Death And The Maiden lp-6

by Frank Tallis

  Rheinhardt held his hands up. ‘Dear God, Max! What are you saying? You cannot make such extravagant claims, just because the mayor has an excess of filial respect.’

  ‘Filial respect! He has put a portrait of his mother up alongside the great and good of Vienna. That is not respect, that is insanity!’

  ‘Come now, Max. You are overexcited! Let us be more considered. In my opinion, we should not be getting bogged down in too much. . theory. There is a simple question we must answer before venturing into such treacherous territory. Was the mayor telling us the truth about the last time he saw Fraulein Rosenkrantz? If he was telling us the truth then Herr Geisler’s testimony was nonsense and I have made a grave error of judgement. Commissioner Brugel will not be happy.’

  Liebermann turned and studied his friend’s face. The inspector looked anxious.

  ‘Lueger was lying,’ said Liebermann.

  Rheinhardt sighed with relief. ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. He was evasive, wasn’t he?’

  ‘The first time you asked the mayor when it was that he had last seen Rosenkrantz, he acted as if he hadn’t heard the question. He seemed distracted by reminiscences and spoke of how Rosenkrantz had wanted to marry him and how Vienna was the only bride he’d ever know. It is possible that he was simply trying to divert you from your purpose, but I am inclined to believe that these musings on marriage were in fact connected with what was discussed during the real final encounter — not the one he told us about which took place in the private dining room. The mayor tried to repress the episode and, as Professor Freud’s system of psychology predicts, that which was most forcefully dismissed from consciousness was that which most forcefully returned. Lueger could not stop himself from alluding to the truth, albeit indirectly. At that point he glanced at his mother’s photograph. He was trying to appease her!’

  ‘Did you notice,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘how quickly Pumera responded to the mayor’s call?’

  ‘The man was clearly waiting,’ Liebermann replied, ‘listening on the other side of the door.’

  ‘And he made no attempt to disguise this.’

  ‘The mayor certainly knew he was there, eavesdropping.’

  ‘Moreover,’ said Rheinhardt, squeezing the tips of his moustache, ‘the mayor was perfectly content for us to reach that conclusion.’

  ‘Well,’ said Liebermann, tapping his temple, ‘he was letting us know something.’

  ‘That he trusts his courtiers completely and any one of them would consider it an honour to perjure themselves on his behalf?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Which means that even if we are now wholly confident that Herr Geisler’s testimony is true, his evidence is ultimately worthless. The mayor will have a convincing alibi prepared and God knows how many witnesses ready to come to his aid.’

  The two men fell silent as a cavalry officer marched past.

  Rheinhardt took out his notebook and began recording his thoughts. In due course he said, ‘What did you make of Lueger’s reaction to the news of Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s termination?’

  ‘He seemed genuinely shocked.’ Liebermann spotted a few grains of salt on his trousers and began flicking them off. ‘But he is an accomplished actor.’ Indicating a white facade in the distance, he added: ‘Good enough for the court theatre.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Further, the obvious narrative which suggests itself, leading from the mayor’s birthday celebrations to Rosenkrantz’s death, is much more cohesive if we assume that Lueger made Rosenkrantz pregnant — and had been informed of this.’

  Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean? Obvious narrative?’

  Liebermann lowered his voice. ‘The mayor had allowed Rosenkrantz to believe that they would be married. How attractive that prospect must have seemed to the singer! How she must have looked forward to the day when she would bid farewell to the opera house, the gruelling rehearsals of Director Mahler and the scheming of her rivals. I suspect that, initially, Lueger himself might have found the idea quite appealing. Rosenkrantz was very popular. She was a vote winner. But the relationship soon began to deteriorate. Demands, arguments, tantrums! And the internalised voice of Frau Lueger was becoming more insistent. You can’t marry her, she’s not good enough! Don’t trust her! She’s a seductress, a gold-digger, a glorified shop girl! And then: disaster. Rosenkrantz fell pregnant. A lawyer by profession and renowned for his powers of oratory, Lueger made Rosenkrantz accept that it was in the best interests of all concerned if the pregnancy was terminated. It was not the right time. They had to keep up appearances. Besides, there would be many other opportunities in the future. Rosenkrantz — hysterical, highly strung, and vulnerable — agreed. But after the operation, the mayor informed her that their relationship had sadly run its course and Rosenkrantz became seriously ill. The complications caused by the termination might have been life-threatening. During her convalescence the singer had much time in which to reflect on the sorry pass she had reached: long, sleepless, painful nights in which to incubate feelings of resentment and anger.’

  Liebermann paused to remove some more grains of salt from his trousers.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Rheinhardt impatiently. ‘Go on …’

  ‘They met occasionally, and Rosenkrantz did her best to win back the mayor’s heart. But it was hopeless, his heart belonged — and had always belonged — to his mother. As Rosenkrantz became more resentful, she also became more desperate. On Monday the seventh of September she telephoned the mayor and insisted that he come to her house in Hietzing. It was foggy, and he refused. She then issued a threat.’

  ‘What kind of threat?’

  ‘She would create a scandal, ruin his election prospects. She would tell the newspapers about the termination or show them some incriminating correspondence.’

  ‘If she had done that, she would have also ruined her own career.’

  ‘We are talking here about a woman who had significant psychological problems. She wasn’t thinking rationally. Whatever the precise nature of the threat, it was sufficient to get the mayor to leave the town hall and travel up to her villa in Hietzing. When Lueger arrived, he calmed her with more false promises and encouraged her to take some of the medication on her bedside table. Laudanum, to help her sleep.’

  ‘You really think he killed her?’

  ‘He is a ruthless individual.’

  Rheinhardt finished his pumpkin seeds and screwed up the paper bag.

  ‘I should never have agreed to you coming.’

  ‘Why do you say that? I think I’ve been extraordinarily perceptive.’

  ‘You have,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘And that is what worries me. From now on you must be very careful, Max — do you understand?’ Rheinhardt glanced over his shoulder. ‘He knows who we are now.’

  29

  Rheinhardt stood in FRAULEIn Rosenkrantz’s parlour, humming the introductory melody of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E minor. He found it particularly conducive to thought.

  An upright Bosendorfer piano stood between two windows. There were several sofas and numerous chairs, enough seating to accommodate an audience of at least twenty guests. A large canvas showed an eighteenth-century ship with blood-red sails, listing precariously in the steep funnel of a whirlpool. High above the masts and rigging, in the roiling storm clouds, he detected the features of a satanic face. As far as Rheinhardt could judge, it was not an accomplished work of art. The paint had been applied too thickly.

  Lifting the picture off its hook, Rheinhardt scrutinised the wall, but saw nothing irregular. He then turned the picture over. A title had been scrawled across the stiff backing paper: ‘The Dutchman rounds the Cape of Good Hope.’ The artist’s name was almost illegible but might have been ‘Schreiber’ or ‘Schreiner’.

  There was a loud knock, a single, decisive strike.

  Rheinhardt balanced the painting on a chair and went to admit his assistant.

  ‘Ah, Haussmann. Thank you for coming.’ The youn
g man stepped into the hallway, wiping his feet on the floor mat and offering his superior a pinched smile. ‘We’re going to conduct a search.’

  ‘But the villa has already been searched, sir.’

  ‘We are going to look for places of concealment.’

  ‘Secret compartments?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Haussmann produced a visiting card and handed it to Rheinhardt. The inspector held it up and read: Orsola Salak, psychic. ‘An imaginative suggestion, Haussmann, but I think we can manage without this woman’s services.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant, sir,’ Haussmann responded. ‘A gentleman was looking for you earlier today. Herr Schneider?’

  ‘Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s dresser.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He said that when you interviewed him he had been unable to give you Salak’s address.’

  ‘Orsola! Of course. Rosenkrantz’s psychic.’

  ‘Herr Schneider found her card in Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s dressing room.’

  Rheinhardt looked at the address.

  ‘Ybbs Strasse 23. That’s close to the Prater, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Near the Nordbahnhof.’

  ‘Thank you, Haussmann.’ Rheinhardt dropped the card into his jacket pocket and led his assistant into the parlour. When he saw the painting of the Dutchman’s vessel again he wondered whether the artist’s signature, which looked like ‘Schreiber’ or ‘Schreiner’, was, in fact, ‘Schneider’.

  ‘Obvious places first,’ continued Rheinhardt. ‘Beneath paintings and under rugs, then drawers and chests. Books should also be studied very closely. A hollow is often made in the pages of larger volumes. If our initial efforts are unsuccessful, we’ll take up some floorboards. Come.’ Rheinhardt clapped his hands together. ‘Let us begin.’

  They set about their task with determined energy. After completing their search of all the rooms on the ground floor they ascended the stairs and entered Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s bedroom. The rummaging continued with renewed vigour, but without result.

  ‘Help me with this, Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt.

  He was stripping the four-poster bed. Once the counterpane and eiderdown were removed, the two men lifted the heavy mattress. There was nothing underneath. Rheinhardt then began tapping the bedposts, which proved to be disappointingly solid. When they had finished, Rosenkrantz’s exotic chamber looked as if it had been ransacked and Rheinhardt was feeling a creeping sense of frustration.

  The adjacent room was small and seemed to have no specific purpose. It contained a cupboard full of linen, two wooden chairs, a table and an enamel stove. A pile of old songbooks were stacked in the corner. Rheinhardt slumped down on one of the chairs and removed a cigar from his pocket. After lighting it, he opened the stove door in order to dispose of the extinguished match. He leaned forward — and froze.

  ‘Sir?’ his assistant ventured.

  ‘Haussmann, when we were here last, the day we found Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s body, I asked you to prepare a floor plan of Rosenkrantz’s bedroom and check the other rooms. Do you remember looking in this stove?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Haussmann squatted next to Rheinhardt and discovered that his superior was staring at some blackened papers. The young man turned to face Rheinhardt, his expression perplexed, puzzled.

  ‘It’s always a good idea to check stoves and grates, Haussmann.’

  The young man struggled to understand the insinuation. ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  ‘These papers, Haussmann.’

  ‘They’re completely burned, sir.’ He reached out to touch the crumbling remains. ‘What use could-’

  ‘Stop!’ Rheinhardt cried, grabbing his assistant’s wrist. Rheinhardt closed the stove door gently with his foot. Then, releasing Haussmann, the inspector rose from his chair and examined the polished metal pipe which connected the stove to the chimney. He took from his pocket a pair of pliers, which he then used to loosen the bolts which kept the pipe and stove joined together. ‘Be a good fellow and fetch me some linen from the cupboard.’

  The pipe came away from the stove and Rheinhardt, taking the material from Haussmann, plugged the circular hole. ‘At least we don’t have to worry about the wind now.’ Rheinhardt opened the window and flicked some ash from his cigar. ‘One big gust and there would be nothing left, just a pile of ashes. Now, run to the post office and telephone Schottenring. I need a few items.’ Rheinhardt scribbled in his notebook, tore out the page and handed it to his bewildered assistant.

  30

  After returning home from the St Marxer cemetery Liebermann had written a note to Frau Astrid Abend. He had declared an interest in the music of David Freimark and explained how he had learned of her provision of flowers for the composer’s grave. Further, he had asked if she was prepared to reveal her connection with the composer. Liebermann justified this inquiry by claiming, somewhat disingenuously, to be an amateur musicologist with an interest in Freimark’s life and works. Frau Abend had dispatched a prompt reply, inviting Liebermann to her apartment in the fourth district.

  When Liebermann arrived he was received by a manservant who escorted him into a cluttered parlour. Most of the surfaces were festooned with flowers and family photographs. The scratched furniture and torn upholstery suggested not poverty but, rather, the invasion — past and present — of young boys whose destructive behaviour was tolerated by indulgent parents. Liebermann noticed that a tin soldier had been hidden among the green branches of a potted plant. A rocking horse was poking its head out from behind a leather chair.

  After waiting only a few minutes, Frau Abend entered the room and introduced herself. She was in her late thirties and wore a simple green dress and white blouse. Although wrinkles were gathering around her eyes, her skin had a youthful bloom and her easy smile reinforced a strong impression of gentle forbearance. Tea was served and the conversation flowed without awkwardness.

  ‘I am not sure that I can tell you very much,’ said Frau Abend, ‘I suspect that you probably know more about Freimark than I do.’

  ‘Actually, I know very little,’ said Liebermann. ‘I have only recently begun researching his life.’

  ‘But why Freimark? He isn’t very …’ Frau Abend rotated her hand in the air ‘… fashionable.’

  ‘A chance encounter. I met an elderly lady who once knew him. Frau Zollinger? Do you know of her?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘She was a patron of the arts. Freimark was a member of her circle.’

  Frau Abend poured the tea. ‘“Hope” is a very lovely song, Herr Doctor. But I don’t know anything else by Freimark. Do you?’

  ‘Nothing else he wrote is published. What is your connection with Freimark? Are you related?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why-’

  ‘The flowers? Because of my mother. It was my mother’s wish that I continue an existing arrangement. She is dead now — two years passed.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Frau Abend made a gesture to suggest that sympathy was not required. ‘May I ask,’ continued Liebermann, ‘your mother’s name?’

  ‘Carolin Fuhrmann — nee Cronberg.’

  ‘And what was she to Freimark?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Frau Abend. Liebermann scratched his head and Frau Abend smiled, mildly amused by his perplexity. ‘I am sorry, Herr Doctor. It was not my intention to confuse. Allow me to explain in full. My mother, Carolin, had a sister, Angelika. It was Angelika who paid for the flowers originally. My aunt died almost ten years ago. However, before her death she asked my mother to ensure that the flowers continued. Naturally, my mother agreed. When my mother was dying, she, in turn, asked me to honour the promise she had made to my aunt, and I have done so to this day.’

  ‘Angelika. That would be Angelika Brosius?’

  ‘Ah, so you do know something about my family.’

  ‘Only that your aunt was married to Johann Christian Brosius, Freimark’s teacher.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Frau Abe
nd brushed a loose strand of hair from her face.

  ‘Do you remember your Aunt Angelika?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Striking,’ said Frau Abend. She plucked a frame from a small table and handed it to Liebermann. ‘This photograph was taken when she was in her fifties.’ Liebermann studied the portrait: a woman with long grey hair, high cheekbones and eyes of peculiar luminosity. There was something unearthly about her appearance, detached, immaterial — a natural muse. Frau Abend continued, ‘I was very fond of my aunt, but she lacked something.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘She wasn’t a very warm person. She wasn’t like my other aunts, the aunts on my father’s side of the family.’

  ‘You didn’t like her.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Frau Abend exclaimed. ‘You misunderstand me. I liked her very much. She took me to concerts and exhibitions and for rides on the Prater. She was a good aunt. And she always treated me like a young woman, never as a child.’

  ‘Did she ever talk to you about Freimark?’ Frau Abend shook her head. ‘What about her husband?’

  ‘Yes, she spoke about him sometimes. Although Uncle Johann didn’t die until-’ She stopped suddenly and her brow furrowed.

  ‘Eighteen seventy-eight,’ said Liebermann.

  ‘Yes. I must have been about thirteen at the time. I went to the funeral, a grand affair at the Zentralfriedhof. But I remember him well, Uncle Johann, a big, sullen man — like a bear. He smoked enormous cigars. My mother always insisted on the highest standards of behaviour when we visited Aunt Angelika. We had to be very quiet because Uncle Johann was usually in the music room, working. I thought it most unfair. We had to be quiet while Uncle Johann could make as much noise as he wanted. He used to bash the piano like his life depended on it. Well, in a way, I suppose it did. My mother told me he would become incensed if disturbed. He was reputed to have quite a temper, which might have been true, although I never saw him angry. In fact, I remember him as a rather subdued man.’ Frau Abend sighed. ‘It always struck me as a sad place. Their apartment felt like a tomb. It always felt cold, empty. They didn’t have any children. When Uncle Johann died my aunt carried on living there. She should have moved — somewhere smaller, brighter.’