Mortal Mischief lp-1

by Frank Tallis

  'Yes?'

  'My appearance.' Hölderlin sighed. 'As if a young woman like her . . . it's ridiculous, I know. What an idiot! Yet at the time I didn't so much as pause to question her motives. When she suggested that we should meet for lunch on the Prater the following day I agreed. You must understand this was most irregular. Exceptional, in fact. I'm not like that at all. I have never had such an assignation before. But Fräulein Löwenstein . . .' He shook his head. 'When she offered me her hand, I was powerless to resist . . . I felt . . . I felt bewitched.'

  He glanced at Rheinhardt.

  'The other Inspector, von Bulow, he's wrong, I tell you. We weren't lovers. The babies she was carrying – they weren't mine! And before yesterday, I'd never seen those dreadful photographs. She hadn't threatened me with blackmail – I don't know what she was up to.'

  'Did you see Fräulein Löwenstein again, after that meeting on the Prater?'

  'No, it was the last time I saw her. Within the week she was dead.'

  The banker suddenly fell silent, but his breathing was loud and wheezy.

  'And anyway,' he began again. 'Even if she had threatened me – I wouldn't have killed her, for God's sake. I'm not insane.'

  Liebermann crossed his legs and sat back in his chair.

  'Why did you interrupt Madame de Rougemont, Herr Hölderlin?'

  'Isn't it obvious?'

  Liebermann remained silent.

  'I didn't believe I was going to be accused of murder – if that's what you're thinking. However, I did believe it possible that Madame de Rougemont might receive a flirtatious or affectionate communication from Fräulein Löwenstein. Something that might arouse my wife's suspicion. That de Rougemont woman was uncanny . . .'

  'But your relationship with the Fräulein had not become very intimate?'

  'No, Herr Doctor, it hadn't. But if your conscience is ordinarily clear, then even a relatively minor transgression acquires considerable significance. Please, Herr Doctor, I beg of you, make sure that my wife hears nothing about this. She is a good woman and it would break her heart. She is beside herself already.'

  Liebermann pressed a crease from his trousers and made a steeple with his fingers.

  'Herr Hölderlin, how did you sleep last night?'

  'Not very well – as you can imagine.'

  'And did you dream?'

  Hölderlin paused for a moment.

  'Yes . . .' he said, slowly and uncertainly.

  'What did you dream?'

  Hölderlin looked towards Rheinhardt quizzically. The Inspector responded with a polite, muted smile but he stopped smiling when he noticed Liebermann frowning and shaking his head.

  'Herr Hölderlin?' asked Liebermann, raising his voice slightly.

  The banker rolled his head back and said: 'You want to know what I dreamt? Last night?'

  'Yes.'

  'I don't know – some nonsense about my mother.'

  'Go on . . .'

  Hölderlin sighed, too exhausted to quibble.

  'I was in a nursery – on a rocking horse.'

  'Were you a child in this dream?'

  'Yes, I suppose I must have been.'

  'Was the nursery real? Did you recognise it?'

  'Yes, it was in the house where I grew up: a big house in Penzing. I was on my rocking horse – pretending to race – and I noticed a box on the floor.'

  'What kind of box?'

  'It belonged to my mother.'

  'A jewellery box?'

  'Yes. Ivory – with mother-of-pearl inlay. I remember that when it was opened it played a tune. Für Elise – or something like it.'

  'What happened next?'

  'I got off the horse, picked up the box and tried to open it. But the lid was stuck. Then my mother appeared and – and reprimanded me – scolded me. Are you sure you want to hear all this rubbish, Herr

  Doctor?'

  'Very sure.'

  'Even though the box was in my hands, I protested. Which seems absurd now – but in the dream it seemed to make sense, seemed reasonable. Then I woke up.'

  Liebermann paused for a moment. Then, turning to Rheinhardt, he said: 'That will be all, Inspector.' Gently touching Hölderlin's shoulder, he added: 'Thank you, Herr Hölderlin.'

  The banker sat up.

  'We're finished?'

  'Yes.'

  Hölderlin got off the divan and took a few uncertain steps into the middle of the room. He looked feeble and confused. The necktie fell out of his pocket and Liebermann picked it up for him.

  'Thank you,' Hölderlin whispered, looping the tie loosely around his neck.

  Rheinhardt opened the door and ushered him into the corridor, where two constables were waiting for him.

  'Well?' said Rheinhardt. 'What do you think?'

  'He's telling the truth.'

  Rheinhardt returned to his chair and Liebermann lay down on the divan. 'How do you know that?' 'His fluency. The absence of significant hesitations. He made no slips or errors. And the dream – the dream was extremely interesting.'

  'Was it?'

  'Oh yes – it was entirely consistent with his story, and the unconscious never lies.'

  'Perhaps you could explain?'

  'With pleasure, Oskar. In order to preserve sleep, the mind must work certain transformations on the content of dreams, particularly if the dream is likely to promote anxiety. Otherwise that anxiety would constantly wake us up, which would not be very good for our general health. Thus the dream that we remember is an adulterated version of an original. Think of it as a coded message, a language of symbols in which relatively innocuous images replace those of a more challenging or disturbing nature. Herr Hölderlin found himself in a nursery – which suggests a wish to return to the world of childhood. A simple world, free from sexual intrigue. Most dreams conceal a wish of sorts . . .' As Liebermann spoke, he addressed the ceiling, punctuating his explanation with expressive hand gestures. 'But his assignation with Fräulein Löwenstein is still very much on his mind and his mental defences could not keep her out of the idyllic world of the nursery in Penzing.'

  'Max, he didn't mention her once!'

  'No, but she is still the principal subject of the dream. Take the rocking horse, for example . . .'

  'What about it?'

  'Are not horses a symbol of potency? Stallions and suchlike?' Liebermann's clenched fists closed around the imaginary reins of an equally imaginary galloping steed.

  'They are, but—'

  'And where do horses race in Vienna?'

  'The Prater.'

  'Which was where—?'

  'He had his assignation.'

  'Very good, Oskar.' Liebermann let his hands drop. 'And at that time, he would no doubt have been excited by the prospect of enjoying Fräulein Löwenstein's sexual favours. I hope that I don't need to spell out the obvious associations between Herr Hölderlin's expectations, connections with riding, and the motion of a nursery horse.'

  Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows.

  'He observed,' Liebermann continued, 'a jewellery box on the floor.'

  'Which belonged to his mother.'

  'One step at a time, Oskar. Can you think of what a jewellery box might represent?'

  'I know that the term is sometimes used by uncouth individuals to mean . . .'

  'Indeed. There is no need to be coy, Oskar. It is a common term, a slang word for the female reproductive organ. Now, in the dream Hölderlin is discovered attempting to gain entry into the box, which is more or less what actually transpired. He was discovered during an assignation. However, the dream tells us that his sexual exploits were frustrated. He didn't get very far. He may have propositioned Fräulein Löwenstein – in fact, he probably did – but she refused him. Thus, in the dream, the lid remains closed.'

  Liebermann glanced at his friend. Observing an expression closer to horror than surprise, he added: 'Oskar, if you think this a little farfetched, you might want to take another look at those photographs. The box was ivory, with mother-of-pea
rl inlay. Fräulein Löwenstein was wearing a white dress and a double string of pearls. I am absolutely convinced that Hölderlin is telling the truth about his relationship with Fräulein Löwenstein. He did not make her pregnant – they were not lovers.'

  Liebermann's tone was positive.

  Rheinhardt grunted his assent, and the young doctor continued his analysis.

  'Herr Hölderlin described himself protesting, even though he had been discovered with the box in his hands. I think it safe to assume, given his mother's reprimand, that he was doing something that was supposed to be wrong. At first sight, this seems to make little sense. How could he justify himself when he had been discovered – and I use these words knowingly – in flagrante delicto? But in dreams, meanings are conflated. He was not protesting about the assignation. His protest concerned the more significant accusation of murder. That is why the inconsistency of his position aroused no emotional conflict. His denial was experienced in the dream as acceptable. Which would suggest that, with respect to the allegation of murder at least, he is indeed innocent.'

  'But why was he discovered by his mother? In reality he was discovered by von Bulow. Surely, Max, you aren't going to tell me that Hölderlin's mother represented von Bulow?'

  'Professor Freud has suggested that significant dreams often reproduce scenes from infancy. It may be that the whole edifice of Hölderlin's dream is founded on a real memory of discovery involving his mother but now deeply buried in his unconscious. However, to uncover the secret of what really happened in the nursery all those years ago would necessitate many hours of psychoanalysis.'

  Rheinhardt shook his head.

  'This is all very well, Max, but I can't see Brügel being very sympathetic to your interpretation.'

  'Perhaps not,' said Liebermann, sitting up and turning to look at his friend. 'But I can promise you now, Oskar, that von Bulow will not extract a confession from Hölderlin, no matter how long he keeps the wretched man locked up!'

  74

  'THE MAYOR'S ABSOLUTELY right,' said Councillor Schmidt, dabbing his lips with a table napkin. 'Doctors, lawyers, teachers, opera-house directors – they're everywhere. Something has to be done.'

  'Indeed,' said Bruckmüller. 'People have become so complacent. I tell you, Julius, we need another Hilsner. That would get people talking.'

  Cosima von Rath, who had been staring wistfully at the last of the chocolates, turned to face her fiancé.

  'Does he work in the town hall too?'

  Bruckmüller and Schmidt looked at each other for a moment and then laughed.

  'Good heavens, no, my love. He's not one of us – he's one of them. Surely you've heard of Leopold Hilsner?'

  Cosima shook her head and the pendulous rings of flesh around her neck wobbled like blancmange.

  'Hans,' she cried, pursing her lips together and producing a rather ugly moue. 'You know how unworldly I am.'

  'Do you never read the papers, my dear?' asked Schmidt.

  'Never,' she replied.

  'I've seen you read the society pages,' said Bruckmüller.

  Cosima ignored him.

  'I would have thought,' continued Councillor Schmidt, 'that as a connoisseur of arcane rituals and practices the Hilsner case would have interested you a great deal.'

  'Oh? Why's that?'

  Cosima extended her hand towards the solitary truffle, seduced by its alluring sprinkle of cocoa powder.

  'Hilsner was a ritual murderer,' said Schmidt.

  Cosima's hand stopped above the chocolate where it hovered like a bird of prey.

  'Was he?' She turned to look at Schmidt, her piggy eyes glinting in their pink pouches.

  'See?' said Schmidt to Bruckmüller. 'I knew we'd get her interested in politics one day.' He raised his glass in a mock toast and sipped his brandy.

  Bruckmüller smiled and placed a patronising hand on Cosima's shoulder.

  'He was a Jew, my love. A shoemaker's apprentice. He was tried for killing a girl – she was only nineteen, I believe.'

  'Yes, nineteen,' Schmidt asserted.

  'Her body was found near the Jewish quarter of Polna. Her throat had been cut.' Bruckmüller dragged his forefinger across his Adam's apple. 'And every drop of blood had been drained from her body.'

  Cosima's hand swiftly withdrew from the chocolate and clutched her jeweled ankh.

  'Oh, how dreadful,' she piped. 'But why did he do it?'

  'He needed Christian blood for that bread of theirs.'

  'Matzoh,' said Schmidt, with an exaggerated expression of disgust. 'Dreadful stuff.'

  'They've been doing it for centuries, apparently,' said Bruckmüller, pouring himself another brandy.

  'Ahh yes . . .' said Cosima, suddenly making a connection between the subject of the conversation and her pool of abstruse knowledge. 'I've read of such things. I think it used to be called the blood libel.'

  Schmidt shrugged: 'I wouldn't know.'

  'But I had no idea that these rituals were still being performed in the modern world,' said Cosima. 'It is quite extraordinary.'

  'Indeed,' said Schmidt. 'Hilsner's behind bars now, thank the Lord. But by rights he should have swung.'

  'He wasn't sentenced to death?' said Cosima, theatrically placing both hands over her mouth.

  'No, my dear,' Schmidt replied. 'Thanks to the vociferous liberal minority – mostly Jews – he was tried again. The business of the ritual murder wasn't even mentioned the second time around! It was all suppressed. Even so, they didn't have it all their own way. Hilsner was found guilty again, of course. He was sentenced to life imprisonment – but he should have swung.'

  Cosima tutted and looked from Schmidt to Bruckmüller. Again, her features puckered to form a disgruntled pout.

  'What is it, dear?' said Bruckmüller.

  'I don't understand.'

  'What don't you understand?'

  'Why on Earth did you say that we need another Hilsner?'

  'Politics, my dear,' said Bruckmüller, tapping the side of his protuberant nose with a thick, big-knuckled finger. 'Politics.'

  75

  LIEBERMANN HAD COMPLETED the C-major fugue and had begun to pound out the C-minor Prelude. Playing Bach's 'forty-eight' was an exercise he performed with increasing regularity. Somehow, the purity and elegance of Bach's counterpoint helped him to think. He was so familiar with Bach's epic circumnavigation of the tonal world that his fingers arrived on the correct keys without conscious effort. For Liebermann, performing the forty-eight was like a spiritual discipline – a Western equivalent of the transcendental devotions practised in the East.

  Liebermann was confident that his interpretation of Hölderlin's dream was correct. The banker was not Fräulein Löwenstein's lover – nor had he murdered her. There would be no confession.

  Melodic lines chased each other at different intervals, and became entangled in dense episodes of invention.

  So who, then?

  His left hand began to toll the repeating tonic of the D-minor Prelude – above, the semiquaver triplets fell like lashing rain.

  The god of storms!

  It seemed to Liebermann that the Löwenstein case was like a labyrinth. He and Rheinhardt had been blindly stumbling through its dark corridors, occasionally grasping clues and following them for a short while, only to find themselves rudely deposited beyond the structure's walls. And at the centre of the labyrinth was the personification of an ancient evil, mocking their ineptitude.

  Whoever had killed Fräulein Löwenstein – and very probably Uberhorst too – had succeeded in sustaining a prodigious disguise. As long as the mystery remained, the case would not be brought to a satisfactory conclusion. The crime might as well be imputed to Seth.

  Doors locked from the inside.

  A gunshot wound – but no bullet.

  How did the illusion work?

  As Liebermann played on, it occurred to him that Bach's keyboard works were also a species of illusion. They sounded spontaneous, improvisatory and inspired,
yet every fugue was driven by a ruthless internal logic. The magic, as such, could be reduced to the diligent application of musical rules and mathematical principles. Be that as it may, although Liebermann could lift the veil of Bach's enchantment he could not penetrate the illusion of Fräulein Löwenstein's murder. The machinery of deception remained invisible – its levers and gears thoroughly concealed.

  The investigation had reached a sorry impasse.

  Liebermann was forced to confront an unpalatable but self-evident truth. Neither he nor Rheinhardt could determine the solution alone. They needed help. By the time he had reached the fifteenth prelude, Liebermann knew what he had to do. He did not stop playing but remained at the keyboard and completed the whole of Book One. Then, closing the lid of the Bösendorfer, he stood up and walked to the hallway where he collected his coat from the stand. He would tackle Book Two on his return.

  Outside it was still quite light, and the evening was pleasantly warm. The air was fragrant with lilac. He set off briskly, crossing Wahringerstrasse and walking downhill towards the Danube. He slowed as he passed Berggasse 19 and was tempted to go in. Professor Freud would be happy to offer him an opinion on Hölderlin's dream, and might even comment on the mental state of the murderer. But Liebermann already knew that this would not be enough. The Löwenstein mystery required a different approach. He quickened his step.

  When Amelia Lydgate opened the door, her eyes widened slightly with surprise.

  'Herr Doctor.'

  Liebermann bowed.

  'Miss Lydgate. I am so sorry to disturb you – I was passing, and thought I might pay you a visit.'

  'How very kind of you, Herr Doctor. Do come in.'

  Before ascending the stairs, Liebermann paid his respects to Frau Rubenstein. He discovered her dozing in an armchair, a volume of poetry resting on her lap. The exchange of pleasantries did not detain him long. Liebermann accepted Miss Lydgate's offer of tea, and they were soon seated in her small reception room.