by Frank Tallis
Przistaupinsky poured the tea, distributed the plates and served the dumplings. They were golden brown, sprinkled with icing sugar and still steaming slightly. Liebermann sliced through the breadcrumbs with his fork. The exterior broke open, revealing a whole baked apricot inside: the vertical incision and moist interior created a disconcertingly sexual impression.
When Przistaupinsky departed, the two men talked for a time about their victory over Treffen, but in due course the conversation became more general. It was while they were discussing the songs of Alexander Zemlinsky that Liebermann sought Mahler’s opinion with respect to Freimark’s ‘Hope’. The director agreed that it was a remarkable piece of lieder writing and, with some subtle prompting from Liebermann, was soon reflecting on the relationship between Freimark and Brosius.
‘I find early Brosius quite dull, lacking in originality; however, there was a kind of flowering in his middle years, the influence of which I think is detectable in Freimark’s “Hope”. Those poignant discords.’ Mahler tilted his head as if he were listening to the song being performed. ‘But Brosius never continued with his harmonic experiments. After the second string quartet he reverted back to the comfortable, derivative style of his youth. The Rustic Symphony is execrable.’
‘Brahms respected him,’ Liebermann ventured.
‘Well, they were friends — for a period, anyway. Brahms was obliged to be complimentary.’
The talk shifted to a concert series in which the director had programmed Brahms’s Variations on a theme by Haydn. Mahler spoke with passion, slicing the air with his nail-bitten fingers.
‘Brahms takes the seed from the pod and nurses it through all the stages of development to its highest degree of perfection. In fact, he has no rivals in this field, not even Beethoven, whose inventiveness makes him soar into other distant realms. The Andante of my own second symphony and the Blumenstuck from the third are also variations … Rather than a continuous development of the same sequence of notes, mine are decorative arabesques and garlands woven around the theme.’ The director got up from his seat, crossed to the piano and began playing to illustrate his point. ‘Brahms’s variations,’ he continued, ‘are like an enchanted stream, with banks so sure that not a single drop gets lost, even at the sharpest bends.’ Again, he provided an example.
As the director played, Liebermann noticed that a four-hand arrangement of an untitled piece was already on the music stand.
‘What is this?’
‘Oh, something I was working on the summer before last, an Adagietto. It’ll be the slow movement of my fifth symphony.’ Mahler detected Liebermann’s interest. ‘Can you read it?’
‘Yes,’ said Liebermann.
‘Would you like to …’ Mahler wriggled his fingers in the air.
‘Oh, I couldn’t. I mean, not with …’
‘Nonsense,’ Mahler cut in, making a dismissive gesture and urging the young doctor to make room for him on the piano stool. Liebermann could not quite believe his situation. Anxiety made his fingers feel cold and inflexible. He rubbed his hands together to generate some warmth. ‘You may be familiar with some of the material,’ Mahler continued, unaware of his companion’s sudden crisis of confidence. ‘The introductory theme is derived from one of my Ruckert songs. Are you ready?’
Liebermann looked at the notation so closely that the staves began to blur.
Liebermann swallowed and said, ‘Yes.’
They began to play, filling the room with a sound of such beguiling beauty that Liebermann instantly forgot himself. The melody was weightless and unhurried, hovering, occupying a tonal universe that was at once both ecstatic and painfully sad. It was like nothing Leibermann had ever heard before, touching him in some deep place, finding subtle and sympathetic registers of emotion. This music was peculiarly eloquent, suggesting the numinous in its oceanic pitch and swell. Here, unmistakably, was the weary soul, bidding adieu to earthly existence. Yet the lure of eternal peace was not so great as to mitigate mundane attachments, the recollection of simple human pleasures: sunlight on an upturned face, a child’s smile, mountain air in the morning, the smell of flowers after summer rain, the immediacy of physical love. The soul was leaving for a better place, but not without a backwards glance and the reluctant acceptance that some things would be lost for ever. Throughout, the aching melody was held in a state of suspension, striving for but repeatedly denied resolution. The effect of this was to make the music unbearably intense. When the final phrase desended, step by step, Liebermann was fighting to hold back tears. An F major chord, pure and translucent, consigned the soul to heaven, and the silence that followed lasted for some time.
The director removed his hands from the keyboard and said: ‘Well, what do you think?’
Liebermann was speechless.
50
As usual, Cafe Central was busy. Even so, Rheinhardt and Liebermann had found a table where they could talk without being overheard. A group of litterateurs were arguing loudly about poetry and the pianist was thumping out a medley from Strauss’s Die Fledermaus. Liebermann noted that his friend had failed to order a pastry: a reliable indication that something was amiss.
‘I feel responsible, somehow,’ said Rheinhardt, stirring his Turkische coffee and staring glumly into the black whirlpool that he had created. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Oskar,’ said Liebermann, sighing, ‘we didn’t drive Saminsky to commit suicide!’
‘But how can you be so sure?’
Liebermann turned away and gazed towards the corner where the chess players had gathered. It was remarkable how they could concentrate, given the noise. ‘Professor Mathias is quite certain that it was suicide?’
Rheinhardt nodded. ‘Frau Saminsky said her husband was preoccupied. He didn’t go to bed after returning from the palace. The lord marshal also said Saminsky wasn’t his usual jovial self. I think we may have been a little too …’
‘Emphatic?’
‘Yes.’
Liebermann shrugged. ‘It’s all very odd, though, don’t you think? That Saminsky should drown — at this particular juncture?’
‘Yes. And ordinarily we would be obliged to consider the possibility of foul play. But Professor Mathias was unequivocal with respect to his conclusion.’ The crescents of loose skin under Rheinhardt’s eyes had darkened due to the absence of sleep. He shook his head and added, ‘I’m not sure we went about things in the right way. Those blunt accusations. He couldn’t face the prospect of scandal and ruin.’
Liebermann pushed his Topfenstrudel across the table.
‘Eat this. It’ll make you feel better.’
‘Aren’t you hungry?’
‘I’ll order another.’
Rheinhardt sliced the pastry with his fork and placed a small piece in his mouth. He began to chew, slowly, and Liebermann hoped that it would have the desired effect.
‘Did you go to see Herr Kluge?’
‘Yes. The poor fellow is old and plagued by supernatural visitations.’
‘Does he live on his own?’
‘No, with his wife who is also very peculiar.’
‘Did they remember Saminsky paying a call on the seventh of September?’
‘Frau Kluge remembered Saminsky visiting in August and early in the following month, but she couldn’t provide dates. She was, however, confident that Saminsky had arrived late. Apparently Herr Kluge is most vulnerable to hallucinations after eating his evening meal which is served at half past eight.’
Liebermann remembered Saminsky opening the D’Arsonval cage. He had looked like a stage magician, a creator of illusions. In a way, his whole life was misdirection and deception. He had concealed his mediocrity behind a screen of smoke and mirrors.
The pianist finished the Strauss medley and received a vigorous round of applause. Liebermann waited for the noise to subside. ‘I think I might have been mistaken about Lueger.’
Rheinhardt put down his fork.
‘Good God! I don’t think I’ve ever he
ard you say such a thing.’
‘The mayor is shrewd. And I wonder, would a shrewd man have chosen such a course of action …’ The sentence trailed off and Liebermann grimaced.
‘What about the voice of Frau Lueger, sounding in her son’s head, her possessive love, her denunciation of sluts and sirens? What about all that?’
Liebermann ignored Rheinhardt’s taunt.
‘The very fact that Geisler saw the mayor outside Rosenkrantz’s villa should have given us pause for thought. If he had intended to kill her, surely he would have taken better care not to be seen.’
‘Men with murder on their minds are, not surprisingly, somewhat absorbed by their thoughts and therefore prone to incautious behaviour. It was a foggy night. Lueger might not have seen Geisler approaching.’
‘And those letters in the stove? Would he really have tried to destroy them after killing his erstwhile mistress?’
‘We don’t know that he did try to destroy them. Perhaps they were placed in the stove by Rosenkrantz. However, if it was Lueger, his behaviour cannot be considered entirely unreasonable. Most people are completely unaware that certain inks survive fire.’
Liebermann pulled at his chin.
The pianist began to play again, a Slavic melody that Liebermann didn’t recognise. ‘What if Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s rib wasn’t accidentally broken?’
‘I’m afraid I’m finding your reasoning a little difficult to follow, Max. Are you suggesting that the perpetrator broke the rib on purpose?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why would he have done that? If it wasn’t for the broken rib he would have almost certainly got away with it!’
‘Exactly.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘The broken rib was broken because of an unconscious wish to be caught and punished.’
‘No. I believe the perpetrator was fully aware of what he was doing.’
‘Forgive me, Max, but you really aren’t making much sense.’
Liebermann took a sip of his schwarzer coffee.
‘Whoever killed Rosenkrantz wanted us to conclude that she had taken laudanum, lost consciousness, and that her rib was accidentally broken while she was being asphyxiated. And why wouldn’t we reach such a conclusion? It’s so very plausible.’
‘But to what end?’
Liebermann caught the attention of a passing waiter.
‘Another Topfenstrudel, please.’
The waiter bowed and dashed off towards the counter.
Rheinhardt frowned at his friend: ‘Well?’
51
Commissioner Brugel had arranged an arc of photographs on his desk. Each of the images showed a different view of Professor Saminsky’s drowned body. Some of the photographs, especially those taken at a distance, possessed a modicum of artistic merit. They showed the still surface of the lake, the ring of trees, and the pale uniform sky overhead. If it had not been for the corpse in the foreground, some of these landscapes would have been suitable for display at an exhibition.
‘Why,’ said the commissioner, ‘did you request an audience with the lord marshal without consulting me first?’
Rheinhardt straightened his back.
‘Sir: I tried to speak to you before I wired the Obersthofmarschallamt, but you were unavailable. I telephoned from the post office in Hietzing.’
‘Then you should have waited for me to return.’ There were several arguments that Rheinhardt could have proferred to justify his actions, but he knew that to do so would very likely make matters worse. The commissioner was famous for his intransigence. Once he had taken a view there was little point in trying to persuade him otherwise. ‘You can’t just go blundering into the palace,’ Brugel continued. ‘There are procedures, protocols, and customs that must be observed. Fortunately, the lord marshal was not offended by your impertinence. A less gracious individual might have taken umbrage and issued a complaint.’
The commissioner proceeded in this vein for some time, his invective becoming more heated until he finally began to rant. Rheinhardt remained calm, knowing that the storm would eventually pass. When it did, the commissioner fell back in his chair, exhausted by his own choler.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Rheinhardt, lowering his head deferentially. ‘It won’t happen again.’ A show of remorse usually helped to expedite matters.
The commissioner, who was still breathing heavily and whose nose had darkened to the shade of a ripe plum, made a grunting noise which Rheinhardt took to be a sign of reluctant approval. After making some adjustments to his clothing, Brugel turned his attention to Rheinhardt’s report. He flicked the pages backwards and forwards and finally said, ‘Your conclusions are equivocal, but it’s obvious what happened. Isn’t it? Saminsky made Fraulein Rosenkrantz pregnant, she agreed to see the angel maker, but subsequently made demands that Saminsky was not prepared to meet. Perhaps she wanted him to leave his wife and family? The crime was well thought out, and had it not been for the broken rib we might easily have concluded that Rosenkrantz’s death was accidental. When Saminsky learned that we suspected foul play he impulsively tried to implicate the mayor. In due course, he recognised the direction the investigation was taking and elected to take his own life in order to escape the scaffold and public disgrace.’
Rheinhardt nodded. ‘Indeed, sir. However, I am still of the opinion that Herr Geisler’s statement is accurate. I believe that the mayor was with Fraulein Rosenkrantz the night she was killed, a fact which cannot be overlooked, and recommend caution with respect to what we are at liberty to conclude.’
‘No, Rheinhardt,’ said Brugel. ‘It is clear now that your witness must have been mistaken.’ These words were spoken with an air of finality. The commissioner had evidently lost his appetite for indicting the mayor. ‘On reflection, it is most unfortunate that you decided to pursue that particular line of inquiry.’ Brugel’s hard stare dared Rheinhardt to object to his use of the personal pronoun. ‘Let us hope that the mayor is a man who does not hold grudges.’
‘Sir: this is most unsatisfactory.’
‘On the contrary, Rheinhardt, the mystery of Ida Rosenkrantz has been solved and when the newspaper reports appear, I promise you, the security office will be warmly congratulated.’ The commissioner’s face contracted as if in response to a sudden attack of indigestion. ‘I suppose I should congratulate you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘That is most kind. However-’
‘There is nothing more to discuss,’ Brugel cut in. He collected the photographs of Saminksy, slid them into a buff folder and snapped it shut. Looking up at Rheinhardt with peculiar intensity he added, ‘The case is closed.’ Brugel’s severe expression declared that he was not in the mood to be contradicted.
‘Very good, sir.’
Rheinhardt felt that some kind of bargain had been struck, although he couldn’t specify what exactly. He also sensed that the commissioner might owe him some small favour in return for his acquiescence.
‘Sir?’
‘What is it, Rheinhardt?’
‘I would like to conduct an exhumation.’
Rheinhardt returned to his office where he found a message from Professor Mathias. The old man wanted him to visit the pathological institute as soon as possible. Paying less attention than he should have, Rheinhardt rushed through some outstanding paperwork and was soon waving down a cab on the Schottenring. Within minutes he was sitting in the morgue, next to the autopsy table. Professor Mathias was still working on a corpse. Rheinhardt registered the pretty and youthful face: golden braids, gemstone eyes, and translucent skin. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.
The professor stroked the girl’s smooth forehead. ‘Voltaire once wrote that it is one of the superstitions of the human mind to have imagined that virginity could be a virtue: witty, of course — as one would expect — but woefully wrong-headed. Why is it that the French, whose medieval courtiers invented romance, have become so cynical in modern times? A German writer would never make j
ests at the expense of modesty. I fear that, now, we alone among the peoples of Europe carry the flame.’
‘Perhaps you haven’t been to the theatre lately, Herr Professor. Our young writers show little respect for the old ways. They mock romance.’
‘God help us, then. We’ll go the way of the second empire. You mark my words.’ Mathias put down his instruments and covered the girl’s face with a green sheet.
‘Why did you want to speak to me, Herr Professor?’
The old man took off his spectacles and began to clean them with his apron.
‘Something’s been troubling me.’
‘Oh?’
‘Was the lake in which Saminsky drowned very muddy?’
‘I didn’t pay much attention to the lake. I was rather preoccupied with Saminsky. Why?’
Mathias put his spectacles back on and reached for a small bottle. Holding it up to the electric light he said, ‘What do you see?’
‘Water? A brown sediment of some kind has collected at the bottom.’
‘Correct.’
‘Watch.’ The Professor gave the bottle a vigorous shake and held it up again. The water was now cloudy and opaque.
‘Herr Professor, what has this got to do with Saminsky?’
‘I obtained the contents of this bottle from Saminsky’s lungs — which isn’t always possible. You may be surprised to learn that sometimes the lungs of a drowned man are dry. Now, observe the particles. They are fine and take a long time to settle. I must confess, I didn’t notice how much precipitate there was at first.’ Mathias appeared somewhat embarrassed by the admission.
Rheinhardt made a forgiving gesture. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Unfortunates who drown themselves don’t usually thrash around. They simply lie back, allow their lungs to fill, and lose consciousness. Drowning isn’t as unpleasant as you might imagine. Individuals who have been saved from drowning often describe having experienced a feeling of detachment and peace after an initial stage of panic. The fact that there’s so much mud in this bottle suggests to me that it was kicked up.’
