Mortal Mischief lp-1

by Frank Tallis

  'Test my patience again, boy, and I will slit your throat, not just your hand.'

  Záborszky dropped the slim-bladed sword back into its unconventional scabbard and pressed down. Braun heard a gentle click – the locking of a mechanism. Without looking round to face Braun, Záborszky began walking again. When he reached the end of the alley, it seemed to Braun that the Count did not turn left or right but simply dissolved into the night.

  Part Five

  The Pocket Kozy

  66

  HAUSSMANN WAS GETTING breathless. Von Bulow seemed to walk faster than most other people ran.

  'What did you think when you first entered the room?'

  'I thought it was a suicide, sir. What with the note on the table.'

  'Yes, the note. I was reading Rheinhardt's report. He consulted that doctor – what's his name?'

  'Liebermann, sir.' Their precipitate departure from the security office was still making Haussmann feel uneasy. 'Do you think we should have waited a little longer for Inspector Rheinhardt, sir?'

  'No, he was late.'

  'He is usually very punctual, sir.'

  'Well, he wasn't on time today, Haussmann. If Inspector Rheinhardt has chosen to indulge in a leisurely toilette this morning, that's his business. I have work to do. Jewish, is he?'

  'I'm sorry, sir?'

  'Liebermann – is he a Jew?'

  'I presume so.'

  'Can't you tell?'

  'Well, I . . .'

  'Never mind. He – Liebermann – he worked out that she was pregnant from a mistake in the note. What did you think of that, Haussmann?'

  'Very clever.'

  'Or lucky?'

  'He was right, sir.'

  'Do you know him?'

  'Not very well – but he has assisted Inspector Rheinhardt on a number of occasions.'

  'What's he like?'

  'Agreeable . . . intelligent.'

  'Trustworthy?'

  'As far as I know.'

  An omnibus rattled by and von Bulow raised his voice: 'He's a follower of Sigmund Freud, I believe.'

  'Who?'

  'A Jewish professor. I'm not sure that his principles, his psychology, can be readily applied to the general population.'

  'Very good, sir,' said Haussmann, without turning to make eye contact. Von Bulow quickened his pace even more.

  'The door was locked from the inside.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And there were no hiding places – places where a man could have concealed himself while you were in the apartment?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Did you check?'

  'Not at the time. But in due course I did, sir – and none were found.'

  'How thorough was the search?'

  'The floorboards were all secure. There were no compartments behind the shelves. Not enough room up the chimney.'

  'And you were present when the examination took place?'

  'Yes, sir. With Inspector Rheinhardt and constables Wundt, Raff and Wengraf. Besides, sir—'

  'What?'

  'The Japanese box. No one could have locked the Japanese box from the inside.'

  'So, it was a demon, was it?'

  For the first time, Haussmann allowed himself to smile.

  'No, sir. But given our failure to come up with an alternative explanation it might as well have been.'

  'Indeed.'

  'Sir?' Haussmann pointed across the street. 'Café Zilbergeld. The maid, Rosa Sucher – that's where she went before going to Grosse Sperlgasse.'

  Von Bulow nodded.

  When they reached Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment building, von Bulow stopped and surveyed the square.

  Market tables had been left out, and loose canvas awnings flapped in the light breeze. The surrounding buildings were relatively large, some of them up to six storeys high, and painted in bright colours – orange, yellow, lime and pink. However, the overall impression was not one of gaiety but of dilapidation. The buildings had lost their festive sheen beneath a coating of grime.

  Von Bulow shook his head in apparent disgust, pushed the door open and entered the dingy ground-floor hallway.

  'The courtyard is down there, sir,' said Haussmann, pointing ahead.

  'Does the room where she was found overlook the courtyard?'

  'No, sir – a backstreet.'

  'Then I'll take a look at it later. Let's see the apartment first.'

  'This way, sir.'

  They began climbing the narrow spiralling staircase.

  'Who else lives here?'

  'The first- and second-floor apartments are empty – the landlord is having them redecorated. The ground floor is occupied by the Zucker family.'

  'I didn't read anything about them in the paperwork.'

  'Herr Zucker is blind. His wife works as a correspondence clerk in a shop.'

  'Even so, Rheinhardt should have recorded their details.'

  They came to the top of the stairs and Haussmann stopped abruptly. There were two items propped up against Charlotte Löwenstein's door. The first was a desiccated bunch of dead flowers. The second was a small parcel. Haussmann advanced slowly, and on reaching the door hunkered down. He prised the tangled brown stems apart – a shrivelled head of dry petals fell and rolled across the chipped tiles.

  'There's no card,' he said softly. Then, picking up the parcel, he handed it to von Bulow. 'It's addressed to Fräulein Löwenstein.'

  The Inspector broke the string and unfolded the stiff paper, exposing a flat cardboard box. He opened it carefully. Inside was a stack of photographs. The first showed a very attractive woman seated at a café table. She was wearing a turban-style hat decorated with a cluster of flowers and a stylish white dress. A middle-aged man sat opposite her – he was leaning forward and held her hand in his.

  Von Bulow shuffled through the stack.

  All the photographs were of the same scene – and the pictures were not of the highest quality; one was particularly blurred. It showed the man raising the woman's hand to his lips. Her moving forearm had left a vaporous trail – like the loose sleeve of a semi-transparent gown.

  Haussmann stood up and von Bulow handed him the photographs.

  'I know who the woman is, of course,' said von Bulow. 'But who is the man? Do you recognise him?'

  'Yes,' said Haussmann. 'Yes, I do.'

  67

  IT WAS BY ACCIDENT rather than design that Liebermann found himself walking down Wieblinger Strasse. Professor Freud had been quite correct. This was clearly the place to come if one wished to purchase antiques. Liebermann examined the various window displays and tried to muster some enthusiasm for the exhibits. But he remained unmoved. It was difficult to discriminate between true antiquities and worthless rubble – between Biedermeier and junk. The bronze, china, filigree and flock made him long for simple lines and restrained geometry, the clear, polished spaces of a modern interior.

  The window through which he was looking had not been washed for a while – and at eye level a wrinkled Neue Freie Presse article had been stuck to the other side. The print was faded and the yellow paper cracked. Even so, Liebermann could still make out the content: a report on the findings of a British archaeological expedition to the Aegean island of Crete.

  Among the tarnished silver, cracked vases and copper bowls – cloudy with verdigris – his attention was drawn to two small Egyptian statuettes, one a vulture, the other a human body with the head of a falcon. The second reminded him a little of the Seth figure found in Fräulein Löwenstein's Japanese box.

  Why not? he thought.

  What harm would it do to make a few enquiries?

  Liebermann opened the door. He was not, however, greeted by the proprietor but by the screeching and agitated fluttering of a mynah bird. Hanging from the raised arm of a weather-beaten Aphrodite was a bamboo cage, the night-black occupant of which squawked in a shrill falsetto: 'Pretty things, pretty things.' Next to the bird was a large canopied wicker chair, within which a wizened old man was
ensconced, as snug as a whelk in its shell. He was wearing a Moroccan fez, and a heavy tartan blanket covered his legs. Tufts of grizzled hair sprouted out above his ears, and his long, peppery beard was streaked with remnants of colour – biscuit and beige. He was fast asleep, and neither bell nor bird could wake him. Liebermann noticed that the old man's pipe had fallen to the ground. He tiptoed across the cluttered floor space, picked it up, and placed it gently on the old man's lap.

  It was insufferably hot and stuffy. Behind the Aphrodite a large stove was radiating heat.

  Liebermann looked around. The shop was a strange emporium – a haphazard collection of lumber and ancient treasure. Among the battered chairs, old curtains, picture frames and silverware were items that appeared to be bona fide antiquities. Liebermann bent down to examine a terracotta Greek amphora decorated with a crude winged figure. A label attached to its neck and written in brown ink read Classical period, 20 krone. Next to it sat a sphinx. Its features were almost worn smooth, but its posture was resolute – sitting solidly on its haunches and staring ahead. The label declared that it was of Italian origin. There was no price.

  Liebermann picked up the sphinx and was reminded of her giant cousins in the Belvedere gardens.

  'Pretty things . . . pretty things.'

  It was where they had always gone – the Belvedere. At first he had escorted both sisters, but eventually Clara was permitted to go with him on her own, without Rachel. Herr Weiss had voiced no objection. Why should he? They all trusted him . . . How many times had he and Clara walked through those gardens? Once she had insisted on touching the head of every sphinx.

  He had always looked forward to her company – her laughter, the endless chatter, her mischievous observations. He loved the way she dressed – so fastidious, so careful with every matching colour. He was captivated by the subtle slant of her eyes, her inviting lips, her smile. She was his Clara. Yet something had changed. He didn't feel as he should . . .

  'Pretty things, pretty things.'

  Liebermann placed the sphinx back on the floor.

  'The sphinx is worth at least eighty krone. But I'd let you have it for thirty.'

  Liebermann very much hoped that he wasn't being addressed by the mynah bird – but he couldn't be absolutely sure. The words had been spoken in an equally shrill voice. He stood up and turned.

  The old man's eyes were open and glimmering with unusual brightness.

  'Good afternoon, sir,' said Liebermann.

  The old man acknowledged the greeting by raising his pipe. Then, turning to the bird, he cried, 'Giacomo, you rogue!'

  The bird squawked and preened its feathers.

  Liebermann stepped forward.

  'Are all of the antiquities authentic?'

  'Authentic? Of course they're authentic,' stated the old man in his querulous screech. 'Roman, Etruscan, Persian, Greek, Egyptian . . . you couldn't find a better selection – not even in Paris! Not even in London!'

  'I was wondering if you could help me? I'm trying to trace a particular item, one which you might have sold.'

  'What kind of item?'

  'An Egyptian figurine, about so big.' Liebermann indicated the size with his hands. 'A representation of the god Seth.'

  The old man leaned out from beneath his wicker canopy.

  'Come, come closer.' He beckoned with a gnarled finger.

  Liebermann stepped forward. The old man squinted at him.

  'Seth – what do you want him for, eh?'

  'For a friend, a collector.'

  'Word of advice,' said the old man. 'Let your friend find Seth for himself . . .'

  'Why?'

  'Because those who seek him usually find him.'

  There was something rather chilling in the old man's delivery. A certain authority – in spite of his eccentric appearance – that made the hackles rise.

  'What do you mean?' asked Liebermann.

  But the old man did not reply. He smacked his lips, closed his eyes, and sank back into his chair. He seemed to have slipped back into sleep and was mumbling softly to himself: 'The mountainside . . . covered in bushes – and wild fruit trees. I'd been riding for eleven hours. They said the distance was nine farsakhs – but it was more, I tell you, much more. Beneath one of the bushes was a dead wolf. The road was almost impassable – slippery shale, a rock fall – but I reached the top: the Muk pass. I followed a stream . . . down to the Zanjiran gorge – narrow between two cliffs: a famous place for robbers . . .'

  'That's enough, father – that's enough!' From behind a screen at the back of the shop came a plump middle-aged man wearing a tight suit. He immediately went over to the somnolent storyteller and straightened his blanket: 'Honestly, father, I can't leave you alone for five minutes.' He removed the old man's pipe and replaced it with a plate of sausage and sauerkraut. Looking up at Liebermann, the son said, 'I'm so sorry – I'll be with you in a moment.' Then he turned back to his father: 'How many times have I told you: when people come in, tell them to wait. They're not interested in your nonsense.' The old man opened his eyes, picked up a fork, and stabbed a slice of sausage.

  'Good afternoon, sir,' said the proprietor, clicking his heels. 'My name is Herr Reitlinger, Adolph Reitlinger – how can I help you?'

  'I'm trying to trace an Egyptian figure – a small effigy of the god Seth. I was wondering if you had sold it . . .' Liebermann's sentence trailed off.

  Herr Reitlinger paused for a moment. 'Seth, you say?'

  'The god of storms, boy – the god of chaos,' the old man called out.

  'That's enough, father!' said Herr Reitlinger.

  'Pretty things,' said the bird.

  'No,' continued Herr Reitlinger. 'I don't think that was one of our acquisitions. But let me show you this . . .' Herr Reitlinger reached up to a shelf and offered Liebermann a small bronze figure of a walking man. 'Amon-Re – in human form. Late period – possibly 700 BC.I think you'll agree that it's a charming piece. Notice the detail.'

  Liebermann turned the figure in his hands and whispered to Reitlinger.

  'What was your father talking about – the mountains, the gorge . . .?'

  'He travelled a great deal when he was younger.' Reitlinger made a stirring motion next to his ear. 'It all gets mixed up now.'

  Liebermann handed the bronze back to Reitlinger.

  'It is certainly a charming piece, but not really what I'm looking for. Good afternoon.'

  The old man, his son and the bird watched in silence as Liebermann left.

  68

  THE HEAVY EMBOSSED wallpaper, thick red curtains and polished ebony floorboards of the Schelling parlour combined to create an oppressive atmosphere. Even the engraved silver plates, suspended on either side of an aureate Biedermeier mirror, seemed dull and patinated: large grey-green discs that absorbed rather than reflected the weak sunlight.

  Beatrice Schelling was seated by a lamp stand and was embroidering Adele's name on to a quilt. Although the task should have been restful the speed with which she executed her needlework suggested urgency. Her lips were pressed together and her brow was deeply furrowed. She had been there for some time, and the fronded pattern she was working on was almost complete.

  Marie – her younger sister – had taken Edward and Adele to Demel's (the imperial and royal confectioners) for a treat. She had urged Marie to keep a close eye on how much chocolate the children were consuming. The last time they had all visited Demel's, Edward had returned with a stomach-ache and had eventually been sick. He had eaten four praline busts of the Emperor.

  Beatrice's mind emptied on hearing the slow, ponderous step of her husband in the hallway. The doors opened and Schelling entered. He was wearing a gold smoking jacket and a bright blue cravat. In one hand was the stub of a cigar and in the other a sheet of paper.

  'Beatrice, I have received a letter from Amelia.'

  'Is she well?'

  'She has left the hospital.'

  'She has escaped?' There was a note of shrill alarm in Beatri
ce's voice.

  'No. She was discharged with her doctor's approval.'

  'Then where is she? Are we to collect her?'

  'She is not coming back.'

  Beatrice's face became animated by a series of contradictory expressions – oscillating between hope and anxiety.

  'She says that she's found another post,' Schelling added. He advanced slowly and, looking down, absent-mindedly observed: 'You're doing your embroidery again.'

  'Yes . . .' said Beatrice. 'Where has she gone?'

  'I don't know. It's an address in Alsergrund.'

  'But how could she . . .?'

  'I have no idea.'

  'Such ingratitude.'

  'Dreadful. Perfectly dreadful.'

  Schelling reached for the lamp switch.

  'You must have the light on, my dear. Otherwise you will strain your eyes and get a headache.'

  Then, walking to the fireplace, he drew on his cigar and threw what remained of the stub on to the unlit coals.

  'She has asked for her books to be sent on – and requests that special care be taken with respect to her microscope. She does not even mention her clothes.'

  'I will get Vilma and Alfred to pack them.'

  'Yes, of course.'

  Beatrice picked nervously at her embroidery. Without looking up she said: 'What did Amelia say . . . about . . .' Her voice cracked. 'What were her reasons?'

  Schelling took a step forward and offered his wife the letter. Beatrice shook her head with excessive vigour. It was as though he had offered her poison.

  'She does not give any reasons,' Schelling replied. Then, folding the letter and slipping it into his jacket pocket, he added: 'I must write to her mother.'

  'Yes,' said Beatrice, becoming agitated. 'This evening, otherwise she might—'

  'My dear,' Schelling interrupted. 'You have overexerted yourself with the children. You are tired, do not fret.'

  Beatrice had begun to breathe faster and her cheeks were glowing.

  'The girl was very unwell,' continued Schelling, smoothly. 'Right from the beginning. Whatever poor Amelia says will immediately be recognised as fantasy. Delusion. It will be so distressing for Greta and Samuel . . . I pity them. I'm sure the doctors have tried their best – but inevitably . . .' Shaking his head, he began walking towards the door. 'There is only so much that they can do.'