Mortal Mischief lp-1

by Frank Tallis

  Liebermann noticed that, in spite of his age, Schelling's hair and moustache were totally black. He assumed that the man must use some kind of dying agent to achieve the effect.

  'My wife reached the same conclusion,' Schelling continued. 'Beatrice – sweet soul that she is – encouraged Amelia to be more outgoing. She even tried to lift her spirits by introducing her to a circle of close friends – they meet here on Wednesday afternoons to play taroc. It was obvious that the girl did not enjoy participating, nor did she appear to derive any pleasure from the conversation of her female peers. Indeed, I gather that she persistently excused herself early, preferring the company of her books and her grandfather's journal to that of people. It cannot be right for a young woman to shut herself away in this manner. Although I am not qualified to comment on such matters, I would guess that too many hours spent in retreat from the world cannot be healthy. Is that not so, Doctor Liebermann?'

  'I suppose that rather depends on the individual.'

  'Perhaps, but it is my opinion – for what it may be worth – that the isolated mind loses its purchase on reality all too easily and becomes prone to fantasy.'

  Schelling looked directly into Liebermann's eyes and held his gaze. He seemed to be expecting the young doctor to say something. Liebermann remained silent and did nothing, apart from noticing the appearance of a pulse at Schelling's temple.

  'Is that not so, Herr Doctor?' Schelling insisted. On the mantelpiece the mechanism of a carriage clock whirred and a delicate chime sounded the hour. Schelling turned to look at the clock face and Liebermann noticed that he moved his whole body. The wicker of his chair creaked as he shifted position.

  'When did Miss Lydgate's symptoms develop?' asked Liebermann.

  Schelling considered the question before answering.

  'My wife noticed that she had lost her appetite some time ago. The cough, and that business with her arm . . .'

  'The paralysis.'

  'Yes, the cough and paralysis came on suddenly. About three weeks ago now.'

  'Did anything significant occur,' asked Liebermann, 'around the time when the paralysis first appeared? Let us say, the night before?'

  'Significant? What do you mean, significant?'

  'Well, did anything happen that might have caused Miss Lydgate distress?'

  'Not that I know of.'

  'Can you tell me what happened? How you learned of the paralysis?'

  'There isn't a great deal to tell. Amelia didn't rise at her usual time and said that she was feeling sick. This in itself wasn't unusual: she often complained of sickness. Weak constitution. She wouldn't open the door, and Beatrice became quite desperate. Eventually, Beatrice demanded that Amelia open the door and was shocked when she entered. The room was in disarray, and the girl was in a dreadful state. Dishevelled, tearful – and coughing. Beatrice suspected that Amelia might have tried to harm herself – there was blood on her scissors.'

  'You weren't present?'

  'No, I had already left the house. The family doctor was called and he advised that Amelia should be attended by a specialist. Beatrice thought that it would be better for all concerned if Miss Lydgate was treated in hospital. She found Miss Lydgate's appearance very distressing, and she was also worried about the children. She did not want them to see her looking so . . . unwell.'

  'Have Miss Lydgate's parents been informed?'

  'Of course – I sent a telegram immediately. They asked me whether they should come, and I assured them that this would not be necessary. I explained that, with respect to hysteria, we in Vienna boast the best specialists in the world. Isn't that so, Herr Doctor?'

  Liebermann acknowledged the disingenuous compliment with a forced smile. Looking over Schelling's shoulder he pointed to a dull landscape on the wall.

  'Is that a Friml, Minister?'

  Schelling turned, again moving his whole torso.

  'Friml? No, it's a German artist. Frauscher. I have several.'

  Feigning interest, Liebermann rose and as he did so he stole a glance down at Schelling's shirt collar, where he glimpsed the edge of what appeared to be a bandage dressing.

  'Do you collect, Doctor Liebermann?'

  'A little,' Liebermann replied. 'Minor Secessionists, mostly.'

  'Really?' said Schelling. 'I'm afraid I cannot claim to be an admirer of their work.'

  'Well,' said Liebermann, 'they are an acquired taste. Thank you for your time, Minister.'

  'Is that all?' said Schelling, somewhat surprised. He stood. 'I doubt this interview has helped you very much.'

  'Oh, it certainly has,' said Liebermann. 'I've learned a great deal.'

  The two men shook hands and Schelling escorted Liebermann to the door.

  As he left the house, Liebermann was eager to get back to the Hospital. He needed to talk to Stefan Kanner. Kanner and Schelling were very different men but they shared one thing in common. It was a trivial observation, but potentially very significant. In order to test how significant, Liebermann would need Kanner's cooperation with an experiment.

  38

  LIEBERMANN AND RHEINHARDT had finished their musical evening with a near-faultless performance of Schumann's Dichterliebe.

  After the brandy had been decanted and the freshly cut cigars lit, the two men spoke little and, as was frequently the case, stared silently into the fire. The jaunty melody of the third song in Schumann's cycle lingered in Liebermann's imagination – and particularly the words Ich liebe alleine . . .

  I love only her – she who is small, exquisite, chaste, unique.

  Why had that phrase stuck in his mind?

  It was, in effect, a description of Clara. Yet there was something unsettling about its persistence.

  I love only her.

  The music continued to resonate in Liebermann's head, acquiring with each repetition an ironic quality. Gradually the ghostly concert faded beneath the crackle of burning logs and the sound of his manservant Ernst tidying up song books and closing the piano stool.

  'Oskar?'

  Rheinhardt turned to look at his friend. Unusually, the young doctor was looking somewhat perplexed.

  'Oskar, I would like to ask you a personal question, if I may?'

  'Of course.'

  'I was wondering . . . have you ever . . .' Liebermann paused and winced. 'What I mean to ask is . . . after announcing your engagement, were you entirely sure that you were doing the right thing? In getting married, that is.'

  Rheinhardt's expression immediately softened. 'My dear fellow, of course I had doubts. Everyone does.'

  Liebermann blew out a cloud of smoke and the tension eased from his shoulders.

  'How many weeks has it been now?' Rheinhardt continued. 'Since your proposal?'

  'About three weeks. Although it feels much longer.'

  'Well, now that the initial excitement has passed it's inevitable that the happier emotions should give way to a more thoughtful frame of mind. Doubts creep in – and rightly so. After all, a man who did not give proper consideration to such a momentous decision would be correctly identified as a fool, wouldn't he?'

  'Yes,' said Liebermann, 'I suppose he would.'

  'I cannot give you any advice, Max,' Rheinhardt continued, 'because every man must make his own way in life. But I can tell you a little of my experience – which may or may not be helpful.' The Inspector's tired eyes became oddly bright. 'Had I taken heed of those doubts, I don't know what would have become of me! What a sorry existence I would have led. Gentlemen's clubs, trips to Baden, a little shooting, perhaps, and the occasional company of a shop girl . . . I tell you, Max, there isn't a single day that passes when I am not forced to count myself among the most fortunate of men. My life would have been empty and cheerless without the love of my dear Else and the endless diversion and amusement afforded me by my beautiful daughters.'

  Liebermann found his friend's words deeply reassuring.

  Rheinhardt continued to talk in glowing terms about his wife and family, and Lieber
mann reciprocated, describing Clara and something of her background. He felt slightly uncomfortable: it seemed as though he was aping his father, talking of the long association between the Liebermann and Weiss families. However, he also felt curiously relieved, as though he had embarked on a process of bridge-building, linking the various parts of his life together – making the entirety more coherent and secure.

  In due course the subject of their conversation changed, and by degrees they returned reluctantly to the dreadful experience that they had shared at the Institute.

  'You know,' said Rheinhardt, 'I haven't been able to clear my mind of it. The mental picture of those poor . . .' He paused before adding: 'Babies.'

  'Indeed,' Liebermann replied. 'It was a pathetic sight.' He lit another cigar and added: 'It hasn't been reported in the newspapers?'

  'No.'

  'Because of Commissioner Brügel?'

  'Of course.' Rheinhardt frowned at the mention of his superior. 'He says that such a discovery will only make matters worse – make the murder appear even more sensational.'

  'Have there been any more developments?'

  Rheinhardt began describing the interview that he had conducted with Roche. Occasionally Liebermann asked him to elaborate some detail, but on the whole the young doctor was content to listen. The cigar in his hand burned slowly – turning inch by inch into a length of wilting ash.

  'I'd put that cigar out if I were you,' said Rheinhardt.

  Liebermann turned lazily and flicked his thumb. The ash fell into the tray producing a small, dusty cloud.

  'What's his first name, this Roche character?' asked Liebermann.

  'Theodore.'

  Liebermann thought for a few moments, stubbing out his cigar before saying: 'They were aware he might seek revenge.'

  'Who, Fräulein Löwenstein and Braun?'

  'Yes.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'When I hypnotised Rosa Sucher and she spoke in Löwenstein's voice, the name Theo was mentioned.'

  'I don't remember that.'

  'Yes, right at the every end. It was when her speech had become quite incoherent . . . she was saying things like, Never, I swear, and God help me. . . Among all that was the name Theo.'

  'How interesting.'

  'A large city must offer those who live by fraud endless possibilities for deception. Where else could one find so many willing dupes? Once Fräulein Löwenstein and Braun had squandered their ill-gotten gains, returning to Vienna might have been something of a necessity; however, by doing so they were taking a considerable risk. They had ruined Roche – and, as we all know, desperate men are dangerous. It doesn't surprise me in the least that his name should have arisen during their argument.'

  Rheinhardt shook his head.

  'I don't know, Max. Just because they mentioned his name . . . it doesn't mean that they were worried about him, does it? We don't even know if they were talking about the same Theo.'

  'True, but it is a reasonable hypothesis. Did he strike you as a man capable of murder?'

  'I fear that all men, once betrayed – particularly by a lover – are capable of murder.'

  'And then there is also the tantalising issue of his current occupation: working in an armaments factory. Is it possible that he might have in his possession the means to construct a bullet with unusual, seemingly magical, properties?'

  'I really don't see why a former theatre manager, simply by working in an armaments factory, should acquire more knowledge about ballistics than our police experts possess. That seems implausible to me. Also, would a guilty man really make such an admission?'

  'How do you mean?'

  'He said that he would have killed Charlotte Löwenstein – if only he'd had the opportunity.'

  'Perhaps that was his intention, Oskar, to mislead by simulating honesty.'

  'No, I don't think so. Besides, the more we find out about Braun, the more likely it seems that he is the perpetrator. Wouldn't you agree?'

  Liebermann did not respond.

  'It is clear that he was Fräulein Löwenstein's lover and accomplice,' continued Rheinhardt. 'And, being a stage magician, he might have had the ability to work the illusion of the murder scene – you yourself have insisted that it was an illusion.'

  Still Liebermann did not respond.

  'Clearly, the man has no principles.' Rheinhardt's invective became more impassioned. 'Think, for example, of how he was taking advantage of the little seamstress. It's unconscionable. He's hotheaded, and what's more, he hasn't been seen since the night Fräulein Löwenstein was murdered.'

  Liebermann pinched his lower lip and grunted, without committing himself.

  'What?' asked Rheinhardt, slightly annoyed at his friend's reticence.

  'It still doesn't make much sense to me.'

  Rheinhardt gestured, urging Liebermann to elaborate.

  'We must ask ourselves what motivated Braun,' Liebermann murmured. 'What did he have to gain?'

  'Money. He was happy to ruin Roche for money.'

  'That's not quite the same as murder. Besides, Fräulein Löwenstein was hardly wealthy.'

  'Perhaps it was something to do with the pregnancy – the children.'

  'Unscrupulous individuals rarely expend energy worrying about their illegitimate offspring.'

  'Perhaps he killed her on the spur of the moment – during one of their arguments?'

  'Impossible. An illusion requires planning.'

  'Then the motive is as yet unknown – and we'll find out when we catch him.'

  'With respect, Oskar, that is no way to proceed.' After a brief pause Liebermann added: 'It lacks elegance. Wishful thinking should play no part in the process that leads to a satisfying solution.'

  Rheinhardt suppressed a smile but could not refrain from raising his eyebrows. Liebermann picked up his glass and, disturbing the brandy with a swirl, inhaled the rich, full-bodied fragrance.

  'And there's another thing,' he continued. 'Having gone to the trouble of devising such a brilliant illusion, why would Braun then choose to run away like a common street thief? What purpose could that serve, save to draw attention and create suspicion?'

  'He had second thoughts – lost confidence in his illusion, decided that it wouldn't fool anyone after all.'

  'Surely not.'

  'People behave inconsistently,' said Rheinhardt. 'You of all people should appreciate that. We can't always expect to find elegant solutions.'

  'Indeed,' replied Liebermann, 'but I have a firm conviction that the most elegant solutions are also the right ones. Why don't you have another cigar, Oskar?'

  Before taking one from the box, Rheinhardt produced from his pocket a photograph, which he handed to Liebermann. 'Take a look at this.'

  It was an image of a handsome clean-shaven man in his late twenties.

  'Otto Braun?'

  Rheinhardt lit his cigar, expelling several clouds of blue smoke as the tobacco kindled.

  'We acquired it from a theatrical agent, the man who represented the scoundrel when he was doing his magic shows at The Danube. It's an old photograph but apparently a good likeness. I've had it reproduced and distributed to police departments all over the country.'

  Liebermann examined the portrait, tilting it in the firelight.

  'So, what do you make of that face, Herr Doctor? Do you see anything of interest?'

  'Oskar,' said Liebermann, adopting a pained expression, 'you are asking me to engage in pseudo-science, a form of divination no better than palm-reading.'

  'I thought you doctors accepted physiognomy?'

  'There are many who subscribe to Lombroso's doctrine that it is possible to identify a criminal by the location of his ears or the size of his jaw; however, I have very little sympathy with that school of thought.' Liebermann turned the photograph towards Rheinhardt. 'Look at him. Can you see the stamp of our animal ancestry in his face? Atavisms? I certainly can't. In fact, I would go so far as to say that his appearance suggests the very opposite. There
is something rather noble about the configuration of his lineaments. He looks more like a romantic poet – a young Schiller, perhaps – than a cheat. No, Lombroso is wrong. A criminal cannot be identified by the cast of his nose and mouth. Only the nature of his mind has any significance.'

  Liebermann handed the photograph back to Rheinhardt, who glanced at it once more before shrugging and slipping it into his pocket.

  'And what about the other members of the Löwenstein circle?' asked Liebermann. 'Have you found out any more about them?'

  'Yes, I have,' said Rheinhardt. 'I started taking an interest in Bruckmüller after we saw him with the Mayor at the Philharmonic concert.'

  'Oh?'

  'I thought it rather odd, that a man who mixed with the Mayor and his friends – men concerned with the commerce and traffic of the real world – should also attend seances in Leopoldstadt.'

  Liebermann turned the brandy glass in his hand and observed how the refracted light splintered into a kaleidoscope of jagged rainbows.

  'There are many superstitious people in the world, Oskar.'

  'True. But I can remember, even as I was interviewing him, thinking This man isn't the right type.

  The locksmith, yes. Or Záborszky – the mad Count. But Bruckmüller? No.'

  'You also felt the same way about Hölderlin – the banker.'

  Rheinhardt started: 'Yes, I did. However did you know that?'

  'Never mind,' said Liebermann, waving his hand. 'I'm sorry, do carry on.'

  'I decided to make some inquiries,' continued Rheinhardt, looking at his friend suspiciously. 'The first thing I learned was that Bruckmüller is an active member of the Christian Social Party – so, there's the Lueger connection. And the next thing I learned was that he's betrothed to Cosima von Rath.'

  'The heiress?'

  'Indeed. Do you know much about her?'

  'Only that she is very rich and very large.'

  'She is also very strange.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'She is greatly interested in the occult, and believes herself to be the reincarnation of an Egyptian princess. It's no secret. In fact, her arrival at certain society functions has become something of a spectacle. One wit, I think it was Krauss, said that her entrance at a society gathering is more impressive than a production of Aida.'