Mortal Mischief

by Frank Tallis

  Liebermann chose to walk home. He set off in a southerly direction and found himself on Währingerstrasse. When he reached the Josephinum – the old military college of surgery and medicine – he paused and looked through the high railings at an imposing representation of womanhood: a large cast of Hygieia, the goddess of healing. It was one of the few classical figures in Vienna that he actually recognised.

  The goddess towered over Liebermann, her powerful hand gripping the neck of a huge snake which coiled around her arm and dropped over her shoulder in a series of diminishing involutions. She was feeding the great serpent, thus embodying the dual virtues of strength and compassion. As sunlight filtered through some low cloud, her eyes became mirrors of pewter.

  71

  RHEINHARDT OPENED THE door of Commissioner Brügel's room.

  'Ah, Rheinhardt,' said Brügel. 'Do come in.'

  Von Bulow was sitting by the Commissioner's desk. He stood and performed a perfunctory bow.

  Rheinhardt did not reciprocate. He was too angry.

  'Von Bulow. Where were you this morning?'

  'Waiting in my office with Haussmann – as arranged,' said von Bulow.

  'I arrived at five minutes to eight and you weren't there.'

  'That's because we were supposed to be meeting at seven. You were late, Rheinhardt.'

  'I was not. We had arranged to meet at eight!'

  'Then there must have been some misunderstanding,' said von Bulow, smiling with perfidious confidence.

  'Gentlemen!' Brügel said loudly. 'Please sit down.'

  Rheinhardt was quite certain that there had been no misunderstanding.

  'Well,' said Brügel, looking at Rheinhardt. 'I have some splendid news. It would seem that after only one day on the Löwenstein case, Inspector von Bulow has been able to make an arrest.'

  'I'm sorry, sir?' Rheinhardt was flabbergasted. He shot a glance at von Bulow, whose rigid features betrayed no emotion.

  'Take a look at these.'

  Brügel passed his hand over a small stack of photographs and spread them out across the desktop like a card-sharp. Rheinhardt leaned forward. There was Fräulein Löwenstein, dressed in a turban-style hat and an elegant white dress – her monochrome image reiterated, with minute variations, on every one of Brügel's arc of 'cards', occupying every suit and every value. In almost all the photographs, Fräulein Löwenstein was smiling – a broad, radiant smile that occasionally became laughter. But her eyes, wide with interest and glittering with early spring sunshine, were always fixed on the same object: her companion – Heinrich Hölderlin.

  Rheinhardt slid one of the photographs out of the splayed stack and examined it closely. The couple were seated in a restaurant. Although the horizon was smudgy and out of focus, it appeared to be parkland. Hölderlin was kissing Fräulein Löwenstein's fingers. The expression on his face was eager and lascivious.

  'Where did you get these?' said Rheinhardt, stunned and feeling slightly light-headed.

  'Perhaps you had better explain, Inspector,' said Brügel to von Bulow.

  'Of course, sir,' said von Bulow, tugging at his jacket sleeve to expose a diamond cuff link. 'I found these photographs at Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment this morning. They had been delivered by a photographer's assistant a few days earlier. The photographer's card was in the package. His name is Fritz Joly – he has a shop on Bauermarkt.'

  Rheinhardt was still staring at the images of Fräulein Löwenstein and Hölderlin.

  'I went to the shop immediately,' von Bulow continued, 'and discovered that Fräulein Löwenstein had paid Herr Joly to take these photographs. She had claimed that Herr Hölderlin was her fiancé, and that he would not usually permit his photograph to be taken – thus, Herr Joly would have to perform his task secretly. This was easily accomplished using a new miniature camera from America, something called a Pocket Kozy. Fräulein Löwenstein did not go back to Joly's shop, and Herr Joly was unaware of her murder. When she failed to return to his premises Herr Joly instructed his assistant to deliver the photographs to Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment. It is clear,' continued von Bulow authoritatively, 'that Hölderlin and Löwenstein were lovers. I suspect that, once she became pregnant, she planned to extort money from the banker using these photographs.'

  'But they weren't in her possession when she was killed,' Rheinhardt objected. 'How could she have shown them to Hölderlin?'

  'She didn't have to,' said von Bulow. 'As soon as she was satisfied that Herr Joly had completed his task, she could have revealed her scheme.'

  'Carry on, Inspector,' said Brügel to von Bulow.

  'Thank you, sir,' said von Bulow. 'Hölderlin killed Fräulein Löwenstein to escape his predicament, but became fearful of discovery. He suspected that the locksmith, Karl Uberhorst, had information that might implicate him, Hölderlin, in the murder. In your report, Rheinhardt, you mention that Uberhorst behaved strangely at Cosima von Rath's seance. He appeared to know something of value to the police. I think it is safe to assume that this concerned Fräulein Löwenstein's pregnancy. At that time, Hölderlin – like everyone else in the circle – was unaware of the results of the second autopsy. Thus, from Hölderlin's point of view, special knowledge of Löwenstein's pregnancy must have represented a significant threat, particularly if it made the police more inquisitive. Of course, he wasn't to know that even armed with such information, Rheinhardt, you would do precious little to justify his fears.'

  'With respect, von Bulow,' said Rheinhardt, 'that really wasn't—'

  'Rheinhardt!' said the Commissioner. 'Let von Bulow finish, then you can have your say.'

  Rheinhardt folded his arms and hunched his shoulders.

  'When Hölderlin visited Uberhorst's shop,' continued von Bulow, 'and found the locksmith engaged in experiments that might reveal Fräulein Löwenstein's murderer was human rather than demonic, he resolved to dispatch the troublesome fellow immediately. Remarkably, Rheinhardt, that sham seance you arranged to smoke out the killer actually succeeded. Hölderlin feared that he would be exposed and subsequently disrupted the evening's proceedings. Had I been in your position, Rheinhardt, I would not have hesitated at that juncture to make an arrest. These photographs,' said von Bulow, gesturing, 'are final confirmation of Hölderlin's guilt.'

  Brügel was nodding his head approvingly.

  'A compelling analysis, don't you agree, Rheinhardt?'

  Rheinhardt was extremely irritated at his superior's attitude towards von Bulow. The man was an impressive detective, certainly, but on this occasion he had been plain lucky. Also, there was nothing 'compelling' about his 'analysis'. Anybody with a detailed knowledge of the case who stumbled upon such photographs might speculate in the same way. Moreover, von Bulow had made extensive use of paperwork that he had derided only the day before.

  'These photographs certainly suggest,' began Rheinhardt, 'that Herr Hölderlin and Fräulein Löwenstein were lovers.'

  'Suggest?' interrupted Brügel. 'Why else would a married man be kissing the hand of an attractive woman on the Prater if she were not his mistress?'

  'Indeed, sir,' Rheinhardt replied, 'and Inspector von Bulow should be commended for his exceptionally clever find.' Rheinhardt's sarcasm escaped Brügel, but produced a minute tensing of von Bulow's neck muscles. 'But we are still frustrated by the main problem that has dogged this case from the very beginning. In principle, I agree that Herr Hölderlin looks to be our man – I have said as much myself in the report of the sham seance. Even so, we are left with the uncomfortable fact that Fraulein Löwenstein's murder is as inexplicable today as it was over a month ago. How can Herr Hölderlin be successfully prosecuted for a murder, the method of which cannot be explained?'

  'Rheinhardt,' said von Bulow, 'your objections emphasise the difference in our respective approaches. I am sure that we shall learn how Herr Hölderlin engineered his theatrical coup in good time. The villain has been discovered – and I am confident that a lengthy period of confinement in a small, preferably windo
wless cell will encourage him to make a full confession. You will not have to wait very much longer for your explanation, I assure you.'

  'Here, here,' the Commissioner chuckled. 'I'll wager we'll have our confession within the week!'

  'I'm sorry?' said Rheinhardt, looking at von Bulow. 'You intend to extort a confession out of Hölderlin by keeping him in solitary confinement?'

  'A period of isolation and hardship is sure to focus his mind.'

  'Sir,' said Rheinhardt to his superior. 'I believe that there may be an alternative, more humane way of encouraging Herr Hölderlin to confess. I request that he be permitted an interview with my colleague Doctor Liebermann.'

  'Out of the question!' said von Bulow.

  'Why?'

  'It'll spoil everything. Put the man under pressure and he'll talk.'

  'Put anyone under pressure and they'll talk,' Rheinhardt retorted.

  'Sir, Doctor Liebermann isn't a police medical officer,' said von Bulow, appealing to the Commissioner.

  'With respect, von Bulow,' said Rheinhardt, before the Commissioner could respond. 'Your current mentor, Professor Gross, suggests that the wise investigator should make use of all talents at his disposal – official and unofficial.'

  Von Bulow was surprised that Rheinhardt appeared to be conversant with the works of Hans Gross, but was stalled for only a fraction of a second. 'Indeed,' replied von Bulow. 'However, I am not altogether convinced that Doctor Liebermann is a man of talent. Nor do I agree with his methods.' He trained his bleached eyes on the Commissioner. 'Liebermann is a disciple of Sigmund Freud, sir. A man whose ideas are highly suspect, and whose psychology is peculiarly Jewish.'

  'Sir,' said Rheinhardt raising his voice. 'There is nothing peculiarly Jewish about Doctor Liebermann's methods. He is an astute observer of human nature and was able to determine that Fräulein Löwenstein was pregnant from a single error in her death note. His talent is inestimable.'

  Brügel slapped his hand on the desk. The report was as loud as a gunshot.

  'Enough of this petty squabbling – both of you!'

  The two Inspectors fell silent.

  The Commissioner pulled at his chin, looking from Rheinhardt to von Bulow and back again.

  'All right, Rheinhardt,' said Brügel. 'You can call your Doctor Liebermann. He can have one hour with Herr Hölderlin, but not a minute more. After that, Hölderlin is exclusively in the charge of Inspector von Bulow.'

  'Thank you, sir,' said Rheinhardt, feeling as though he had won a small skirmish in the course of a generally doomed campaign.

  72

  ABOVE THE COMPANY of Tritons, sea nymphs and frolicking cherubs the roof of the Belvedere peeped over the lower cascade. The couple turned right, passing a demonic face with a large nose and long curled horns. The creature's mouth was wide open, giving the impression of laughter, but its sunken eyes seemed to have rolled back into its head. The effect was rather disturbing – it reminded Liebermann of an epileptiform seizure.

  'I wore my new crêpe-de-Chine dress for the first time,' said Clara, 'and looked very sophisticated – even though I say so myself. I can't wait for you to see it. Frau Kornblüh spent months working on the lace collar – and you wouldn't believe how much it cost. One hundred florins! The bodice is tapered – very severely – and it has an old-fashioned bustle.'

  They ascended the stairs and passed an irate-looking putto wearing an alpine hat that was tilted to one side. The figure was supposed to represent April, but the infant made a curiously ill-tempered-looking and oddly attired harbinger of an Arcadian summer. He looked utterly ridiculous.

  'What an entrance I made,' Clara continued. 'Frau Baum came to greet me and led me through the room. Everyone was looking, but I kept my nerve. I managed to appear unperturbed – even haughty – though my heart was pounding. In fact, I felt quite dizzy . . . the stays are awfully tight . . .'

  'Can't you loosen them?' asked Liebermann.

  'Of course I can,' Clara responded, a hint of tetchiness creeping into her voice. 'But that would ruin the effect. The tapered bodice!'

  Liebermann nodded. 'I see.'

  The Belvedere had turned pink in the evening light. It looked like an enormous piece of confectionery – with icing-sugar masonry and a marzipan roof.

  'Well, Frau Baum introduced me to some people – the Hardy family and the Lichtenheld girls – and we talked for a while. But Flora had to find her cousin, and I found myself standing alone. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Herr Korngold appeared.'

  'Korngold?'

  'A business associate of my father's – and of your father's too, I think.'

  'Oh . . .'

  'Well, Max, you wouldn't believe his impertinence. "Ahh – he says – I wouldn't have recognised you, young Weiss. The caterpillar has become a butterfly." ' Clara's impersonation of a pompous roué was rather good. 'And so I had to stand there, pinned into a corner, listening to him talk rubbish while he leered at me over his champagne glass. It was interminable – and he has false teeth, I'm sure of it.'

  Liebermann smiled – amused by the way Clara shivered, her shoulder trembling against his arm with disgust.

  'Then who should appear but Frau Korngold. Now, I'm quite well acquainted with Frau Korngold. Mother and I are always bumping into her in town, and we always stop to talk. But she swept past – her nose in the air – without so much as a smile. "Whatever is the matter with Frau Korngold?" I asked. "Jealousy," replied Herr Korngold. "But of whom?" I asked. "You, of course," he said. And then he actually winked – can you believe it?'

  'How did you get out of this difficult situation?'

  'Fortunately, Frau Baum came to my rescue.'

  They continued walking up the path, towards the palace. Another couple, on their way down, passed them, and everyone felt obliged to exchange modest pleasantries. The young man tipped his hat, prompting Clara to exclaim: 'Do you know, Max, I don't think I've ever seen you wearing a hat.'

  'No,' Liebermann replied laconically.

  'Do you have one?'

  'Yes – several, in fact.'

  'Then why don't you ever put them on?'

  'I'm not sure, really . . .' But even as Liebermann said these words the image of the absurd vernal putto came into his mind and he smiled inwardly. Clara shrugged and, losing interest in her fiancé's indifference to hats, pressed on with her account.

  'The following day we visited Frau Lehman. She lives in a very nice house – eleventh district. The dining room is entirely of wood. She very nearly cancelled, because her son – Johann – had fallen off his bicycle.'

  'Was he badly hurt?'

  'They were worried at first – he'd cut his hand and knee. But he made a remarkably quick recovery and Frau Lehman was happy to entertain us. Anyway, Mother and Frau Lehman were talking about the Kohlbergs—'

  'Who are they?'

  'Max, sometimes I wonder whether you and I live in the same city! Herr Kohlberg is a tea supplier – and a very wealthy one at that. He had been happily married to Frau Kohlberg for over a year when all of a sudden she ran away. Just like that – left the home, forsaking her husband and child. Well, naturally, Herr Kohlberg instructed his lawyers to proceed with a divorce – intending, of course, to retain custody of his son.'

  'How old is he? The boy?'

  'A baby – nine months, I think. Then, guess what happened? Frau Kohlberg returned and begged her husband – pleaded with him – to take her back. Said that she couldn't live without her child – and would end it all if he didn't let her return to the household. Which – believe it or not – he did. Mother said this showed remarkable strength of character – the ability to forgive. But Frau Lehman said it showed stupidity. She implied that Frau Kohlberg had taken a young lover who had promptly deserted her when he'd discovered that she had no money of her own.'

  Ordinarily, Liebermann found Clara's tittle-tattle pleasantly diverting – but he was now finding it irritating and hurtful. Her rumour-mongering could sometimes be quite thoughtless, ev
en spiteful.

  'One shouldn't believe everything one hears, Clara.'

  Their gazes met, and Clara produced an exaggerated pout in response to her fiancé's gentle reprimand.

  Liebermann shook his head and studied the sphinxes. They crouched in pairs, facing each other on casket-like pedestals. Each was different, showing a unique expression. One member of the Belvedere's sisterhood was particularly striking. In spite of her regal appearance and ram's-horn hair braids, she looked close to tears. The subtle downturn of her lips seemed to presage the trembling that accompanies a welling-up of emotion. Liebermann wondered, fancifully, what kind of sadness might have insinuated itself into the cold, leonine heart of a mythical beast.

  Clara soon tired of pouting, and cheerfully resumed talking: 'My aunt Trudi took me out on Wednesday – fetched me in a rubber-wheeled phaeton. Let me tell you, it was simply hideous. We drove to the Graben, had high tea, then hailed the smartest fiacre we could find and went on to the Prater.'

  'Did you go on the Riesenrad again?'

  'Yes. I never get bored of it.'

  'Many people – especially young women – find it frightening.'

  'I don't. I find it—' Suddenly, Clara stopped speaking.

  'What?'

  'I find it . . .' Her brow furrowed with concentration. 'Dreamy.'

  'Dreamy? In what sense?'

  'It's such an unusual experience. You know, like when you find yourself flying in a dream. Do you ever dream of flying, Max?'

  'I think everybody does.'

  'And what's it supposed to mean – when you fly in a dream?'

  'It doesn't mean anything – specifically. Its meaning will depend on the person's character and circumstances. However, such dreams probably derive from very early memories. Professor Freud says that there cannot be a single uncle who hasn't shown a child how to fly . . .'

  'That's interesting.'

  'What is?'

  'I think Aunt Trudi used to do that with me. She used to pick me up and rush around the room. I used to scream with laughter.'