Mortal Mischief lp-1

by Frank Tallis

  'Is there a problem?' asked Bruckmüller.

  'No, I don't think so,' said Liebermann.

  Bruckmüller repeated his original question: 'Well, Herr Doctor – isn't it so? Isn't it true that the police have their man? It said so in the Zeitung.'

  'That is certainly Inspector von Bulow's opinion.'

  'And mine, indeed. God in heaven! You were there – at Madame de Rougemont's. You saw how Hölderlin reacted.'

  The gondola lifted again. This time the movement was more smooth.

  Liebermann did not respond and Bruckmüller shifted uncomfortably. The big man's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  'Tell me, Herr Doctor – are you acting in an official capacity this evening?'

  'Yes, I am.'

  'Then why are you not accompanied?'

  'As I said, the information in my possession is extremely sensitive.'

  Bruckmüller was obviously dissatisfied with Liebermann's answer. But, after a moment's tense hesitation, he decided not to quibble. He nodded and produced a disingenuous flat smile.

  'In which case, Herr Doctor, I would be most grateful if we could proceed.'

  'Of course.'

  Liebermann walked to the opposite window. His breath steamed the glass and he wiped it clear with his hand.

  'I must begin by sharing with you some of the facts concerning Fräulein Löwenstein's history . . .' Through the criss-cross lattice of metalwork Liebermann watched the water chute produce two walls of high spray.

  'It would seem,' continued Liebermann, 'that Fräulein Löwenstein was not, as members of your spiritualist circle asserted, a talented medium. Rather, she was an unsuccessful actress who in partnership with her lover sought to exploit the gullible for financial gain.'

  'That is absurd, Herr Doctor! Hölderlin is a man of means.'

  'Hölderlin was not her lover, Herr Bruckmüller.'

  'But of course he was.'

  'No, Herr Bruckmüller, her lover was Otto Braun – not an artist, as he would have you believe, but a stage magician. He very probably did his apprenticeship down there.' Liebermann glanced down at the Volksprater. 'The relationship between Charlotte Löwenstein and Braun had become strained and unhappy. Braun was becoming increasingly dissolute – you may have noticed some changes in his appearance yourself – and was amassing substantial debts. As a result, Fräulein Löwenstein realised that she could no longer depend on Braun to sustain her livelihood. An unreliable accomplice would inevitably jeopardise their little enterprise. Being a perceptive woman, she also recognised that her principal asset, her beauty, could not last for ever. In the fullness of time, Charlotte Löwenstein began to devise a plan that would provide her with long-term security. It involved the use of blackmail.'

  Liebermann turned to catch Bruckmüller's expression. His veneer of bluff affability suddenly hardened and flaked away like dry scales. A ridge of muscle tightened beneath his jaw.

  'She was a very attractive woman – wasn't she?' said Liebermann.

  The wheel stopped to admit more passengers. The gondola rocked in the buffeting wind.

  'Yes, she was.'

  'I only saw photographs of her, and not very good ones at that. Even so, it was obvious that she was a woman of quite exceptional beauty. In the flesh she must have been . . . irresistible.' The Riesenrad creaked and groaned like the ropes and timbers of an ancient galleon. A string of electric lights suddenly flashed into brightness outside one of the restaurants on Austelungstrasse. 'Did you find her attractive, Herr Bruckmüller?'

  The big man turned away and appeared to be admiring the view. He seemed to have vanquished his emotions again and was now quite composed.

  'It would be a strange man who did not appreciate Fräulein Löwenstein's beauty. Yes, of course I found her attractive.'

  'Attractive? Or, in truth, would it be more accurate to say irresistible?'

  Bruckmüller laughed.

  'Herr Doctor, are you really insinuating—'

  The wheel began to move.

  'She seduced you, Herr Bruckmüller.'

  'That is an utterly ridiculous accusation.'

  'And you would have been happy to retain her as your mistress indefinitely—'

  'Herr Doctor!' Bruckmüller interrupted. 'You are testing my patience.'

  'But unfortunately she became pregnant, at which point the nature of your relationship changed. She began to ask you for money – substantial sums, I imagine – which you obligingly provided. She was, after all, in quite a strong position. If she chose to announce that she was carrying your child, the ensuing scandal would have ruined your chances of marrying into the von Rath fortune – to say nothing of your political ambitions. And even if you did manage to survive the initial scandal, the likelihood of your marriage and reputation surviving the appearance of an illegitimate child – or children, in this case – would have been vanishingly small.'

  Bruckmüller shook his head: 'Aren't you forgetting something rather important, Herr Doctor?'

  'Hölderlin?'

  'Indeed.'

  'Fräulein Löwenstein was not entirely sure that she would be able to succeed with her plan. You might, for example, have become resigned to your fate. Disgrace does not kill a man. There is nothing stopping an entrepreneurial spirit from transferring his assets to another capital, where he might start an entirely new life. And where would that have left Fräulein Löwenstein? No, she was determined to have financial security for the rest of her days at whatever cost. I dare say that the few months in which she enjoyed the benefits of your . . . patronage, merely strengthened her resolve. Poor Hölderlin was simply an insurance policy. A safety net that would catch her if, ultimately, you failed to comply with her demands.'

  As they gained height, the landscape of the city was being slowly revealed. A few early gas lamps had been lit, and smudges of yellow light began to gleam through the mizzle.

  'Of course,' continued Liebermann, 'you knew nothing of Fräulein Löwenstein's contingency plan, and the pressure on you was mounting. You needed to resolve this difficult situation – and quickly.'

  The wheel juddered to a halt.

  'Do you know something, Herr Doctor . . . I must confess, I have never been on the Riesenrad before. The view is quite extraordinary.'

  Liebermann was unnerved by Bruckmüller's uncharacteristically quiet delivery and the incongruity of his statement. Yet it was symptomatic of a dissociative process that he was eager to encourage.

  'You visited Charlotte Löwenstein and at gunpoint forced her to write a note suggesting that she had made a Faustian pact with the devil. Halfway through, she realised that she might be writing her own death certificate, paused, and got up abruptly. You pressed the revolver to her chest and pulled the trigger. Inside the chamber was a modified bullet. It was made not of metal but of compacted meat and bone. Such a bullet would be strong enough to punch a hole in Fräulein Löwenstein's chest but would ultimately disintegrate. Tiny fragments of – let us say – a pork chop would be completely undetectable in an autopsy.

  'Charlotte Löwenstein died instantly. You then arranged her body on the chaise longue and placed the Egyptian statuette in the Japanese box. The key was left on the inside, and locked from the outside using minute surgical forceps – made by Bruckmüller & Co. The same technique was used to turn the larger key in the sitting-room door. Correct me if I am mistaken, but the subsequent deluge was sheer good fortune, reinforcing the idea that Fräulein Löwenstein had been visited by the devil in the person of Seth – the god of storms, chaos and mischief.'

  Over the distant hills, a cloud break allowed the setting sun to peek through. A ruddy haze spread across the horizon, and for a moment the sky acquired the texture and colour of beaten bronze. Under this vengeful firmament, Vienna appeared like a biblical city, a decadent sprawl ripe for retribution and the cleansing lick of holy fire.

  Bruckmüller was entirely motionless.

  'Your ruse worked remarkably well, Herr Bruckmüller. The police were ba
ffled, mystified, bewildered. The Löwenstein murder seemed to have been perpetrated by a supernatural entity. The police were so distracted by the bizarre circumstances of Fräulein Löwenstein's death that they almost forgot to conduct a proper investigation! And even when the police did start to ask pertinent questions you remained unconcerned. You were confident that your clever illusion would never be unravelled. And you knew that no one would ever be successfully tried for committing an impossible crime. I congratulate you, Herr Bruckmüller: it was a brilliant plan.'

  The wheel groaned and the gondola continued its ascent. Bruckmüller turned his large head.

  'But then your fiancée, Fräulein von Rath, organised a seance, during which it became obvious to you that Herr Uberhorst was in possession of some very important information. Information that he was considering disclosing – very probably – to the police. Perhaps Fräulein Löwenstein had confided in him? Perhaps he knew that she was pregnant? Perhaps he suspected – or even knew – the name of her lover? These must have been some of the troubling questions that you began to ask yourself. Soon after, you might also have learned – although I'm not sure how – that Herr Uberhorst was trying to work out how the illusion of the locked door was achieved. If he determined that such a trick could be performed by using surgical forceps, then he would become doubly dangerous to you.

  'Perhaps you imagined the von Rath fortune slipping through your fingers? Or was it the dead weight of your body, swinging from the gibbet? Whatever image it was that played on your mind, you panicked. In the early hours of the morning you entered Uberhorst's shop, again using forceps, and crept into his bedroom. He was, I believe, asleep when you bludgeoned him to death.'

  The wheel ground to a halt. The gondola had reached the very top of the Riesenrad. It was the strangest sensation to be suspended in such a high place. Looking directly out of the window, it indeed felt like flying. More lights were appearing below, like the majestic stellar revelation that accompanies dusk in winter – a general twinkling of stars, the constellations of which were the streets and squares of Vienna.

  'It is such a beautiful city,' said Bruckmüller. 'Wouldn't you agree, Herr Doctor?' But before Liebermann could answer he began talking again. 'No, I suppose you wouldn't agree. Being Viennese . . . I dare say it would offend your urban sensibility to make such an admission. You would prefer, no doubt, to make some cynical remark about its excesses.'

  A firework, launched from the Prater, shot into the air and exploded – a starburst of blue and yellow stars.

  'But what a prize . . .' continued Bruckmüller reflectively. Then, shaking his head, he repeated: 'What a prize.'

  The gondola was slapped by a gust of wind, rocking it backwards and forwards like a cradle.

  'You wanted to be Mayor,' said Liebermann, recognizing the reach of Bruckmüller's ambition.

  The big man's face swung around. Perspiration was trickling off his forehead.

  'He's got some good ideas, has Lueger – but he never goes far enough . . .' The four hundred tons of iron on which they were perched began to revolve again. 'He'll never do what's necessary.'

  'And what's that?'

  'To get rid of the vermin. The journalists, the subversives, the intellectuals . . . I pray that someone has the good sense to do what needs to be done. Before it's too late.'

  They had begun their descent.

  'Vienna,' said Bruckmüller again. 'The jewel of the empire . . . but it won't hold, you know. All these people. All these different people. They are too numerous, and too varied. It'll need a strong arm to protect the honest, decent folk when it all begins to unravel. Do you believe in destiny, Doctor Liebermann?'

  The young doctor shook his head.

  'I didn't think you would,' said Bruckmüller.

  Liebermann's clinical sensibility had not deserted him. He examined Bruckmüller as if he were a patient. He saw a man who believed that he was, in some way, chosen. A narcissist who subscribed to a suspect Pan-German philosophy in which the threads of mysticism, prejudice and a folkish idealism, had become hopelessly entangled. It was little wonder he could kill so easily. A man like him would kill anyone who got in the way of his lofty ambitions.

  Bruckmüller puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. Then, bracing himself, he stood up straight and took a step towards Liebermann.

  'Well, Herr Doctor, you must be feeling very pleased with yourself. I feel almost obliged to return the compliment that you paid me earlier. Yes, and why not? I think I will. Congratulations, Herr Doctor: a brilliant exposition. I can only assume that when we reach the ground the police will be waiting to arrest me.' Bruckmüller's smile was broad and humourless. 'Which makes me wonder: are you so very clever, after all? Sly, cunning, slippery – as one would expect from a member of your race – but clever? Maybe not.'

  Liebermann took a step back and shifted to the other side of the gondola.

  'You have left me very few options, Herr Doctor. But I can still exercise some choices. I take it that you now realise your mistake.' Bruckmüller reached for the door and yanked it open. A gust of damp air blew into the cabin.

  'Don't jump!' cried Liebermann automatically.

  Bruckmüller laughed.

  'I don't intend to, Herr Doctor.'

  The big man moved towards Liebermann, his fists held up like a pugilist's. Bruckmüller's bulk made him appear more squat than his true height but now that he was up close Liebermann realised that his antagonist was disconcertingly tall.

  The young doctor was able to dodge the first punch but there was nowhere to run. A second swipe cuffed Liebermann on the side of the head and he stumbled towards the open door. The gondola rolled and Bruckmüller lurched forward, clawing the air before his heavy paw landed on Liebermann's shoulder, his grip tightening as he pressed down. Bruckmüller's fingers dug into Liebermann's flesh like the teeth of a Rottweiler. The sheer weight of his arm threatened to snap the young doctor's collarbone. Liebermann flailed around helplessly before Bruckmüller landed an eviscerating punch. It felt like a cannon ball tearing through Liebermann's stomach and scorching his innards. Unable to breathe and wanting to vomit, he was still bent double when a second punch lifted him off his feet and deposited him inches from the door. Dazed, Liebermann managed to stand for a brief moment before losing his balance and falling backwards.

  He grabbed the door frame but found himself hanging out of the gondola, his feet barely keeping their precarious purchase on the cabin floor. He looked down at the vertiginous drop.

  'That's it,' shouted Bruckmüller. 'See where you're going!'

  Bruckmüller smacked his palm against the fingers of Liebermann's right hand, producing a white-hot shock of pain. The fear of death was suddenly superseded by a lesser anxiety: it occurred to Liebermann that his fingers might be crushed and that he might never play the piano again. A helpful gust of wind allowed him to pull himself forward a little. But again, Bruckmüller's palm slammed against his grasping fingers like a mallet blow. This time, the incandescent pain was short-lived and was soon replaced by a terrible numbness. Liebermann's hand had become insensate and he watched with detached resignation as his fingers slowly began to slip away from the door frame.

  Bruckmüller raised his arm, ready for the final blow.

  Suddenly there was a loud report and the noise of glass shattering.

  The big man spun round, bewildered. A stain had appeared close to his shoulder – a dark circular stain that spread quickly, fed by a small bullet hole from which blood was bubbling. Liebermann scrambled back into the gondola and threw the weight of his body against Bruckmüller who lost his footing and stumbled backwards – grabbing at the lapels of Liebermann's coat.

  Liebermann found himself being dragged after Bruckmüller. The big man's shoulders hit the cabin's woodwork, bringing his bulky body to an abrupt halt. Bruckmüller leaned against the cabin wall for support and drew Liebermann's head up so that it was level with his own. Liebermann struggled to get away but found that he c
ould not move. Bruckmüller's superhuman grip held fast. Glancing down at the expanding stain, Liebermann said: 'Herr Bruckmüller, you have been shot.'

  Bruckmüller's jaw began to move, as though he was chewing. Then, after clearing his throat, he hawked into the young doctor's face. Liebermann flinched as a ball of bloody mucus hit him and splattered across his cheek.

  'I know I've been shot,' said Bruckmüller. 'And I don't want to be shot again.'

  Liebermann realised that Bruckmüller was using him as a shield.

  'There is no escape, Herr Bruckmüller.'

  'Not for you – Doctor Jew.'

  Bruckmüller's basso profundo vibrated in Liebermann's chest. Before Liebermann could respond, Bruckmüller's free hand closed around his neck. An instant later, Liebermann could not breathe. Instinctively, he tried to prise Bruckmüller's thick fingers apart – but his right hand was still numb and each of Bruckmüller's digits was slick with blood.

  Liebermann was horrified by the look in Bruckmüller's eyes. Malice had been replaced by something far more sinister: detached concentration. Bruckmüller was like a scientist observing a creature expiring in a vacuum jar. He seemed to be willing Liebermann dead – dispassionately consigning him to oblivion. As the world began to darken around him, Liebermann became aware of a thought forming in his mind – a small voice, striving to be heard amid the noise and confusion.

  I am not ready to die.

  It was the closest that he had ever come to praying and even though he had not requested the intervention of a higher power this assertion – resentful and pathetic – was still an appeal. An entreaty. And, against all expectations, it appeared to have some effect.

  Bruckmüller's serious, studious gaze clouded. His lids fell and then lifted in a sluggish blink – and, miraculously, Liebermann found that he could breathe again. He gulped the air hungrily, sucking it deep into his lungs through his painfully restricted windpipe. Bruckmüller's grip weakened and his fingers peeled away from Liebermann's throat one by one.