Mortal Mischief lp-1

by Frank Tallis

  Liebermann watched her – and became acutely aware of her appearance. He had become accustomed to seeing Amelia Lydgate in a plain, shapeless, hospital gown. Now she was transformed. Although she was only wearing a simple green dress with a high collar, the effect was striking. Her bosom and the pleasing symmetry of her hips had become conspicuous. Her hair seemed like fire: a deep, burning red. She looked elegant, sophisticated.

  'I will inform Doctor Landsteiner immediately,' said Miss Lydgate.

  Their gaze met, and Liebermann looked away.

  'Yes,' he said, loosening his necktie a little. 'Yes, you must resume your work as soon as possible.' Then, after a short pause, he added: 'Miss Lydgate, could we sit down for a few moments? There are some practical matters that I wish to discuss.'

  They entered the rear room where they found a folded gateleg table and two hard chairs.

  'Miss Lydgate, what are your immediate plans?'

  'Is it possible to stay here – this evening?'

  'Yes, of course. I can write your discharge summary when I return to the hospital.'

  'I have a trunk . . .'

  'Which you can collect when you are ready. Or I can arrange to have it sent on.'

  Amelia Lydgate looked down at her hands and slowly locked her fingers together.

  'I shall write to Herr Schelling. He will receive my letter of resignation tomorrow.'

  'And your parents?'

  'Yes, I will write to them too. But I will spare them such detail that is likely to cause them distress. They do not need to know everything.'

  Miss Lydgate looked up, and her cool, metallic eyes caught the light.

  'Well,' said Liebermann, 'I suppose I should say goodbye to Frau Rubenstein, and allow you to settle into your new home.'

  They both stood – but did not move. The moment became oddly uncomfortable.

  'Doctor Liebermann . . .' said Amelia Lydgate, her customary restraint perturbed by a trace of agitation. 'I cannot thank you enough.'

  'Not at all,' said Liebermann, shaking his head. 'I am sure that Frau Rubenstein will thoroughly enjoy your company.'

  'No, not just for this.' She swept her hand around the room. 'Frau Rubenstein . . .' She paused before adding: 'I mean, thank you for everything.'

  Liebermann smiled but – as usual – the smile was not returned. The young woman's expression remained intense.

  'I will of course . . .' His words petered out.

  'Visit?' There was the slightest inflexion of hope in her voice.

  'Yes, visit,' said Liebermann decisively. 'To see how you are.'

  'I would like that very much,' came Miss Lydgate's half-whispered response.

  63

  VICTOR VON BULOW RAN his hands over the silver stubble on his head. It made a rough, abrasive sound. Unlike most of his contemporaries, his face was hairless but for a trim rectangle of bristle on his chin. His features were sharp. An aquiline nose separated two widely spaced eyes and his ears tapered to become slightly pointed. However, there was nothing comic about his looks. Indeed, the severity of his lineaments conveyed an impression of quick intelligence. It was in many ways a handsome face: unconventional, arresting and singular.

  Rheinhardt noticed the stylish cut of von Bulow's suit, the glint and glimmer of diamond cuff links.

  He looks like a court official, thought Rheinhardt. He imagined him in a remote chamber of the Hoffburg Palace, lecturing his acolytes on the arcane and Byzantine complexities of royal protocol. Imperial Vienna was a pedant's heaven – a place where the importance of a visitor could be determined by observing the angle of a coachman's whip.

  Von Bulow made Rheinhardt feel shabbily dressed and overly conscious of his own modest origins. Rheinhardt pulled in his paunch and straightened his back.

  'Well, Rheinhardt,' said von Bulow. 'I've looked through the files and I haven't found them very illuminating.' As he said these words he glanced up at the Commissioner. Brügel, sitting under his portrait of Emperor Franz Josef, nodded in tacit agreement. 'I couldn't find the floor plan,' he continued. 'I take it a floor plan was drawn up?'

  Von Bulow's eyes were of the palest watery grey – almost entirely bleached of colour.

  'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'My assistant Haussman would have done it.'

  'Then where is it?'

  'It isn't with the principal summary?'

  'No.'

  'Then it must . . . it must have been . . . mislaid.'

  Von Bulow shook his head: 'Or he forgot.'

  Rheinhardt realised that any further attempt to protect his assistant would be futile.

  'If Haussmann neglected the sketches – then that was only because he was otherwise engaged. We had an unusual number of witnesses to interview.'

  'Assistants learn by example, Rheinhardt,' said von Bulow.

  'Indeed, and it is my judgement that people matter more than the position of objects.'

  'Well, you are entitled to that view – but it is one that goes against the climate of expert opinion.' Again, von Bulow glanced at Brügel before continuing. 'And while we are on the subject of correct procedure – I was surprised to come across the original of Fräulein Löwenstein's note . . . in an envelope.'

  'Is that a problem?' asked Rheinhardt.

  'Given that such a note is liable to become damaged with handling, a photographic reproduction should have been made. This could then be handled at will.'

  'Had I done that,' interrupted Rheinhardt, 'Herr Doctor Liebermann would never have been able to make his interpretation of Fräulein Löwenstein's error. A photographic reproduction wouldn't—'

  Von Bulow raised his hand.

  'If you would kindly allow me to finish. After photographic reproductions had been made, the original should have been enclosed between two sheets of glass bound with gummed paper round the edges. It allows both sides of the document to be seen and makes it easy to examine against the light.'

  'That's all very well, von Bulow, but—'

  'Inspector!' Brügel silenced Rheinhardt with a minatory stare.

  'I'm afraid I am completely unable to form a mental picture of Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment,' continued von Bulow.

  'Aren't the photographs satisfactory?' asked Rheinhardt.

  'Not without a floor plan indicating dimensions and distances.' Looking at Brügel, he continued: 'I'm afraid I'll have to visit the apartment.'

  'Of course,' Brügel replied. 'Rheinhardt, perhaps you could escort Inspector von Bulow tomorrow?'

  'It would be an honour,' said Rheinhardt.

  Von Bulow's eyes flicked upward. He stared at Rheinhardt, attempting to decipher the other man's expression. Rheinhardt smiled, politely.

  Returning to his notebook, von Bulow continued: 'I could not find a report by the medical officer . . . Doctor Liebermann?'

  Rheinhardt coughed nervously.

  'Doctor Liebermann is not a medical officer. That is why he hasn't filed a report.'

  'Then what is he?'

  'An unofficial consultant,' said Rheinhardt authoritatively.

  'Even so, you might have taken the trouble to commission a report.'

  'I didn't think it was necessary.'

  'Well, it is. How am I to come to any conclusions concerning his findings?'

  'I'm sure the good doctor would consent to an interview.'

  'I'm sure he would – but that doesn't help me right now, does it, Inspector?'

  For the next hour, von Bulow worked through his notes, asking questions that invariably highlighted one or other departure from 'procedure'. As he did so, Rheinhardt's head filled with a whistling emptiness. A sense that he was teetering on the edge of a deep, dark abyss. He found himself staring vacantly at the portrait of Franz Josef – and curiously fascinated by the whiteness of the general's uniform that he was wearing and the deep red sash that fell diagonally across his chest. On a table beside the Emperor was a field marshal's large black hat with a thick plume of peacock green feathers.

  'Rheinhardt?'r />
  It was Brügel's voice.

  'Would you please pay attention . . .'

  64

  'I GOT YOUR note, mother – is everything all right?'

  'Yes, yes – everything is fine. Come in.'

  Liebermann entered the drawing room.

  'Where's Hannah?'

  'Out with her friend – she said she wanted a new hat. They've gone for a walk down Kärntner Strasse.'

  Liebermann handed his coat to the servant who had followed him in from the hall.

  'Do you want some tea?'

  'No, thank you.'

  'Then sit down, Maxim.' Addressing the servant, she added: 'That will be all, Peter.'

  'Mother . . .' Liebermann hesitated. He was already beginning to suspect that he had been manipulated.

  Before he could continue, Rebecca said: 'I know – I know exactly what you're thinking. Why did she say it was urgent? But if I hadn't said it was urgent would you have come? No. You would have sent me a note saying that you were too busy at the hospital. Am I wrong?'

  Liebermann sat down on the sofa.

  'No, mother, you are not wrong. However, the fact is . . . I am very busy at the hospital. To tell the truth—' He thought of telling his mother about Gruner and his pending dismissal but quickly changed his mind: 'Oh, it doesn't matter.'

  'What doesn't matter?'

  Liebermann sighed. 'Why did you want to see me today?'

  Rebecca sat down on the sofa beside her son and took his hand in hers. She looked at him and her eyes creased with affection. Yet her gaze was also investigative, probing. Liebermann found her close attention a little unnerving.

  'Maxim, I wanted to talk to you – alone.'

  'What about?'

  'Clara.'

  'Very well, mother. What is it that you wanted to say?'

  'She's a beautiful girl. So very pretty. And the Weisses – such a good family. You know, her father and yours—'

  'They go back a long way,' interrupted Liebermann. 'They went to school together in Leopoldstadt, and grandfather Weiss helped grandfather Liebermann start his first business.' He placed a hand over his mouth and enacted a theatrical yawn.

  'Yes, yes,' said Rebecca. 'You've heard it all before, I know.' She rubbed his hand with her thumb.

  'What is it, mother?'

  'Are you—' She smiled nervously. 'Are you sure that she is the one? Are you sure that she will make you happy?'

  Strangely, the sentence that Liebermann had been composing for the benefit of Professor Gruner came into his mind: Professor Gruner, much as I would like to retain my position at this hospital, I cannot act against my conscience . . .

  An odd coldness seemed to spread through his chest. Liebermann dismissed the thought, irritated at its intrusion.

  'Yes,' he said, rather tentatively. 'Yes – I think we shall be happy together.'

  'And you love her? Really love her?'

  'Of course,' he said, laughing. 'I wouldn't have proposed if I didn't love her.' Yet, as he said these words, they seemed curiously light and airy, lacking in emotional substance. He did not feel the weight of affection compressing his heart. 'Mother – I'm not absolutely certain, how can I be?' He remembered the uxorious Rheinhardt:

  My dear fellow, of course I had doubts. Everyone does.

  'I . . . I don't know what sort of a life we shall have together – I don't have a crystal ball. But I am very fond of Clara and when we're together she does make me happy. And she is very pretty.'

  'That doesn't last, let me tell you,' said Rebecca sharply. 'They used to say that I was beautiful once.' She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her son's ear – as though he was still an infant. Liebermann frowned and pulled away.

  'You're sure, then?' asked Rebecca, smiling.

  'I'm as sure as I can be, mother.'

  With that, Rebecca got up and went over to the chest of drawers on the other side of the room. She came back and, sitting down, handed her son a small black box.

  'Take it,' she said.

  Liebermann took the box and opened it. Inside, on a bed of silk, was an engagement ring. A cluster of little diamonds flashed around a deep blue sapphire.

  'It was my grandmother's – your great-grandmother's. God knows how they came by it. I suppose you've been too busy to go out and buy a new one.'

  65

  THE ROOM WAS lit by candles, most of which had burned down to flickering stubs of wax. A line of abandoned hookahs obscured Záborszky's view; however, the grotesquely distorted images of two unconscious gentlemen could be seen through the glass cylinders. As Záborszky moved his head, his oblivious companions seemed to expand and shrink.

  'My dear Count.'

  Záborszky turned. A soberly dressed middle-aged woman was standing close by.

  'Frau Matejka . . .' Záborszky sneered as he said her name.

  'There is a matter that I wish to discuss with you.' Záborszky remained inert. 'In private.' Záborszky stood up, swaying slightly. 'Careful now, you don't want to fall.'

  'I would never be so undignified.'

  The madam led him down a dark passage into a dilapidated room that smelled of damp. The floorboards were bare and the wallpaper had begun to peel near the ceiling; streaks of black mildew dribbled down either side of the shuttered window; a paraffin lamp stood on a scratched and battered writing bureau in front of which were two rustic chairs.

  'Please, do sit down.'

  Záborszky pulled a chair across the floorboards, making a scraping noise so loud that it pained his sensitive ears. He collapsed on the chair, slumping and letting his arms dangle.

  'Well,' he said, 'what is it?'

  'As you know,' said Frau Matejka, 'you are a much-valued patron of our little business . . .'

  'I've paid – I paid Olga for everything last week.'

  'Yes, of course. I wasn't suggesting—'

  'Then what is it? Get to the point.'

  Frau Matejka looked like a provincial schoolteacher. She was not wearing make-up and her greying hair was tied back in a loose bun from which several unruly strands had escaped. The silver crucifix that hung from her neck reinforced a general impression of spinsterish propriety.

  She smiled patiently.

  'I like to think of our regular patrons as friends. Gentlemen I can talk to.'

  'You can't have any more money, Frau Matejka. I don't have any.'

  'It isn't a financial matter that I wish to discuss. It is a matter of conduct.'

  Záborszky laughed – a slow, mechanical cackle.

  'Conduct? But this is a brothel!'

  The madam reached for the paraffin lamp and increased the length of the wick. The effect was not flattering. The sagging skin under her eyes looked bruised and the vertical creases that scored her upper lip were thrown into sharp relief.

  'The girls are my responsibility – you do appreciate that, don't you? I'm like a mother to them. They come to me when they're worried – when they've something on their minds.'

  'What has this got to do with me?'

  'There have been some complaints.'

  'Complaints?'

  'Yes.'

  'What complaints?'

  'Roughness. It won't do, dear Count – you're frightening the girls.'

  Záborszky rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

  'Nonsense.'

  'Amalie showed me her neck. She thought you were going to strangle her.'

  'Heat of the moment . . .' mumbled Záborszky.

  'You know,' Frau Matejka leaned forward, 'there are some who are willing to indulge gentlemen of irregular habit. Specialists. If you wanted, I could make some enquiries. Although, naturally, it would cost a little more. Let's say four – possibly five krone.'

  'I'm going . . .'

  Záborszky got up and left the room. He was feeling steadier, and marched briskly down the corridor and through the vestibule where his companions were still sleeping. In a small antechamber he collected his coat and cane.

  Outside,
he paused and allowed the cold night air to clear his head. The door had opened directly – and discreetly – onto a narrow and poorly illuminated alleyway. Bare bricks peeped through gaps in a decaying poultice of plaster. He set off immediately, noticing a figure coming towards him from the other end. The man advanced, a featureless silhouette against the diffuse yellow glow of the street lights.

  There was not enough room in the alley for them to pass comfortably, and neither of them gave way when they met. As a result their shoulders banged together with considerable force.

  Still fuming from his encounter with Frau Matejka, Záborszky wheeled around: 'Watch where you're going!'

  The other man stopped and turned. Now that it was lit by the street lights Záborszky could see his face.

  'Braun. What are you doing here?'

  'The same as you, I imagine.' The younger man took a step forward. 'Not a very spiritually enriching place – Frau Matajka's house.'

  Záborszky said nothing.

  'You know,' continued Braun, 'I'd always suspected that your interest in our circle was superficial.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'You were never really interested in communicating with the dead – were you?'

  'You're drunk, Braun. Good night.'

  Záborszky turned and started to walk away. Then he felt Braun's hand come down heavily on his shoulder.

  'No, dear Count. I think you should stay and talk a while.'

  Záborszky remained absolutely still.

  'It was all trickery you know – she wasn't genuine . . .' continued Braun. 'And I think you knew that.'

  'Remove your hand.'

  'So why did you keep on coming, week after week. Was it you?'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Did you have her – did you?'

  'Remove your hand,' Záborszky repeated.

  'She was always impressed by foppery and promises.'

  'I will not ask you again.'

  'Were they your children? The ones she was carrying? Were they?'

  Záborszky pulled on the gold jaguar-head of his cane. There was a rasping sound and the glint of light on metal. Braun jumped back, clutching his hand and nursing the deep cut that was already bleeding profusely.