by F. R. Tallis
Propping himself up on his elbows, Rheinhardt watched the cab as it joined the flow of traffic and receded into the distance.
Liebermann got up and brushed his coat. “What an absolute swine.” He walked over to his friend and offered his hand. Rheinhardt took it and the young doctor—with some difficulty—pulled the portly inspector back onto his feet.
“He wants to be the first to arrive at the Palais,” said Rheinhardt. “He’s thinking about promotion, no doubt.”
“What an absolute, contemptible, anally fixated, swine.”
“I couldn’t agree more, even with the anal part, although I have no precise idea as to what that might mean.”
“Well, what are we going to do now?”
“I’ll stop one of these private carriages.” Rheinhardt stepped into the road and positioned himself in front of an advancing Broughham. When the driver saw him he lashed the horses and Rheinhardt had to jump out of the way to avoid being trampled.
“This won’t work,” said Liebermann. “Perhaps you should get some uniformed officers to come out?”
“Wait a minute,” said Rheinhardt, his head bobbing up and down. “What’s going on over there?”
People were pointing. They seemed to be rather excited. Suddenly, a motorcar appeared beside a tram and began to accelerate. It was traveling at great speed, coming toward Liebermann and Rheinhardt from the direction of the town hall.
Rheinhardt ran into the middle of the road and stood with his feet wide apart and his arms crossing and uncrossing over his head. “Police,” he shouted, hoping that the driver would be able to hear him. “Police! Stop! Police! Stop!” He was grateful that his baritone—strengthened by a lifetime of singing—was loud enough to be heard.
The motorcar slowed down and came to a halt directly in front of the inspector. Rheinhardt had to shade his eyes against the glare of three large headlamps. An open canopy covered the driver and an empty rear seat. After tipping his cap back, the driver raised his goggles onto his forehead. He had a drooping moustache and an intense, purposeful expression. “Police?” said the driver. “I wasn’t going very fast—not really.”
Rheinhardt dismissed the protest. “Are you, by any chance, Herr Porsche, winner of the Exelberg rally?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Do you know the Palais Khevenhüller?”
“Of course, I work at Lohner’s . . .”
“Then I must ask you to take us to the Palais at once. The lives of many people are at risk.”
“Who are you?”
“Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt—and this is my colleague, Herr Doctor Liebermann. Please, Herr Porsche. There is no time to explain and this is a matter of utmost urgency.”
The driver shrugged, pulled his goggles down over his eyes and adjusted his cap. “All right, jump in.” Rheinhardt and Liebermann climbed into the car and slid along the rear seat. “Are you comfortable, gentlemen? It’ll be a bit windy back there but you won’t have to endure it for very long. This isn’t a racing car, but it’s fast enough. I’ll get you to the Palais in four minutes.”
The car pulled away and Rheinhardt and Liebermann found themselves thrown back against the leather.
Herr Porsche steered his vehicle between two omnibuses and swerved around a corner. Rheinhardt and Liebermann found that the forces operating on their bodies caused them to lean in the opposite direction to the turn.
“Excellent stability,” Porsche called out.
“Yes, very good,” Rheinhardt agreed, somewhat nervously. “How is this vehicle powered, Herr Porsche?”
“It’s what I call a hybrid: hub mounted motors driven by batteries and gasoline engine generators.”
“Very good,” Rheinhardt repeated, as they whizzed past shop fronts and coffeehouses. Rheinhardt was already feeling quite sick.
Liebermann nudged Rheinhardt and spoke into the inspector’s ear. “Who is he?”
“He makes motorcars and races them.”
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t. I saw his name on an exhibition poster—that’s all.”
Once again they were pitched from one side of the seat to the other.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” Porsche called out. “The road’s a little bumpy here. The suspension still needs work.”
The thoroughfare ahead had become blocked because of a bottleneck. Irate drivers were shouting at each other and shaking their fists. Porsche weaved his car between the stationary vehicles, negotiating the narrow spaces with ease.
“Look,” said Liebermann.
Hoover had opened the door of his cab and he was leaning out, hopelessly cursing and barking orders.
Rheinhardt waved at the intelligence officer as they passed.
“Friend of yours?” asked Herr Porsche.
“Not exactly,” Rheinhardt answered.
The road ahead was suddenly clear. Herr Porsche allowed the car to gather momentum and the wheels bounced over some tram lines. They narrowly missed some pedestrians who had run out from behind a carriage.
“Why do you need to get to the Palais Khevenhüller so quickly?” Herr Porsche asked.
“We believe that someone has planted a bomb there,” Rheinhardt answered.
“Who would do a thing like that?”
The car swerved to avoid a tram. “Perhaps, Herr Porsche, it would be better if you gave your full attention to the task of driving?”
“Oh, don’t fret—there’s nothing to worry about.”
“I must say, it doesn’t feel very safe.”
“It’s a great deal safer than attaching a box with wheels to two horses who don’t like each other and have brains the size of a walnut.”
“Leave him to it,” Liebermann advised.
As they hurtled down a side street Liebermann found that he was remembering Epstein’s rendition of Liszt’s “Mephisto Waltz” at the Bösendorfer-Saal. Galloping stacked-up fifths—the release of wild, demonic energies. It was remarkably apposite, this work of devilish bravura. Liebermann’s fingers twitched on an imaginary keyboard as tornadoes of tonality whirled through his head.
The car screeched to a halt.
“We have arrived,” said Herr Porsche, looking over his shoulder. “The Palais Khevenhüller—in three minutes and fifty five seconds.”
“Thank you, Herr Porsche,” said Rheinhardt. “Your assistance will be formally acknowledged.”
“Pleased to be of service,” Herr Porsche replied.
Rheinhardt and Liebermann got out of the car. Herr Porsche honked his horn and drove off, scaring a stray cat and causing the animal to bolt. “Motor vehicles,” said Rheinhardt. “They’ll never catch on.”
They both paused for a moment and looked up at the Palais Khevenhüller—a large, gray building with an entablature resting on volute capitals. The usual company of gods and personifications enlivened the elevation and torches burned on either side of the open entrance.
Rheinhardt and Liebermann ran up the stairs and entered the building, whereupon they were immediately challenged by two uniformed guards. “I am sorry,” the taller guard presented them with his palm. “A testimonial is in progress, in the presence of His Royal Highness Archduke Ferdinand Karl. You may not proceed.”
“I am Detective Inspector Rheinhardt—security office—and this is my colleague, Herr Doctor Liebermann.” Rheinhardt reached into his pocket and produced his identification. “An explosive device has been planted in the Palais Khevenhüller by a notorious anarchist known to the intelligence bureau. You must evacuate the building this instant.”
The two guards looked at each other, before looking back at the stout policeman and his young companion. They looked Rheinhardt and Liebermann up and down—skeptically. Rheinhardt was aware that neither he nor Liebermann were looking their best. Their clothes were still dirty (on account of being knocked over by Hoover) and Liebermann’s hair had been sculpted by the wind into a backward leaning crown of corkscrews. Rheinhardt wondered what riding in Herr Pr
osche’s car had done to his own hair. He quickly ran his hands over his scalp and said, “With respect, we don’t have very much time.”
The two guards looked at each other again and nodded. “Very well,” said the taller guard. They turned and marched briskly down a long hallway toward double doors ornamented with gold curlicues. Rheinhardt and Liebermann followed. On reaching the doors the guards pushed them open and the taller guard shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests, Your Royal Highness—may I have your attention please.”
The hall fell silent. Liveried servants holding trays above their heads stopped dead. The great and the good of Vienna glared at the intruders—their expressions a uniform mixture of outrage and horror. A boys’ choir had been assembling and a priest was trying to get the children to stand closer together.
“The building must be evacuated at once,” the guard continued. “There is a bomb. This way please . . .”
An instant later, chairs were falling backward and crashing onto the floor and dinner guests were rushing forward. The women, in their colorful gowns and feathered crests, were like exotic birds preparing for flight. “Make way for His Royal Highness,” cried the guard. “Make way, make way.” But his appeal was lost as the stampede gathered momentum.
Rheinhardt and Liebermann moved aside. There were too many people trying to get out at once. Bodies were pressed together between the doorjambs and a dowager started to scream hysterically, “I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe.” The guards had vanished.
“This won’t do,” said Rheinhardt. “Those idiots should have organized an orderly debouchment—women and children first. Look, there’s another set of doors at the other end.”
“It’s too late to do anything about that now, Oskar. You won’t make yourself heard. We must discover the whereabouts of the bomb and disable the detonator.”
“Do you know anything about detonators?”
“Not a great deal.”
“Well, neither do I.”
Liebermann pointed at the children—some of whom had started to cry. They were all stuck at the back of the scrum of bodies gathered around the exit. Some of them were trying to burrow through, but they could make no headway. “Do we have a choice?” said Liebermann. “The bomb could go off at any moment.”
“But it could be anywhere.”
The “Mephisto Waltz” was still sounding in Liebermann’s head, the opening bars repeating again and again. He looked around the chaotic, noisy hall and his gaze was drawn to the beautifully decorated grand piano. The tumult receded and the music in Liebermann’s head grew louder. He always noticed pianos. In fact, it had been the first thing he’d seen when they’d entered the hall. The Khevenhüller Ehrbar was reputed to be not only a great work of art—its case was covered with intricate carvings—but also, an instrument possessed of a very distinctive, bright tone. Liebermann had never been invited to an event at the Palais Khevenhüller and he had always been a little curious as to how Mozart would sound on such an instrument.
Where was the pianist?
When they had entered the hall, he hadn’t seen a pianist sitting on the stool. The page turner’s seat had also been empty. But there was music on the stand. Why was that?
Liebermann started walking.
“Max.” Rheinhardt followed. “Max? Where are you going?”
Liebermann got to the piano and looked inside the case. Strings, hammers, felt—painted figures cut deftly into the wood. He then moved to the piano stool. For a second, he was distracted by the music on the stand: Sonata in A Major by C.P.E. Bach. He then gripped the lid.
“Gently, Max,” said Rheinhardt. Liebermann raised the lid slowly. Inside he saw several volumes of music. He removed them one by one—observing that they were all collections of Beethoven sonatas. Beneath the fourth volume he discovered an alarm clock, four pairs of wires, what appeared to be a makeshift battery, and a row of tin cans. “God in heaven,” Rheinhardt whispered.
“The alarm is set for nine fifteen,” Liebermann said, his voice trembling slightly. “I imagine that’s when the bomb will detonate.”
Rheinhardt prised his watch from his fob pocket. “We have one minute.”
“Look at these wires. They must be connected to the detonator. If we cut them—or pulled them out?”
“That’s all very logical, but it might not be as straightforward as that. You might set it off!”
“Well, there is that possibility, yes.” They were speaking at twice their usual speed. Liebermann glanced toward the door. “I do wish they’d allow those children through.”
“Run, Max—there’s no point in you staying. Use that door over there. This isn’t your job. You’re a doctor. That’s where your responsibilities lie. Now run.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“God, give me strength! You are a stubborn fellow.”
“You have Else to consider, the girls. You go.”
“Thirty seconds, Max: please don’t be difficult.”
“I’m staying.”
“Max!”
Liebermann lifted a wire. “Well, Oskar?”
Rheinhardt shook his head. “We can’t stand here arguing.” He winced and added, “Do what has to be done.”
Liebermann squeezed the wire between his thumb and forefinger and tugged it away from the clock. The frayed end glittered beneath the light of the chandelier. He paused for a moment before disconnecting the remaining seven.
A few seconds passed and the two friends burst out laughing.
“We did it!” Rheinhardt cried out triumphantly. “We actually did it!”
A strange buzzing sound started. Rheinhardt stopped laughing and cocked his head.
“It’s coming from the stool,” said Liebermann.
“Oh.”
“Time to run?”
“I believe so.”
The last of the children had just passed out of the grand hall as Rheinhardt and Liebermann sprinted for the double doors. They had crossed half the distance between the piano and the exit when there was a loud bang and a flash—but no explosion. Even so, they kept on running. When they were through the doors they slowed down, stopped, and looked back. A wisp of smoke was curling out of the open piano stool.
“It didn’t go off!” Rheinhardt was grinning maniacally. Hoover jostled through the receding choir and stood panting in the middle of the marble corridor. “Ah, there you are,” said Rheinhardt. “Just the chap. You must have acquaintances at the War Ministry who can dismantle a bomb. Be a good chap and call someone, will you? We managed to stop it from detonating—in our bungling, amateurish way—but I image it’s still quite dangerous.”
As they walked past Hoover, Liebermann halted abruptly—as if he’d just remembered something. “A word of advice, Captain Hoover—if I may? You have problems. In fact, you have very significant problems, stemming, I suspect, from the extraordinarily close, some would say unnaturally close relationship, that you have with your mother. I can arrange for you to see someone. Professor Freud. He has a very particular interest in the psychopathological states arising from disturbed family relations and I am confident that he will be able to offer you the help you so badly need. The resolution of your underlying complexes will be beneficial. You won’t have to be quite so disagreeable all the time—and there’s even a chance that you’ll be more at ease in the company of women.”
Hoover blinked, opened his mouth to say something—but froze—as if a sudden realization had paralyzed his nervous system. His mouth remained open and a curious sound came out, a strangulated syllable that died on a long exhalation.
Liebermann nodded toward the entrance, through which it was possible to see the fitful lambency of flashlights agitating the gray columns. Rheinhardt and Liebermann continued walking down the corridor, passing several shadowy portraits of forgotten nobles. Rheinhardt leaned toward his friend. “His mother?”
Liebermann grinned wickedly. “Don’t ask.”
Rheinhardt glanced ov
er his shoulder and saw that Hoover was still standing in the same position, motionless—the only difference, perhaps, being that his mouth may have opened a little wider.
As Rheinhardt and Liebermann descended the stairs they surveyed a lively scene. The dinner guests were milling around, talking excitedly. A number of kitchen staff had started to appear, as well as more liveried servants and maids. The two guards were talking to Archduke Ferdinand Karl, and the smaller of the two guards was pointing directly at Rheinhardt and Liebermann. The taller guard beckoned.
“Ah,” said Liebermann. “The archduke will want to speak to the hero of the hour.”
“Join me,” said Rheinhardt.
“No,” Liebermann declined. “As you say—it isn’t my job.”
Rheinhardt squeezed his friend’s arm, demonstrating with that simple, wordless gesture, the depth of his heartfelt affection. Liebermann smiled. They parted and walked away in different directions.
“I haven’t forgotten that kiss, you know,” said Rheinhardt.
Liebermann did not turn around, but simply pushed the air with his hand.
SIXTY-EIGHT
The sun had not risen but a faint luminosity was discernable above the eastern rooftops—a gray haze that suffused the celestial dome, rising upward, and revealing horizontal stripes of black cloud. Razumovsky turned left, off the main thoroughfare, and made his way through alleyways and narrow streets, constantly checking to see if he was being followed. He moved like a shadow, an outline undulating along a wall. A night train chugged into the Nordbahnhof and a baby began to wail.
Two days earlier, Razumovsky had troubled to rehearse the route that he intended to take through Leopoldstadt; subsequently, he was able to pass through a series of connected, hidden labyrinths with remarkable ease, even though some of the way was shrouded in darkness. When he arrived at the Volksprater, the glare of the lamps made him blink and he waited for his eyes to adapt. Ahead of him, the towers and onion domes of the amusement park clarified and the great wheel—now stationary—dominated his purview. Wooden gantries creaked as a gust of wind blew the pages of a discarded newspaper across the concourse. The sound of a man, singing out of tune and slurring words, preceded the appearance of a swaying drunkard who stopped to empty his bladder against the side of a kiosk. Razumovsky traversed the open space and crept behind a shuttered café, where he found a path that snaked between tall trees.
