Mortal Mischief

by Frank Tallis

  'Be careful,' said Liebermann. 'You might stumble.'

  'No, I won't. It's better this way – I'm enjoying the view.'

  Clara was wearing a long coat with a fur collar and a Cossack-style hat. The ensemble emphasised the delicacy of her features. Her little face, peering out from its bed of sable, appeared curiously feral.

  Was this the right moment?

  Since meeting with Mendel in The Imperial, Liebermann had thought of nothing else but this walk. He had been looking forward to it with fervid impatience. Every intervening second had passed slowly – particularly those spent at Gruner's demonstration – stretching the minutes into refractory hours. For much of the afternoon the storm had threatened to scupper his plan, but now nothing stood in his way. He cleared his throat, ready to speak.

  'Do you know what my father said this morning?' asked Clara.

  The opportunity vanished as swiftly as it had appeared.

  'No. What did he say?'

  'He said that we're going to Meran in the summer.'

  'Really? For how long?'

  'A month or two . . . He thinks it will help Rachel's asthma.'

  'I'm sure it will. The Tyrol air is very good for bronchial problems.'

  Clara stopped, turned again, and extended her arm, allowing Liebermann to take it as he advanced.

  'Have you ever been there, Max?'

  'Yes,' Liebermann replied. 'I worked in Meran when I was a student. Let me offer you a piece of very useful advice. Avoid anything that's supposed to have medicinal properties – particularly the whey cure.'

  'What's that?'

  'A local remedy, much favoured by the good people of Meran. It consists of coagulated milk with white wine, strained from the curd and sweetened with sugar.'

  Clara screwed up her face.

  'Oh, that sounds utterly disgusting.'

  'It is – but the locals swear by it. However, if you're going in the summer you might be all right. I think it's a seasonal delight, served mostly in the spring.'

  A cold gust of wind blew in from the east, and they instinctively drew closer together.

  'Will I get bored, do you think?'

  'A little, perhaps. But there are fairs and market days. And there are so many Viennese there – you're bound to bump into someone you know . . .'

  Ahead of them the detail of the baroque palace was becoming clearer. It was an enormous building of white stucco that extended between two octagonal domed pavilions; however, it looked as though a garrison of Turks had pitched a line of green tents on the roof. This was, of course, an architectural conceit, intended to remind onlookers of the great siege.

  Clara squeezed Liebermann's arm in the crook of her elbow.

  Again, Liebermann wondered whether the moment had arrived. Whether he should stop walking, take Clara in his arms, and ask her to be his wife.

  'Herr Donner came today.'

  The sound of her voice brought him out of his reverie.

  'I'm sorry?'

  'Herr Donner, my piano teacher.'

  'Of course . . . and what did he teach you?'

  'We played a duet by Brahms. A waltz.'

  'Which one?'

  'I don't know. I've forgotten.'

  'Then how does it go?'

  Clara attempted to sing the melody, but quickly lost her way in a succession of chaotic key changes. 'No,' she said. 'It didn't go like that at all.' She tried again, this time managing to hum a lilting tune that sounded more like a lullaby.

  'I know that. It's one of the Opus 39 waltzes. Number fifteen, I think. Perhaps we should try it when we get back?'

  'Oh good heavens, no. It's too difficult . . . I need more practice.'

  Clara continued describing her day: a trip to Blomberg's with her mother; the purchase of curtains for the sitting room; the shortcomings of the new maid. Liebermann had little interest in the Weisses' domestic arrangements, yet he derived enormous pleasure from listening to the familiar cadences of Clara's speech and her musical laughter. And most of all he enjoyed being close to her, feeling the warmth of her body and inhaling the subtle fragrance of her perfume.

  There was something hypnotic about their slow ascent, the pleasing regularity of their step, accompanied by the satisfying scrunch of damp gravel underfoot. Indeed, it seemed that this gentle rhythm had assisted their transition between worlds. They had passed into a kind of waking sleep and had entered the landscape of a dream.

  Liebermann looked over his shoulder. They were totally alone in the gardens, having no other company except for the sphinxes. The inclement weather had obviously deterred other visitors. After ascending the final incline, they paused to enjoy the view.

  At the foot of the slope, beyond the sunken hedge gardens, fountains and statuary, was the relatively modest lower palace. Further out, the spires, domes and mansions of the city dispersed and dissolved into an elevated horizon of blue hills. A subtle mist softened the panorama and intensified an opaque silence. The proud capital looked spectral – even oddly transparent.

  'It's beautiful, isn't it?' said Clara.

  'Yes,' said Liebermann. 'Very beautiful.'

  He knew, at last, that the moment had arrived. He had been rehearsing lines in his head all day: poetic set pieces of increasing power that culminated in dramatic declarations of love. But suddenly all these words seemed redundant. Forged endearments. Corpulent language, bloated with insincere affectation.

  'Clara.' He spoke the words quietly and clearly: 'I love you very much. Will you marry me?'

  Taking her small gloved hand in his, he raised it to his lips.

  'Please say yes.'

  Clara's expression trembled with uncertainty, oscillating between emotions. Then, finally, she produced a hushed and breathless response – a mere whisper: 'Yes, Maxim. I'll marry you.'

  Liebermann gently raised her chin and tested her lips with the briefest of kisses. She closed her eyes and he embraced her, pulling her suddenly limp body close to his.

  When they drew apart, she was smiling. But her eyes had become glassy. She sniffed, and the first of many tears spilled down her glowing face.

  Liebermann had never seen her cry before, and his eyes narrowed with concern.

  'It's all right,' said Clara. 'Really. I'm just so happy.'

  5

  KARL UBERHORST LOOKED up at the Inspector through the oval lenses of his silver pince-nez. He was a small man with short brown hair and a thick moustache combed down to cover his upper lip. Rheinhardt had noticed that it was the habit of most small men to counter their diminutive stature by standing erect. This was not the case with Uberhorst, who allowed his shoulders to slope, his spine to curve, and his head to project forward. There was something about his appearance that reminded Rheinhardt, in some vague way, of a tortoise. Uberhorst was probably in his thirties, yet his stoop and his conservative dress made him look much older.

  Uberhorst was the second 'guest' to arrive. The first had been a young woman called Natalie Heck: an attractive girl, with large dark eyes. She was now sitting on the chair by the rosewood table – the one previously occupied by Rosa Sucher.

  'The others will be here shortly,' said Uberhorst. 'They're usually very punctual.'

  It was obvious that the little man was reluctant to view the body, but Rheinhardt could not justify a further delay. Looking towards Haussmann he said: 'Perhaps you should take Fräulein Heck into the drawing room?'

  The young woman rose and adjusted her shawl – which had been beautifully embroidered. It looked, thought Rheinhardt, to be a more expensive item of clothing than a girl with her accent should have been able to afford. Her lustrous black hair had been arranged so as to reveal only one ear, from which a large glass earring dangled. She looked like a little gypsy.

  'She's not in there – is she?' said the girl, pointing towards the drawing-room door, her voice quivering.

  'No,' said Rheinhardt. 'The body is in the sitting room. Herr Uberhorst will make the identification.'

  Th
e woman sighed with relief.

  Haussmann guided Fräulein Heck towards the drawing room and Rheinhardt observed – with some satisfaction – that his assistant had already taken out his notebook. He could be trusted to undertake the preliminary interview.

  'This way, please,' said Rheinhardt to Uberhorst.

  The light in the sitting room was no better than when the storm had been raging. It emanated from a single paraffin lamp that had been placed on the massive circular table. As they entered, the police photographer crouched next to his tripod and pulled a large black cloth over his head. The apprentice, a gangly, doleful-looking adolescent, struck a match and a moment later a strip of magnesium ribbon flared. Suddenly the body was illuminated by a harsh, petrifying light. Its cruel brilliance made the blue dress and bloodstains burn with a terrible intensity.

  'Well?' asked Rheinhardt.

  'Yes,' said Uberhorst. 'That is Fräulein Löwenstein.'

  'Fräulein Charlotte Löwenstein?'

  'Yes.'

  'Thank you.'

  The already fetid air thickened with smoke and chemical fumes from the burning metal ribbon.

  Rheinhardt touched the little man's arm. He seemed mesmerised by the hellish vision.

  'Herr Uberhorst?'

  He shook his head and allowed the Inspector to guide him, like a sleepy child, through the broken door frame.

  Once in the hallway, Uberhorst rushed towards the chair by the rosewood table. He collapsed on to it, placing his head in his hands. Within moments his whole body was convulsing. Rheinhardt waited patiently until the sobbing had begun to subside.

  Uberhorst sat up, took a deep breath, and removed his pince-nez. Taking a neatly pressed handkerchief from his pocket, he unfolded it, dabbed at his eyes and finally blew his nose loudly.

  'I'm sorry, Inspector.'

  'I understand,' said Rheinhardt.

  'I'm a locksmsith. I've never—' His sentence was interrupted by another sob. Uberhorst stuffed the soggy handkerchief back into his pocket and began to rock, ever so slightly, backwards and forwards. After some time, he said, 'I can't believe it,' and after another long pause he asked, 'What happened?'

  'We don't know yet,' said Rheinhardt.

  Uberhorst sniffed, and shook his head.

  'It's unbelievable. Unbelievable . . .'

  'Herr Uberhorst, who else is expected this evening?'

  'The regular members of the circle.'

  Rheinhardt produced a notebook and waited, his pencil poised.

  Uberhorst suddenly realised that the Inspector had anticipated a more comprehensive answer.

  'Oh, I see. You want names. We are also expecting Otto Braun, Heinrich Hölderlin and his wife Juno. Hans Bruckmüller . . . and the Count.'

  'The Count?'

  'Zoltán Záborszky – he's from Hungary.'

  Another magnesium ribbon flared, spilling its merciless mineral light into the hallway.

  'Herr Uberhorst, how long have you been attending Fräulein Löwenstein's meetings?'

  'For about four months.'

  'And how did you come to join her circle?'

  'By chance. I met her one day on the Prater and she invited me.'

  A constable appeared from behind the front door.

  'Two more gentlemen, sir.'

  'Let them through.'

  The door opened fully, revealing a somewhat overweight man in a camel-hair coat. He removed his bowler hat and walked briskly down the hallway. His moustache was similar to Rheinhardt's, turned up at the ends – but perhaps less finely groomed. He was followed by another man, whose flamboyant but shabby dress gave him the appearance of a down-at-heel impresario.

  The first man stopped beside Uberhorst.

  'Karl? Is it true? Lotte?'

  His voice was a rich bass – deep and resonant.

  Uberhorst nodded and whined: 'Yes. It's true. She's dead.'

  'My God!' the big man boomed. Then, looking towards Rheinhardt, he added: 'I beg your pardon . . . Inspector?'

  'Rheinhardt.'

  'Inspector Rheinhardt. My name is Bruckmüller. Hans Bruckmüller.' He removed a calfskin glove and extended his hand. Rheinhardt was surprised by the strength of his grip. 'The young constables downstairs said –' Bruckmüller made an unsuccessful attempt at lowering his voice, '– that Fräulein Löwenstein has been shot?'

  'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'She has.'

  'When? When did it happen?'

  'Some time late last night, or in the early hours of the morning.'

  'Extraordinary.'

  Bruckmüller began walking down the hall.

  'Herr Bruckmüller!' Uberhorst called out. The cry was loud and distraught.

  Bruckmüller stopped and looked back

  'Don't go in there,' said Uberhorst. 'It's terrible. The stuff of nightmares.'

  Bruckmüller caught Rheinhardt's eye.

  'I see,' said Bruckmüller. Then gesturing to the door he added. 'If it would help, Inspector . . . I would be willing to—'

  'No,' said Rheinhardt. 'That won't be necessary. The body has already been identified.'

  Bruckmüller walked over to Uberhorst and rested a fat hand on the little man's shoulder.

  'Good fellow,' he said, and squeezed.

  Uberhorst winced.

  Rheinhardt turned towards the other man, the 'impresario', who had positioned himself by the bedroom door. He wore a moth-eaten fur coat over a tired pongee suit, his necktie was made of red silk, and a monocle – attached to a length of black ribbon – dangled from his waistcoat. In his hand he carried a walking cane. His features were broad, suggesting a trickle of Mongolian blood in his veins. This general impression of foreignness was exaggerated by an oriental moustache, which hung down to his chin, and a small goatee beard. He did not react but stood stock-still, impassively accepting Rheinhardt's scrutiny.

  'Forgive me, Inspector' said Bruckmüller, his stentorian declaration filling the hallway. 'May I introduce Count Zoltán Záborszky?' Then, feeling that further explanation was necessary, he added: 'We arrived at the same time – outside.' It was as though Bruckmüller wanted to clarify the nature of their relationship by stressing that they had not come together. They were companions by coincidence rather than choice.

  The Count inclined his head slightly and raised his cane, the top of which was a small gold likeness of a jaguar's head baring its teeth. He moved forward – an unhurried, swaying swagger.

  'The body is in the sitting room?' His German had a distinctive Magyar accent.

  'Yes,' replied Rheinhardt.

  'I must see it.'

  It was clear that the Count had no intention of asking Rheinhardt for permission. He simply sashayed towards the sitting-room door, barely acknowledging the Inspector's presence. Although tempted to assert his authority, Rheinhardt was also curious to see how this odd man would react and followed in his scented wake – the fragrance was like stale pot-pourri.

  The Count stepped through the broken door frame and positioned himself by the large circular table. He peered through the gloom, which was immediately dispersed by another magnesium flash. Fräulein Löwenstein's corpse leapt out of the darkness.

  The Count's nostrils flared.

  'Evil,' he whispered softly. 'I smell evil.' His face was entirely without emotion – an inscrutable blankness. Taking a small ivory crucifix from his waistcoat pocket, he kissed the figure of Christ and placed it on the table. 'God protect us,' he whispered.

  His eyes flicked from side to side, as though trying to locate a concealed demon.

  6

  THE PUBLIC HOUSE – a gloomy cellar, illuminated by flickering gas lights and the red glow from a squat cast-iron stove – was situated in the working-class suburb of Meidling. A beggar sat in the corner, scraping tunelessly at his violin, while three old men, seated at a central table, argued loudly. The atmosphere was dense with pipe smoke. At the bar a woman with yellow skin was picking at a plate of sliced cucumber and chewing on a black rusk.

  Otto B
raun emptied the last drops of vodka into his glass and ran a hand through his hair. It was long and kept on falling into his eyes.

  One of the old men called out: 'Gergo! Gergo, where the hell are you?'

  Braun tilted his head back and swallowed. The alcohol was finally beginning to work, making him feel pleasantly detached.

  Beyond the bar, two boots (with red trim) appeared on the staircase, followed by a heavily built Ruthenian who called out: 'All right, all right . . .' He was wearing loose trousers and a greasy satin waistcoat.

  'Well, well.' The voice floated into Braun's consciousness. 'Haven't seen you here before.'

  Braun looked up. The woman from the bar was standing by his table.

  'I've been watching you,' she said, taking the seat next to him.

  'Have you?'

  'Oh yes. And I've been thinking, there's a man who could do with some company.'

  Before Braun could answer, the woman had caught the landlord's arm. 'Gergo?'

  'What?'

  She held up the empty vodka bottle.

  'The gentleman's finished.'

  The landlord looked from the bottle to Braun.

  'You want another?'

  Braun looked at the woman and inspected her features. Although her skin was sallow, her eyes had retained a suggestion of former beauty.

  'Yes,' said Braun. 'Why not?'

  The woman smiled, and a network of creases tessellated her face.

  Perhaps Braun had overreacted. It was inevitable that the police would be involved. Crossing the deserted square, he had seen the two officers outside the main entrance to Lotte's apartment building: constables, in long blue coats and spiked helmets – and armed with sabres. He had hidden himself behind an abandoned market stall in order to observe what was happening. Herr Bruckmüller and the Count had arrived at the same time, and after some questioning had been allowed in. Not long after, Hölderlin and his irritating wife had arrived. Braun had acted instinctively, turning away without thought and keeping close to the wall as he crept back the way he had come. He had responded like an animal. It was probably the wrong thing to do but it would give him an extra day or two – and sometimes an extra day or two made all the difference.