Death And The Maiden lp-6

by Frank Tallis

  ‘Saminsky was struggling?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  The two men looked at each other. Professor Mathias’s eyes blinked behind the thick lenses of his spectacles.

  ‘Are you saying, Professor, that Saminsky might not have committed suicide after all?’

  ‘I am saying that you had better take another look at that lake. If the water is relatively clear …’ Mathias allowed the implications of the incomplete sentence to multiply.

  Rheinhardt took the bottle from the old man. ‘May I ask you to compose a brief supplementary report, Herr Professor?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Saminsky had made Rosenkrantz pregnant. He had attempted to implicate the mayor, and now there was reason to believe that Saminsky might — like Rosenkrantz — also have been murdered.

  The case was far from closed.

  Rheinhardt tilted the bottle and a rainbow of colours appeared beneath the dark blue stopper. He was obliged to continue the investigation. If Commissioner Brugel challenged him, he could always blame Professor Mathias.

  52

  Apart from the occasional rustling of reeds and leaves, the lake was, once again, shrouded in absolute silence, the surface a sheet of glass beneath a white void. Rheinhardt passed through the beech trees and followed the gravel path until he reached the changing hut. For a few moments he stood quietly, contemplating the hushed scene. He placed his hands on his thighs and, leaning forward, peered into the water. He couldn’t see very much, only the sky’s pale reflection.

  In the hut he stripped off his clothes and donned a black and green swimming costume. He hadn’t been swimming for months and was quietly excited by the prospect. The door hinges needed oil and bellowed a bovine protest as he made his exit.

  Rheinhardt edged down the gentle incline until his feet were covered in water, and then began to wade out slowly into the lake. It was cold, but not cold enough to make him shiver. When the water was lapping around his waist, he bent his knees and pushed off, launching himself into a horizontal glide before initiating a languid breast stroke. Occasionally he would allow his legs to descend in order to test for depth, and he discovered that the lake was generally shallow. Only when he was in the very middle was there a place where the bottom was beyond the reach of his toes. Taking a deep breath he dipped his head beneath the surface and stared at the bed of the lake. The water was pellucid. He saw flat stones and some bricks embedded in the mud. Coming up for air, he took another deep breath and lowered his head again. He scissored his legs, creating a disturbance, and watched dark nebulae rising. They expanded until the agitated water was opaque. Rheinhardt undertook various experiments of this kind, and when he was satisfied that he had gathered enough evidence to support Professor Mathias’s hypothesis he swam a few circuits of the lake for pleasure.

  As he followed the bank opposite the wooden hut, Rheinhardt caught a glimpse of someone walking beyond the beech trees. He expected to see a man emerging onto the path at any moment — another swimmer, perhaps? But no one did emerge. His instinct was to go and investigate, but he resisted the urge and continued to circle the lake. Where had the man gone? Rheinhardt became acutely aware of his vulnerability. The lake was a lonely place. Moreover, he had just established that Saminsky had very probably been murdered there. Rheinhardt’s carriage was parked some distance away. He wondered whether the driver would hear him if he called for help.

  Feigning indifference, Rheinhardt rolled onto his back and allowed the buoyancy of the water to support his body. He continued to observe, and did so for some time, but saw nothing unusual. In fact, he was beginning to question whether he had seen anything at all when, quite suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man wearing a coat and hat leap from behind one tree to a new hiding place behind another.

  Rheinhardt decided that it was unwise to remain passive. He was a sitting target. Rolling over, he immediately began a fast crawl, hoping that an element of surpise might work to his advantage. He made directly for the bank, which at its nearest point was quite steep. Finding some purchase, he heaved himself out of the water. He stood up, crossed the path, and made his way through the trees. When he arrived at the location where he expected to discover a man crouched down in the scrub and brushwood, he found nothing. Nor, when he looked across the grass towards the road, did he see anyone attempting to make their escape.

  The inspector scratched his head.

  After Rheinhardt had dried himself off and changed back into his clothes he conducted a quick search of the area and then made his way back to the road. His carriage was waiting for him near one of the unfinished villas. Rheinhardt looked up at the driver.

  ‘Did you see anyone by those trees?’ He pointed towards the beeches.

  The driver shook his head.

  ‘There was a man skulking around up there. He was wearing a coat and hat — you must have seen him!’

  The driver shrugged.

  ‘I didn’t see anyone.’

  53

  The director looked Amsel directly in the eye and said, ‘I am afraid that your contract will not be renewed next year.’

  At first, the singer looked as if she was going to cry. Her haughty expression lost its integrity as her lower lip began to tremble. But then she touched her crucifix and seemed to draw strength and inspiration from its substance. Suddenly she was like a martyr, bravely accepting her destiny as the faggots ignited and the flames licked at the hem of her gown. Arianne Amsel shook her mane of dark curls and raised her chin. ‘I am not surprised, Herr Director. You have been undermining me for years now. It was inevitable that you would one day deliver the final blow.’

  ‘That is a very serious allegation, Fraulein Amsel.’

  The singer responded by assuming an expression of pure contempt. ‘You men are so weak.’ Mahler drew back, his quizzical expression intensifying. ‘So easily manipulated.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She turned you all against me.’

  Mahler laughed incredulously.

  ‘Are you referring to Ida Rosenkrantz?’

  Amsel reached across the director’s desk, pointing.

  ‘You were duped, just like the rest of them. Prince Liechtenstein, Intendant Plappart, Mayor Lueger! Yes, even you fell for her act.’ Amsel jabbed her rigid finger. ‘Even you were seduced by her counterfeit innocence.’

  ‘I can assure you,’ said the director with earnest authority, ‘Ida Rosenkrantz played no part in my decision to end your contract.’

  ‘That is something I find very hard to believe.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but it is true. There is only one person responsible for your fate.’ Mahler produced a knowing look. A subtle movement was sufficient to clarify his meaning. ‘You have given me many reasons to terminate your contract — your frequent indispositions, your tantrums and your tiresome objections to being cast in perfectly good roles. All these I have overlooked. But there is one thing that I could not, and cannot, overlook — your stubborn refusal to accept my prohibition of the claque.’

  ‘You are mistaken, Herr Director. I have never required services of that kind. I can hardly be blamed if my supporters are moved by the beauty of the human voice and choose to show their gratitude for artistry with applause.’

  Mahler sighed.

  ‘I might have been persuaded otherwise last year, but this …’ Mahler’s hand revolved in the air as he searched for the right word, ‘… nuisance has become particularly conspicuous of late.’

  Amsel motioned as if to speak but then suddenly changed her mind. She shook her head and her curls bounced before settling. This gesture, which usually betokened pride and vainglory, was now devoid of confidence. It had been reduced to a nervous tic, little more than an involuntary spasm.

  ‘I have employed some professional gentlemen of my own,’ Mahler continued. ‘Private detectives.’ He allowed Amsel a moment in which to register the implications of this admission: ‘The likes of Herr Vranitzky have no place in the opera house
of the new century.’

  The look of defeat on Amsel’s face was unmistakable. She rose from her chair and walked to the door. Mahler stood up and bowed. The gesture was entirely redundant but it was unthinkable for him to remain seated. It was important to observe the customary courtesies. Amsel turned. Her lips were pressed tightly together and her eyes glinted with moisture.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said the director. ‘But the score is sacred, and the music must come before everything.’

  ‘You’ll never win, you know. ‘

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The claque. You’ll never get rid of them.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But I intend to have a very good try.’

  ‘A word of advice, Herr Director?’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You are making yourself very unpopular. You are making yourself enemies in high places.’

  The director smiled.

  ‘I know.’

  54

  Rheinhardt looked down the hallway and saw light spilling from his youngest daughter’s bedroom. He poked his head round the door and saw Mitzi, sitting in a nest of pillows, studying the contents of a book.

  ‘You should be asleep.’ Mitzi made an appeal for clemency with her large dark eyes, and Rheinhardt was immediately disarmed. A permanent half-smile, inherited from her mother, softened the child’s expression and provoked a sympathetic flowering of good humour that expanded in the vicinity of her father’s heart. ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘Strange Tales from Transylvania.’

  Rheinhardt sat on the edge of the bed and Mitzi handed him the book. The cloth cover was faded and the pages were brittle with age. Rheinhardt flicked through the volume, registering titles: ‘The Jealous Vampire’, ‘The Six-fingered Hand’, ‘The Wicked Queen’. Each story was illustrated with a surprisingly good mezzotint.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘From one of the market stalls in Leopoldstadt.’

  ‘Are the stories frightening?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Only a year earlier this volume would have given Mitzi nightmares.

  Rheinhardt felt a pang of regret. He was keenly aware of Mitzi’s childhood slipping away.

  The book fell open at a story titled ‘The Gypsy Fiddlers’.

  Although the responsible course of action at that moment would have been to tuck Mitzi up and put out the light, Rheinhardt could not deny her the pleasure of a bedtime story.

  ‘Once upon a time, there lived a boyar-’

  ‘A what?’ asked Mitzi.

  ‘A boyar,’ Rheinhardt repeated. ‘A landowner.’

  Mitzi nodded, wriggled out from beneath the eiderdown and sat next to her father. Rheinhardt placed his arm around her shoulders and continued.

  ‘Now, this boyar was old and mean. He was a miser and didn’t want anyone to have his money. He was so mean that even the possibility of others enjoying his money after his death made him unhappy. He resolved that this should never happen. So he sold most of his land for gold and collected all of his wealth in wooden chests. He then went off to find some gypsies who he had learned were encamped nearby. When he arrived, the gypsies were in the middle of a celebration. A great feast had been laid out and they were dancing to a tune played by five fiddlers. The merrymakers invited the boyar to join them, but he refused. He asked them if they would transport some chests for him and promised to pay them well. The job didn’t sound very difficult and the gypsies agreed.’

  Rheinhardt buried his face in his daughter’s thick hair and planted a kiss among her curls. The love that he felt for her never ceased to surprise him. There was something breathtaking about its sheer excess. A small elbow found his ribs, reminding him to continue.

  ‘The gypsies went back with the boyar to his castle and the boyar ordered his servants to bring ten wooden chests up from the cellar. “Inside these chests,” said the boyar, “are magic books. They are evil and can do much harm. I don’t want them here any more. Load them onto your wagons and we’ll hide them in a safe place.” The gypsies followed the boyar to a cave in a deep wooded ravine, and there the boyar ordered them to place the chests inside. They then built a brick wall to seal the entrance and disguised it with dirt and bushes. The boyar made the gypsies swear that they would tell nobody about the hiding place, and he rewarded them with a purse full of coins. But dark thoughts were occupying the boyar’s mind. When he returned to his castle he commanded twenty of his most loyal servants to steal upon the gypsy camp and kill them. So that was what they did. They killed the men, the women, and the children. They killed the five fiddlers and smashed their violins before trampling the broken instruments into the ground. They burned the wagons, drove the horses into the forest, and took the purse full of coins that the boyar had given the gypsies in payment for their help. When the servants told the boyar what they had done he was well pleased. He opened the purse and gave each of his men a coin. A rumour spread that it was robbers who had killed the gypsies and, in the fullness of time, the terrible massacre was forgotten.’

  Rheinhardt felt his daughter nestling in the arc of his protective arm. He squeezed her closer.

  ‘The boyar grew very old, and as the years went by he wanted to be near his money again. His wealth was the only thing he had ever cared for. One summer night, when a full moon was shining brightly in the sky, the boyar travelled to the cave in the ravine, parted the bushes, and pressed his ear against the wall. He sighed with relief. His chests were still safe. But his relief was shortlived. From inside the cave he could hear the sound of fiddlers and singing. The boyar was horrified. “Someone’s found my treasure,” he cried. The boyar beat his fists against the wall until his hands were cut and bleeding. Suddenly the wall parted, and inside he saw a band of gypsies making merry. They looked familiar. The music was wild and their faces reflected the red flames which leaped up from a campfire. The boyar threw himself between the wooden chests and the gypsies and stood in readiness to defend his possessions. Standing thus, he watched as the wall closed, sealing the entrance of the cave once more — and trapping him inside.’

  Rheinhardt paused for dramatic effect.

  ‘What happened to him?’ Mitzi asked.

  ‘There are those who say,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘that on summer nights, as they have walked through the deep wooded ravine, they have heard the sound of gypsy fiddlers playing a wild dance. Others have searched for the boyar’s cave but no one has ever found it. As for the boyar himself? Well, he did not return to his castle and he was never seen again.’

  Rheinhardt let his cheek rest on the crown of Mitzi’s head. He inhaled the distinctive fragrance that came off her hair, a soapy scent but with a feral undertow, like civet or the soft musk of a kitten’s fur.

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now it’s time for you to get some sleep.’ Mitzi disengaged herself from his arm and slid beneath the eiderdown. He stood over her, marvelling at the perfection of her small features and the healthy glow that emanated from her peachlike skin. ‘Goodnight, my dear.’

  Rheinhardt kissed his daughter’s forehead, placed the book on a chest of drawers, lowered the gas jet, and closed the bedroom door gently behind him. He walked down the hallway and entered the sitting room, where his wife Else was making a shopping list and his eldest daughter Therese was doing some schoolwork. Else looked up and caught Rheinhardt’s eye. Such was the intimacy between husband and wife that no words were necessary. Her tacit inquiry was answered with a reassuring smile and she continued adding items to her list. Rheinhardt lowered himself into an armchair and began to twirl his moustache.

  What are fairy tales?

  He was sure that his friend Liebermann would be able to supply him with an erudite answer, in which the unconscious and infantile sexuality would very probably play a significant part; however, as a layman he immediately arrived at what he considered to be a more plausible view. Fairy tales were educational. Set in distant lands and among peoples
comfortably removed from everyday life, fairy tales introduced children to the idea of badness existing in the world. They helped prepare children for the harsh reality of human iniquity.

  Rheinhardt remembered the witch, Orsola Salak.

  Who are you? That is the question: the policeman or the man with three women in his life?

  Rheinhardt could have offered Orsola Salak many answers to that question, but all of them, he realised, would be secondary to the one fundamental answer which took precedence over all others. He did his job to make the world a safer, better place for his wife and children. Interposing himself between the badness of the world and his family had become his raison d’etre.

  The uncanny atmosphere of ‘The Gypsy Fiddlers’ and the intense love he had felt for Mitzi while reading it had affected his state of mind. It was as if he had been opened up, released from the internal straitjacket of rationality. He found himself curiously willing to accept Salak’s prophecy.

  ‘What are you? A policeman? Or a father and husband? The time is approaching, very soon, when you must ask yourself such questions. Be true. Otherwise …’

  Salak’s implied threat sent a shiver down Rheinhardt’s spine. He was committed to the security office, but his commitment ended with the protection of his family’s interests. He did not want his wife to become a widow and his daughters to grow up without a father.

  If I continue to play the part of the good policeman and continue this investigation, it might end in the grave for me …

  The witch had advised him to be true, and that meant putting his role as a husband and father before his duty as a policeman. In the Cafe Central, Liebermann had presented him with a chilling scenario. The Rosenkrantz case was more complex and more dangerous than he had even imagined.

  Rheinhardt stood up. He crossed to the window and moved the curtain aside. There was nobody waiting for him on the street below, no suspicious figure loitering.