Mortal Mischief

by Frank Tallis

  Surfacing from his reverie, Liebermann became aware that Clara was pressing her knee against his. He looked at her, and for a moment her confidence stalled. She blushed and looked away, but then, recovering her sense of purpose, allowed his leg to slip between hers. They maintained contact for a few seconds, and then simultaneously disengaged.

  'Do you know what this is?' asked Liebermann, smiling.

  'Yes,' said Clara. 'It's the piece about dreaming . . . by Robert Schumann.'

  'And what are you dreaming of?'

  'Can't you guess, Maxim?'

  The look she gave him was little short of indecent.

  18

  'So,' SAID PROFESSOR FREUD. 'Two Jews meet outside the bathhouse. Have you taken a bath already? asks one. How come? says the other. Is one missing? '

  Liebermann laughed, although more at Professor Freud's delivery than at the joke itself. Freud had adopted a pronounced Yiddisher accent and had chosen to end the joke with a fixed gesture, hands raised, a grotesque parody of the mannerisms of Eastern Jewry.

  'Let me tell you another,' said Freud. 'A young man goes to the matchmaker, and the matchmaker asks: What kind of bride do you want? The young man replies: She must be beautiful, she must be rich, and she must be clever. Fine, says the matchmaker. But I make that three wives.'

  Freud stubbed out his cigar, and was unsuccessful in his attempt to stop a reticent smile from turning into a wheezy chuckle that continued for some time. He was looking very well, Liebermann thought. Indeed, Freud had been much happier since February – when, finally, after many years of unjustified delay he had been distinguished with the all-important title of Professor Extraordinarius. It was odd that a man whose advancement had been obstructed because of anti-Semitism should be so fond of Jewish jokes, many of which portrayed Jews in a less than flattering light. But then, Professor Freud was a complex man, and Liebermann was disinclined to analyse the father of psychoanalysis. There was only one individual equipped to embark on such a daunting enterprise, and that was Freud himself.

  As Freud's chuckling petered out, he raised a finger.

  'One more. Then I'll stop.'

  'As you wish,' replied Liebermann.

  'How do we know that Jesus was Jewish?' asked Freud.

  'I don't know,' said Liebermann. 'How do we know that Jesus was Jewish?'

  'He lived at home until he was thirty, he went into his father's business, and his mother thought he was God!'

  This time Liebermann burst out into genuine laughter. 'Why have you started collecting jokes?' he asked.

  'I haven't started. I've been collecting them for years. I'm thinking of writing a book about them.'

  'Jokes?'

  'Yes. Jokes. It is my belief that jokes, like dreams and slips of the tongue, reveal the operation of the unconscious.'

  The professor lit another cigar. It was his third since Liebermann had arrived, and the study was thick with smoke. Some hung like a dense fog around the feet of the ancient figurines on Freud's desk. From Liebermann's point of view, Freud's collection looked like a mythic army emerging from a primal swamp.

  'Are you sure I can't interest you in another?' asked Freud, pushing the box of cigars across the desktop. 'They're very good, you know. Cuban.'

  'Thank you, Herr Professor. But one was quite enough.'

  Freud looked at Liebermann as though his reluctance to take another cigar was completely beyond comprehension.

  'My boy,' said Freud, 'I consider smoking to be one of the greatest – and cheapest – enjoyments in life.' He drew on the cigar, leaned back in his chair, and smiled blissfully.

  'I see that your collection is growing,' said Liebermann, pointing at the figures. 'Every time I visit, you seem to have acquired another.'

  'Indeed,' replied Freud. He reached out and stroked the head of a small marble ape, almost as though it were a real pet. 'This is my latest acquisition. It is the baboon of Thoth. Egyptian, of course, 30 BC – or thereabouts.'

  Liebermann did not know a great deal about archaeology. Nor did he understand the aesthetic appeal of antiquities (his sympathies were decidedly modern). Even so, he did not want to offend the professor and so nodded his head appreciatively.

  While Freud was admiring his collection, Liebermann seized the opportunity he had been waiting for.

  'Actually, Herr Professor, I wondered whether I might consult you in your capacity as an archaeologist?'

  Freud looked up and smiled, a little embarrassed.

  'Archaeologist? Me? It's a hobby, that's all . . .'

  Liebermann gestured at Freud's bookcase.

  'Still, I don't know anybody who has read more on the subject.'

  The professor nodded vigorously. 'That is true. You know, I'm ashamed to admit it but I've read more archaeology than psychology.'

  'Perhaps you should have been an archaeologist?'

  Freud blew a cloud of smoke over the desk.

  'Ahh,' he said. 'But, in a way, I am. Don't you think?'

  Liebermann tacitly accepted the professor's point. Then, reaching into his leather bag, he took out the statuette from Charlotte Löwenstein's apartment.

  'Do you think that this is an authentic antiquity?' He showed it to Freud. 'And if so, do you have any idea what it's supposed to be?'

  Freud placed his cigar in the ashtray and reached out – his expression becoming more intense and serious. He took the piece gently in his hands, and began to rotate it, inspecting every detail. The silence was disturbed by the sound of the professor's children, running and shouting upstairs. Freud raised his head, momentarily distracted by the noise, before falling once again into a state of total absorption. Liebermann was judging whether it would be considered impolite to remind the professor of his presence when Freud suddenly announced: 'It's Egyptian. Certainly looks genuine – but it's difficult to say. You'd have to get a dealer to confirm that.'

  'And what's it supposed to be?'

  Freud looked up and fixed Liebermann with his penetrating stare.

  'There is only one deity with a snout and a forked tail. That is Set or Seth. The god of chaos – the god of storms and mischief.'

  Liebermann appeared unperturbed, yet inside his head his thoughts were racing. The professor's words were like hammer blows: storms and mischief. He had always assumed that Fräulein Löwenstein's murder was a clever illusion. Nothing more than a sophisticated stage trick. Mischief, most certainly, but mortal mischief. For the first time Liebermann experienced doubt. What kind of illusionist could conjure a storm? Liebermann remembered Thursday's unseasonal deluge: massive forks of lightning – followed by apocalyptic thunder – and rain spilling from the gutter and crashing on to the pavement below like a waterfall.

  'Where did you get this?' asked Freud.

  'It belongs to a friend of mine,' answered Liebermann. 'He asked me to get it valued.'

  'Ah,' said Freud, holding the piece up to the light. 'It won't be worth a great deal of money. Egyptian antiquities aren't very popular in Vienna. It's all Baroque and Biedermeier these days.'

  'Is it?'

  'Oh yes. But there are some good dealers on Wieblinger Strasse. You should take it there.'

  'I will—'

  'And,' Freud cut in very quickly, 'if your friend isn't satisfied with the offer, please let me know. I would be keen to add this little fellow to my collection.'

  The professor placed the statuette on his desk, between the ape and a bronze of Horus. Then he patted the demon's head, saying: 'Handsome little fellow. Handsome.'

  A spiral of smoke curled around the creature's legs and tail, evoking, once again, an impression of primeval power – the awakening of an ancient and frivolous malevolence.

  Part Two

  The Third Person

  19

  IT WAS EARLY EVENING, and the gaslights were low. Rheinhardt poured his Türkische coffee from a small copper pot and raised the cup to his lips. Dissatisfied, he added another half-teaspoon of sugar and took a second sip.

&
nbsp; 'That's better,' he said. 'How's yours?'

  'Adequate,' replied Liebermann.

  On the other side of the room, under the first of two low arches, the café proprietor was standing like a guardsman. With the exception of an old man in a kaftan, Liebermann and Rheinhardt were his only customers.

  'Locks seem to have acquired a special significance for Herr Uberhorst.'

  'In what way?'

  'Well, he described one as . . . a masterpiece. He seems to approach lock mechanisms with the same degree of veneration that you or I might reserve for a Beethoven sonata. Now that I've actually interviewed him properly – and seen his shop – I have to admit that I am more suspicious . . . But . . .'

  'You don't think him capable of murder.'

  'Frankly, no.'

  Liebermann detected a certain hesitancy – a telling pause between words.

  'What is it Oskar?'

  The Inspector frowned.

  'I don't think he's capable of murder, but I'm not convinced that Herr Uberhorst is being candid.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'He's so very nervous.'

  'That might be his disposition.'

  'It very probably is. Even so . . . call it a hunch.'

  'Could he have used his skills to assist someone else? Someone temperamentally better fitted to the task of murder?'

  'Braun? It's a possibility . . .'

  Liebermann looked out of the window. Two hussars marched past. From within the shabby café, they looked like creatures from another world, birds of paradise with extravagant plumage. The uniform of the light cavalry was striking: a high busby, a heavily braided jacket, and the distinctive loose cloak that hung from the left shoulder. In a few seconds they were gone and the window became a vacant square of darkness again.

  'May I see Fräulein Sucher's statement?' asked Liebermann.

  'Yes, of course.'

  Rheinhardt took two sheets of paper from his pocket and handed them to his friend.

  'Is this her handwriting?'

  'No, it's Haussmann's.'

  'I thought as much.'

  'The important information is on the second page. Just there,' said Rheinhardt, pointing.

  Liebermann studied the paragraph.

  'So, Braun was a frequent visitor.'

  Rheinhardt nodded.

  Liebermann began reading: 'Herr Braun visited my mistress's apartment when I was there. She entertained him in the sitting room. On several occasions I heard raised voices, but I don't know what passed between them. It was none of my business.' Liebermann raised his eyebrows and sipped his Schwarzer.

  'What? Don't you believe her?'

  'A maid who doesn't eavesdrop?'

  'It's possible,' said Rheinhardt, with just enough emphasis to arouse Liebermann's interest.

  'Why do you say that?'

  Rheinhardt's expression changed from indignation to embarrassment: 'All right, all right. She reminded me a little of Mitzi.'

  'Ahh . . .' said Liebermann.

  'Even so,' said Rheinhardt, 'I have the utmost confidence in Fräulein Sucher. She's a good girl, believe me.' Rheinhardt's use of the term 'good girl' only strengthened Liebermann's conviction that his friend had somehow conflated Fräulein Sucher and his daughter. 'To be honest, Max,' continued Rheinhardt, 'I'm not sure about this evening's enterprise. What else can we expect to learn? Fräulein Sucher has already told us all she knows.'

  Liebermann pushed the statement back across the table. 'However, memory and knowledge are not the same thing.'

  'And what's that supposed to mean?'

  'Fräulein Sucher might be able to remember more than she knows.'

  Rheinhardt twisted the corner of his moustache and was about to ask a further question when the clock began to chime.

  'Eight o' clock,' said Liebermann. 'We should be going.'

  Rheinhardt picked up Rosa Sucher's statement and dropped some hellers into a silver tray. Then, glancing around at the empty tables, he allowed a few more coins to fall as a gratuity. The old man in the kaftan looked up, his attention captured by the sound of falling coins.

  'And you're always insisting that I'm extravagant,' said Liebermann quietly.

  The proprietor bowed and clicked his heels as the two strangers collected their coats and left.

  It had been raining again – a brief shower that had glazed the cobblestones. The air smelt of horse manure and coal dust.

  Rheinhardt set off at a brisk pace, immediately turning along a narrow alley. It was so dark that Liebermann found himself instinctively reaching out to touch the wall. Rheinhardt forged ahead, incongruously whistling the introductory theme of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony: a jaunty melody, supposed to represent the awakening of cheerful feelings on arriving in the countryside.

  At the end of the alley, Rheinhardt stopped to get his bearings: 'Over there, I think.'

  They were on a principal road again, although it was completely devoid of traffic and people. The street lights had been lit, and the dank air produced a haze of phosphorescence around the flickering lanterns.

  Liebermann noticed a woman standing in a doorway on the opposite side of the road. She stepped out of the shadows as they approached, raising her skirt high enough to reveal lime-green stockings and her petticoats.

  'Good evening, gents,' she said in a brassy voice.

  Her face had been thickly powdered, giving it the vacant and slightly disturbing appearance of a Venetian mask.

  'Good evening,' said Rheinhardt curtly.

  The woman shrugged and walked away, providing unequivocal confirmation of her profession. She glanced back over her shoulder, still hopeful, before disappearing into the darkness of another alleyway. The sound of her footsteps pinking on the cobblestones faded into the night.

  After walking another hundred yards or so, Rheinhardt stopped outside a large dilapidated apartment building.

  'This is it.'

  Liebermann looked up at the façade. It must have been beautiful once. The remains of statues could be seen in several alcoves, as could the ghosts of gilded relief work – thick cords and spectral foliation. The front door was massive and decorated with a rusting iron grid that suggested the portcullis of a medieval castle. Rheinhardt tested it with the palm of his hand and was surprised to feel little resistance. The hinges groaned and the door swung open.

  Liebermann followed Rheinhardt into an austere hallway. The walls were featureless and the floor a crude checkerboard of black and white tiles, many of which were either cracked or missing. To their immediate right, a few steps led to a landing and the scuffed and dented door of Rosa Sucher's apartment. Rheinhardt took the iron knocker in his hand and tapped three times.

  The door opened almost immediately.

  'Good evening, Inspector.'

  Rosa Sucher was exactly as Rheinhardt had remembered her: plain, polite, and timid.

  'Good evening, Rosa. May I introduce my colleague, Doctor Max Liebermann.'

  Rosa's eyes widened, suggesting a combination of surprise and respect. 'Please, come in, Herr Doctor.'

  Rosa took their coats and hung them on the hallstand before ushering them into what served as the guest room. It was small and sparsely furnished; however, much effort had been expended on the arrangement of ornaments and cushions to create an illusion of homeliness. In the corner an old woman had risen to her feet and was wobbling precariously as she leaned on a walking stick.

  'My grandmother,' said Rosa, before rushing over to help support her tiny frame.

  'Fetch the gentlemen some schnapps,' croaked the old woman as she crouched and fell back into her seat. 'It's a cold night, they'll be wanting schnapps.'

  'We don't have any, grandmother,' said Rosa quietly, glancing desperately at Rheinhardt.

  The Inspector waved his hand in the air: 'Dear lady, thank you so much for your kind offer, but my colleague and I will have to decline.' Then, looking directly at Rosa, he added more tenderly, 'Thank you for agreeing to a further intervi
ew.'

  The young woman blushed and performed a barely perceptible curtsy.

  Rosa took some chairs from beneath a table and invited her guests to sit close to a pot-bellied stove. She then sat on a stool next to her grandmother, taking the old woman's hand in her own.

  Rheinhardt made some small talk about the weather before thanking Rosa again. He then looked at his companion and said that the doctor wished to ask her a few questions.

  Rosa smoothed the creases from her dress and looked nervously at Liebermann.

  'Fräulein Sucher,' he began, 'are you familiar with the notion of hypnosis?'

  20

  THE PARAFFIN LAMP was turned down low and emitted only a miserly light. Rosa Sucher was completely still, her body laid out on an ottoman like a corpse in a casket. Liebermann sat at the head of the ottoman, out of Rosa's view but observing her intently.

  'I want you to stare at a point on the ceiling – the beading near the curtain rail will do.'

  Rosa did as she was instructed, rolling her head back to catch sight of the beading.

  'As you concentrate,' continued Liebermann, 'your eyes may begin to feel tired – your eyelids will become heavy.'

  Rheinhardt was surprised to see that Liebermann's words had an immediate effect. Rosa Sucher began to blink with increasing frequency, and in due course her eyelids were fluttering as though she was engaged in a struggle to stay awake. Liebermann modulated his voice, speaking in a persuasive monotone: 'Your arms feel heavy. Your legs feel heavy. Heavy and relaxed.' Rosa Sucher's hand slipped off her thigh, and hit the ottoman with a dull thud. 'See how your breathing is becoming shallow. Every time you breathe out, you relax a little more . . .'

  The stove hissed as the scorched logs inside exuded a smoky fragrance.

  'Your eyelids are becoming heavier and heavier,' murmured Liebermann. 'Heavier and heavier. You are sinking into a deep, deep, relaxing sleep.'

  A detonation in the stove made Rheinhardt startle. His neck muscles had become slack, allowing his head to roll from side to side, and he was alarmed to discover that his breathing had acquired the limping rhythm that typically accompanies the mind's descent into oblivion. Rheinhardt bit his lower lip until the pain cleared the fog in his head, and then, to ensure continued wakefulness, he surreptitiously pinched himself.