Mortal Mischief

by Frank Tallis

  'You ran. But where to?'

  'A public house.'

  'Which one?'

  'I don't know – a small one. It's out in Meidling . . . The landlord's a big Ruthenian fellow. I think his name's Gergo. I met a woman there. I was able to stay with her for a while.'

  'What's her name?'

  'Lili.'

  'Was she a prostitute?'

  'As good as . . .'

  'So you never left Vienna. You've been here all the time?'

  'Yes. The day before yesterday, I wandered into a coffee house and picked up an old copy of the Wiener Zeitung. It was in the evening, about eight o'clock. I found the article – you know, the one about Lotte's murder – and immediately realised that I'd made a big mistake. I went straight to the police station.'

  Braun swallowed. His skin looked clammy.

  'How would you describe your relationship with Fräulein Löwenstein?'

  'I'm not sure what you mean.'

  'Were you happy together?'

  'Were we happy?' Braun repeated the question. 'Yes, I suppose we were, particularly at the beginning. We seemed to have, how can I put this, a similar approach to life, a similar way of seeing things – and she was very beautiful, of course. Very beautiful. But it didn't last. Things weren't so good once we were back in Vienna. We argued and argued – and Lotte, who had been such a carefree woman, so unconventional, became preoccupied. Things that had never bothered her before acquired greater significance – she started worrying about the future . . . our security. And she became quite irritable. Sometimes, weeks would pass without either of us saying a single civil word to the other.'

  'What did you argue about?'

  'Money, usually. Somehow, there was never enough. She said that I drank too much. You disgust me – that's what she used to shout. You disgust me . . . You know, it's ironic that I'm here now, suspected of killing her. It could so easily have been the other way around. She tried to stab me once – and she almost succeeded. I'd been drinking and was in no mood for her nonsense. I can remember thinking, if she says You disgust me once more I'll . . . I'll . . .'

  Braun fell silent.

  'Did you strike her?' asked Liebermann.

  Braun lowered his chin, a movement so subtle as to almost escape detection.

  'Lotte left the room and came back with a kitchen knife in her hand.' Braun's eyelids tightened, creating a delta of creases that spread across his temples. Lowering his voice, suddenly absorbed by his own narrative, he murmured: 'I can see her now, standing there in the doorway, brandishing that great knife – out of breath – panting like an animal. She looked at me for a few moments, and then came rushing in. All that I can remember are those eyes and thinking How beautiful – and how terrible . . . I didn't try to defend myself, I felt curiously detached. She would have killed me, I'm certain. But something happened. There was an accident – an act of God, you might say – and I was saved. She tripped over the rug, and fell. She ended up sprawled out at my feet, and the knife went skittering across the floor – it went under the chaise longue. I suddenly came to my senses. Before she could get up again I threw myself on top of her. Of course, she struggled – kicked and shouted. But I managed to hold her down. Eventually she gave up, just went limp and started crying . . . It was a close thing – she could have killed me.' Braun shook his head and mumbled: 'It was difficult to loathe – I'm sorry – love her, after that.'

  Liebermann immediately seized on the implications of Braun's verbal slip. It suggested to him that, although Braun might claim otherwise, he still harboured feelings of affection for his beautiful and volatile paramour.

  'What do you know about her past? Her childhood?'

  'We didn't talk about such things.'

  'Why not?'

  'I don't know, we just didn't – although I think Lotte had an unhappy childhood. Her parents died when she was quite young, and she had to fend for herself – but I don't know a lot more than that.'

  'Were you not interested?'

  'She didn't want to talk – and I didn't want to press the matter. Besides, the past is the past, Doctor. What's done is done, eh?'

  'Herr Braun,' asked Liebermann, 'who do you think killed Fräulein Löwenstein?'

  'At first I thought it might have been Theodore Roche – but I'm not so sure now. He was a proud man, just the sort to seek revenge. But he had no imagination. That business with the bullet and the locked door . . . the figurine in the box . . . extraordinary. I have no idea how it was done.' Braun's lips curved to form a faint, cynical smile. 'So maybe it was a devil. Maybe they do exist, after all.'

  The young man opened his eyes and looked up, straining to see Liebermann.

  'I don't suppose, Herr Doctor, that you have a bottle of something or other hidden away in here?'

  'No,' said Liebermann. 'I don't.'

  'I find that difficult to believe. I know how much you medical men appreciate a tipple.'

  Liebermann did not respond, and Braun let his head fall back into its original position.

  'I understand that Fräulein Löwenstein met privately with Herr Uberhorst. Do you know anything about that?'

  'Yes, that's right. He was always dropping in to see her – for extra consultations. To tell the truth, I think she had a bit of a soft spot for him – poor Karl.'

  'Why do you say "poor Karl"?'

  'Have you met him?'

  'No.'

  'Well, if you had, you'd understand. Pathetic man. Lonely. Suffers from nerves, if you ask me.' Braun turned his head and said quickly, 'Only a layman's opinion, of course, but I'm sure you'd agree.'

  'Fräulein Löwenstein felt sorry for him?'

  'Yes, certainly. She could have fleeced him – relieved him of everything, down to his last heller. But do you know what? She was satisfied to accept two krone for an hour of her time.'

  'Did she entertain any of the other men privately?'

  'From the circle?'

  'Yes.'

  'None that I know of – only Karl. I used to say to her, "What on Earth do you think you're doing, running a charity?" '

  'And what did she reply?'

  'She said that he was a sad man and needed help. It was a side of her character that she rarely exhibited. He's a small chap . . . I think he brought out her maternal instinct.'

  'Herr Braun, what did you intend to do – after the child was born?'

  'What child?'

  'The autopsy showed that Fräulein Löwenstein was three months pregnant. She would have had twins.'

  'You must be mistaken, Herr Doctor. Lotte and I . . . we had stopped having relations of any kind. We had not made love for many, many months.'

  'I can assure you, Herr Braun, that at the time of her death Lotte Lowenstein was pregnant.'

  Braun sat up and, turning, let his legs slide over the side of the divan. His eyes flashed with anger.

  'Don't try to trick me, Herr Doctor. There's only one magician in this room – and it isn't you.'

  42

  THE DOORMAN BOWED and clicked his heels as the couple left the Hotel Bristol. Rheinhardt rewarded the man with a generous tip, given so discreetly that his wife – even though her arm was linked with his – did not notice. If their progress was more ponderous than usual, it was on account of the meal that they had just enjoyed. It had stretched to accommodate some five courses, the last of which was (to Rheinhardt's satisfaction) a particularly sweet Marillenknödel – apricots in curd cheese dumplings, sprinkled with breadcrumbs and roasted in butter.

  A cab was already waiting outside, the driver patiently stroking the horse with the handle of his whip. Rheinhardt opened the door for his wife and, holding her hand, guided Else up onto the footplate. A strand of mousy brown hair had fallen from beneath her hat. Although her face had become more round with age, it retained a certain girlish quality and her full figure had not exceeded the limits of Rubenesque beauty. As Else stepped into the cab, Rheinhardt took the liberty of raising her skirt, just a little, to ensure tha
t she would not stumble. This small service was administered so tactfully that, like his tipping, it escaped Else's attention completely.

  The cab rolled down the Ringstrasse, past the art and natural history museums and west into Josefstadt. As Rheinhardt looked out of the window, Else, replete with the evening's indulgences, rested her cheek on his shoulder. The cab rumbled along, bouncing on the cobbles, rocking her head from side to side. The interior became warm and slightly stuffy. Rheinhardt's thoughts, like detritus in a whirlpool, were drawn in ever-decreasing circles towards a single point of contemplation: Otto Braun.

  Rheinhardt had assumed that Else had fallen asleep and was therefore surprised when his cogitations were disturbed by a question: 'What are you thinking?'

  Rheinhardt gave himself a moment to compose an anodyne response and replied: 'I am thinking how beautiful you look in your new dress.'

  'Oskar,' said Else, a certain drowsiness thickening her voice, 'you should know by now that I am not one to be bamboozled with flattery.'

  The Inspector chuckled, and turned to kiss the ribbon on his wife's hat.

  'All right, I confess,' said Rheinhardt. 'I am a little preoccupied. But I have no wish to spoil our anniversary by discussing a murder inquiry.'

  'Nothing could spoil our anniversary,' said Else. 'It has been a wonderful evening, and I am very, very happy.' Saying this, she heaved herself up and nuzzled more deeply into his shoulder.

  'And you like your dress?'

  'I love it.'

  As they progressed past the regularly spaced lamp-posts, the cab was softly illuminated with pulses of amber. The black leather of the upholstery creaked as Rheinhardt made himself more comfortable, leaning more heavily against the woodwork.

  'Well?' asked Else.

  'Well, what?'

  The regular rhythm of the lamplight was strangely calming.

  'What are you thinking?'

  Rheinhardt hesitated and Else continued: 'It's the Leopoldstadt murder. You're thinking about that, aren't you?'

  'Yes,' said Rheinhardt, sighing. 'Max interviewed the principal suspect today – a man called Otto Braun. He was a member of Fräulein Löwenstein's spiritualist circle and he hadn't been seen since the night of the murder. He's a stage magician – a fact that we considered highly relevant, given the circumstances of the crime.'

  'And . . .?' said Else, with gentle persistence.

  'I was hoping that he would confess. But he did nothing of the sort. And the Commissioner is growing increasingly impatient.'

  'Will you let Braun go?'

  'We'll have to.'

  'And what will you do then?'

  'I really don't know . . .'

  The cab slowed, before picking up speed again, to let an omnibus pass at the crossroads.

  'You know,' said Else, yawning, 'I was reading a very interesting article in my Ladies' Journal the other day.'

  'Oh?'

  'About a woman called Madame de Rougemont – she lives in Paris. She has helped the French police solve many crimes.'

  'How does she do it?'

  'She's a medium, like Fräulein Löwenstein.'

  'Are you suggesting that I—'

  'The Sûreté are not too proud to use her,' Else cut in.

  'The Sûreté are . . . well, French. We have very different ways of doing things here in Vienna. Besides, I dread to think what Max would say if I suggested such a thing.'

  'Doctor Liebermann does not know everything,' said Else bluntly.

  43

  LIEBERMANN TURNED A corner and came face to face with Professor Wolfgang Gruner. The two men started – and even recoiled a little – as though they had both walked into an invisible wall.

  'Ah, Doctor Liebermann,' said Gruner, collecting himself. 'If you have a moment, I would like to see you in my office.'

  'Now?' asked Liebermann tentatively.

  'Yes, now,' said Gruner.

  Liebermann looked at his wristwatch.

  'My next patient is at three.'

  'What I have to say will not take long.'

  The two men marched down the corridor in silence, sustaining a synchronised, almost military step. However they maintained a conspicuous distance from each other, as though each possessed the polar properties of magnets and were driven apart by mutually repellent fields of force. In due course, the absence of polite pleasantries and their palpable antipathy became embarrassing and uncomfortable in equal measure. Liebermann was greatly relieved when they finally reached the door of Gruner's office.

  Inside, the room was gloomy and seemed curiously subaquatic. Weak spears of watery light angled through the mossy curtains, illuminating motes that glided through the air with the lymphatic grace of protozoa. Scattered around the floor were numerous battery boxes – like ancient treasure chests long since forgotten on the seabed of the Spanish Main.

  A tall glass cabinet displayed several rows of specimen jars in which spongy brain parts trailing threads of nervous tissue floated in a suspension of yellowing formaldehyde. The cabinet looked like a gruesome aquarium and one vessel – slightly larger than the rest – contained an object that made Liebermann shudder: a decomposing abortus with two heads. Flakes of white flesh had collected at the bottom of the jar, indicating that the specimen was of considerable age. This medical oddity – of unknown provenance – was the centre-piece of Gruner's macabre collection.

  'Please sit,' Gruner commanded.

  'Thank you,' replied Liebermann, drawing a heavy wooden chair closer to Gruner's imposing desk.

  'Doctor Liebermann,' Gruner began, 'I understand that you have been treating the English governess, Miss Amelia Lydgate. She was expecting to receive electrotherapy for a persistent hysterical cough and associated paralysis. How many sessions of electrotherapy have you administered, Doctor Liebermann?'

  'None, sir.'

  'Could you explain why?'

  'Her symptoms are not the result of a weakened nervous system. They are the logical consequence of several traumatic experiences. As such, they have meaning. Consequently I am of the opinion that electrotherapy is not the treatment of choice, sir.'

  Gruner sat back in his chair like Neptune on his throne. The desk had been placed in front of the window and Liebermann could not see Gruner's face against the glare. All that he could make out was the silhouette of the professor's head and a glowing aureole of frizzled hair.

  'So,' said Gruner. 'Miss Lydgate's symptoms have meaning. Would you care to elaborate?'

  'Since taking up her position as governess,' Liebermann began, 'Miss Lydgate has been repeatedly importuned by her employer. Eventually the man lost control of himself and assaulted her. He succeeded in kissing Miss Lydgate – which she experienced as a feeling of suffocation. Her cough, therefore, is the result of a repressed traumatic memory.' Liebermann noticed that Gruner was already drumming his fingers on the desk impatiently. 'Miss Lydgate's paralysis,' Liebermann continued, 'arose at the same time as her employer – frustrated and probably drunk – attempted to penetrate her. His abominable behaviour produced in Miss Lydgate a powerful but to her unacceptable wish to kill him. A pair of scissors lay within reach. Torn between the need to protect herself and the unacceptability of committing a murder, she became paralysed. Her murderous impulse was repressed and around it the contents of her own unconscious became organised in the form of a secondary, more primitive personality, which calls itself Katherine. It is this secondary personality, that now controls Miss Lydgate's right arm. In my opinion, when this psychic breach is repaired, when the division between Katherine and Miss Lydgate is healed, Miss Lydgate's paralysis will disappear. I believe that this can only be achieved through psychotherapy.'

  Gruner stopped drumming his fingers and leaned forward.

  'And what evidence do you have for this extraordinary formulation?'

  'The secondary personality surfaces when Miss Lydgate is reminded of the sexual assault. At such times she experiences a seizure, during which she behaves aggressively and recove
rs the use of her right arm. These seizures are reliably induced by an olfactory stimulus – namely, the cologne used by her employer. It should also be noted that this cologne may have played some part in provoking Miss Lydgate's cough – it is of a heavy and cloying variety.'

  'Herr Doctor,' Gruner responded, 'I am appalled at your naivety.' Gruner paused, allowing a lengthy and profoundly unsettling hiatus to ripen. Liebermann squinted into the glare that was blazing in through the window, trying to read Gruner's expression – but it was impossible. Eager to end the excruciating deadlock, Liebermann responded, finding words that were honest rather than diplomatic.

  'I'm afraid that I must disagree, sir.'

  'Doctor Liebermann,' Gruner began again, this time without any pause, 'I find it difficult to believe that a young man educated in one of the finest medical institutions in the world should be duped quite so easily. As we all know, the female hysteric is cunning, malicious and histrionic. She is a consummate seductress. The credulous physician is easy prey, lured by her confessions into her world of sordid fantasy. By taking her ridiculous flights of fancy seriously, you engage in an act of collusion that legitimises her psychopathology. Only a fool would attempt to interpret hysterical symptoms – as only a fool would attempt to interpret dreams.'

  Liebermann resisted the urge to respond to Gruner's pointed dig at Professor Freud.

  'Have you taken the trouble, Doctor Liebermann,' Gruner's voice was becoming louder, 'to discover the identity of Miss Lydgate's employer?'

  'Yes,' Liebermann replied. 'I have. His name is Schelling.'

  'That is correct,' said Gruner. 'Minister Schelling. He is greatly admired by his colleagues and possesses a deserved reputation for upholding the highest standards of moral rectitude. It has been my great privilege to sit with Minister Schelling, in my capacity as a trustee, on several committees for the promotion of charitable causes. To suggest that he would have repeatedly molested a young governess is utterly absurd. The girl is clearly disturbed. I would strongly suggest that when you next see Miss Lydgate, you administer the appropriate treatment immediately. I would recommend the Faradic moxa, an electrical brush passed through the throat cavity that will deal with her cough in one session. You will find the procedure detailed in Erb's Handbook. The paralysis may take a little longer, but will probably remit within seven days. Good afternoon.'