Mephisto Waltz

by F. R. Tallis

  Dorsch surveyed the outer edges of the clearing.

  “Oh dear,” he said out aloud. “Most unpleasant—most unpleasant indeed!”

  PART FIVE

  The Gates of Dark Death

  SIXTY-ONE

  I’ve just been speaking to Colonel Mach on the telephone. It would appear, Rheinhardt, that you have done very little of late to promote good relations between the intelligence bureau and the security office.” Commissioner Brügel bit into a mannerschnitten wafer biscuit and continued talking as he chewed. “In fact, your actions might have caused a complete breakdown of trust.” Brügel swallowed. “What do you have to say?”

  Rheinhardt considered his position. It was not (on the face of it) a very strong one. “I’m sorry, sir. And it is indeed regrettable that Captain Hoover and I were unable to agree on how the investigation might be best served. However, I would humbly put it to you that he is not a man endowed with the kind of character that inspires collegial feeling. He can be extremely discourteous and domineering. Moreover, he has no respect for our protocols. I suspect that he feels himself above such things.”

  “Whatever were you thinking?” the commissioner asked. “They are our colleagues—we are sister institutions—and you were being willfully obstructive! Since when have you been an advocate of paperwork? Correct me if I’m mistaken, but aren’t you the same Oskar Rheinhardt who constantly complains about having too many forms to complete—too much rubber stamping, too much governance?” Brügel had raised his voice, but he was not as vituperative as usual. He was like an actor who had wearied of playing the same part.

  “I can’t condone their methods, sir,” said Rheinhardt. “It’s just not the way we do things at the security office.”

  Brügel finished eating his mannerschnitten and thrust his head forward. “Listen to me, Rhenhardt,” his voice had become low and gravelly. “A man in my position hears things. I get invited to embassies, grand balls, dinners. I have confidential discussions with judges, generals, and the emperor’s aides. The lord marshal is concerned—very concerned. This is not the time for petty squabbles.” Again, Rheinhardt was surprised by the commissioner’s restraint. Ordinarily, his reprimands were augmented by a show of bared teeth and an ursine growl. The commissioner drew back: “You don’t get promoted at the intelligence bureau because you observe points of etiquette and exude charm.”

  Rheinhardt wasn’t sure whether to respond or not. He decided that it was probably wise to remain silent. The surface of Brügel’s desk was covered with reports and photographs. The commissioner found an image of Kelbling’s body and lifted it for Rheinhardt to see.

  “Sir?”

  “This man . . .”

  “Gerd Kelbling.”

  “He’s a special agent. Okhrana.”

  “The Russian secret police?” Rheinhardt was shocked. “If I might ask—”

  Brügel anticipated the question. “Unlike you, Rheinhardt, I make great efforts to maintain cordial relations with the bureau. Colonel Mach wasn’t forthcoming, exactly, but he did accept that certain facts should be shared on a need-to-know basis.”

  “The Russians,” said Rheinhardt, still absorbing the new information. “That is . . . unexpected.”

  Brügel put the photograph down directly in front of Rheinhardt. “Agent 58: real name, Konstantin Borisovich Gribkov.”

  “Extraordinary.”

  The commissioner took a sip of his coffee, slid some papers aside, and picked up a short, supplementary report. “You’re confident that Kelbling—or Gribkov as we should now call him—and Callari were killed by the same person?”

  “Given the evidence,” said Rheinhardt. “The bullets were rather unusual and it took us some time to identify them, but I am satisfied that their provenance is the .44-40 Winchester cartridge. These cartridges are more commonly employed in the armament of lever action carbines and rifles, but they are also compatible with certain Colt handguns.”

  “American weapons. Is that significant?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “All right, let us assume then that Mephistopheles murdered Gribkov . . .”

  “Because Gribkov possessed Seeliger’s documents—no doubt. Did Colonel Mach give you any indication as to what this special project might be?”

  “There are even limits to what a commissioner can achieve with the bureau, Rheinhardt. No. He wasn’t prepared to say—in the national interest. But if the Okhrana wanted those documents, then we can be sure that they contained some extremely sensitive information.”

  “A new weapon?”

  “It could be any number of things: a canon, a communications system, a calculating machine designed for field use. Who knows?”

  “The stock in trade of anarchists is dynamite and grenades.”

  “Perhaps they intend to sell Seeliger’s documents to a hostile power. Like any other organization, their movement is always in need of funds to finance their operations. The interesting thing here, of course, is how the Okhrana got to hear about Seeliger’s project in the first place. Mach wasn’t prepared to discuss the matter.”

  “One can see why, sir.”

  “Indeed. There must be an informer working at the ministry—perhaps even in the bureau itself.”

  Rheinhardt was not accustomed to seeing Brügel smile, so when the corners of the commissioner’s mouth lifted, he supposed that the old man might be suffering from indigestion. Rheinhardt’s astonishment lasted only a few seconds before an explanation presented itself. Brügel wanted to see Colonel Mach embarrassed. They were competitors. This would also account for Brügel’s relative good humor. Although he’d pretended to be annoyed at Rheinhardt, he was actually quite pleased the intelligence bureau had been inconvenienced.

  “What is going to happen to Seeliger, sir?”

  “If he’s telling the truth, Colonel Mach believes that he will be allowed to continue his work. A special dispensation will be negotiated with the relevant bodies. Seeliger has a fine mind and his project—when it bears fruit—will almost certainly confer significant advantage to His Majesty’s forces.”

  “Although I am sure that Professor Seeliger and his family will be delighted, it is an outcome that may not be good for them in the long term.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He gave the Okhrana adulterated documents, he deceived them. It would be better for him—and his children—if he assumed another identity and found a modest teaching post in some far-flung corner of the empire. The Okhrana will not forgive, nor will they forget.”

  “The ultimate welfare of Professor Seeliger and his family is not a problem we need to wrestle with.” Brügel eyed Rheinhardt for a few seconds then turned his attention back to the reports and photographs. His brow became corrugated and he emitted a low note that suggested perplexity and discontent.

  “We haven’t too done badly, sir,” said Rheinhardt, fearing that his superior was about to recover his customary spleen. “We have identified Callari and all three members of the jury of honor who judged and murdered him. Moreover, we have arrested two members of that jury.”

  “One of whom is unfortunately dead and cannot be interrogated further.”

  Rheinhardt ignored the slight and continued. “We have discovered and decommissioned an anarchist arsenal and safe house. And we have confirmed that a notorious political radical is still at large and planning an act of propaganda by deed.”

  “Which we already suspected.”

  “Yes, sir, that is true. But our confirmation has underscored the extreme gravity of our situation.”

  “Have you tried interviewing Autenburg again?”

  “Yes, sir, but I am convinced that he knows nothing of Mephistopheles’s whereabouts or intentions. Autenburg was never a very active figure in the movement, more an associate—a theoretician, an armchair revolutionary. I suspect that he was only ever summoned to sit alongside Mephistopheles and Feist because someone of corresponding seniority could not be found. They—the
anarchists—abide strictly to their code. Three must sit in judgement of a comrade accused of treachery.”

  “The bureau will want us to hand Autenburg over—as soon as they remember we’ve still got him.”

  “Will you permit them to do so, sir?”

  Brügel produced another one of his unnerving smiles. “Yes, they can take him.” A curiously bright glint of light appeared in his eyes. “Providing they follow the correct protocols, eh, Rheinhardt?” The sound that then issued from the commissioner’s frame was a little like the repeated destruction of coffee beans in a grinder. He was chuckling. When the noise subsided Brügel tapped another photograph. “What about this Diamant fellow?”

  “I doubt that it was Autenburg who killed him, even if Autenburg had taken his protégé by surprise. Diamant was young, strong, and very fit.”

  “Who then?”

  Rheinhardt shrugged. “They say he was always getting into fights. Perhaps he picked the wrong person this time.”

  “You’ve made inquiries at the university?”

  “Diamant had plenty of enemies, but there’s no one I can identify as a suspect.”

  “What about Autenburg’s wife? What’s she doing now?”

  “She’s not much troubled by her husband’s predicament or the demise of her lover. She still visits The Golden Bears most evenings and doesn’t return home until very late. Usually she is accompanied by a young man. Herr Doctor Liebermann has suggested that the woman may be what is technically termed a nymphomaniac.”

  Brügel harrumphed and hurried on. “How is young Haussmann?”

  “Improving, thank God.”

  “Good. So, Rheinhardt, what do you intend to do next?”

  Rheinhardt grimaced. “I’m not entirely sure, sir.”

  At that point, Brügel’s telephone rang. The commissioner engaged in a brusque conversation with the person at the other end of the line, whose thin, tinny voice resembled a frog, croaking. “Yes.” Ribbet. “Yes.” Ribbet—ribbet. “Yes, he’s still here. All right—I’ll tell him.” He put down the receiver and said: “Actually, Rheinhardt, I can tell you exactly what you’re doing next. You’re going for a trip up to the woods.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  What he had seen in the woods was bad enough. It had been much more like the carnage associated with war than a crime scene. The young constable who had traveled with him had had to rush behind a tree. The poor fellow had thrown up and retched for some time before reappearing, his face having turned a pale shade of green.

  Now that Rheinhardt was in the mortuary, it wasn’t much easier, worse in some ways, because the hooded electric light that hung over the table was so very revealing. He walked away, trying to conceal his queasiness by affecting indifference and whistling a snippet of Schubert’s “Frühlingsglaube.” The melody echoed in the cavernous space. He crossed a threshold of shadow and arrived in front of a bank of square doors. It was freezing, so he rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet.

  Eventually, he summoned the courage to look back at the table. A pyramid of luminescence contained body parts and internal organs assembled to suggest an intact supine figure, but the disconnected limbs and chaotic torso mitigated the effect. Two half-legs had been laid side by side. A black shoe covered the foot of the right leg, but the foot of the left leg was exposed. The skin on the left leg had been ripped in several places and red muscle tissue was bulging out through the gaps. Shattered, fleshless femurs ascended to a hip bone decorated with lengths of intestine. The torso was a massive, open cavity—a hollowed-out rib cage—and the right arm was still attached to the shoulder. The disconnected left arm was composed of an ulna, a radius, and a mangled hand with several fingers missing. Propped upright, and some distance from the shoulders, was a head that still sported half a moustache. This unfortunate arrangement created a horrible, macabre impression that the dead man was trying to discover the extent of his injuries.

  Professor Mathias was standing at the foot of the table, contemplating his handiwork. He was breathing heavily and each exhalation clouded the air. Nodding sagely, he spoke in a declamatory style: “‘It is easy to go down into hell; night and day, the gates of dark Death stand wide.’” He peered into the shadow. “Well, Rheinhardt?”

  “I believe that may be Schiller, professor.”

  “No, no! How could it be Schiller? It’s Virgil, Rheinhardt. Virgil!” The old man shaded his eyes. “Look, come back over here, will you? I know exactly what you’re doing. I admit—this gentleman isn’t looking his best—but your stomach would soon settle if you stopped being so avoidant.”

  Rheinhardt returned to the table. “Do you have many nightmares, professor?”

  “Yes, I do. But only about the women whose acquaintance I have unwisely made at spas. Widowers mostly—and probably with good reason . . .”

  Mathias moved to the other end of the table, and, placing his hands over the dead man’s ears, lifted the head and held it in front of his own. The dead man’s face was flattened on one side and a large oval of flesh was missing beneath the left eye. “Well, my friend. You will forgive me, I hope, for subjecting you to a further indignity. But it is something I am obliged to do.” Mathias placed the head on a bench, next to a large glass jar. He then searched through some cupboards, opening and slamming doors, and becoming increasingly irritable. After muttering a few expletives he cried, “Students! They’ve used up all my formaldehyde. They are scoundrels, each and every one of them.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I am disinclined to walk to the store room.”

  “Is it far?”

  “Farther than I wish to go.”

  “I see.”

  Mathias produced a key and unlocked a small gray metal cabinet. When he opened the door, Rheinhardt saw inside several unlabeled bottles filled with clear liquid. Mathias transferred the bottles from the cabinet to the bench, saying, “This will serve as a substitute. And there may be a little left over for us.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “As a nightcap.”

  “What is it?”

  “Vodka. There are two Ruthenians who operate an illegal distillery behind the Franz-Josefs-Bahnhof.” The old man wagged a finger. “Don’t you dare arrest them, Rheinhardt. Do you understand? Their uniquely serviceable product is not only a very effective sedative—it is also an excellent compound for the preservation of organs and body parts.” Mathias took the lid off the jar and started to pour. The swift decanting of the vodka was accompanied by glugs of ascending pitch. When the jar was full he picked up the head, positioned it over the liquor, and let it go. Its swift descent caused the dead man’s bangs to rise and then fall. Mathias put the lid back on the jar and stepped back to study his accomplishment. The immersed head was enlarged and deformed by the curved glass.

  Mathias filled two laboratory flasks with what remained of the vodka. “Good. As I thought—enough to cover the head and a few medicinal drops to help us sleep.”

  “A few drops?”

  Mathias handed a full flask to the detective. “Prost,” he said.

  “Your good health, professor.”

  The two men knocked back as much as they could drink in one go.

  “God in heaven that’s strong,” Rheinhardt coughed. He closed his eyes and a few tears squeezed out.

  The professor wasn’t showing any sign of discomfort. “You wait till it reaches your brain, inspector. Then you’ll see how strong it is. As you know, for many years I have suffered from insomnia. It is remarkable how long the night can be when sleep refuses to come—and how the smallest problems of the day are inflated out of all proportion by groundless anxieties. This”—Mathias swirled the vodka—“this is the cure.” He drained his flask and placed it next to the jar, out of which the decapitated head was still gazing with intelligent blue eyes.

  “Why do you want to preserve the head, professor?”

  “Fatalities caused by dynamite are a rare thing in Vienna. I thought I’d take the head
with me when I lecture tomorrow morning. It’ll make those young scoundrels pay attention for a change.” Mathias walked up and down the length of the table. “I’m not sure that there’s any point in me rummaging around among the poor man’s innards. I can’t be expected to perform an autopsy on this mess. My advice would be to arrange for the interment of these remains in the cemetery of the unnamed, or alternatively, just shovel them into a bin and take them down to the incinerator. I’m afraid my report will be very brief: Male, approximately fifty years, cause of death: accidental explosives blast.”

  “That will have to suffice,” said Rheinhardt, before taking another swig of vodka.

  Mathias peered at the face in the jar. “I wonder who he is.”

  “We are hoping that he is a notorious agitator who uses the code name Mephistopheles. Unfortunately, there are no photographs of this most wanted man. We have no way of confirming his identity. It was Mephistopheles who shot the web-footed Italian . . .”

  “Why do you say hoping?”

  “Because we have good reason to believe that Mephistopheles was planning to plant a bomb in Vienna; perhaps he was testing his detonator in the woods and accidently blew himself up.”

  “A reasonable supposition, Rheinhardt. There can’t be that many anarchists in Vienna, and even fewer who wish to harm innocent men and women to further their cause.” Mathias removed the shoe and sock from the right leg. He dropped both items into a sack and offered it to Rheinhardt, “You’ll be wanting these, I presume?”

  “Yes. Thank you, professor.” Rheinhardt looked inside and turned over the contents: two shoes, one sock, ripped trousers, an intact starched collar stained almost entirely red. Some shreds of cotton underwear were stiff with dried blood. He tugged at an exposed hem and freed a dark piece of cloth with frayed edges. Two silver buttons were still attached. He reversed it in order to look for a label and an envelope dropped to the floor. Mathias turned and they both stared at it for some time.