Mortal Mischief

by Frank Tallis

'Of course, sir.'

  Inwardly, Rheinhardt groaned at the prospect of wading through more red tape. He was a policeman, not an auditor.

  'This won't do, Rheinhardt,' said Brügel sternly. 'This won't do at all.'

  Rheinhardt was about to say something in his defence but Brügel's hand came down heavily on the desktop. It was not a loud report, but it constituted sufficient warning to silence the beleaguered Inspector.

  'From the outset of this investigation, I made it plain to you that I considered the resolution of this case to be a matter of utmost importance.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'I trusted you.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'But the longer this investigation goes on, the more I fear that my trust was misplaced.'

  Brügel thrust his head out from his collar and allowed a cruel silence to play on Rheinhardt's nerves. Then he spoke once more: 'There's a lot at stake here, Rheinhardt – more than you realise.' The Commissioner grunted and shook his head. He looked like an ox worried by flies. 'Very unsatisfactory,' he muttered under his breath. 'Very unsatisfactory indeed.'

  Rheinhardt was puzzled. He wanted to ask the Commissioner what he meant exactly? However, Rheinhardt recognised that it would be in his interests to hold his tongue. Brügel had always been an impatient man but on this occasion he seemed particularly irascible.

  'Fräulein Löwenstein.' The Commissioner barked the name like a challenge. 'The door, the bullet – any progress?'

  'I'm afraid not, sir,' said Rheinhardt meekly.

  'But you still think we're dealing with an illusionist – I hope. Hence your initial interest in Roche and Braun.'

  'That's correct, sir. Although they're not the only ones with a theatrical background. The count – Záborszky – he's been involved with theatre people too, although only as an investor. We received an anonymous note detailing his dubious history.'

  Rheinhardt leaned forward and scanned the desktop anxiously.

  'It should be there, sir.'

  Brügel rifled through a pile of disordered papers but was unable to find the note.

  'What did it say?'

  'It contained some fairly wild accusations, about Záborszky emptying the family coffers – leaving his mother and sisters destitute in Hungary. I used the information to unsettle him in the sham seance.'

  'Do you have any idea who sent it?'

  'No – but Záborszky has many enemies.'

  'I understand the Count had an alibi for the night when Charlotte Löwenstein was murdered?'

  'That's correct, sir.'

  'But he was seen leaving Uberhorst's shop the night before the locksmith's body was discovered?'

  'Yes, sir. Záborszky said he had been to see Herr Uberhorst to discuss purchasing a lock for his front door – which is not, on reflection, implausible. The Count was recently assaulted.'

  'Who by?'

  'One of his gambling associates. The Count has significant debts.'

  'How did he react when you told him that Uberhorst had been killed?'

  'I wasn't present when the Count was found on the Prater. But I'm told that he insisted that he be permitted to finish his lunch.'

  'I see,' said the Commissioner.

  'Sir, Herr Hölderlin – the banker – he too had visited Herr Uberhorst on the same day.'

  'The fellow who disrupted your sham seance?'

  'That's right. He had been to collect a book and might also have observed Herr Uberhorst's experiments.'

  'What experiments?'

  'We believe that he might have been trying to discover how the illusion of the locked door was achieved. If Fräulein Löwenstein's murderer knew about his efforts . . .'

  Brügel drummed his fingers, a five-beat roll that he repeated between lengthy pauses. It sounded to Rheinhardt like a funeral march. Finally, abandoning percussion in favour of speech, Brügel said:

  'How do you know the two murders are connected?'

  'I don't.'

  'The methods employed were so very different that one can scarcely believe they share a common perpetrator.'

  'Yes, sir. It is possible that we are looking for two murderers rather than one. But . . .'

  'Yes, spit it out, man.'

  'I think it improbable.'

  Brügel flicked through some more papers and began reading. After a few moments he said: 'Having spent quite some time with that medical fellow establishing that Charlotte Löwenstein was pregnant . . .'

  'Doctor Liebermann.'

  'Yes, Liebermann: how has this information furthered your understanding of the case?'

  Rheinhardt realised that it was probably better to accept defeat.

  'It hasn't been very helpful, sir.'

  'No,' said the Commissioner, scratching his chin between the silver-grey strands of his whiskers. 'It hasn't been very helpful – especially now that this same information has found its way into the newspapers.'

  'That must have been Braun, sir. I expect he sold the story to a journalist at the Zeitung for the price of a bottle of vodka.'

  'Which is splendid for Braun, but very inconvenient for us. Very, very, very inconvenient.'

  Rheinhardt thought it politic to remain silent.

  'Rheinhardt,' the Commissioner continued, 'there's something you should know.' The sentence sounded ominous. 'A Commissioner's duties are many and varied and I am often obliged to attend social functions, with other dignitaries – from parliament, the town hall, the Hoffburg – and one hears things. Gossip, for the most part – but not always. Now, as luck would have it, I chanced upon a rumour, a rumour that I cannot afford to ignore. It was suggested to me that a very high-ranking member of the royal family took an interest in the Löwenstein case when it was first reported in the newspapers. This elevated person was assured by a senior civil servant that the mystery would be solved by the security office soon enough. Fortunately, the said royal forgot about the case – presumably distracted by other more pressing matters of state and court. The recent article announcing that Fräulein Löwenstein was pregnant at the time of her murder is very embarrassing because it has once again brought the case to the aforesaid gentleman's attention.'

  Commissioner Brügel paused and let his eyes roll upwards. Rheinhardt followed the movement, raising his head until the massive portrait of the Emperor completely filled his vision.

  'Surely not,' said Rheinhardt.

  'I'm afraid so,' said the Commissioner. 'And my source is very reliable.'

  Rheinhardt took a deep breath, and hissed it out slowly between his teeth.

  Brügel nodded and tidied some of the papers on his desk.

  Now, at last, Rheinhardt understood why his superior was so agitated.

  'I must be blunt, Rheinhardt,' said the Commissioner. 'Given the circumstances, it is essential that this case be solved as soon as possible. To that end, I think we need some new blood, someone to take a fresh look at all this.' He swept his hand over the papers. Brügel observed the flicker of disappointment that crossed the Inspector's face. 'Look,' he continued, his tone warming slightly. 'I'm not going to take you off the case, Rheinhardt, but I think you could do with some help.'

  'Help, sir?'

  'Yes. I've invited Detective Inspector von Bulow to examine the evidence.'

  'Very good, sir,' said Rheinhardt. He had managed to preserve a façade of calm, professional resignation, but the mere mention of von Bulow's name had already induced a feeling like that of nausea.

  'As you know, he's studying with Professor Gross at the moment in Czernowitz, but he has kindly agreed to return to Vienna for about a month. You've worked with von Bulow before, haven't you, Rheinhardt?'

  'Yes, sir,' Rheinhardt replied. 'A very talented policeman.'

  'My sentiment exactly,' said Brügel. 'I'm glad you appreciate my thinking.'

  60

  A WOMAN WEARING a large feathered hat was complaining about the quality of her Esterházytorte, and threatening to change her allegiance from The Imperial to the Hotel Sacher
or The Bristol. She had attracted the attention of the head waiter and a flock of concerned inferiors who were mobbing her table like crows. Their avian appearance was emphasised by frequent bowing, which made them look as though they were pecking the air. Nearby, a large party, clearly from the Court Opera, was generating an extraordinary amount of noise, laughing loudly and toasting the ceiling with raised champagne flutes. Meanwhile, the pianist was pounding out Chopin's Grande Valse Brilliante at almost twice the usual speed, showing remarkable dexterity by executing faultlessly the repeated notes of the melody. Liebermann was very impressed.

  'Things still aren't right yet with the Bohemian factories,' Mendel grumbled on. 'There's still a lot of bad feeling – these Czech and German nationalists! They've made it impossible to run a business there. I don't think things will pick up for another few years at least. Profits and investments have virtually collapsed. I don't suppose you know the Bauers . . . Well, the problems they've had. When Badeni resigned he left a complete mess. Are you listening, Max?'

  'Yes – you were saying that after Badeni resigned . . .'

  Mendel looked at him suspiciously.

  'And as for our kind.' Mendel raised his hands and shook his head. 'What a situation!'

  Our kind?

  Liebermann felt distinctly uncomfortable with his father's over-inclusive vocabulary.

  'We were never welcomed by the Germans in the north-west, and yet the Czechs treat us as allies of the Germans. How can you win?'

  Mendel paused and stirred his Pharisäer.

  'An old friend from the lodge – Rubenstein – he died last month: weak heart.' Mendel patted his own chest. 'Lost most of his assets there – what with the riots and the political uncertainty. He didn't have any children, which was probably just as well. His wife has a small income from investments, but not a lot. Which reminds me, I must visit her with your mother . . . it must be difficult, all alone in that big house – all those memories.'

  A party by the door got up to leave, just as another arrived. Waiters swooped to clear the empty table and the humming, bustling confusion became louder and more intense.

  'Where is it?'

  'The house?'

  'Yes.'

  'Alsergrund.'

  'And what's she like, Frau Rubenstein?'

  Mendel was surprised by his son's sudden interest.

  'You want to know what Mimi Rubenstein is like?'

  'Yes – is she a pleasant woman?'

  'Pleasant enough, but shy – and bookish. I always found her a little difficult to talk to . . . I'm not a great reader, as you know. Why on Earth are you so interested in Mimi Rubenstein?'

  'Does she have a female companion?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Would she like one?'

  Mendel tasted his Esterházytorte and gave an approving nod. 'Tastes all right to me.' Then, with his mouth still full, he asked: 'Why? Do you have someone in mind?'

  'Yes,' Liebermann replied. 'An English governess who's looking for a new position – she'd be very suitable, I think. I wonder whether Frau Rubenstein would like to meet her?'

  'I could always ask. Where did you meet her, this governess?'

  Liebermann took a deep breath and began a lengthy but carefully doctored explanation.

  61

  RHEINHARDT WAS SITTING in an armchair and had not heard his wife's quiet approach. Looking up, he smiled and touched her hand. She did not respond and withdrew a little.

  'Are the girls asleep?'

  'Yes.'

  'I was impatient with Mitzi earlier – I'm sorry.'

  'It was nothing,' said Else, moving away and pulling a chair from beneath the parlour table. 'She was being difficult.'

  Rheinhardt sighed and closed the police journal that he had been attempting, somewhat unsuccessfully, to read.

  'What's the matter?' Else asked. 'I know that something's on your mind – you've been on the same page all evening.'

  'You're an uncommonly observant woman, Else,' said Rheinhardt. 'Sometimes I think you'd make a much better Detective Inspector than me.'

  He leaned back in his chair.

  'Well?' said Else. 'What is it?'

  Rheinhardt did not want to burden his wife with his troubles; however, he recognised that if he chose to be evasive she would become inexhaustibly inquisitive.

  'I was summoned to the Commissioner's office today. He doesn't think we've made sufficient progress with the Löwenstein case.'

  'Herr Brügel is never satisfied.'

  'Indeed. However, this time he does have a point – and he's invited a colleague to assist with the investigation, a man called von Bulow.' He paused before adding, 'And if there's one man I detest above all others, it's von Bulow.'

  Else sat down.

  'He is insufferably arrogant,' continued Rheinhardt. 'Something to do with his background, I believe. He considers himself a cut above the rest of us, superior by virtue of his birth. His family were ennobled because an ancestor – God knows how many generations back – distinguished himself in a military campaign.'

  'But is he a good policeman?'

  'He's clever, certainly. Sharp. But rather too fond of protocol and procedure for my liking. Needless to say, he's a great favourite of the Commissioner.'

  Else left the table and returned a few moments later with a glass of brandy.

  Rheinhardt kissed her hand and held it against his cheek.

  'Thank you.'

  Again, she pulled away. Had he not been so preoccupied, her coolness would almost certainly have aroused his suspicion.

  Rheinhardt sipped the lucent, warming liquid and his spirits rallied a little – partly because of the alcohol and partly because of the presence of his wife.

  'Oskar?' Else's voice was quiet but determined.

  'Yes, my darling?'

  'It isn't work that's been on your mind, is it?'

  Rheinhardt looked at his wife. Outwardly she seemed composed, but there was something about her manner that suggested tension. Her lips were pressed together, forming a severe line.

  'Whatever do you mean?' Rheinhardt asked.

  'You're unhappy – aren't you?'

  'Else?'

  'With our marriage.' The words were so unexpected that Rheinhardt coughed on his brandy.

  'My darling – what . . . what in God's name are you talking about? Whatever has possessed you to suggest such a thing?'

  Else straightened her back and said: 'I saw you on the Prater – dining with a woman.' The accusation tumbled out, brittle and pointed.

  Rheinhardt's mouth fell open.

  'She was being very . . . familiar,' Else added.

  For a moment, Rheinhardt appeared to be completely dumbfounded. Then, slowly, a flame of recognition ignited behind his eyes. His large chest heaved and he released a storm of laughter.

  'My darling, my darling . . . my dear wife, do come here.'

  Else hesitated before going to her husband. When she was close enough, Rheinhardt pulled her down onto his lap. She looked into his eyes, still uncertain.

  'Please,' said Else. 'Do not try to persuade me that you were engaged in police work.'

  Rheinhardt kissed her fingers.

  'Ahh . . . but it was police work, my dear! Her name is Isolde Sedlmair – and she's an actress!' Else's eyes narrowed. 'No,' added Rheinhardt. 'That didn't sound quite as I had intended.'

  Rheinhardt pulled Else closer and pressed his face against her dress. He could feel the stiff struts of her corset underneath.

  'I can explain everything,' he said. 'And after, when you are fully satisfied, I propose that we should retire early.'

  Von Bulow was no longer on his mind.

  62

  LIEBERMANN WAS WAITING in the drawing room of Frau Rubenstein's house. He had decided that it would probably be best if the widow interviewed Miss Lydgate alone; however, he had excused himself over an hour before, and was becoming slightly concerned. He could not hear their voices.

  She's not mad, is s
he?

  Mendel had taken some persuading, and perhaps Liebermann had underplayed the severity of Miss Lydgate's symptoms. Now, left to reflect on the propriety of his behaviour, he began to experience a creeping sense of self-doubt.

  No, of course she's not mad, father.

  Had he been right to make such an assertion?

  If he had told Mendel about 'Katherine', then the old man would never have agreed. A whole treatise on the subtleties of psychiatric diagnosis would have failed to persuade Mendel that a woman who had once exhibited two personalities could ever be considered sane. He had furnished his father with a thoroughly sanitised account of Miss Lydgate's hysteria and treatment. Moreover, he had been particularly manipulative by appealing to Mendel's charitable instincts, portraying the governess as a poor, vulnerable stranger. Liebermann knew that his father was generally sympathetic to the dispossessed – a class of individual likely to evoke memories of his own father.

  Liebermann examined the face of his wristwatch.

  One hour and twelve minutes.

  He got up from his seat and walked to the door. Opening it a little, he tilted his head to one side and listened.

  Nothing.

  Stepping into the long, dimly lit hall, he resolved to find out what was going on. However, just as he had reached this decision, the door of the sitting room opened, and Miss Lydgate appeared. She was obviously surprised to see him there – but she did not flinch.

  'Oh – Doctor Liebermann.'

  'Miss Lydgate.' Now that he saw her again – looking sober-minded and composed – he felt rather foolish. His worries vanished. 'I was just coming to find out . . .' Liebermann was unable to finish his sentence. The redundancy of his anxiety was self-evident and he smiled with relief.

  'Frau Rubenstein would like to see you.'

  As Amelia Lydgate held the door open for him, he could not tell whether the interview had been successful – the young woman's features showed no emotion. Liebermann executed a modest bow before entering the large, musty sitting room.

  Frau Rubenstein, dressed entirely in black, was seated in an armchair by the large bay window. She was a small woman, shrunk, perhaps, not only by age but by recent grief. Yet, when she looked up, her expression was bright, and her eyes sparkled. At her feet were several books that had not been there when Liebermann had left the room. Clearly, the two women had been discussing or reading them.