Mortal Mischief

by Frank Tallis

  Liebermann found himself being dragged after Bruckmüller. The big man's shoulders hit the cabin's woodwork, bringing his bulky body to an abrupt halt. Bruckmüller leaned against the cabin wall for support and drew Liebermann's head up so that it was level with his own. Liebermann struggled to get away but found that he could not move. Bruckmüller's superhuman grip held fast. Glancing down at the expanding stain, Liebermann said: 'Herr Bruckmüller, you have been shot.'

  Bruckmüller's jaw began to move, as though he was chewing. Then, after clearing his throat, he hawked into the young doctor's face. Liebermann flinched as a ball of bloody mucus hit him and splattered across his cheek.

  'I know I've been shot,' said Bruckmüller. 'And I don't want to be shot again.'

  Liebermann realised that Bruckmüller was using him as a shield.

  'There is no escape, Herr Bruckmüller.'

  'Not for you – Doctor Jew.'

  Bruckmüller's basso profundo vibrated in Liebermann's chest. Before Liebermann could respond, Bruckmüller's free hand closed around his neck. An instant later, Liebermann could not breathe. Instinctively, he tried to prise Bruckmüller's thick fingers apart – but his right hand was still numb and each of Bruckmüller's digits was slick with blood.

  Liebermann was horrified by the look in Bruckmüller's eyes. Malice had been replaced by something far more sinister: detached concentration. Bruckmüller was like a scientist observing a creature expiring in a vacuum jar. He seemed to be willing Liebermann dead – dispassionately consigning him to oblivion. As the world began to darken around him, Liebermann became aware of a thought forming in his mind – a small voice, striving to be heard amid the noise and confusion.

  I am not ready to die.

  It was the closest that he had ever come to praying and even though he had not requested the intervention of a higher power this assertion – resentful and pathetic – was still an appeal. An entreaty. And, against all expectations, it appeared to have some effect.

  Bruckmüller's serious, studious gaze clouded. His lids fell and then lifted in a sluggish blink – and, miraculously, Liebermann found that he could breathe again. He gulped the air hungrily, sucking it deep into his lungs through his painfully restricted windpipe. Bruckmüller's grip weakened and his fingers peeled away from Liebermann's throat one by one.

  The big man's coat was soaked with his own blood. He blinked again and this time his lids remained closed for longer. Then he swayed and fell sideways, toppling to the floor.

  Liebermann rested against the side of the gondola and tried to catch his breath. Looking out of the window, he experienced a curious illusion. The ground seemed to be rising up to meet the gondola. He glanced at Bruckmüller, whose supine body looked like that of a slumbering giant.

  Bruckmüller pushed himself up with his left hand and then clasped his shoulder. Blood was gushing out between his big white knuckles. With his mouth wide open he was panting like a thirsty bulldog.

  The wind whistled through the smashed window. In the next gondola, the soberly dressed bourgeois – clearly a police marksman – had his revolver at the ready for a second shot, should it prove necessary.

  Bruckmüller shifted and immediately winced.

  'If you get up,' said Liebermann, 'I have reason to believe that you'll be shot again. I would strongly advise that you remain exactly where you are.'

  Bruckmüller closed his eyes and let his body fall back on to a bed of broken glass.

  'May I . . .' Liebermann paused. 'May I attend to your wound, Herr Bruckmüller? You are losing a great deal of blood.'

  The big man tried to open his eyes.

  'Stay away from me . . . you filthy . . .'

  But before the insult was complete Bruckmüller's eyelids flickered and he lost consciousness.

  Liebermann crouched beside Bruckmüller and did what he could to staunch the flow of blood. But his right hand was still insensate and Bruckmüller was lying in an awkward position. He applied as much pressure as he could. The big man was still breathing but each breath seemed more shallow and difficult. His chest and stomach were hardly moving.

  A chorus of metallic voices filled the air – the demented strains of the great wheel coming to a halt. The gondola had returned to the ground.

  The door flew open and Rheinhardt stepped into the cabin.

  Liebermann looked up from his patient.

  'I believe he'll live,' he said softly.

  86

  THE SONGS THAT they chose were necessarily slow. Liebermann's right hand was better but his fingers were still bruised and stiff. He did not feel ready to play anything with a tempo marking faster than allegro moderato. As a result their buoyant mood was not reflected in their music-making and what might have been an evening of carefree Ländler and popular songs became instead a programme of wistful ballads and soulful meditations. Yet, as he plumbed the darker sonorities of the Bösendorfer, Liebermann recognised that this valedictory concert was more fitting. It was, after all, a murder investigation that had been brought to a successful conclusion.

  After some dignified choral-like Beethoven they decided to end with 'Der Leiermann' from Schubert's Winterreise. The piano part was so sparse, so frugal that Liebermann had no trouble producing an entirely faultless performance. Bare fifths in the left hand imitated the sound of a drone, while the right hand picked out a sad, desolate melody. It was chilling music – stark and emotionless. Even the scarcity of notes on the page suggested the open, blank whiteness of a frozen landscape.

  Rheinhardt's voice was sweet and true – each note produced with hardly any vibrato.

  Drüben hinterm Dorfe steht ein Leiermann.

  'Over there beyond the village stands an organ-grinder . . .'

  Numb with suffering, Schubert's narrator follows blindly:

  'Strange old man, should I come with you?'

  As the final chord faded, with its promise of redeeming cold and oblivion, Liebermann lifted his hands off the keyboard. Reverently, he closed the piano lid, allowing the sustain pedal to amplify its beat, the hollow echo of which dissolved into the vastness of an imaginary icy waste.

  'Well, Max,' said Rheinhardt, 'that wasn't too bad at all, considering. You acquitted yourself rather well.'

  'Thank you,' said Liebermann, raising his right hand and rubbing his fingers together with a swift scissoring movement. 'Another week or two and I'll be ready for the Erlkönig.'

  Rheinhardt laughed and slapped his friend on the back.

  'You might be, Max, but I'm not sure that I will.'

  Without further delay the two men retired to the smoking room where, between the leather armchairs, a new table had appeared – a simple, empty wooden cube, the upper plane of which was a square of polished ebony.

  Rheinhardt stared at the new acquisition and tilted his head from side to side.

  'You don't like it – do you?' said Liebermann.

  'Was it expensive?'

  'Yes. It's from Moser's workshop.'

  'Who?'

  'Koloman Moser?'

  'No, can't say I've heard of him.'

  'Never mind. Regardless of its aesthetic properties, I can assure you that this table will serve our purposes as well as the old one.' Liebermann gestured towards the brandy and cigars.

  The two men sat down, Rheinhardt to the right, Liebermann to the left, and stared at the glowing embers in ritual silence, puffing and sipping. Eventually, Liebermann shifted his position and said, somewhat sheepishly: 'You want to know everything, I presume.'

  'Yes, I do.'

  'Well, I must say, Oskar, you have exercised admirable restraint this evening. A lesser man might have insisted that we should forgo some of our musical pleasures.'

  'Indeed. And having shown such admirable restraint, I feel bound to advise you that any further equivocation on your part will test our friendship to the limits of endurance.'

  'Yes, of course, Oskar,' said Liebermann, smiling. 'Forgive me.'

  The young doctor turned to look
at his friend. 'You know, I've told you most of it already.'

  'I should hope so, too,' said Rheinhardt with justified indignation. 'Even so, I am curious to know how it all came together – in your head, I mean.'

  'Very well,' said Liebermann, 'kissing' his cigar to sustain the burn and producing great clouds of pungent smoke. 'I am happy to satisfy your curiosity. But I must begin with a confession. It was not I who solved the mystery of Fräulein Löwenstein's impossible wound, but Miss Lydgate.'

  'The microscopist?'

  'Indeed – although her talents extend well beyond the novel employment of optical devices: she is now registered with the university and will begin studying for a medical degree in the autumn.'

  'But she's—'

  'A woman – obviously. The university has recently changed its admission policy.' Rheinhardt assumed a benign but perplexed expression. Liebermann's cuboid table had been enough modernity for one evening. 'She's quite remarkable, Oskar, and endowed with extraordinary intellectual gifts. I simply told her the circumstances of the crime, and after a few days she had the answer, claiming – quite rightly – that a bullet made from meat was the only solution. Such is her predilection for rational thought that she wasn't distracted or tempted in the least by supernatural considerations.

  'Once Miss Lydgate had explained how the illusion of the vanishing bullet had been achieved, I had what can only be described as a . . . a moment of revelation! I remembered that Bruckmüller started life as a provincial butcher. I also remembered seeing him with Mayor Lueger at the Philharmonic – Lueger has always received strong support from butchers and bakers – and it occurred to me that perhaps Bruckmüller's origins were much more significant than any of us had guessed – and in more ways than one. Bruckmüller, by virtue of his original occupation, would have been very familiar with the properties of meat, in much the same way as I, being a psychiatrist, am familiar with the properties of the human mind. Who else but a butcher would recognise the ballistic possibilities of his supper!'

  'It is extraordinary,' said Rheinhardt, 'and yet—'

  'So simple,' said Liebermann. 'I couldn't agree more.'

  They both raised their glasses at the same time.

  'Go on . . .' said Rheinhardt, eager for his friend to continue.

  'Of course,' said Liebermann, 'as soon as I had identified Bruckmüller as the likely perpetrator other things about him started to acquire greater significance – his business, for example. You will recall that Miss Lydgate's microscopic examination of Charlotte Löwenstein's keys revealed unusual indentations. She had suspected that some instrument or other had been employed to rotate the keys.' Liebermann sipped his brandy and shook his head. 'Had I been a surgeon, Oskar, I think I would have linked Bruckmüller with the crime immediately. Even though Miss Lydgate's results suggested the use of a specialised tool I simply failed to think of forceps. My mind was fixed on some train of thought to do with locks and locksmiths . . . However, when Miss Lydgate suggested that a bullet could be constructed from meat, and I remembered that Hans Bruckmüller was a butcher, the significance of his business became obvious. Armed with a microscope, I went to the department of surgery and discovered that the indentations on Fräulein Löwenstein's keys corresponded exactly with a gripping pattern found on forceps manufactured by Bruckmüller & Co. We have since, of course, found the very same pattern on the key to Uberhorst's shop.'

  'Why didn't you want to see that key too – before suggesting your meeting with Bruckmüller?'

  'I didn't need to and anyway we were running out of time. There was always a possibility that von Bulow was going to succeed in extorting a bogus confession from Hölderlin, which would have complicated matters a great deal. When I tried to lock the door of my own apartment using Bruckmüller's forceps, I found the task extremely difficult. Turning keys in this way requires considerable strength – the kind of strength that had already betrayed itself in Bruckmüller's memorably firm handshake (which I had the pleasure of experiencing on the night of the seance) and the depth of Uberhorst's wounds.'

  'Indeed,' said Rheinhardt, shuddering as he recollected the carnage. 'And I presume you had also already visited the antique dealers?'

  'There are only a few establishments on Wieblinger strasse who sell Egyptian artefacts. Apparently, they aren't very collectable at the moment. I soon learned that an Egyptian statuette with a forked tail had been sold to a big man with a strong handshake some time in March.'

  'Thus,' said Rheinhardt, 'we had in our possession – at this point – some extremely good evidence. So why . . . why on Earth were you so insistent that your meeting with Bruckmüller should take place?'

  'Extremely good evidence, you say? But was it really? Anybody can purchase forceps from Bruckmüller & Co. And he isn't the only big man in Vienna!'

  'Yes, that's true.'

  'And Bruckmüller is very well connected – and potentially very rich: a friend of the Mayor, no less. Sadly, I am not convinced that our judicial system always reaches the correct verdict under such circumstances. We had collected some incriminating evidence, but it was not decisive evidence.'

  'All right, but why the Riesenrad? You told Brügel that you needed to be completely alone with Bruckmüller to extract a confession. Yet there are many secluded places in Vienna. I'm afraid I can't help feeling that you're concealing something, Max.'

  Liebermann knocked the ash off the end of his cigar.

  'It was necessary to meet Bruckmüller on the Riesenrad because of its peculiar effect on the mind.'

  'Oh?'

  'Have you been on it lately?'

  'No, but I did take Mitzi last year.'

  'Did you not find the experience . . . unreal?'

  'It is certainly very odd, being taken to such a great height.'

  'Exactly. It detaches the passenger from everyday existence and suspends him in an environment that is usually the exclusive province of birds. Now, think, Oskar: when else does one experience something similar?'

  'Well, I don't know that there is somewhere similar. Still—'

  Liebermann interrupted: 'Are you sure?'

  'Yes, quite sure.'

  Liebermann swirled his brandy round in its glass and tested the aroma.

  'What about when you dream?'

  Rheinhardt twirled his moustache and frowned.

  'Isn't it just like flying in a dream?' Liebermann persisted.

  'Yes,' Rheinhardt replied. 'Now that you mention it, I suppose the two experiences are not dissimilar.'

  'You see . . . it is my belief, Oskar, that a ride on the Riesenrad blurs the boundary between reality and unreality – the conscious and unconscious divisions of the mind draw closer together.'

  'Which means . . . ?'

  'Did you read that book I gave you?'

  'The one on dreams? Well, I started but—'

  'Never mind,' said Liebermann. 'In the dream-world, our inhibitions break down. Forbidden wishes are frequently dramatised. Even the most devoted husband cannot avoid assignations during his sleep.' Rheinhardt shifted in his chair and looked faintly embarrassed. 'When Bruckmüller learned that I had discovered his method and understood his motives he had one wish, and one wish only: to kill his adversary, an adversary who (at least for him) embodied all of his irrational prejudices. Bruckmüller's political ambitions had been thwarted, and in the dreamlike atmosphere of the Riesenrad, his forbidden wish found expression all too easily. He attempted to kill me – and in doing so as good as confessed to the crime.'

  'In which case, it was never your intention to extract a verbal confession. You always meant to provoke Bruckmüller!'

  Rheinhardt's voice had risen slightly.

  'Now, Oskar, do you see why it was impossible for me to be entirely candid? Brügel would never have accepted a psychoanalytic rationale for the operation—'

  'And nor would I – particularly if I had known all the details of your thinking!' Rheinhardt shook his head. 'You do realise, don't you, that the police ma
rksman was instructed at the very last minute? It was an afterthought.'

  'Yes,' said Liebermann. 'I am extremely lucky to possess, in your person, such a conscientious friend, and I owe you both an apology and a debt of gratitude.'

  'I can't believe you didn't tell me!'

  'It was absolutely necessary.'

  'To provoke him – knowing that he would probably attempt to kill you!'

  'There was no other way. I had hoped that by the time Bruckmüller responded to my provocation the wheel would be nearing the end of its descent. I thought I would be relatively safe . . .'

  'Relatively safe! I can't believe you didn't tell me!'

  'Well, to be frank, Oskar, I still can't quite believe you didn't tell me that the seance you arranged was a sham!'

  'That was different.'

  'Was it?'

  Rheinhardt grumbled something under his breath and sustained a mask of disgruntlement – which gradually, and grudgingly, softened by degrees towards resignation.

  'Still . . .' he finally murmured. 'It all worked wonderfully, and it was good to see von Bulow squirm for once!'

  The two friends looked at each other and simultaneously burst out laughing.

  For several hours they continued to savour their triumph. The room had filled with cigar smoke and the fire had long since died down. As Liebermann poured the last of the brandy, Rheinhardt chanced to remark that Charlotte Löwenstein's fate would no doubt serve as an example to others of her kind. But instead of agreeing, Liebermann found himself not judging the dead woman but defending her.

  'Without question, Fräulein Löwenstein was a femme fatale – a siren worthy of a place in a work of romantic fiction; however, I cannot condemn her, Oskar. In modern Vienna there are few opportunities for intelligent, spirited women to make their way in the world. The majority either relinquish their ambitions and resign themselves to marriage and motherhood – or, alternatively, they protest and attract a diagnosis of hysteria. Charlotte Löwenstein should be pitied. She was, after all, only trying to protect her interests.'