform for comfortable lederhosen and head off for the woods. Herr Dorsch had never enjoyed the company of his fellow man. He much preferred the society of trees. Social intercourse was complicated by his facial tic, which seemed to distract people so much during conversations that they frequently lost the thread of what they were saying. Herr Dorsch had noticed that his tic was less troublesome when he left the city.
If he’d had a scrap of faith—even the faintest sense of the numinous—he might well have taken vows and gone to live in a monastery. But he did not believe in God and all of the sacred texts he had studied merely confirmed his natural prejudices. They were plain nonsense. Be that as it may, he still found himself attracted to monasteries and the idea of retreat. Peace, study, silence. He had once visited Djurdjevi Stupovi, an orthodox ruin dedicated to St. George, on a hill near Novi Pazar in the Old Rascia. It had been deserted since 1689, after the Austro-Turkish War, and was ravaged during the course of many more conflicts. It was impossible to escape from the world. The world always caught up with you.
He was thinkin
g about Djurdjevi Stupovi as he marched beneath a canopy of bare branches. Black, angular lines tessellated a white sky and a thin mist chilled the air. Crows cawed in the distance. The general prospect might have inspired melancholy in a poet, but it had the opposite effect on Herr Dorsch. It lifted his spirits. He paused to pick up a stone because it looked like an arrowhead. Turning it in his hands, he soon recognized that its shape was the result of chance rather than skill. Tossing it aside he continued walking. Once, he had found a small effigy near the abandoned limestone quarry. Its swollen belly suggested that it was a fertility goddess—possibly prehistoric—thousands of years old. He should have taken it to the university or donated it to the Natural History Museum—but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d taken it home and put it in the drawer of his bedside cabinet. Most nights, he took the figure out and pondered its age and purpose. His thumb would massage the eroded mounds of her breasts. She was the only woman that he would ever share his bed with.
The leafless trees became less numerous and soon he was walking through a thick pine forest. He entered a clearing and stopped dead. A short distance in front of him was the bottom half of a leg. The leg was still wearing a black shoe. He stepped closer: the top of a blue sock, waxy skin, wiry brown hairs. A rounded protuberance was exposed at the other end. The flattened upper surface circled a shallow depression. It was the condyle of the tibia—the point of articulation between the lower and upper bones of the leg. The protuberance was surrounded by a ragged, annular, open wound. Dorsch sniffed the air. It smelled of iron, ordure, and something else that he couldn’t identify.
A little farther on, Dorsch discovered more bones, several lumps of red meat, and scattered pale shreds of viscera. The latter reminded him of the offal that his butcher sold to the poor. And then he saw a decapitated head in a clump of weeds. It was facing away from Dorsch, which was just as well, because he was beginning to feel sick. He squatted and picked up a piece of ripped cloth which he supposed must once have been the front of a gentleman’s coat. The buttons were still attached.
