by Frank Tallis
‘Thank you for your note, Inspector. Please, do sit down.’
Liebermann and Rheinhardt bowed before taking their places.
‘It is very good of you to see us at such short notice,’ said Rheinhardt. The mayor accepted the compliment but felt it necessary to add, ‘Regrettably, I can only spare a few minutes.’
‘We appreciate,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that for one who occupies so high an office there can never be sufficient hours in the day.’
The mayor flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette and said, ‘Some new evidence has come to light?’
‘Another search was made of Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s villa in Hietzing and some burned letters were recovered from a stove.’ The inspector reached into his pocket and produced a blackened scrap of paper sandwiched between two rectangles of glass that had been taped together. He handed the object over to the mayor.
‘What’s this?’
‘Part of a letter.’
Lueger peered at the scorched remnant and grunted.
‘How do you know it’s a letter?’
‘Look closely. Some writing has been preserved. Do you see it?’ The mayor opened his drawer and took out a magnifying glass. He studied the carbonised paper though the hoop of silver. ‘Would you confirm for us that the writing is yours? It appears to say: From your dearest Karl.’
The mayor set the magnifying glass aside.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘That is my handwriting.’ Lueger’s deviating eye made his expression difficult to interpret. ‘Were any other letters recovered?’
‘Yes.’
‘Intimate letters?’
‘That is what they appear to be.’
Lueger drew on his cigarette and allowed the smoke to escape through his nostrils. ‘Then you must return them to me.’
‘I’m sorry. I am afraid they must be retained by the security office.’
‘Why?’
‘Ida Rosenkrantz’s case is still open — ongoing.’
‘Really, Inspector,’ The mayor shook his head. ‘You were already aware that Fraulein Rosenkrantz and I were … friends. Is it so very remarkable that we corresponded? If you are in possession of what are, in effect, my private papers, then I demand that they be returned.’
‘Strictly speaking, the letters I have in my possession belong to Fraulein Rosenkrantz.’
‘She is dead, Inspector.’
The mayor said these words with an air of finality, as if this stark declaration obviated further discussion. He was breathing heavily. Liebermann leaned forward to capture the mayor’s attention.
‘The letters seem to have been burned close to the time of Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s death …’
The sentence hung in the air, suspended, oddly incomplete.
‘She was obviously unwell, Herr Doctor,’ said Lueger. ‘Isn’t that just the sort of thing that suicides do?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Liebermann. ‘The typical suicide composes a brief explanatory note and begs for forgiveness.’
The mayor shrugged.
‘It seems to me that this discovery supports everything I have already told you. Ida was a sick woman. She got herself into a state — burning old love letters — and then killed herself.’
An uncomfortable silence ensued.
Rheinhardt took out his notebook and turned a few pages.
‘Mayor Lueger, are you absolutely sure that the last time you saw Fraulein Rosenkrantz was in the summer?’
For the first time, the strain of interrogation began to show on Lueger’s face. The illusion of handsome nobility that he was so adept at creating suddenly dissolved. He appeared haggard and drawn. A slight tremor shook the yellow smoke-stained fingers. Liebermann almost felt sorry for him.
‘Inspector,’ said the mayor. ‘What, precisely, are you trying to make of all this?’
Rheinhardt feigned surprise. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘What manner of story are you attempting to piece together here? That I compromised her? That she then died of a broken heart? That I am responsible for her death? Before you and your associate proceed any further I would strongly suggest that you review your thinking. May I remind you that the election is approaching.’ He struck the table with a clenched fist. ‘I cannot — will not — tolerate a scandal.’
‘With respect,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘It was not our intention to imply-’
The mayor stood up and pointed an accusatory finger at Rheinhardt.
‘Don’t treat me like a fool, Inspector!’ His voice was loud and his eyes glittered with fury. ‘Better men than you have done so before and suffered the consequences.’ A thin thread of spittle escaped from his mouth and clung to his beard. The door behind the mayor’s desk opened and Pumera appeared. ‘The inspector and his companion are leaving,’ said the mayor.
Rheinhardt rose from his chair and with surprising elegance removed the letter from the mayor’s desk and dropped it into his pocket. The bodyguard stepped forward but the mayor extended his arm, halting his progress.
‘Show them out, Pumera.’
Part Three
The Kiss
34
Arianne Amsel was lying in a vast four-poster bed, her eyes wide open, gazing into the darkness. The air was redolent with cigar smoke, the pungency of which failed to smother a feral undertow of post-coital fragrances. Floating in space, somewhere vaguely above her line of vision, was the glowing terminus of the cigar. It flared and crackled, revealing the aquiline nose and shrewd eyes of the lord marshal. His expression was typically severe. There was no slackening of the jaw, no benign indifference, no sign of the inebriate idiocy which stuns the spent male into satisfied silence before the precipitate onset of sleep.
They had originally been introduced by the lord chamberlain. The occasion had been a celebration of German culture at the palace, in the presence of His Majesty the emperor, Franz-Josef.
How long ago was it now? Arianne asked herself. Two years?
A few memories flickered into existence. Glamorous women, the Bosnian Guard, and the Hochmeister of the Teutonic Knights in his gleaming white cape. She had been invited to the function with other eminent members of the Richard Wagner Association, Baron von Triebenbach and a charming young composer called Aschenbrandt. It seemed to her that an age had passed since those heady days when she was loved by everyone.
At that time she’d had no idea how the lord marshal’s office served the emperor, but she had quickly guessed from the lord marshal’s manner (and the sycophantic behaviour of those around him) that he occupied an elevated station in the imperial hierarchy. He was certainly more commanding than the lord chamberlain. However, unlike Prince Liechtenstein, the lord marshal knew almost nothing about opera and his manner was rather cold and stiff. She had flirted with him, albeit in a rather half-hearted way, and when Aschenbrandt had appeared, providing her with an excuse to leave, she had welcomed the opportunity.
Flowers had followed and in due course the lord marshal had come to hear her sing in The Flying Dutchman. Friends told her how powerful he was, but even then she had only responded with polite interest to his romantic overtures. It wasn’t until Rosenkrantz had sung at the mayor’s birthday party that Arianne had cause to review her position with respect to the lord marshal. It wasn’t until then — far too late, in fact — that she came to appreciate the extent of Rosenkrantz’s iniquity.
When, finally, Arianne and the lord marshal did become lovers, their illicit couplings were an unexpected success. Even so, their assignations took place infrequently. The lord marshal exercised extreme caution in all his affairs and he made no exception when it came to the management of his private life.
‘Have the police been again?’
Arianne was aware that he had said something, but she was so deeply submerged in reminiscences that she was unable to identify the exact words.
‘I’m sorry? I was drifting off,’ she lied. ‘What did you say?’
‘The police? Have they been to the opera house
again — asking questions?’
‘They haven’t spoken to me.’
‘What about the others?’
‘The police doctor, I’ve forgotten his name, he’s been back a few times to talk to the director.’
‘You saw him?’
‘No.’
‘Then how do you-’
‘It’s the opera house!’ said Arianne, sitting up. ‘We make it our business to know such things. Nobody enters the director’s office without news spreading.’ She paused before adding, ‘I hate him!’
‘Who?’
‘The director.’
‘Why? What’s he done now?’
‘The roles he has given me for the spring season are … demeaning. More Mozart! Who wants to sing Mozart! He does not give me the roles I deserve.’ Arianne turned on her side and nestled against her lover’s body. ‘Couldn’t you speak to Liechtenstein?’
‘I did.’
‘No, again, I mean.’
‘He said that Mahler doesn’t listen to anybody. He’s completely inflexible.’
‘But surely …’
‘The palace doesn’t like to be seen interfering.’
Arianne sighed and let her fingers play on the lord marshal’s inner thigh.
‘But the palace does interfere, doesn’t it?’
Arianne felt the lord marshal’s leg muscles tightening.
‘Whatever do you mean by that?’
‘People try to please the emperor, don’t they? And I’ve heard that, privately, His Majesty has said things about the director. He doesn’t approve of the way he runs the opera house.’
The lord marshal relaxed again. ‘That’s probably true.’
‘Well then …’
The lord marshal drew on the cigar and closed his hand around one of Arianne’s large breasts. The flesh only began to resist further compression when he was squeezing quite tightly. Arianne gasped.
‘I’ll think about it,’ said the lord marshal.
Arianne was not convinced that he would. Consequently, she disappeared beneath the bedclothes, where she began to perform an act which would ensure his compliance. She had come to accept, belatedly, that a singer’s career depended on more than just a good voice. Ida Rosenkrantz had obviously reached the same conclusion, but many years earlier.
35
Professor Freud had posited the existence of a general phenomenon of childhood in which possessive feelings for the parent of the opposite sex were combined with hostile — sometimes murderous — feeling directed towards the parent of the same sex. In the desires and rage of infancy he had seen Greek tragedy recapitulated: the drama of King Oedipus. Freud had once suggested to Liebermann that a failure to resolve these primal urges might be an important determinant of mental illness, but he had been unable to specify how this resolution might be accomplished. In the intervening months he had given the matter much thought and was now regaling his disciple with some speculative hypotheses.
‘The Oedipal situation casts the father in the role of an angry rival, competing for the mother’s affection. In the already troubled infant mind, fears develop concerning the nature of paternal retribution. The child already has some inkling that his sexual feelings towards his mother are futile; the threat of castration — by his father — settles the issue and Oedipal desires are repressed. In due course, the syndrome disintegrates. Sexual interest in the mother wanes and hostility towards the father diminishes. The child is free to enter adolescence unencumbered by infantile material, which has served its purpose by orienting the libido towards its appropriate object. For girls, maturity is reached by a more circuitous route.’
Professor Freud threw his head back, opened his mouth, and allowed a spire of smoke to ascend.
‘All infants,’ he continued, ‘irrespective of gender, are profoundly attached to their mothers; however, the ultimate orientation of female libido requires a transfer of affection from mother to father. How does this happen — and why — since mother has hitherto been the principal source of nourishment, tenderness and care? It happens because, at this juncture, little girls make a momentous discovery. They learn that they are anatomically deficient, incomplete. Boys have something which they don’t have. This dramatic realisation creates feelings of inferiority and envy. The little girl rejects her mother and becomes devoted to her father, whom she now believes has the power to rectify her deficiency. Normal development then proceeds, with the wish for a penis being gradually replaced by a wish for a baby.’
Freud waved his cigar in the air, creating a diaphanous blue-grey screen.
‘Unlike her brothers and opposite-sex play-friends, the little girl is free from worries about retributive castration: subsequently, forbidden ideas are repressed with less vigour. Thus it may be the case that women never achieve the moral strength of men. Moreover, they are prone to suffer from unresolved sexual feelings towards their fathers.’
The old man peered through the dissipating smoke.
‘Ah,’ he said, his lips buckling to form a lopsided smile. ‘I see that you are not persuaded.’
Liebermann, embarrassed by the transparency of his reaction, felt an uncomfortable warmth rise from beneath his collar to his cheeks.
‘You seem to have made a number of …’ Liebermann stretched his fingers nervously and said, ‘… assumptions.’ Freud made a gesture, inviting Liebermann to continue. ‘With respect, where is the evidence for these processes?’
‘You aren’t married yet,’ said Freud. ‘Wait until you have children. Little girls are always asking why it is that their brothers have a widdler and they don’t.’
‘And boys,’ said Liebermann, ‘three-year-old-boys — you really think they fear castration?’
‘Yes, and with good reason. A common threat employed by parents to discourage little boys from playing with themselves in public is — if you carry on doing that I’ll cut it off! And when a little boy chances upon a little girl urinating, and observes a conspicuous absence in the location where he is endowed, what is he to think? It is perfectly reasonable for him to conclude that castration is not an idle threat but a real punishment.’
Liebermann thought about his father. They had always been, for as long as he could remember, uneasy in each other’s company. There was something problematic, elusive, and frankly inexpressible at the root of their inability to communicate. He wondered whether some vestige of infant anxiety was still lurking in his unconscious.
‘These are challenging ideas,’ continued the professor, ‘and it may be some time before the world is ready to accept them. Indeed, I must resign myself to the publication of several preparatory works before I risk setting yet more unpalatable truths before an already recalcitrant public. I am conscious of the fact that they have hardly digested my dream book. They will not welcome further threats to their complacency so soon after.’
The two men continued to discuss ‘Sophoclean psychology’ for several hours. In due course, Freud glanced at his desk clock, stifled a yawn and said, ‘Forgive me, I am a little tired.’
Liebermann stood and unhooked his coat from the back of his chair.
‘Thank you, once more, for a very stimulating evening.’
Freud made a languid papal benediction with his cigar.
‘Strange that you should have mentioned Saminsky the other day.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?
‘I ran into him at an auction. We were both bidding for the same unguentarium.’
‘The same what?’
‘One of these.’ Freud turned and lifted a bottle from his bookshelf. It was mottled with patches of iridescent blue and green. ‘Roman: first century. It was used to keep perfume in. I couldn’t compete, of course. Saminsky’s resources exceed mine by several orders of magnitude.’
‘He’s a collector?’
‘Yes, and a very serious one too.’ Freud rotated the bottle. ‘Notice the long narrow neck, how it flares out — the swelling mouth. Beautiful.’
He could have be
en describing a woman. Freud found sex in the most unlikely places.
36
Rheinhardt looked up at the shabby apartment block and wondered whether it was derelict. No gaslights flickered in the windows and two weary caryatids, streaked with bird droppings, grimaced beneath the weight of heavy capitals. There was no concierge and the foyer stank of sewage. Rheinhardt picked his way across broken tiles and ascended the staircase. He could not imagine Ida Rosenkrantz in this place. He could not imagine her lifting the hem of her expensive dress and stepping over old newspapers and smashed glass.
Perhaps Herr Schneider was mistaken?
The phrase was forming under his breath just as he arrived at Orsola Salak’s door. It stood wide open. Rheinhardt rapped the woodwork and an unnaturally deep female voice croaked, ‘Who is it?’
‘My name is Rheinhardt. I am a detective inspector.’
‘Police?’
‘Yes. May I come in?’
‘Do as you please.’
Her German was heavily accented.
‘Your door is open.’
‘I know.’
‘Shall I close it?’
‘Open — closed. It makes no difference.’
Rheinhardt wiped his feet on a floor mat and stepped into a gloomy hallway. Through another open door he saw a woman, seated next to a small table. The late-evening light was failing and all he could make out was this hunched figure.
‘Orsola Salak?’
‘Come in, Inspector.’
She was very old, in her eighties perhaps. Her hair was a grizzled mass of wisps, filaments and braids of varying sizes. Embedded in this unkempt tangle were filthy ribbons and broken fetishes. Rheinhardt saw discoloured copper rings, a miniature horseshoe, and a dried-up palm frond folded to make a cross. The general effect reminded him of a magpie’s nest. Salak didn’t look like the psychics and mind-readers who sat in booths on the Prater. Their posturing and theatricality was reassuringly absurd. Orsola Salak was something quite different, something more grave and disturbing — a reversion to an ancestral primitive type. Rheinhardt became aware of an eerie grinding sound emanating from her person. He noticed her clawlike right hand, the spidery action of her fingers, kneading whatever it was that she held.
