by Frank Tallis
A regular thudding sound declared that the Masons had adopted a systematic strategy for breaking down the door. Liebermann imagined them inefficiently pushing against the panels with their shoulders.
“Kick it! Kick it down, for pity's sake!” he shouted in desperation. “Kick it by the lock.”
Before he had finished the sentence, Olbricht was upon him and they were locked in combat. The confined space reverberated with the harsh clash of steel.
Parry, parry, parry.
The onslaught forced Liebermann into continuous retreat. He lost ground and Olbricht came forward. Again he lost ground—and Olbricht's attack became more frenzied.
Parry, parry, parry.
Liebermann sensed an object behind him—a desk, perhaps? Very soon he would be trapped. His mind was seized by an uncontrollable panic. Without thinking, he ran off to the side, exposing his back. It was utter stupidity. Suicide. He expected to feel the force of Olbricht's fatal lunge at any moment, the sabre penetrating his flesh and skewering his liver—but it never came. It was then that Liebermann realized the true nature of their conflict. Olbricht was simply playing with him, teasing out new registers of fear for his own deranged pleasure.
The young doctor's awkward escape ended as he tripped clumsily. He turned to face Olbricht and tried to discipline his panic.
He is only human, only human.
Liebermann repeated these words to himself like a litany.
Only human, only human.
The hysterical terror began to subside.
Lieberman thought of Signore Barbasetti. He remembered how his fencing master would often express displeasure by tapping his temple to emphasize a favorite injunction: Think, Herr Doctor! If you do not think, all is lost.
Again, their weapons connected.
Parry, thrust, parry, coupé, parry, thrust.
Liebermann was surprised to discover that he was able to hold off Olbricht's attack somewhat better than before. The artist's movements were not so swift. Perhaps he was becoming complacent. Or, even better, perhaps he was tiring.
Encouraged, Liebermann lunged. Olbricht deflected the attack but failed to resume his guard. The artist's chest was exposed. He could do it—he would do it! Liebermann raised his sabre but found that he was unable to deliver the fatal blow.
If only he had been more attentive in Barbasetti's lessons!
How often had the Italian demonstrated the very same maneuver? A line intentionally left open to invite an impetuous attack.
Liebermann held his breath. He was utterly paralyzed by the pricking sensation over his heart. With consummate skill, Olbricht had halted the blade at the point of penetration. Liebermann dared not move. If his own sabre so much as trembled, Olbricht would strike. Liebermann closed his eyes—and waited. The door frame groaned.
Even as he resigned himself to oblivion, Liebermann could not help making one final clinical observation.
He is feasting on my terror, savoring my despair. He cannot plunge the blade between my ribs until his sadistic appetites have been fully satisfied.
Liebermann opened his eyes. He did not wish to die a coward. He wanted to meet his end defiantly.
Olbricht was craning forward, tilting his head to one side, making a close examination of Liebermann's features. The young doctor stared into the widely spaced eyes—and noticed for the first time that they only appeared to be set so widely apart because the bridge of Olbricht's nose had sunk. The deep creases around Olbricht's mouth compressed and his lips parted. He was smiling—and in doing so he was exhibiting two rows of peculiarly stunted teeth, the ends of which were rough and uneven. Liebermann had never been this close to Olbricht before, had never had the opportunity to study the peculiarities of his physiognomy.
Think, Herr Doctor! If you do not think, all is lost.
Signor Barbasetti's injunction returned with haunting persistence.
Yes, of course!
Olbricht's irregular lineaments were not merely the result of his parental legacy—the germ plasm of his mother and father—but of some other process: a pathological process. The young doctor made his diagnosis, from which a series of bold inferences followed.
“Your mother,” Liebermann began. “You loved her, didn't you? But she never returned your love. She never had the time. Always busy entertaining gentlemen. Foreigners. Hungarians, Czechs, Croats … Jews?”
Olbricht looked startled. His eyes widened.
“And you had dreams,” Liebermann continued, gaining confidence. “Terrible dreams. Nightmares. About animals: wolves, dogs. … You still get them, don't you?” The words tumbled out, hurried, frantic. “And then there was the music! You lived behind a theater—a small folk theater. When your mother was entertaining her gentleman friends, you could hear music. Operettas, popular songs. But the most unforgettable melodies, the ones that lodged in your mind and wouldn't go away, were from an opera by Mozart: The Magic Flute.”
Olbricht's expression changed. He looked bemused, almost frightened. Childlike.
“What are you?” His voice sounded hoarse, as though he had suddenly been confronted by a supernatural intelligence.
“I am a doctor—I can help you.”
But Liebermann had miscalculated. Olbricht did not want to be helped. The fearful expression on the artist's face was fading. Liebermann edged gently backward. In doing so, he created just enough space between Olbricht's blade and his chest to risk a single swift emancipating movement. He knocked Olbricht's sabre aside with the flat of his free gloved hand—and ran …
When Liebermann turned, he found himself backed up against a wall, facing an attack of demonic intensity. Blow followed blow. They rained down upon him: heavy, insistent, and deadly. Although Olbricht's attack was no longer controlled, Liebermann knew that he could hold off such a brutal assault for only a matter of seconds. His arm ached, weakened by each shocking impact.
Liebermann fell down on one knee. His weapon felt heavy and it began to slip from his hand. Drawing on some hidden vital reserve of energy, he held his sabre aloft horizontally, like a shield. The relentless pounding continued, powered by an inexhaustible fury. Liebermann was dimly aware of a loud crashing sound—and suddenly, miraculously, he was no longer alone. A sea of faces had appeared behind Olbricht, and a moment later Kanner was by Liebermann's side, deflecting Olbricht's hammer blows.
Exhausted and close to collapse, Liebermann watched the artist retreating, surrounded by a host of fresh, energetic adversaries. Olbricht wheeled around like a deadly dervish, his glinting blade creating a scintillating protective aura.
Kanner knelt beside Liebermann, placing a solicitous arm around his shoulders. “Are you all right?”
Liebermann nodded.
The crowd had closed around Olbricht, obscuring him from view, but Liebermann could still hear the chilling shriek of the artist's scything blade. Eventually the pitch of the screaming of metal through air dropped and the rhythm of more conventional engagement resumed, eventually slackening off to the rattle of intermittent, irregular contacts.
A powerful voice rose above the melee: “Brother Diethelm, I command you to drop your sword.”
The clattering stopped and an eerie silence prevailed.
“You are vastly outnumbered. I repeat: drop your sword.”
A pendulum clock sounded a hollow beat. Each percussive swing seemed to ratchet the tension up by degrees.
“Brother Diethelm?”
A thud followed by a metallic ringing was accompanied by a collective groan of relief.
Through a gap in the crowd, Liebermann briefly glimpsed the defeated artist. He was standing, arms outstretched, like Christ crucified, his head thrown back. A sob convulsed his chest.
“It is over,” Olbricht cried. “I can do no more.”
In his eyes, Liebermann recognized the light of Valhalla burning.
87
RHEINHARDT PRESSED HIS KNUCKLES against his eyes and after releasing them looked steadily at the wall clock.
At first he could see nothing but a kaleidoscopic arrangement of luminous blotches. Then, slowly, his vision began to clear, and the hands came into sharp focus: a quarter past one. It had been a long, tiring day.
On returning home he had been unable to sleep. He had sat on a chair next to the telephone, dreading its fateful ring followed by the crackling connection and the voice of the Schottenring sergeant regretfully informing him of the discovery of two bodies. Rheinhardt had fallen into a fitful half sleep and when—as expected—the bell had sounded, he had lifted the receiver in a confused, fearful state. He had listened to the sergeant's report, but could not quite believe what he was hearing. He had asked the man to repeat himself. The officer politely obliged, prompting Rheinhardt to pinch his thigh to establish whether or not he was dreaming.
The long hand of the clock jumped forward and Rheinhardt lowered his gaze. Liebermann was fussing with some lint on his trousers, tutting impatiently at its obstinacy.
“So,” said Rheinhardt, “you arrive at the Schottenring station dressed in a top hat, white gloves, and tailcoat—which, if I am not mistaken, has been cut in two places by a sabre blade. In your custody—bound and gagged—is the monster, Andreas Olbricht! The duty officer requests, very reasonably, that you give an account of yourself. You choose, however, to respond in the vaguest possible terms, suggesting that you managed to find and capture him with the help of some Freemasons. … Now, my dear friend, although I am accustomed to your predilection for evasive answers and your often quite taxing insistence on dramatic subterfuge, it seems to me that tonight you have excelled yourself.”
During his speech, the inspector's voice had risen in pitch and his eyes had acquired a menacing shine.
The young doctor gave up trying to remove the intransigent lint from his trousers and, chastened, straightened his back.
“I may not possess the most incisive mind,” continued the inspector, attempting to calm himself by spreading his hands out flat on the table. “But one doesn't need to be so very clever to guess how you came to deliver Olbricht earlier this evening—or, more correctly, yesterday evening.” His finger flicked up toward the wall clock. “You infiltrated a clandestine Masonic gathering, where you discovered Olbricht preparing to murder persons corresponding with the figures of Sarastro and Prince Tamino. You challenged Olbricht, fought with him, and finally, with the assistance of those present, overpowered him.”
Liebermann nodded. “Yes, broadly speaking, that is correct.”
“Now, I am bound to ask you a very obvious question: Did you not think to inform the security office?”
“Of course I thought to inform the security office—it just wasn't possible.”
Rheinhardt picked up his pen and dated the official notepaper that he had laid out on his desk.
“Oskar,” said Liebermann, “before we proceed, you must promise me something.”
“What?”
“That the security office will not investigate or hound the Masons.”
“I am very happy to leave the Masons to their own devices. But Commissioner Brügel may take a different view.”
“Then you must persuade him otherwise.”
“Commissioner Brügel is nothing if not opinionated. I fear he will take his own view, whatever I say.”
“Come now, Oskar, a man possessed of your quite considerable eloquence and charm should—” Rheinhardt raised a cautionary finger. Liebermann acknowledged the transparency of his flattery with a wry smile and chose a different approach. “At the very beginning of this investigation you likened Olbricht to the infamous Ripper of London. Well, unlike Scotland Yard we have actually caught our ‘Ripper.’ This will no doubt raise the international standing of the Viennese security office. It is even conceivable that your superior— having presided over such a coup—might expect to receive some token of recognition from the Hofburg.” Liebermann assumed an expression of cherubic innocence. “I do not wish to interfere with your dealings with the good commissioner, but I am convinced that touching upon the subject of honors will be … expedient. Once he is preoccupied with dreams of the emperor pinning a ribbon on his chest, Brügel will be much less inclined to rake over the minor details of your report.”
Rheinhardt sighed. “We shall see.”
“Thank you, Oskar.”
“Be that as it may, I must press you for more information.” Rheinhardt underlined the date and looked up at his friend. “Commissioner Brügel will expect more than a few opaque lines—and, needless to say, I have some questions of my own.” Liebermann leaned back in his chair and gestured for Rheinhardt to continue. “First, how on earth did you manage to get yourself into a secret Masonic meeting?”
“On Saturday I was taking dinner with a trusted friend, with whom I sometimes discuss my involvement with the security office. I told him of the discovery of Olbricht's diary and of our fear that Olbricht might attempt to kill a member of the royal family and a high-ranking Mason the following day. To my great surprise my friend revealed that he was a Mason. Moreover, he informed me that Sunday the twelfth of December was, for him and his brethren, a date of great significance. A foreign prince was to be initiated at a secret location in Vienna on that very day. I was given permission to attend the ritual, providing that I gave my solemn word not to disclose anything of what I saw to anyone, and in particular”—Liebermann tapped Rheinhardt's desk twice—”a certain detective inspector with whom my name has become recently associated.”
Rheinhardt grunted dismissively and began writing. “Who was this foreign prince?”
“I am afraid I cannot say—I gave my word.”
“Very well. What is your friend's name?”
“I am afraid I cannot say.”
“All right. Did you encounter a man with a Vandyke beard?”
“I saw many men with Vandyke beards.”
“A man called Lösch?”
Liebermann shrugged.
The inspector raised his head slowly, revealing a pained countenance.
“Oskar, I have already broken one promise this year,” said Liebermann gravely. “I do not intend to break another.”
The inspector gave a colossal sigh, and with exaggerated movements made a show of putting his pen down. He then opened the drawer of his desk and removed a small bottle of slivovitz and two glasses. He filled the glasses to the brim and then offered Liebermann a marzipan mouse, which the young doctor observed for a few moments before politely refusing. Rheinhardt sat back in his chair and said resignedly, “Very well. You will please proceed.”
Liebermann, looking much relieved, continued his story. “I was taken to the secret location yesterday.”
“I don't suppose there is any point in my asking—”
“No,” Liebermann interrupted. “There isn't. Not because I won't tell you, this time—but because I can't. I have no idea where it is. I was blindfolded. And on my return with Olbricht, I was blindfolded again.”
“How long did the journey take?”
Liebermann shrugged.
Rheinhardt smiled, sipped his slivovitz, and urged his friend to continue.
“I attended the initiation rite—”
“About which you can say nothing,” Rheinhardt cut in.
“And in due course I observed a gentleman whom I supposed to be Olbricht.”
“Supposed?”
“It was quite dark. The Masonic temple was large and inadequately illuminated by candles.”
“I see.”
“When Olbricht was in striking distance of both the principal Mason and the prince—”
“Sarastro and Tamino.”
“I noticed that his fingers had closed around the hilt of his sabre.”
“He was wearing a sabre?” Rheinhardt cut in again.
“I hope that I am not betraying the trust invested in me by the Masons—”
“Heaven forfend!”
“If I disclose to you that they were all wearing sabres.”
“Were they indeed,”
said Rheinhardt, nodding with interest.
“At which point …”
The inspector lifted his hand.
“One moment, please! What was Olbricht doing at this secret meeting? How did he get in?”
“Isn't it obvious?”
Rheinhardt's eyebrows knitted together. “Surely not …”
Liebermann pressed his lips together and jerked his head forward.
“He is a Mason. And not only that, he is a librarian! He has been engaged for many months in the arduous task of cataloguing a vast collection of Masonic literature. Several of the books he has handled are very ancient in origin—guides to arcane rites and rituals.”
“So Miss Lydgate was right after all.”
“Of course—she is a remarkable woman.” Liebermann paused for a moment.
“Max?”
Liebermann coughed, a little embarrassed by his momentary lapse of concentration.
“I am of the opinion that Olbricht entered the craft as a kind of spy. One can imagine such an infantile act of daring, such a caper, earning him the respect of his friends at the Eddic Literary Association. As you know, nationalists despise Masons. In my ignorance I have often wondered why. I had attributed their hostility to some species of paranoia; however, the answer is very simple. At the heart of Masonry is a belief in universal fraternity and equality—a belief that stands in stark opposition to the exclusive, supremacist philosophy of Guido List. As a Mason, Olbricht was known as Brother Diethelm. Gunther Diethelm. Interesting, don't you think, that he should choose that as his nom de guerre?”
Rheinhardt looked puzzled.
“Gunther,” Liebermann continued, “means ‘warrior’ and Diethelm means ‘protector of the folk or people.’ All of which suggests to me a powerful identification with the legendary Unbesiegbare—The Invincible, or strong one from above, the Teutonic savior.”
Rheinhardt sipped his slivovitz.
“He played a perilous game. What if a Mason with whom he was acquainted had come to one of his exhibitions? His masquerade would have been discovered immediately.”
