by Frank Tallis
78
HERR BEIBER AWOKE FROM a particularly vivid dream.
The races: a humid day in early summer, damp air blowing across a field from the invisible Danube. Hurdles and ditches surrounded by a bright white fence, and in the distance woods, luxuriant with heavy foliage. Jockeys on their mounts—gray, dapple gray, bay, chestnut, piebald—shiny bright silk shirts puffed up by the wind—sashes of red, blue, and gold. The crowd, dark and swarming around the track: counts, bankers, cavalry officers, students, salesmen, clerks—and elegant ladies with parasols, the breeze rippling their long muslin skirts.
The evocation of the Freudenau had been so vivid that something of the summer air—hay, meadowsweet, manure, and every kind of exotic perfume—still lingered in his nostrils, masking the insistent and ubiquitous monotony of hospital carbolic.
Herr Beiber had had similar dreams before, and in all of them his companion had been Archduchess Marie-Valerie. They were usually seated together, in the royal enclosure, where they sipped champagne and laughed at the horses’ names: Kiss Me Quick, Lord Byron, Fräulein Minnie. This dream, however, was different.
He had not been dressed in his sombre work clothes. Instead, he had been wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, pale flannel trousers, and a red-striped jacket. A pair of binoculars hung from his neck and in his hand he carried a stylish ebony cane. He hardly recognized himself. And more peculiar still, his companion was not Archduchess Marie-Valerie but Frau Friedmann—a typist who occupied one of the three desks in his small office.
He closed his eyes and tried to recover the dream world.
The horses assembled at the gate—nostrils flaring, flanks glossy and shimmering in the sunshine.
Which is yours?
The black-brown stallion.
Their arms were linked and Frau Friedmann's body was pressed against his. As he remembered the sensation, he felt an unfamiliar stirring in his loins.
The red flag lowered and the stallion broke away, taking the lead at once. It surged forward—ten, fifteen, twenty lengths.
If Apollo wins, I'll take you out to dinner at Leidinger's. And afterward, we'll get orchestra seats at the Weidner Theater. Front row.
Herr Beiber opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
Frau Friedmann.
He had hardly noticed her at work. She was simply part of the office furniture. But now that he thought about her, it occurred to him that she was a pleasant enough woman. A plump red-cheeked widow, who had a sweet, kindly smile. And—yes—he could recall that she had once complimented him on his choice of neckties.
Because of her ample figure, Frau Friedmann's dresses were always rather tight. When she sat, the stretched material revealed little ridges of folded flesh.
Again, the unfamiliar stirring.
He would be seeing Doctor Liebermann later that morning. He would tell him all about the dream. It was the sort of thing that the young doctor would be interested in.
Herr Beiber sat up.
He felt strangely altered. In fact, he was feeling rather well. Perhaps all this talking to Doctor Liebermann was doing him some good after all.
Frau Friedmann.
“Now, why didn't I notice her before?” he whispered into the crisp bedsheets.
79
ON HERR LÖSCH'S DESK was a small ornament made of silver and gold: compasses, opened over the arc of a circle inscribed with strange letters. It was the only item in the room that suggested the significance of their whereabouts. As for Herr Lösch himself, he reminded Rheinhardt of nothing more subversive than a bank manager or tutor. It was difficult to believe that he was the most senior Freemason in Vienna: Venerable Lösch—Grand Master of Humanitas.
“I am most grateful for your consideration, Inspector,” said Lösch, “and I can assure you that I will take the utmost care.”
The cadence suggested that the audience had come to an end.
Rheinhardt wondered whether his explanation had been adequate.
“He is an extremely dangerous man,” said Rheinhardt. “And quite mad.”
“Indeed,” said Herr Lösch, stroking his white Vandyke beard. His gaze flicked away to register the time on the table clock.
“I would be happy,” Rheinhardt persisted, “to provide you with police protection on the twelfth.”
Herr Lösch smiled and said, “Thank you. But that won't be necessary.”
The smile faded and the pulse on his temple suggested that he was becoming annoyed by Rheinhardt's continued presence.
The inspector sighed.
“Herr Lösch, the palace is treating this matter very seriously. My superior was received by the court high commissioner this morning.”
“And that is how it should be. Now, if you will excuse me, Inspector, I have some business to attend to.”
Herr Lösch rang for his servant and the double doors opened.
Rheinhardt rose from his chair.
“Ah, Hugo,” said Lösch. “Would you be so kind as to accompany Inspector Rheinhardt to the door?” The servant bowed. “Good day, Inspector.”
“Good day, Herr Lösch. Should you change your mind with respect to my offer, I can be contacted at the Schottenring station.”
“Of course. Thank you again.”
When Rheinhardt had left the room, Herr Lösch removed some notepaper and a pen from his desk. In a hurried hand he began to write: The security office may be on to us. I suspect that they have heard something about the twelfth. I think they will try to follow me. Must go into hiding. Elysium is the only safe place now. Let others know. He scratched a symbol in lieu of a signature, folded the paper, and slid it into a plain envelope.
80
THE FIRST COURSE OF cabbage and raisin soup had been very filling, but not sufficiently so to deter Stefan Kanner from insisting that the waiter should bring large helpings of Wiener schnitzel, Brussels sprouts, baked breaded tomatoes, and innviertler speckknödel (diced bacon mixed with chopped parsley, wrapped in dough and cooked in salted water). He also ordered two bottles of a rough local wine that since his student days had always been jovially referred to by young medical men as atropine.
“The guilt is intolerable,” said Liebermann. “I can hardly bear to think about it.”
“It had to be done,” said Kanner, spearing a bacon dumpling. “You did the right thing. Clara will get over it—and it'll be for the best. Now, stop punishing yourself and have some more atropine.” Liebermann mechanically did as he was told, gulping down the astringent liquid. “Of course, what you really need right now,” Kanner continued, “is the company of a sweet girl with whom you have an understanding. My own melancholy mood has much improved thanks to such an arrangement.”
Kanner popped the dumpling into his mouth.
“I beg your pardon?” said Liebermann.
“Her name is Theresa,” said Kanner. “She's the cashier at a little coffeehouse in Mariahilf. I go there sometimes to play billiards in the afternoon—and cards at night. I suspect that she is having some sort of liaison with the pay waiter—a roué who looks more elegant than most of his customers. One afternoon I happened to meet Theresa just as she was leaving. We conveyed to each other what was on our minds, achieved a perfect understanding, and drove in a closed fiacre to a secluded spot on the Prater, where we spent a very merry evening. She is extraordinarily pretty—eyes like saucers—although she's in the habit of humming an old operetta song more times than I consider strictly necessary: Love requires endless study, who loves but once is a fuddy-duddy. …” Kanner paused and shrugged. “And—as is the way with such things—thoughts of my dear Sabina soon faded.”
“Mmm,” said Liebermann.
“You don't approve?”
“It's not a question of approval, Stefan. One's treatments should meet the specific needs of the patient. And I fear, Herr Doctor, that in my particular case at least, such a cure will only exacerbate the illness. My guilt will not be relieved by taking a turn around the Prater with a cash girl.”
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“Then what is your solution?” asked Kanner, looking a little miffed at Liebermann's gentle rebuff.
“Industry.” Liebermann was aware that he was sounding pompous even as the word escaped from his lips.
“Maxim, you sound like my father!”
Liebermann made an appeasing gesture with his hands and smiled.
“I'm sorry, Stefan. What I meant to say was—I have, of late, found my police work with Inspector Rheinhardt very …” He paused to find the correct word. “Diverting. I really must tell you about it. There have been some quite extraordinary developments.”
Liebermann proceeded to give Kanner an account of his recent adventures: the discovery of the cello case and the pursuit of Olbricht through the sewers—the sabre, and the contents of Olbricht's notebook. Kanner listened carefully.
“And there is to be another murder—a double murder?” said Kanner. “On the twelfth? But that is tomorrow.”
“Almost certainly,” said Liebermann.
The atmosphere in the room had become muted. Kanner seemed unusually meditative and subdued.
“And you are of the opinion that …” Kanner took a box of Egyptian cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. “That this Olbricht character will try to murder an aristocrat and the chief Freemason of Vienna—on the same day?”
“I cannot be certain. But it is a reasonable hypothesis.”
Kanner took out a cigarette and tamped it on the side of the box.
“Inspector Rheinhardt spoke to the head Freemason yesterday afternoon,” Liebermann added. “But I understand that he didn't seem to take the threat very seriously. Rheinhardt suspected that the gentleman believed his warning was some kind of security office deception: relations between the police and the Freemasons are not good. Inspector Rheinhardt considered it prudent to have the gentleman followed but to his great consternation found that by yesterday evening he had completely vanished.”
Kanner lit his cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring that rose up and hovered above his head, creating the illusion of a disintegrating halo.
“And you're quite sure it isn't a police trick?”
Liebermann's expression conveyed his incredulity. “Of course it isn't a trick!”
Kanner pulled at his chin and grimaced. “In which case, I have a confession to make.”
Liebermann inspected his friend closely. Kanner's blue eyes were startlingly bright. “You do?”
“Yes. I am a Freemason: and tomorrow, on the twelfth of December, Prince Ambrus Nádasdy of Hungary will be initiated as an entered apprentice at a secret temple known as Elysium. The ceremony will be presided over by the head of our fraternity, Venerable Grand Master Lösch—the gentleman who has so successfully evaded your friend Rheinhardt.”
Liebermann stared at Kanner, dumbfounded. “Then we know where Olbricht's going to strike!”
“Max.” Kanner's expression was grave. “What I have just told you must not be revealed to anyone.”
“But the police … I have to.”
“It would be utterly pointless. No member of the craft in Vienna would ever disclose the location of Elysium. We are acting illegally.”
“But Stefan, Prince Nádasdy and Herr Lösch could be killed!”
“Perhaps, with your assistance, we will be able to prevent such a catastrophe. Now swear! Swear to me that you will say nothing of this to the police.”
Liebermann swallowed. “I will not betray your trust, Stefan. I swear.”
“Good. Now, where is that waiter? We must settle our account at once and leave.”
“Leave? Where are we going?”
“Elysium!”
81
PROFESSOR FOCH TOOK THE volume from the shelf and examined the spine: The Relationship Between the Nose and the Female Sexual Organs by Wilhelm Fliess. It was utter nonsense—everything that one might expect from an associate of Freud. The only sensible thing in the entire book was the finding that labor pains could be ameliorated by the application of cocaine to the nose. But as for the rest … mystical nonsense and gobbledygook! There were indeed certain similarities between nasal and genital mucosae, but the edifice that Fliess had constructed on such flimsy foundations was far too ambitious—too expansive, too grandiose. It would soon be consigned to the midden heap of otorhinolaryngology—and rightly so.
Professor Foch's mood suddenly darkened.
Fliess was based in Berlin.
This did not bode well.
Were his ideas accepted there?
Fliess had proposed that the nasal membranes and bones were of etiological significance with respect to a range of medical conditions: migraine headaches; pains in the abdomen, arms, and legs; angina pectoris; asthma; indigestion—and disturbances of sexuality. The last condition, of course, was of considerable interest to that reprobate Freud. Indeed, he had defended Fliess's opus when it had been criticized by members of the faculty. But then again, what was one to expect? That was how they worked, these Jews. They stuck together … polluting the discipline with their sexual preoccupations, filth, and nonsense.
Professor Foch tossed the book into his packing case, where it landed on three huge yellow Kaposi atlases on syphilis and diseases of the skin.
Berlin.
That it should come to this.
Damn them all.
He had been summoned to the dean's office on Thursday afternoon—for an informal, friendly discussion on a professional matter.
Your article in the Zeitung … The obsequious lickspittle hypocrite had shifted in his chair as if he were sitting on a hot plate. You have made it very difficult for us. Very difficult indeed. … He had wrung his hands, sighed, and equivocated. But in the end he had arrived at the nub. Your intention was to reach a wide audience and, my dear fellow, you certainly succeeded. It was read by one of His Majesty's advisers. … The word displeasure was repeated with some frequency thereafter.
He had not been dismissed—as such. But rather, he had been permitted an opportunity to make a discreet exit.
A friend of mine, Lehmann—perhaps you've heard of him? Wrote a fine paper on the vestibular system a few years back. The dean had smiled unctuously. Well, as luck would have it, he's looking to fill a post at the General Hospital—a specialist in nasal surgery, no less. Of course, I would be more than happy to provide you with a glowing reference.
There had been little point in protesting. If it were true—and the signal of disapproval had been issued from the Hofburg itself—then his career in Vienna was over. Even his most trusted colleagues would begin to avoid him. Their gazes would not meet his. Invitations would be declined. There would be whispering in the corridors. He had seen it happen to others.
Damn them all.
He looked up at his print of The Wounded Man. He found the image curiously uplifting. The black mood lifted a little.
Berlin.
It might not be so bad. Things in Vienna had gone too far—and his shabby treatment by the faculty of medicine was just another symptom of its decline into a quagmire of decadence and depravity. It would take not one but a hundred—no, a thousand—Primal Fires to purify this doomed city. Perhaps in Berlin they would appreciate a man like him—a man with good honest German values.
82
LIEBERMANN TOOK HIS SEAT in the cab, from where he could hear the muffled voice of his friend talking to the driver. The vehicle was a rickety affair, with worn seats and sconces holding stubs of candles. Liebermann lit a match and held it to the nearest wick.
When Kanner entered, he drew the curtains, making sure that every part of the window was properly covered.
“Where are we going?” Liebermann asked.
“I am afraid I cannot say. The location of Elysium is a closely guarded secret.”
The cab began to move.
“But why are we going there now? The initiation is tomorrow.”
“It is where our venerable has gone into hiding.”
After they had been traveling for some time, Kanner
lifted the curtain and peeped out.
“Maxim, I am sorry. But I must blindfold you.”
“What!”
“We shall be arriving at our destination soon—and it is strictly forbidden for non-Masons to know the whereabouts of Elysium. If you do not comply, we cannot proceed. I am obliged to do this.”
Liebermann rolled his eyes. “Very well.”
Kanner produced a dark handkerchief from his coat pocket and tied it around his friend's head.
“I'm sorry,” Kanner muttered.
“Yes,” said Liebermann, unable to disguise his irritation.
The cab drew to a halt. Kanner leaped out and spoke to the driver, who responded with a cry of satisfaction and profuse thanks. He had been encouraged to exercise discretion with a very large gratuity.
“Here … let me help you.”
Kanner guided Liebermann out of the cab.
The driver cracked his whip and the cab rattled off.
Liebermann listened carefully. A slight echo suggested a wide street but the ensuing silence indicated that they were a long way from the town center. He guessed that they were probably in the suburbs— and the cool, fresh air informed him that they had gained altitude. Perhaps they had traveled west?
“Come on,” said Kanner.
Liebermann heard the sound of an iron gate opening and then the crunch of gravel underfoot.
“Be careful, Maxim. There are some steps just here—three of them: quite deep and high.”
Liebermann imagined the façade of a smart villa. Perhaps they had driven out to Penzing or Hietzing?
Kanner knocked on the door.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.
The precise repeated rhythm suggested a code.
When the door opened, Liebermann heard a gasp.
“I must see the venerable at once,” said Kanner. “It is a matter of the utmost importance.”
They were admitted and were escorted down what Liebermann assumed was a long hallway smelling of polished wood and lavender. This led to a flight of carpeted stairs, which Liebermann supposed would deposit them in the basement. However, when they arrived, there was a rolling sound—like that of the castors beneath a university bookcase. They then negotiated a more precipitous descent around a tight spiral stairwell. When Liebermann reached out to touch the wall, he felt cold, slightly damp stone. The air smelled of earth. Once again, for the second time in as many days, Liebermann found himself in the underworld.
