by Frank Tallis
‘Yes,’ said Liebermann. ‘Most amusing.’ But he was unable to give his mentor a sincere smile.
When Liebermann returned to his apartment he found a letter waiting for him from Gustav Mahler. The director had managed to obtain an original piece of writing by the author of the scurrilous Deutsche Zeitung article and wanted Liebermann to examine it as a matter of urgency. Liebermann sighed and composed a brief apologetic response. The earliest he could keep an appointment at the opera house would be the following Monday. He knew that the director would not like this, but there was nothing he could do. Reluctantly, he sealed the envelope and left it on the bureau for his serving man to post in the morning.
28
‘Well, here we are,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Are you ready?’
‘I think so,’ said Liebermann.
‘Then let us proceed.’
They turned onto the wide boulevard, their heels hitting the asphalt in unison.
The town hall was a grand edifice of pale stone, with a soaring central clock tower flanked by two shorter spires on either side. It was a building rich in Gothic detail, rising up in several layers: columns and arches, mullioned windows, a clerestory and, finally, a pitched grey roof. The long approach gave Liebermann ample time to consider his destination.
In spite of its venerable appearance, the town hall was not an old building. It had been officially opened in eighteen eighty-four, a mere nineteen years earlier. The anachronistic facade was a conceit, designed to evoke a sense of the past, an idealised late Middle Ages in which benign Burgermeisters protected the rights and privileges of the people, and stalwart, honest guildsmen made the city wealthy with their skill. The town hall was festooned with sculpted figures, denizens of this fabled and prosperous medieval world.
Professor Freud had shown that dreams and fantasies often conceal a darker truth. This civic dream, rendered in stone, was no exception. The mayor did not protect the people of Vienna. Indeed, for those citizens who could not lay claim to an Austrian Catholic pedigree, he was a brooding potentate, surveying the city with malign intent from his high tower. And the townsfolk were not carpenters, furriers and clockmakers, but bureaucrats, speculators and factory workers. Among the statues on the upper parapet, Liebermann did not see any clerks, capitalists, labourers or shop girls.
Liebermann and Rheinhardt ascended the stairs and passed beneath a great archway. On entering the building they were welcomed by a functionary who escorted them through a series of corridors, galleries and shadowy chambers. The interior of the town hall seemed impervious to light. On the first floor the functionary placed them in the custody of a low-ranking official who neglected to introduce himself and recorded their names in a large book before leading them to a spartan waiting room. Half an hour elapsed and another gentleman arrived, this time dressed in the distinctive green tailcoat of a Lueger ‘courtier’. He marched them into what appeared to be an antechamber and, gesturing at a pair of double doors, whispered that the mayor would be receiving them in his private apartment. Another half-hour passed before these doors opened, revealing a thickset man, also dressed in green, who beckoned them with a curling finger.
The mayor looked impressive for his age, his lineaments conforming to the classical paradigm of nobility. He was seated behind his desk, writing, and the scratching of his pen nib was clearly audible. The Persian rug which covered the floor was intricately patterned and its fibres were strong enough to add a disconcerting buoyancy to each step. This peculiar sensation, combined with the exceptional nature of the occasion, made Liebermann feel light-headed. Mayor Lueger rose to greet them. He was dressed in an expensive suit and his abundant jewellery glittered as he moved.
‘Good morning, gentlemen.’
‘Good morning, Mayor Lueger,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘I am Inspector
Oskar Rheinhardt and this is my colleague Doctor Max Liebermann. Thank you, most kindly, for permitting us to interrupt your busy day. The security office is indebted.’
Rheinhardt and Liebermann bowed together.
‘Please sit,’ said the mayor. He clearly felt under no obligation to exchange pleasantries. After first consulting what must have been an itinerary, he came directly to the point with alarming bluntness. ‘You wish to ask me some questions concerning Fraulein Ida Rosenkrantz?’
‘That is correct, sir,’ said Rheinhardt. Glancing over at Lueger’s servant, he added, ‘Some of the questions I must ask you are of a private and personal nature.’
‘Pumera,’ said the mayor, without turning. ‘I’ll ring the bell if you’re needed.’ Making his exit through a door situated behind the mayor’s desk, the bodyguard directed a disapproving glance at Liebermann. Had his upper lip risen a fraction more, disapproval would have become contempt. ‘Inspector,’ continued Lueger, ‘it is the duty of every citizen, myself included, to assist the police in their investigations; however, if I am to divulge details of my private life, then I must be confident of your discretion.’
‘You have my word,’ Rheinhardt replied.
‘And what about you, Herr Doctor?’
‘You have my word also,’ said Liebermann.
‘Good,’ said the mayor. ‘Needless to say, in due course, should I discover that my confidence in you was misplaced …’
He paused, allowing his visitors to contemplate the varied forms of retribution that a Lord-God might have at his disposal.
‘The office of mayor,’ said Rheinhardt, speaking with exaggerated solemnity, ‘commands our complete respect.’
Liebermann thought that his friend’s declaration was too theatrical, too obviously insincere. He was surprised, therefore, to see a muted but satisfied smile appear on Lueger’s face. The vanity of a demagogue could never be overestimated.
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ said the mayor, turning his hands outward and extending his arms. ‘I am at your service.’
Proximity did not flatter the mayor. Close up, he cut a less dignified figure. His skin was weather-beaten and wrinkled and one of his eyes showed an alarming independence of movement. He had the yellow fingers of a chain-smoker.
‘Mayor Lueger,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘I understand that you were well acquainted with Fraulien Rosenkrantz.’
‘She sang at my birthday celebrations, rather beautifully, I recall — and soon after we became friends.’
‘Friends? When you say friends, do you mean …?’ Lueger’s frown stopped Rheinhardt mid-sentence. ‘My apologies, sir,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘An insolent question, but it is one that I am required to ask.’
The mayor took a cigarette from a silver box. ‘We enjoyed a brief association. What of it?’
‘Brief?’
‘A few months, that is all. Our liaisons ceased in the spring.’
‘March, April?’
‘March, although we continued to meet occasionally. Fraulein Rosenkrantz wished that we should remain friends.’
The mayor lit his cigarette.
‘And this was not satisfactory?’
‘I was very fond of Ida; however, the desire to maintain social intercourse was greater on her part. How did you find out about us?’
Ignoring the mayor’s question, Rheinhardt asked solicitously, ‘Why did the relationship come to an end?’
Lueger drew on his cigarette and allowed a ribbon of smoke to escape from the side of his mouth.
‘I do not see how such information is relevant to your investigation, Inspector.’
Liebermann shifted position to attract the mayor’s attention. ‘With the greatest respect, Mayor Lueger, in my capacity as medical consultant I must beg to differ. It is vital that we determine Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s state of mind in the days preceding her death.’
The mayor’s wayward eye found an object of interest some distance above Liebermann’s head.
‘The liaison ended in March. It is now September.’ The tone of Lueger’s voice had become brittle.
‘In matters of the heart,’ Liebermann continued, smiling wistfully, ‘the passage of time
is no guarantee of recovery.’
The mayor drew on his cigarette, a deep inhalation that expanded his chest. He released the smoke slowly, then shrugged. ‘The relationship ended because we were … incompatible. She was an artist and, although I enjoy the company of artists, Ida could be very demanding. She wanted us to spend more time in each other’s company, more time than I could possibly devote to what was, after all, only a …’ the mayor’s unsteady eye invested his final choice of word with careless disregard ‘… dalliance.’
‘Did you quarrel?’ asked Rheinhardt.
‘Towards the end, all too frequently, I’m afraid. She was remarkably insecure for a creature of such great beauty and talent. I was deeply saddened to learn that she had taken her own life, but I was not, if I am honest, wholly surprised.’
‘The precise nature of her death,’ said Rheinhardt, constructing a sentence of cunning ambiguity, ‘is, as yet, undetermined.’
‘Her death could have been accidental,’ continued the mayor, ‘but I believe suicide much more likely. She was fragile and prone to illnesses. I was forced to conclude that some of these problems might have originated in her mind.’
‘Oh?’ said Liebermann, tilting his head.
‘She used to complain about food getting stuck in her throat. But there was never anything there. She used to imagine it.’
‘When was the last time you saw Fraulein Rosenkrantz?’ asked Rheinhardt.
Lueger nodded and said, ‘She wanted me to marry her. She wanted to be the first lady of Vienna. But Vienna is the only bride I shall ever have.’
He glanced at a picture standing on his desk. It was placed at an oblique angle and Liebermann was able to see the image: an old woman with white hair.
‘Mayor Lueger?’ Rheinhardt persisted. ‘The last time you saw Fraulein Rosenkrantz? Can you recall when it was?’
The mayor stubbed out his cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray until none of the flakes of tobacco were glowing. His expression was neutral, jaw set, lips pursed, but there was something playing about his eyes which suggested calculation.
‘I can’t remember, exactly.’
‘A general indication would serve our purpose. Was the occasion recent?’
‘No,’ said Lueger, raising his chin up, defiantly. ‘It must have been sometime in July.’
‘Where did you meet?’
‘A private dining room close to the Josefstadt theatre.’
‘What was her mood like?’ asked Liebermann.
‘She wasn’t very happy. Throughout the meal she complained about life at the opera house. Although that wasn’t so unusual, I’d heard much of it before: how Director Mahler drilled the orchestra like a duty-sergeant and the singers were perpetually plotting against each other.’
‘Did she mention any of the singers by name?’ said Rheinhardt.
‘On that occasion? Yes. Amsel. She claimed that Arianne Amsel had claqueurs in the audience who tried to put her off. It might have been true. It was difficult to determine whether the conspiracies Ida spoke of were real or imagined. Like the lump in her throat.’ There was a knock on the door and the mayor called out, ‘Enter.’
A ‘courtier’ opened one of the double doors and, poking his head through the gap, said, ‘Mayor Lueger, Herr Steiner has arrived. He wishes to see you with respect to a matter of utmost urgency.’
‘Tell him to wait. I won’t be very much longer.’ The ‘courtier’ bowed and stepped backwards into the antechamber, closing the door. Looking at Rheinhardt and Liebermann, Lueger said, ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. I’m afraid I must bring this interview to a close.’
‘If I could ask just one more question?’ said Rheinhardt.
‘Very well, but my answer will have to be short.’
‘We have learned …’ Rheinhardt faltered. ‘Forgive me, but the matter I must raise is rather delicate. It seems improper to broach such a sensitive subject in so perfunctory a fashion.’
‘Please, Inspector,’ said the mayor, impatiently shaking his watch chain.
‘We have learned,’ Rheinhardt began again, ‘that Fraulein Rosenkrantz became pregnant, in the first quarter of this year.’
‘What?’
‘The pregnancy was terminated.’
Lueger waved his hand in the air, attempted to speak, but failed to produce anything approximating language. Taking a deep breath, he recovered his composure and said, ‘Terminated? When?’
‘April.’
‘I am very surprised to hear this.’
‘She did not tell you?’
‘I knew that she had other admirers, but I did not realise …’
The unthinkable prevented the mayor from continuing. Rheinhardt spoke softly, ‘You do not consider it possible that the child was …’
‘Mine? Don’t be absurd, Inspector. I would never take such a gamble.’
‘Indeed, but accidents happen.’
‘Not to me they don’t,’ said Lueger, his anger flaring. ‘Pumera!’ The door behind the mayor’s desk opened immediately and the bodyguard re-entered. He stationed himself next to the mayor’s chair, his arms folded. ‘Gentlemen, I am most perturbed by this news. I find it extraordinary that a woman who professed devotion and eagerness to marry should have been so disloyal.’
‘It is possible,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that she conceived after your association ended.’
‘If so, then it must have been within days or weeks, which is equally disconcerting. I can only conclude that Ida’s mental problems were more serious than I had supposed. Perhaps she also suffered from some class of moral illness.’ The mayor looked at Liebermann for confirmation, but the young doctor could not support his assertion. ‘Inspector,’ continued Lueger, straightening his back and assuming a more authoritative mien. ‘If Ida Rosenkrantz was morally destitute and, as a consequence, she submitted her person to an illegal and irreligious procedure, then that is no business of mine. I know nothing about this and can offer you no further assistance. I trust that you are men of honour and will keep your promise of discretion. There is much that I must attend to this morning. Good luck with your investigation.’
‘Thank you again,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘for granting us the great privilege of a private interview. Your help is greatly appreciated.’
The mayor inclined his head but did not stand.
Pumera escorted Rheinhardt and Liebermann to the double doors.
Before the bodyguard opened them, Lueger called out, ‘Inspector?’ Rheinhardt turned. ‘How did you find out about my association with Ida Rosenkrantz?’
Rheinhardt smiled. ‘I am a man of honour, sir, and I gave my word that I would not disclose the name of my informant.’
The mayor accepted Rheinhardt’s unenlightening response with an ungracious grunting noise and Pumera ushered the policeman and his companion into the antechamber. Closing the door behind them, the bodyguard returned to his master, where he found the old man deep in thought. The mayor’s elbows were resting on the desk, his hands clasped firmly together, the strength of his grip making the knuckles pale. Suddenly aware of Pumera’s presence, Lueger looked up.
‘She was insane, Anton, quite insane.’ He reached for his cigarette box. ‘Still … they don’t know what happened. That’s the main thing.’
Rheinhardt and Liebermann crossed the Ringstrasse and walked the short distance to the Volksgarten. The inspector stopped at the gates to buy a bag of roasted pumpkin seeds before they followed a path which took them to a secluded area near the north-east perimeter. They sat on a bench and Rheinhardt encouraged his friend to taste his purchase. The young doctor took a mouthful of seeds and savoured the strong flavours: smoked salt, paprika and some other exotic ingredient that surprised the palate.
‘The vendor’s Hungarian,’ said Rheinhardt, chewing loudly. ‘I would also recommend his almonds. They taste of bonfires, liquorice and bacon.’
Liebermann brushed the salt and paprika from his hands, crossed his legs, and began to speak, ‘When we p
assed through the gallery of mayoral portraits, did you notice whose likeness was hanging beside Lueger’s?’ Rheinhardt shook his head. ‘It was the same woman whose photograph was on his desk, a tough, pious petite bourgeoise. The familial resemblance was quite pronounced and she is almost certainly his mother. And did you see those items next to the photograph — a rosary, a small purse, and a prayer book with worn edges? We must suppose they once belonged to Frau Lueger. Now, what kind of man would immortalise his mother alongside Catejan Freiherr von Felder and Papa Zelinka? And what kind of man would treat his mother’s possessions as though they were holy relics?’
‘Ah,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘I strongly suspect you are about to talk of Greek legends and erotic instincts.’
‘What if I am?’
‘Well, I was hoping you would have something of a more practical nature to offer, something of direct relevance to the investigation.’
‘Unresolved Oedipal feelings are directly relevant to the investigation.’ said Liebermann. ‘The mayor has always cultivated a particular image of himself for public consumption, the bachelor king, dedicated to his work and the city. I had assumed this was politically motivated. Unmarried, he is available to the women of Vienna as an object of fantasy, an idealised husband. He wins their adulation and support more readily. This strategy has been most effective. Who else among our politicians has attracted a nickname like beautiful Karl! However, I now realise that another, more fundamental factor must be taken into consideration. He has never married because he is obsessed with his mother.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘But-’
‘A mother’s love is a jealous love,’ Liebermann interjected, unwilling to entertain objections before his exposition was complete. ‘She resents those who seek to usurp her. Thus, no woman, no prospective spouse, can ever be good enough for her golden boy. One can imagine the voice of the matriarch, rising from the depths of the mayor’s unconscious, warning him about the wily ways of temptresses, vixens and femmes fatales. He described his relationship with Rosenkrantz as a dalliance, which suggests toying or trifling, a minor diversion. I suspect that all Lueger’s relationships with women have been emotionally void, because his unresolved Oedipal feelings prevent him from forming a mature adult attachment. Now, imagine if one of these dalliances went wrong, posing a threat to his career and reputation. Imagine then how loudly the voice of his mother would resound in his head. Her shrill rhetoric, her powerful denunciation of sluts and sirens! And what would he do — what would he be willing to do, I wonder — to appease his mother, to atone?’
