Mortal Mischief lp-1

by Frank Tallis

  Liebermann immediately seized on the implications of Braun's verbal slip. It suggested to him that, although Braun might claim otherwise, he still harboured feelings of affection for his beautiful and volatile paramour.

  'What do you know about her past? Her childhood?'

  'We didn't talk about such things.'

  'Why not?'

  'I don't know, we just didn't – although I think Lotte had an unhappy childhood. Her parents died when she was quite young, and she had to fend for herself – but I don't know a lot more than that.'

  'Were you not interested?'

  'She didn't want to talk – and I didn't want to press the matter. Besides, the past is the past, Doctor. What's done is done, eh?'

  'Herr Braun,' asked Liebermann, 'who do you think killed Fräulein Löwenstein?'

  'At first I thought it might have been Theodore Roche – but I'm not so sure now. He was a proud man, just the sort to seek revenge. But he had no imagination. That business with the bullet and the locked door . . . the figurine in the box . . . extraordinary. I have no idea how it was done.' Braun's lips curved to form a faint, cynical smile. 'So maybe it was a devil. Maybe they do exist, after all.'

  The young man opened his eyes and looked up, straining to see Liebermann.

  'I don't suppose, Herr Doctor, that you have a bottle of something or other hidden away in here?'

  'No,' said Liebermann. 'I don't.'

  'I find that difficult to believe. I know how much you medical men appreciate a tipple.'

  Liebermann did not respond, and Braun let his head fall back into its original position.

  'I understand that Fräulein Löwenstein met privately with Herr Uberhorst. Do you know anything about that?'

  'Yes, that's right. He was always dropping in to see her – for extra consultations. To tell the truth, I think she had a bit of a soft spot for him – poor Karl.'

  'Why do you say "poor Karl"?'

  'Have you met him?'

  'No.'

  'Well, if you had, you'd understand. Pathetic man. Lonely. Suffers from nerves, if you ask me.' Braun turned his head and said quickly, 'Only a layman's opinion, of course, but I'm sure you'd agree.'

  'Fräulein Löwenstein felt sorry for him?'

  'Yes, certainly. She could have fleeced him – relieved him of everything, down to his last heller. But do you know what? She was satisfied to accept two krone for an hour of her time.'

  'Did she entertain any of the other men privately?'

  'From the circle?'

  'Yes.'

  'None that I know of – only Karl. I used to say to her, "What on Earth do you think you're doing, running a charity?" '

  'And what did she reply?'

  'She said that he was a sad man and needed help. It was a side of her character that she rarely exhibited. He's a small chap . . . I think he brought out her maternal instinct.'

  'Herr Braun, what did you intend to do – after the child was born?'

  'What child?'

  'The autopsy showed that Fräulein Löwenstein was three months pregnant. She would have had twins.'

  'You must be mistaken, Herr Doctor. Lotte and I . . . we had stopped having relations of any kind. We had not made love for many, many months.'

  'I can assure you, Herr Braun, that at the time of her death Lotte Lowenstein was pregnant.'

  Braun sat up and, turning, let his legs slide over the side of the divan. His eyes flashed with anger.

  'Don't try to trick me, Herr Doctor. There's only one magician in this room – and it isn't you.'

  42

  THE DOORMAN BOWED and clicked his heels as the couple left the Hotel Bristol. Rheinhardt rewarded the man with a generous tip, given so discreetly that his wife – even though her arm was linked with his – did not notice. If their progress was more ponderous than usual, it was on account of the meal that they had just enjoyed. It had stretched to accommodate some five courses, the last of which was (to Rheinhardt's satisfaction) a particularly sweet Marillenknödel – apricots in curd cheese dumplings, sprinkled with breadcrumbs and roasted in butter.

  A cab was already waiting outside, the driver patiently stroking the horse with the handle of his whip. Rheinhardt opened the door for his wife and, holding her hand, guided Else up onto the footplate. A strand of mousy brown hair had fallen from beneath her hat. Although her face had become more round with age, it retained a certain girlish quality and her full figure had not exceeded the limits of Rubenesque beauty. As Else stepped into the cab, Rheinhardt took the liberty of raising her skirt, just a little, to ensure that she would not stumble. This small service was administered so tactfully that, like his tipping, it escaped Else's attention completely.

  The cab rolled down the Ringstrasse, past the art and natural history museums and west into Josefstadt. As Rheinhardt looked out of the window, Else, replete with the evening's indulgences, rested her cheek on his shoulder. The cab rumbled along, bouncing on the cobbles, rocking her head from side to side. The interior became warm and slightly stuffy. Rheinhardt's thoughts, like detritus in a whirlpool, were drawn in ever-decreasing circles towards a single point of contemplation: Otto Braun.

  Rheinhardt had assumed that Else had fallen asleep and was therefore surprised when his cogitations were disturbed by a question: 'What are you thinking?'

  Rheinhardt gave himself a moment to compose an anodyne response and replied: 'I am thinking how beautiful you look in your new dress.'

  'Oskar,' said Else, a certain drowsiness thickening her voice, 'you should know by now that I am not one to be bamboozled with flattery.'

  The Inspector chuckled, and turned to kiss the ribbon on his wife's hat.

  'All right, I confess,' said Rheinhardt. 'I am a little preoccupied. But I have no wish to spoil our anniversary by discussing a murder inquiry.'

  'Nothing could spoil our anniversary,' said Else. 'It has been a wonderful evening, and I am very, very happy.' Saying this, she heaved herself up and nuzzled more deeply into his shoulder.

  'And you like your dress?'

  'I love it.'

  As they progressed past the regularly spaced lamp-posts, the cab was softly illuminated with pulses of amber. The black leather of the upholstery creaked as Rheinhardt made himself more comfortable, leaning more heavily against the woodwork.

  'Well?' asked Else.

  'Well, what?'

  The regular rhythm of the lamplight was strangely calming.

  'What are you thinking?'

  Rheinhardt hesitated and Else continued: 'It's the Leopoldstadt murder. You're thinking about that, aren't you?'

  'Yes,' said Rheinhardt, sighing. 'Max interviewed the principal suspect today – a man called Otto Braun. He was a member of Fräulein Löwenstein's spiritualist circle and he hadn't been seen since the night of the murder. He's a stage magician – a fact that we considered highly relevant, given the circumstances of the crime.'

  'And . . .?' said Else, with gentle persistence.

  'I was hoping that he would confess. But he did nothing of the sort. And the Commissioner is growing increasingly impatient.'

  'Will you let Braun go?'

  'We'll have to.'

  'And what will you do then?'

  'I really don't know . . .'

  The cab slowed, before picking up speed again, to let an omnibus pass at the crossroads.

  'You know,' said Else, yawning, 'I was reading a very interesting article in my Ladies' Journal the other day.'

  'Oh?'

  'About a woman called Madame de Rougemont – she lives in Paris. She has helped the French police solve many crimes.'

  'How does she do it?'

  'She's a medium, like Fräulein Löwenstein.'

  'Are you suggesting that I—'

  'The Sûreté are not too proud to use her,' Else cut in.

  'The Sûreté are . . . well, French. We have very different ways of doing things here in Vienna. Besides, I dread to think what Max would say if I suggested such a thing.'
/>
  'Doctor Liebermann does not know everything,' said Else bluntly.

  43

  LIEBERMANN TURNED A corner and came face to face with Professor Wolfgang Gruner. The two men started – and even recoiled a little – as though they had both walked into an invisible wall.

  'Ah, Doctor Liebermann,' said Gruner, collecting himself. 'If you have a moment, I would like to see you in my office.'

  'Now?' asked Liebermann tentatively.

  'Yes, now,' said Gruner.

  Liebermann looked at his wristwatch.

  'My next patient is at three.'

  'What I have to say will not take long.'

  The two men marched down the corridor in silence, sustaining a synchronised, almost military step. However they maintained a conspicuous distance from each other, as though each possessed the polar properties of magnets and were driven apart by mutually repellent fields of force. In due course, the absence of polite pleasantries and their palpable antipathy became embarrassing and uncomfortable in equal measure. Liebermann was greatly relieved when they finally reached the door of Gruner's office.

  Inside, the room was gloomy and seemed curiously subaquatic. Weak spears of watery light angled through the mossy curtains, illuminating motes that glided through the air with the lymphatic grace of protozoa. Scattered around the floor were numerous battery boxes – like ancient treasure chests long since forgotten on the seabed of the Spanish Main.

  A tall glass cabinet displayed several rows of specimen jars in which spongy brain parts trailing threads of nervous tissue floated in a suspension of yellowing formaldehyde. The cabinet looked like a gruesome aquarium and one vessel – slightly larger than the rest – contained an object that made Liebermann shudder: a decomposing abortus with two heads. Flakes of white flesh had collected at the bottom of the jar, indicating that the specimen was of considerable age. This medical oddity – of unknown provenance – was the centre-piece of Gruner's macabre collection.

  'Please sit,' Gruner commanded.

  'Thank you,' replied Liebermann, drawing a heavy wooden chair closer to Gruner's imposing desk.

  'Doctor Liebermann,' Gruner began, 'I understand that you have been treating the English governess, Miss Amelia Lydgate. She was expecting to receive electrotherapy for a persistent hysterical cough and associated paralysis. How many sessions of electrotherapy have you administered, Doctor Liebermann?'

  'None, sir.'

  'Could you explain why?'

  'Her symptoms are not the result of a weakened nervous system. They are the logical consequence of several traumatic experiences. As such, they have meaning. Consequently I am of the opinion that electrotherapy is not the treatment of choice, sir.'

  Gruner sat back in his chair like Neptune on his throne. The desk had been placed in front of the window and Liebermann could not see Gruner's face against the glare. All that he could make out was the silhouette of the professor's head and a glowing aureole of frizzled hair.

  'So,' said Gruner. 'Miss Lydgate's symptoms have meaning. Would you care to elaborate?'

  'Since taking up her position as governess,' Liebermann began, 'Miss Lydgate has been repeatedly importuned by her employer. Eventually the man lost control of himself and assaulted her. He succeeded in kissing Miss Lydgate – which she experienced as a feeling of suffocation. Her cough, therefore, is the result of a repressed traumatic memory.' Liebermann noticed that Gruner was already drumming his fingers on the desk impatiently. 'Miss Lydgate's paralysis,' Liebermann continued, 'arose at the same time as her employer – frustrated and probably drunk – attempted to penetrate her. His abominable behaviour produced in Miss Lydgate a powerful but to her unacceptable wish to kill him. A pair of scissors lay within reach. Torn between the need to protect herself and the unacceptability of committing a murder, she became paralysed. Her murderous impulse was repressed and around it the contents of her own unconscious became organised in the form of a secondary, more primitive personality, which calls itself Katherine. It is this secondary personality, that now controls Miss Lydgate's right arm. In my opinion, when this psychic breach is repaired, when the division between Katherine and Miss Lydgate is healed, Miss Lydgate's paralysis will disappear. I believe that this can only be achieved through psychotherapy.'

  Gruner stopped drumming his fingers and leaned forward.

  'And what evidence do you have for this extraordinary formulation?'

  'The secondary personality surfaces when Miss Lydgate is reminded of the sexual assault. At such times she experiences a seizure, during which she behaves aggressively and recovers the use of her right arm. These seizures are reliably induced by an olfactory stimulus – namely, the cologne used by her employer. It should also be noted that this cologne may have played some part in provoking Miss Lydgate's cough – it is of a heavy and cloying variety.'

  'Herr Doctor,' Gruner responded, 'I am appalled at your naivety.' Gruner paused, allowing a lengthy and profoundly unsettling hiatus to ripen. Liebermann squinted into the glare that was blazing in through the window, trying to read Gruner's expression – but it was impossible. Eager to end the excruciating deadlock, Liebermann responded, finding words that were honest rather than diplomatic.

  'I'm afraid that I must disagree, sir.'

  'Doctor Liebermann,' Gruner began again, this time without any pause, 'I find it difficult to believe that a young man educated in one of the finest medical institutions in the world should be duped quite so easily. As we all know, the female hysteric is cunning, malicious and histrionic. She is a consummate seductress. The credulous physician is easy prey, lured by her confessions into her world of sordid fantasy. By taking her ridiculous flights of fancy seriously, you engage in an act of collusion that legitimises her psychopathology. Only a fool would attempt to interpret hysterical symptoms – as only a fool would attempt to interpret dreams.'

  Liebermann resisted the urge to respond to Gruner's pointed dig at Professor Freud.

  'Have you taken the trouble, Doctor Liebermann,' Gruner's voice was becoming louder, 'to discover the identity of Miss Lydgate's employer?'

  'Yes,' Liebermann replied. 'I have. His name is Schelling.'

  'That is correct,' said Gruner. '

  Minister Schelling. He is greatly admired by his colleagues and possesses a deserved reputation for upholding the highest standards of moral rectitude. It has been my great privilege to sit with Minister Schelling, in my capacity as a trustee, on several committees for the promotion of charitable causes. To suggest that he would have repeatedly molested a young governess is utterly absurd. The girl is clearly disturbed. I would strongly suggest that when you next see Miss Lydgate, you administer the appropriate treatment immediately. I would recommend the Faradic moxa, an electrical brush passed through the throat cavity that will deal with her cough in one session. You will find the procedure detailed in Erb's Handbook. The paralysis may take a little longer, but will probably remit within seven days. Good afternoon.'

  Liebermann remained seated.

  'I said "Good afternoon", Herr Doctor.'

  Liebermann swallowed.

  'With respect, Herr Professor, I do not think that I am prepared to follow your instructions.'

  'Are you refusing to treat the patient?'

  'No . . .'

  'Then what are you saying?'

  'In my opinion, the patient's account of her traumatic experiences is accurate. Therefore I should continue to treat her psychologically.'

  Gruner slammed his hand down on the desk. The dull thud was followed by the ethereal thrum of vibrating glassware – the ghostly, high-pitched song of things unspeakable floating in their dusky preservative media.

  'Doctor Liebermann,' the professor growled, 'a refusal to administer the appropriate treatment is tantamount to negligence. I regret to say that I will be obliged to request your immediate dismissal.'

  Liebermann had known that a confrontation with Professor Gruner was inevitable at some point; however, now that the long-awaited ultima
tum had actually been delivered he felt unprepared.

  'Well?' asked Gruner.

  Liebermann began to compose a reply in his head. His heart was beating wildly.

  Professor Gruner, much as I would like to retain my position at this hospital, I cannot act against my conscience . . .

  Liebermann took a deep breath and began to speak:

  'Professor Gruner, much as I—'

  There was a loud knock on the door and Liebermann stopped as Gruner shouted, 'Enter.'

  The door opened and Nurse Rupius appeared.

  Gruner shook his head violently.

  'Not now, Nurse Rupius, not now! I am engaged in discussion with Doctor Liebermann.'

  The nurse hesitated and was about to close the door when she seemed to change her mind. Two orderlies ran past in the corridor outside.

  'Professor Gruner,' said Nurse Rupius. 'One of your patients – Signora Locatelli – she's dead.'

  'Dead!' Gruner rose from his chair. 'What do you mean, dead?'

  The nurse stepped into the room.

  'It appears that she tied her bed sheets around a water pipe in the washroom and hung herself. We don't know how long she's been there.'

  44

  HEINRICH HöLDERLIN was walking briskly down a narrow street. He entered a cobbled square at the centre of which stood a large statue of Moses. As he passed the monumental bronze a resonant voice filled the enclosed space: 'Herr Hölderlin.'

  The banker was startled: it was as though he had just been addressed by the lawgiver.