Mortal Mischief

by Frank Tallis

  'Very pretty,' Brügel repeated. After further contemplation of Charlotte Löwenstein's image, the Commissioner raised his blockish head and fixed his subordinate with a sullen stare.

  'Do you believe in the supernatural, Rheinhardt?'

  The Inspector hesitated.

  'Well?'

  'I believe,' said Rheinhardt, selecting his words with utmost care, 'we should only consider a supernatural explanation when all other explanations have been eliminated.'

  'Indeed . . . but I asked whether or not you believed in the supernatural?'

  Rheinhardt changed his position to ease the discomfort of the Commissioner's scrutiny.

  'It would be presumptuous to suppose that we have a complete understanding of the world in which we live. I dare say there are many phenomena that have not ceded their secrets to science. But with the greatest respect, sir . . . I'm a policeman, not a philosopher.'

  Brügel smiled: an enigmatic half-smile – opaque and saline.

  'This business is going to attract a lot of attention, Rheinhardt. You do realise that, don't you?'

  'The facts of the case that we have gathered to date are . . . intriguing.'

  'Intriguing?' The Commissioner puffed as though the word was goose down and he was trying to dislodge it from his upper lip. 'The facts are not intriguing, Rheinhardt – they are extraordinary! I imagine our friends at the Zeitung will sensationalise every detail. And do you know what that means, Rheinhardt?' The Commissioner's question was rhetorical. 'Expectations!'

  Brügel picked up the third photograph: a close-up of the bullet wound. Next to the ragged crater was a metal ruler. The hand of whoever was holding the ruler appeared in the bottom right-hand corner.

  'Such cases shape public opinion, Rheinhardt,' continued Brügel. 'Solve a mystery like this and the Viennese security office will be lauded from here to the furthest outposts of His Majesty's Empire.' As he said this, his thumb jerked back at the painting of Franz Josef. 'Fail, and . . .' The Commissioner paused. 'Fail . . . and we run the risk of becoming a laughing stock. I can see the headline now: Leopoldstadt Demon Foils Viennese Detectives. We don't want that, now, do we, Rheinhardt?'

  'No, sir.'

  Brügel pushed the photographs of Charlotte Löwenstein across the table.

  'Keep me informed, Rheinhardt.'

  The interview was over.

  11

  WHILE OSKAR RHEINHARDT turned the pages of his songbook, Liebermann amused himself by improvising a simple chord sequence on the Bösendorfer. On repeating the sequence, he realised that he had unconsciously chosen the basic harmonies of Mendelssohn's bridal march. Looking up at Rheinhardt – the happiest of husbands – he experienced a curious sense of camaraderie. Soon, he too would be joining the fraternity of married men. Liebermann was impatient to share the news of his engagement with Rheinhardt, but recognised that it would be somewhat improper to inform his friend before he had told his own family.

  'Oskar? It's your wedding anniversary soon – isn't it?'

  'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'Next month.'

  'The nineteenth?'

  'That's right.'

  'Have you bought Else a present yet?''

  'I've been having clandestine meetings with Maria, her dressmaker.'

  'Ah,' said Liebermann, letting his hands fall on an ominous-sounding chord at the lower end of the keyboard.

  'It's a complicated business, dressmaking,' said Rheinhardt. 'More complicated than you'd imagine.'

  'I dare say that's true.'

  'Maria has been recommending all sorts – you know, materials, patterns . . . said that she could imitate a design she saw in Bertha Fürst's boutique – the fashionable one on Stumpergasse . . . Hope I've done the right thing.'

  'Oh, I'm sure you have. What colour did you choose?'

  Liebermann began playing a chromatic scale, in thirds, but stopped when he realised that his friend hadn't answered. Raising his head, he saw that Rheinhardt appeared a little uncomfortable. His immaculately groomed moustache was shifting from side to side as his expression changed to reflect increasing degrees of mental exertion.

  'What is it, Oskar?' asked Liebermann.

  'You know,' replied Rheinhardt. 'I'm not sure what we decided on in the end. There was so much talk – and so many colours. Was it a shade of green? You know, I can't remember.'

  Liebermann shrugged.

  'Don't try so hard – it'll come to mind soon enough.'

  Seeing that his friend had taken little heed of his advice, Liebermann tapped the tower of song books by the music stand and asked: 'Well, what shall we finish with?'

  'Nothing else in here . . .' Rheinhardt put the volume he was holding down. 'How about some Schubert?'

  'Excellent.'

  'Das Wandern?'

  Liebermann ran a finger down the scores' spines and pulled Die Schöne Müllerin from the pile. He opened the volume at the first page and, when Rheinhardt was ready, launched into the repetitive figure of the accompaniment. The Bösendorfer was sounding particularly full-bodied, and Liebermann pounded the keys with relish.

  Unexpectedly, Rheinhardt held up his hand.

  'No, Max.'

  Liebermann stopped playing and looked inquisitively at his friend.

  'I was wondering,' continued Rheinhardt. 'Could we try it a little slower?'

  'Of course.'

  Liebermann began again, this time, playing the accompaniment to suggest a gentle amble rather than a brisk march. After a few bars, Rheinhardt opened his mouth and filled the room with his sweet, lyrical baritone.

  'Das Wandern ist des Müllers Lust, Das Wandern!'

  The walking song – evoking a rural idyll of open roads, babbling brooks, and mill wheels turning.

  'Das Wandern! Das Wandern!'

  Rheinhardt lingered on every word, savouring the shape of each phrase, and Liebermann responded, labouring the accompaniment. The musical effect suggested effort. A tired walker, sapped of strength, struggling towards his destination. The performance was strangely elegiac. After the last bar, both men were silent, lulled into states of meditative reflection.

  'Enchanting,' said Liebermann. 'Not the standard interpretation, of course, but enchanting nevertheless.'

  He closed the music book.

  'Ah,' said Rheinhardt, as though he had been suddenly startled.

  'What?'

  'The colour of Else's dress. It was blue! A blue evening dress.'

  'There you are,' said Liebermann. 'I told you it would come.'

  Liebermann placed Die Schöne Müllerin on top of the book pile, folded the music stand and closed the piano lid. He couldn't resist stroking the shiny surface of the instrument as he stood up.

  The music room was large and decorated in a modern style. The chairs were matt black and upholstered with a fabric of Spartan design – red lines on a buff background. The rug, too, had little detail – nothing more than a border of small blue and red squares. Rheinhardt did not share his friend's modern taste. In fact, it mystified him. Rheinhardt felt much more comfortable when Liebermann opened the double doors, revealing the panelled smoking room beyond: leather armchairs, a roaring fire and a table on which the servant had placed a decanter of brandy, crystal glasses and two freshly cut fat cigars.

  Rheinhardt lowered himself into the right-hand chair, the one he always chose, and surrendered his awareness to the flames of the fire. He could hear Liebermann pouring the brandy but did not look up until his friend offered him a cigar. When they were both settled, Liebermann was the first to speak.

  'Well, Oskar, you are about to tell me of a murder investigation. And if I'm not mistaken, you'll be wanting my help.'

  Rheinhardt laughed: 'Is it that obvious?'

  'Yes,' said Liebermann. 'The body was discovered on Thursday afternoon and you had to break down a door to enter the apartment. The victim was a young woman in her twenties – and quite attractive. She had lost a considerable amount of blood, which had gushed from a fatal wound, staining her
. . . let me think: was it a blue dress?' Liebermann took a sip of brandy and smiled at his friend: 'This is good, try some.'

  Rheinhardt responded to Liebermann's invitation and nodded with approval before saying, 'So, how did I give myself away this time?'

  'Earlier this evening' began Liebermann, 'we were discussing Schubert and you unintentionally confused the Death and the Maiden string quartet with The Trout quintet! Now I know for a fact that you are very familiar with the Schubert repertoire. So I considered that the mistake, this slip of the tongue, was significant. Being, as you are, a detective inspector, the kind of death that naturally preoccupies you most, is murder. The term "maiden" implies youth and beauty . . . Putting all this together, I inferred the influence of an unconscious memory. An unconscious memory of a murdered young woman.'

  Rheinhardt shook his head in disbelief.

  'All right. But what about the blood – the blood on the blue dress? How did you work that out?'

  'When we were performing the Hugo Wolf song – Auf dem See– you stumbled over the word "blood" on both renditions. I took this to be confirmation of my earlier speculation. When I asked you just now what you intended to buy your wife on your wedding anniversary, you said a dress. But you couldn't, at first, remember the colour of the material that her dressmaker had recommended; however, some time later, you were able to say that it was blue. I took this to mean that the idea of a blue dress was being repressed.'

  Liebermann flicked his cigar, letting a cylinder of ash fall into the tray.

  'And the date of the investigation? How did you know it was Thursday?'

  'We bumped into each other outside The Imperial – remember?'

  'Yes, of course, but—'

  'You were in a terrible rush. I made an educated guess – nothing more psychological than that, I'm afraid.'

  Rheinhardt leaned towards his friend.

  'Incidentally, thank you again for allowing me to requisition your cab. Did you get very wet?'

  'Yes. Very.'

  'Oh, I am sorry . . .'

  Rheinhardt looked inordinately pained – his sagging, melancholy eyes expressed considerable anguish and pity.

  'It really wasn't that bad, Oskar,' said Liebermann, embarrassed by his friend's contrition.

  Rheinhardt smiled weakly and continued to puzzle over Liebermann's deductions: 'Max, you said that I had to break a door down – to get into the apartment. Did you guess that, too?'

  'No. You've been rubbing your right shoulder in a distracted fashion for most of the evening. You always do that after you've broken a door down. I expect it's quite bruised. Might I recommend that you use your foot next time?'

  Rheinhardt paused for a few moments before allowing himself to laugh. 'Remarkable. That really was very perceptive, Max.'

  Liebermann leaned back in his chair and drew on his cigar. 'But,' he added, 'what I haven't been able to work out is why you need my help? There must be something different – or special – about this case?'

  Rheinhardt's expression darkened.

  'Yes. There is.'

  Liebermann turned to face his friend.

  'Go on . . .'

  'The victim,' said Rheinhardt, 'was a spiritualist, a medium called Charlotte Löwenstein. We discovered her body on Thursday afternoon in an apartment in Leopoldstadt, overlooking the market square.'

  Liebermann assumed his listening position, his right hand pressed to his cheek, index finger flat against his temple.

  'Apparently,' Rheinhardt continued, 'she had been shot through the heart. However, the room in which we found her body had been locked from the inside and there was no murder weapon. There was also no means of escape.'

  'You're quite sure?'

  'In the annals of detection, there have been a number of cases of this kind – a body found in a locked room. Usually, the effect is achieved through concealment. The murderer waits in a secret compartment, and then leaves when the door is finally opened. The walls of Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment were completely solid and the floor was sound.' Rheinhardt exhaled a billowy cloud of cigar smoke before continuing. 'Moreover, when Professor Mathias conducted a post mortem examination, he was unable to find a bullet. There was no secondary wound – showing where the bullet might have exited from her body – nor any evidence to suggest that a bullet had been removed.'

  Rheinhardt paused to gauge Liebermann's reaction, and recognised in the narrowing of the young doctor's eyes the suspicion he had expected. Liebermann's index finger tapped against his temple.

  'It's a trick – isn't it? An illusion.'

  'I suppose it must be.'

  'Why suppose? How fascinating, that someone should go to so much trouble . . . I mean, what sort of a person would—'

  'There's more, Max,' Rheinhardt cut in. 'We found this by the body.'

  Reaching into his pocket, Rheinhardt produced Fräulein Löwenstein's note and handed it to Liebermann.

  'God forgive me,' Liebermann began reading, 'for what I have done. There is such a thing as forbidden knowledge. He will take me to hell – and there is no hope of redemption.' His voice was steady and without inflection.

  'Well,' said Rheinhardt. 'What do you make of that?'

  Liebermann inspected the note closely before answering.

  'Clearly, this is the rather pleasing hand of a woman. I've never seen a man's handwriting in which dots are executed as small circles.' Liebermann then turned the note over and looked at the reverse side. 'She was extremely tense when this was written. The nib of the pen was pressed hard into the paper. She paused when she had completed the final word. I know this because the paper has absorbed more ink here.' He pointed to a specific area. 'Then, I imagine, she got up in a hurry, producing the arc that runs off the page . . .' Liebermann's eyes glinted in the firelight. 'But what I'd really like to know,' he continued 'is the identity of the third person.'

  Rheinhardt almost choked on his brandy.

  'Third person? What do you mean, third person?'

  Liebermann gave a sly smile.

  'When this note was written there were three people in the room. Fräulein Löwenstein, her murderer, and a third person who – we must assume – accompanied her on her journey to hell.'

  Rheinhardt shook his head.

  'That's preposterous, Max! How can you possibly know such a thing just by looking at that note?'

  Liebermann rose from his chair, and after a swift examination of his bookcase returned with a volume that he held out for Rheinhardt to inspect.

  'The Psychopathology of Everyday Life,' read Rheinhardt. 'By Doctor Sigmund Freud.'

  'Yes,' said Liebermann, sitting down again. 'I can't recommend it strongly enough. As you know, Freud suggests that mistakes such as slips of the tongue can be very revealing. But so can inadvertent actions, such as slips of the pen while writing. Now, take a look at Fräulein Löwenstein's note.' He handed it back to Rheinhardt. 'Do you see anything interesting?'

  'You are, of course, referring to this crossing-out before the word me.'

  'Exactly. Look at it closely – what word do you think she started to write before she crossed it out? Hold the note up in front of the fire – the ink becomes more transparent.'

  Rheinhardt did as he was instructed.

  'It's difficult to say . . . but I think – I think she started to write the word us.'

  Liebermann smiled.

  'Exactly. She had started to write He will take us to hell when she meant to write He will take me to hell. Now, why should she make a mistake like that?'

  Rheinhardt looked somewhat disappointed.

  'You know, Max, sometimes, a mistake is just a mistake.'

  Liebermann executed a silent scale on the arm of his chair and began to chuckle.

  'Yes, you're probably right, Oskar. Like many who enjoy Freud's work, I am inclined to spoil things by going just a little too far.'

  12

  AS NATALIE HECK passed the brightly coloured marquees of the Volksprater, she found hers
elf stopping, yet again, to look up at the Riesenrad. It was a miracle of engineering. The circumference of the wheel was an approximate circle, achieved by the continuous linkage of bolted iron girders, while the space inside the circle was filled with a reinforcing webbing of immense metal cables. Natalie imagined a Titan's hand, strumming them like the strings of a giant harp. The most eye-catching feature of the Riesenrad, however, was its fleet of red gondolas, each the size of a tram and each carrying a fragile human cargo high above the city.

  Natalie's friend Lena had actually ridden on the Riesenrad. She had been taken by her father four years earlier in 1898. Natalie knew the exact date because the wheel had been erected to commemorate Emperor Franz Josef's golden jubilee and Lena had been among the first to step into one of its gondolas. Lena's description of the ride had frightened Natalie. The juddering ascent, the gasps of the passengers, the groaning and creaking of the stressed metal cables. And worst of all, the terrible moment of suspension at the highest point, where the wind had buffeted Lena's gondala – making it tremble and rock like a cradle. Apparently, another young woman had swooned.

  Lena was lucky – her father was still alive. Natalie's father had died three years before the Emperor's golden jubilee, so there had been no one to take her on the Riesenrad even if she had wanted. Natalie had adored her father. After his death, she would talk to him in the moments before sleep, addressing the darkness and imagining his replies. She often needed advice, but could turn to no one. Her mother had become cold and distant.

  The aching sense of loss that Natalie felt persisted for years, and would have continued had she not made the acquaintance of the woman whom the stallholders (particularly the men) called 'The Princess' – an elegant, graceful woman who spoke so very nicely.

  The Princess was particularly fond of Natalie's table, which always displayed a fine selection of embroidered shawls. She had introduced herself as Fräulein Charlotte Löwenstein, and Natalie was genuinely surprised that the woman did not possess an aristocratic title. Friendly exchanges became conversations, and when Fräulein Löwenstein learned of Natalie's loss she immediately invited the 'poor girl' for tea in her apartment, which was situated just across the road. It was while taking tea with Fräulein Löwenstein that Natalie Heck had learned of the woman's strange gift. The following Thursday evening, Natalie arrived at Fräulein Löwenstein's door at eight o'clock precisely. Three hours later, Natalie was hugging herself in bed, weeping with joy.