by Frank Tallis
'Detective Inspector Rheinhardt,' said the Count to Madame de Rougemont. Záborszky seemed to have taken it upon himself to chaperone the medium; however, the eager light in his eyes suggested rather more than mere innocent gallantry.
'I am honoured,' said Rheinhardt, straightening up and gesturing towards his friend. 'And may I introduce my colleague, Doctor Max Liebermann.'
The medium turned to face Liebermann, obliging the young doctor to repeat Rheinhardt's formal greeting.
'Inspector,' said Madame de Rougemont, her German softened by a sweet French accent. 'It has been my privilege to place my gift at the disposal of the police on many occasions. I sincerely hope that I will not disappoint you.'
'We would be most grateful for any assistance,' said Rheinhardt.
'Of course,' continued the Frenchwoman, allowing a cautionary tone to enter her voice, 'I can promise nothing. I am merely a servant – a vessel. Perhaps the higher powers will allow us to make some discoveries this evening – or perhaps they will deny us. Who can say? All that I can do is humbly beseech them to be merciful, and pray that they will judge us kindly.'
She spoke with a certain breathless urgency, gesticulating and punctuating her speech with exaggerated facial expressions.
Liebermann was about to deliver a sceptical response when the double doors swung open to reveal Hans Bruckmüller and Cosima von Rath.
'Excuse me, gentlemen,' said Madame de Rougemont. She offered Záborszky her arm and they glided across the floor to greet the new arrivals. The smaller woman almost disappeared in the larger one's ample embrace.
Liebermann had expected Cosima von Rath's entrance to be a colourful affair, but he was still taken aback by her appearance. She was wearing a hat, the design of which was clearly inspired by the headdress of some Egyptian deity, and a loose, billowy blue gown made from material that shimmered and glittered as she moved. A thick yellow cord followed the equator of her stomach, and a large golden ankh dangled over the precipice of an overwhelming bosom. Cosima von Rath's neck was concealed by several folds of puffy pink flesh that hung from a receding chin and her eyes were like raisins pressed into marzipan. The effect was almost hallucinatory. She looked like a prize pig that had been bedecked for some obscure rustic festival.
For a moment, Cosima von Rath commanded everyone's attention. The other members of Löwenstein's circle, who had been quietly talking amongst themselves, fell silent. Braun, however, seemed less overwhelmed than the others, and even winked at the seamstress – whose fan immediately rose up to hide a collusive smile.
Conversation in the room began again, slowly regaining its former volume.
'Well, Herr Doctor,' whispered Rheinhardt, 'you might consider closing your mouth now.'
54
THE COMPANY ASSEMBLED around a large circular table, their faces lit by a solitary fitful candle. Its uncertain light made shadows leap from wall to wall – a flapping cloak of darkness.
Madame de Rougemont had asked them all to join hands for the duration of a lengthy invocation, which took the form of an appeal to the higher spiritual powers. Her antiquated style of delivery suggested a medieval source – some ancient rite of ceremonial magic.
'I invoke and conjure thee, O Spirit Morax, and fortified with the power of the Supreme Majesty I strongly command thee by Baralamensis, Baldachiensis, Paumachie, Apoloresedes and the most potent princes, Genio, Liachide, Ministers of the Tartarean Seat, chief princes of the seat of Apologia in the ninth region; I exorcise and command thee, O Spirit Morax, by him who spake and it was done, by the most glorious names Adonai, El, Elohim, Elohe, Zebaoth, Elion, Escherce, Jah, Tetragrammaton, Sadai . . .'
While Yvette de Rougemont droned on, Liebermann studied his companions: the languid Count, the ludicrous heiress, and the businessman. He turned to examine the remainder: the stolid bank manager and his wife, the conman, and the seamstress. What a motley collection of people! How strange that their different paths had crossed in Charlotte Löwenstein's apartment. One of them – in all probability – was guilty of murder. But which? Looking at their ill-assorted, perplexed faces, he could detect no obvious clue.
The room had filled with a rich redolence, like the heady fumes of a church censer. But these fragrant emanations had no visible source – no dragging cassock or swinging chain emerged from the room's obscure recesses. Liebermann looked over at Rheinhardt, who returned a puzzled stare.
Although Rheinhardt did not say a word, his expression clearly asked: Where's it coming from?
Liebermann shook his head.
'Do thou forthwith appear and show thyself unto me,' the Frenchwoman continued her invocation, 'here before this circle, in a fair and human shape, without any deformity or horror; do thou come forthwith, from whatever part of the world, and make rational answers to my questions; come presently, come visit, come affably, manifest that which I desire, being conjured by the Name of the Eternal, Living and True God, Heliorem.'
Madame de Rougemont paused, and the ensuing silence was broken by the unmistakable sound of a coin falling to the floor and spiralling around to a tremulous halt.
'An apport,' said Cosima von Rath.
Frau Hölderlin nodded vigorously in agreement.
'I conjure thee,' Yvette de Rougemont continued, 'also by the particular and true Name of thy God to whom thou owest thine obedience; by the name of the King who rules over thee, do thou come without tarrying; come, fulfil my desires; persist unto the end, according to mine intentions.'
There was a strange skittering. Something like tiny claws on hardwood. Only Liebermann and Rheinhardt turned, peering into the blackest and furthest corner of the room. Frau Hölderlin leaned a little closer to Liebermann and whispered a curt admonishment: 'No, Herr Doctor. Do not look into the darkness.'
Liebermann wanted to ask Why not?
But recognising his anomalous position as an interloper, he smiled politely instead and returned his attention to Madame de Rougemont. In the poor light the medium's black satin dress was almost invisible, making her head look unattached to her body. Her serene face floated in space like a bubble of ectoplasm.
'I conjure thee by Him to Whom all creatures are obedient, by this ineffable Name, Tetragrammaton Jehovah, by which the elements are overthrown, the air is shaken, the sea turns back, fire is generated.' The candle suddenly sputtered and Liebermann felt Natalie Heck grip his hand more tightly. 'The Earth moves and all the hosts of things celestial, of things terrestrial, of things infernal, do tremble and are confounded together; speak unto me!'
Yvette de Rougemont's injunction was swallowed by a hungry silence. A chair creaked, and Liebermann detected a slight asthmatic whistle in Frau Hölderlin's lungs.
The moment of anticipation unfurled like a roll of cloth, and with each revolution the suspense intensified. Finally, a beneficent smile lifted Madame de Rougemont's anxious features.
'I see him . . .' she murmured, her voice shaking with suppressed excitement. 'He is here. Oh welcome, Spirit. Welcome, Morax.'
Liebermann felt a movement of air, the slightest draught, as though a door had been slammed in another, distant room. The candle flame twisted and flared – a wisp of blue smoke ascended. Madame de Rougemont's spirit guide had apparently arrived.
'Welcome,' whispered the others. Frau Hölderlin and Natalie Heck released Liebermann's hands.
'Morax,' began the Frenchwoman, 'we – who live in ignorance – beg you to help us. We wish to contact our sister Charlotte who recently passed from this world to the next, from darkness to light.'
In the agitated lambency of the flickering candle, Yvette de Rougemont's face suddenly took on a different cast: her brow furrowed and her jaw projected forward. Her eyelids fluttered and opened, revealing nothing but the glistening whites of her eyes. Speaking in a convincing masculine voice that was completely free of any Gallic inflections, she said: 'She is here, Madame.' Several among the company gasped, and Liebermann noticed that the Count had placed a hand over his heart. '
I see a young woman, with golden hair and a smile of such radiance . . . but she cannot rest. Her soul is deeply troubled. What ails thee, maid? Why can you not avail yourself of eternal peace? Ahh . . . I was murdered, says she, and I cannot rest until this wicked creature is brought to book . . .' The medium's voice reverted back to its usual soprano register and her eyelids closed. 'Then her soul was not taken by a demon?' 'No, Madame,' came her own tenor reply – the whites of her eyes showing again. 'She was killed by a mortal, with nothing more than mortal means . . . and this wicked creature sits among you – this very night.'
Natalie Heck let out a small cry, which was followed by an outburst of prayers and protests. Frau Hölderlin crossed herself, and Cosima von Rath produced a large handkerchief which she dabbed against her forehead. 'Oh Madame,' she whispered, 'oh Madame . . .' Záborszky muttered, 'Jesu, Jesu.' Bruckmüller stared impassively at the candle, and Hölderlin placed an arm around his wife's shoulders. Liebermann caught Braun's eye. The young man smiled cynically, shrugged his shoulders and looked away.
'Is there one among you whose name is Natalie?' asked Madame de Rougemont in the ponderous voice of Morax.
Even in the half-light it was possible to see that the seamstress had gone quite pale. She shook her head violently. 'No,' she whispered, 'it wasn't me, I swear.'
'Natalie,' Morax declaimed. 'The maiden has a message for you.'
The general agitation subsided – and the room became utterly silent. The candle spat, and a droplet of hot wax fell like a plumb line, leaving an exiguous thread in its wake.
'Natalie?'
Liebermann felt the little seamstress sitting beside him flinch.
'Yes,' she said warily. 'I am here'
'How you loved my butterfly brooch.'
'I did, I did . . .'
'I want you to have it. How pretty you will look, with my brooch pinned to your white summer dress.'
Natalie Heck clapped a hand to her mouth, then looking around at the others cried: 'I did love that brooch, I do have a white summer dress.' Then, suddenly becoming subdued, she whispered: 'It is her . . .'
Morax continued: 'Is there one among you called Otto?'
'Yes,' said Braun, sitting up straight. 'My name is Otto.'
The medium tilted her head to one side as though listening carefully. Then, still in the person of her spirit guide, she said: 'Otto, how foolish you have been. You have chosen a headlong path that will end in despair. What is meat to the body is sometimes poison to the soul.' The young man seemed mildly perplexed, but nothing more. Then, after a slight pause, Yvette de Rougemont added: 'Remember the Danube. Remember Baden . . . and the poor widow. There is no sin so small that it can escape the notice of the divine auditor – no punishment is overlooked. Repent!' The voice of Morax became louder. 'Behold, ye have sinned against the Lord: and be sure your sin will find you out.'
Braun's expression changed. He was no longer superior, indifferent and contemptuous. Now he looked confused. Heck threw him a sharp glance.
'But how . . .' He looked anxiously at Madame de Rougemont. She did not respond but sat perfectly still, the candlelight glittering in the nacreous sockets of her skull.
'Count Zoltán Záborszky,' Morax proclaimed. 'How sad you are. I feel your sadness. It is like a canker, eating away at your heart. I see a great and noble house betrayed. A family in despair.'
The Count crossed himself, bowed his head, and pressed his jewel-encrusted fingers together in the attitude of prayer.
'Heinrich? Is there one present called Heinrich?'
Liebermann was sitting directly opposite Hölderlin. He could see the sheen of perspiration on the man's forehead.
'Heinrich,' Morax proclaimed. 'I have something important to tell you . . .'
Frau Hölderlin looked at her husband – her face showed suspicion and concern.
'No!' cried Hölderlin. He stood up abruptly and banged his fist on the table. The candle jumped and the shadows chased each other out of corners and across the ceiling. 'No, this cannot go on. It is unnatural – I am sorry, but I must insist that we bring this meeting to an end.'
'Morax?' Yvette de Rougemont's voice had returned to normal, and her eyelids had closed; however, her intonation was now weak and dreamy. 'Morax – where are you?'
'Herr Hölderlin, you must sit down!' shouted Záborszky. 'Madame de Rougemont is still in contact with the spirit world! You are placing her in great danger.'
'No, I will not sit down!' shouted Hölderlin. 'We have no right to be doing this. It is sacrilege. Blasphemy. Fräulein Löwenstein meddled with things beyond her understanding – and look what happened! Enough is enough! I will not be party to this any more!'
Without warning, Yvette de Rougemont's eyes suddenly opened. For a few moments, her expression was vacant. Then the contours of her face shifted to produce a fixed mask of fear. Her lips began to tremble. Opening her mouth wide, she released a chilling, sustained wail. Its rapid rise in pitch and volume was followed by a prolonged and steady descent – which left her clutching at her throat. Choking sounds were followed by a liquid rattle. Then she slumped forwards onto the table, flinging her arms out, knocking over the candle – and plunging the room into total darkness.
55
LIEBERMANN AND RHEINHARDT entered the dim ante-room of the Café Central and passed through a narrow corridor smelling of coffee – and of ammonia from the urinals. Climbing a small flight of stairs they entered the arcade court: a pillared vaultlike arena that hummed with conversation and clicked with the brittle collision of billiard balls. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke provided a low canopy beneath which a milling crowd seemed to have gathered. The tables were well spaced, but most were surrounded by audiences of onlookers, openly criticising the moves in a chess game or praising a taroc player for increasing his stake.
The two men squeezed past the press of bodies and found somewhere to sit at the back.
Rheinhardt touched the arm of a passing waiter.
'A türkische for me and a schwarzer for my friend.'
The waiter bowed.
'Oh – and some Dobostorte. Max?'
'Nothing for me, thank you.'
The waiter vanished behind the nearest pillar.
'Well,' said Rheinhardt, puffing out his cheeks. 'Quite extraordinary, don't you think?'
'She is a fraud.'
'Come now, Max, you're being churlish. I thought you said you'd be coming with an open mind.'
'I did – and she's a fraud. That absurd fainting fit at the end – I've seen more convincing swoons at the opera. Her pulse was perfectly normal.'
'If you say so . . .' said Rheinhardt. 'But I can't help feeling that there was something more to those messages. More than trickery, I mean. Did you see Braun's face? He looked utterly flabbergasted when she mentioned the Danube, Baden, and the widow. He clearly wasn't expecting that . . . And what about Fräulein Heck? How on Earth did Madame de Rougemont know about a specific brooch that Heck coveted? And Heck's white summer dress! How could she know?'
'Every woman I've ever known owns a white summer dress, Oskar.'
'All right, but what about the brooch?'
Liebermann sighed.
'I don't know – I don't know how she managed to get that right. But I imagine she found out all she needed to know by talking to the members of Löwenstein's circle before our arrival. She is clearly a very skilled observer, able to read even the most minute reactions. In fact, she must possess skills very similar to those of a psychoanalyst. Professor Freud says that human beings are incapable of keeping secrets – we are always confessing something or other with fidgeting fingers and slips of the tongue. He once told me that betrayal forces itself through every pore. Madame de Rougemont is simply a consummate observer of human behaviour.'
Rheinhardt still looked troubled.
'That voice, though – Morax. It was unnerving.'
'Oskar, I've seen similar phenomena in the clinic. Morax was a kind of sub-personality, something created
and cultivated by repeated use of self-hypnosis.' The waiter arrived with the coffee and Rheinhardt's cake. 'Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?' asked Rheinhardt.
'Quite sure.'
Liebermann scooped the froth off his coffee with a teaspoon, while Rheinhardt plunged his fork through several layers of sponge and chocolate cream.
'Mmm . . .' Rheinhardt closed his eyes. 'Delicious.'
Liebermann reached into his pocket and took out a crumpled letter and a pen.
'Here . . .' he said.
'What? You want me to read it?'
'No, I want you to draw something on it. Something simple. But don't let me see.'
Liebermann looked away, while Rheinhardt, puzzled, produced a small sketch.
'Have you finished?'
'Yes.'
'Turn the paper over so that your drawing is underneath.'
'I've done that.'
'Good.'
Liebermann then turned around and said: 'Hand me the letter.'
Rheinhardt handed the letter back to his friend, who promptly popped it into his pocket without attempting to look at the underside.
'You drew the Habsburg coat of arms – the double-headed eagle,' said Liebermann.
'God in heaven!' exclaimed Rheinhardt. 'How on Earth did you do that?'
'I read your mind, of course,' said Liebermann coldly.
Rheinhardt burst out laughing.
'All right, all right . . . you've made your point. Now tell me how you did it.'
'I glanced into my coffee cup as I took the letter. I could see your drawing reflected on the surface of my schwarzer.'
'Very good,' said Rheinhardt, impressed. 'I'll try that one on Else – she'll be mystified.' He picked up his fork again and continued to attack the Dobostorte. 'So what did you make of Hölderlin's outburst?'
'He was clearly very uncomfortable—'
Rheinhardt leaned forward, raising a hand to his ear.
'Speak up, Max, I can't hear you.'
The clattering cups, the babble of conversation and the sound of laughter had combined to create a sudden swell of sound.
