by Frank Tallis
Shortly after, Schmidt had suggested to Herr Linser that, if he so wished, he might choose to express his gratitude in the form of a monthly 10 percent levy, paid in cash and delivered by hand to an associate of Schmidt’s named Knabl. When Herr Linser first balked at this suggestion, Schmidt reminded him that reports that had been mislaid could also be found again. Herr Linser apologized for his bad manners, begged to be excused, and promised the councillor that he would never take his patronage for granted again.
Sitting opposite Schmidt were two of his most trusted “business associates,” Haas and Oeggl. Both of them were wearing badly fitting suits in which they looked distinctly uncomfortable—Haas in particular, who kept on running his finger around the inside of his shirt collar as if it were too small and were stopping him from breathing.
“More wine, gentlemen?” asked Schmidt.
Haas and Oeggl both nodded, and Schmidt replenished their glasses. Then he emptied onto the table the contents of an envelope that they had given him earlier. It contained a wad of dirty banknotes and an assortment of silver and bronze coins.
“Is that all?” said Schmidt.
“They said they didn’t have any more,” said Haas, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“Well, they’re lying—obviously.”
“We done everything we could,” said Oeggl. His speech was slurred, although not because of the wine. He always spoke like that.
“Come now,” said Schmidt, lighting a cigar. “I’m sure two experienced gentlemen like yourselves could be a great deal more persuasive if you put your minds to it.”
“Well, we could,” said Haas. “But…”
“But what?”
“It’s risky. Sometimes it’s difficult to judge. You know? How far you can go?”
Haas rubbed the scar on his cheek. It looked a little inflamed.
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” said Schmidt benevolently. “Do whatever you think is necessary. If something untoward occurs—well, I won’t blame you. Accidents happen.”
“With respect, your honor,” said Oeggl, “if accidents happen, then the police get involved.”
Schmidt shook his head.
“How many times must I repeat myself? That really isn’t a problem. I’m on exceptionally familiar terms with the boys at the Grosse Sperlgasse station. They won’t ask any questions, I can assure you. So… next time, do whatever it takes. Indeed, I would go as far as to say that perhaps the time has come to make an example of someone.” Schmidt picked up the coins and let them drop onto the table. “I mean to say, this will hardly keep us in the style to which we have become accustomed, eh, gentlemen? Do whatever is necessary!”
Part Two
The Tree of Life
26
ANNA KATZER WAS WEARING a white blouse with cuffs made of Valenciennes lace and a purple crêpe de chine skirt. Purple was her color. Men always noticed her more when she was wearing purple. The effect was very reliable, so much so that Anna was inclined to invest the color with magical powers. It was of some significance, therefore, that Anna had chosen to wear her favored hue for her guest: Gabriel Kusevitsky.
As soon as Gabriel entered the parlor, it was evident that the color had worked its spell. The young doctor was clearly overwhelmed. He made a discreetly flattering remark, but his wide-eyed expression declared the true extent of his appreciation.
Anna remembered what Olga had said about the Kusevitsky brothers: intellectuals, too preoccupied with their work to be interested in the society of fashionable young ladies. Well, she thought, it seems that this Kusevitsky brother is not yet completely lost to the brotherhood of coffeehouse philosophers.
Anna had invited Gabriel to tea immediately after their first meeting. The invitation had been subsequently repeated, and accepted, on three further occasions. Olga had advised Anna against appearing overly anxious for his company. Men, she had said, are inclined to desire more strongly that which is withheld. However, on reflection Anna had chosen to ignore her friend’s counsel. Gabriel Kusevitsky was an earnest fellow, and would probably find the stratagems of courtship—the games and ploys—confusing, childish, and tedious. She would wear purple, and do nothing more.
Once again, Anna talked about her charity work. She noticed how intently Gabriel listened. He sat very still, as she thought a psychiatrist should, but occasionally raised a finger to his lips. His hands were delicate, a little like those of a boy. Another woman might have described those hands as fragile or effeminate, but Anna considered them sensitive. Anna spoke more seriously than usual. She made fewer flippant remarks and was altogether less girlish. Without Olga there, it was easier to present herself as a more substantial person. In many respects she felt more comfortable in this new guise. As she spoke, somewhere at the back of her mind a certain sentiment was finding quiet expression: a doctor’s wife should conduct herself with dignity. It was shocking that she should be thinking such a thing, at such an early stage of acquaintance. But she had always imagined that she would marry a doctor. Rather a doctor any day than one of the young businessmen her father was always asking to lunch.
After the tea had been drunk and the cakes consumed, Anna asked Gabriel what he intended to do after completing his research.
“I will apply for a clinical post—within my discipline—at the General Hospital or one of the private institutions. However, I have always harbored a wish to make a contribution greater than that which can be accomplished through the practice of medicine alone.”
“Isn’t it enough to heal the sick? I can’t think of anything more worthwhile or personally satisfying.”
“Medicine is a great force for good, but it cannot cure all ills.”
“All ills?” Anna repeated.
Gabriel paused and considered his companion. He seemed to be making some kind of assessment. He seemed to be searching out an essential part of her person, a secret corner. His eyes narrowed behind his thick spectacle lenses, and Anna felt a little unnerved.
“There is much wrong in the world,” he said softly. Then, after a long pause, he added, “And I want to do something about it.”
“Do you have political ambitions?”
“Yes, of a kind.”
“The town hall? Parliament?”
The young doctor smiled. “You wanted me to interpret one of your dreams, but now you seem to be more interested in mine.”
Anna blushed but quickly regained her composure.
“Yes,” she said, flashing her eyes at Gabriel. “I am interested in your dreams.”
This time it was the doctor’s turn to blush. The frankness of her honest affection was unexpected. Even more so was the soft touch of her hand as it landed gently on his own.
27
THE ADJUTANT ENTERED SCHMIDT’S office.
“Councillor.” He bowed and clicked his heels. “Hofrat Holzknecht would like to see you at once.”
Schmidt looked up from his papers.
“I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
“I believe Hofrat Holzknecht wishes to see you this instant, Councillor.”
Schmidt reprimanded himself for his ill-considered response. A politician wishing to ascend the internal hierarchy of the town hall should not keep a person like Holzknecht waiting.
“Of course,” said Schmidt. “Forgive me. I was preoccupied with this new housing bill.”
He tidied his papers, stood, and followed the adjutant out onto the landing. As they made their way toward Holzknecht’s domain on the second floor, Schmidt wondered why he had been so peremptorily summoned. It crossed his mind that he might have been a little careless lately. Perhaps one of his associates had been indiscreet? It would be most inopportune if some of his business dealings came to light at this particular point in time. He was having so many brilliant ideas. He was a man at the height of his powers! It would be tragic—not just for him but for all of Vienna—if he were unable to oversee his various schemes and bring them to a satisfactory conclusion.
&
nbsp; They arrived at Holzknecht’s bureau, which occupied a whole suite. The adjutant led Schmidt through two small antechambers to Holzknecht, who was seated behind a desk beneath a portrait of the emperor and several photographs of the mayor performing civic duties.
“Councillor Schmidt,” announced the adjutant.
“Ah, there you are, Schmidt.” Holzknecht did not stand. “Have you heard?” Before Schmidt could answer, the Hofrat dismissed his adjutant by glancing at the door.
Schmidt took a seat in front of Holzknecht’s desk.
“About Eberle’s proposal for the new housing bill?”
“No, no, no… about your colleague Councillor Faust!”
“Faust?”
“Yes, Faust. He’s been murdered.”
“What?”
“I know. I could hardly believe it myself.”
Schmidt did not react. He sat perfectly still, as if stunned. Finally he asked, “When did it happen?”
“On Saturday morning. He was decapitated—like that monk, Stanislav. It’s extraordinary. And what a coincidence! Remember we were all together when your nephew found the article in the newspaper. Who would have thought… poor Faust… that he would be the next victim? It’s chilling, isn’t it?”
“Do the police have”—Schmidt did not want to betray his excitement and made an effort to keep his voice steady—“any idea who is responsible for these atrocities?”
“No.”
“Was he robbed?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then why was he murdered?”
“God knows!”
“Decapitation…,” said Schmidt pensively. “It must have been the same person.”
“Or persons… This morning I spoke to the security office commissioner on the telephone. The state censor intervened with respect to the reports of Brother Stanislav’s murder. The monk’s head was in fact torn from his body. The same thing…” The old man balked at the thought. “The same thing happened to poor Faust. It would take more than one man to perform such a heinous deed.”
“What a terrible way to die.”
“Indeed. Let us pray that he was oblivious when the time came.”
Schmidt crossed his legs and let his fingers interlock.
“It seems almost ritualistic, don’t you think?”
Holzknecht was too distressed to detect Schmidt’s meaning, and the councillor thought it prudent not to press the point. He would have many other opportunities in due course. The two men spoke for a while until the conversation became nothing more than disconnected statements of horror and disbelief. Eventually Schmidt said, “You must excuse me. There is some work I must complete for the mayor’s transport committee by this evening.”
Holzknecht rose from his desk and accompanied Schmidt to the door. Before opening it, he said, “Of course, this means that you now have a very good chance of being appointed to the mayor’s special advisory panel.”
“With respect, Hofrat Holzknecht,” said Schmidt, “I cannot think of such things at present.”
“Forgive me…,” said the old man. “You were close colleagues, and no doubt close friends. However, I just wanted you to know that I’ve always regarded you as a man of talent, Schmidt. Perhaps your time has come.”
The councillor assumed a rueful expression and walked through the two antechambers with his head lowered. When he reached the corridor, he was smiling.
28
THE CHANCELLOR’S EXPRESSION WAS serious, and his eyes glinted coldly behind his spectacles.
“Herr Doctor, I regret to say that the matter of young Baron von Kortig’s death and your obstruction of Father Benedikt has come to the attention of a journalist.”
Liebermann raised his eyebrows. “May I ask, sir, how it was that a journalist came to be so well informed?”
“I have no idea; however, it should not surprise us to learn that journalists are always trying to find things out. That is, after all, what they do.”
“With respect, Professor Gandler, I have never known such a relatively minor matter to attract the interest of the press before.”
“I can assure you, Herr Doctor, that matters of faith are never minor.” The chancellor’s expression became even more grave. After what seemed like an exceptionally long pause he continued, “I am obliged to ask you a sensitive question, Herr Doctor. When we last spoke, did you omit any important detail from your account of what happened that night?”
Liebermann wondered what the chancellor might be alluding to.
“I don’t think so. The baron was dying. Father Benedikt wanted to give him the last rites, and I explained that I did not think this was in the patient’s interests. The priest objected… he asked my name, and he left. That, essentially, is all there is to tell.”
“Unfortunately, Herr Doctor, the journalist has written a rather different story. An allegation is made, concerning the employment of force.”
Liebermann was speechless. He touched his chest, as if to say, By me? The chancellor confirmed this with a solemn nod.
“Oh, that is utterly absurd!” Liebermann cried. “I have never heard anything so ridiculous…. Besides, there were witnesses present.”
“Indeed.” The word was not encouraging, quite the opposite. “Think back, Herr Doctor,” continued Professor Gandler. “When the priest tried to enter the ward, what did you do?”
“I told him he couldn’t go through.”
“Yes, but what did you actually do?”
“I may have…” Liebermann lowered his voice. “I may have put my arm across the doorway.”
“In other words, you forcibly barred his admittance.”
Liebermann raised his hands in frustration. “Well, you could say that. But it would be a gross misrepresentation of the facts.”
“Would it really?”
“Yes. To say that I forcibly barred his admittance makes it sound like some kind of assault took place. I merely rested my hand against the doorjamb.”
Professor Gandler scowled and repositioned some papers on his desk. “Had you apologized to the committee when I advised you to, Herr Doctor, this problem might have been swiftly and quietly resolved. Instead, you chose to disregard my advice. This article will attract unwanted publicity, the kind that could potentially damage our fine reputation.” The chancellor tapped his fingers on the surface of his desk. “A written apology might still stop things from going any further…”
Liebermann shook his head. “I’m sorry, Professor Gandler…”
“Once again, I would urge you to reconsider. This situation could easily escalate, and if it does, you will be sorry.”
Liebermann ignored the chancellor’s thinly disguised threat.
“Where did this article appear, Professor Gandler?”
The chancellor opened his drawer and pulled out a folded newspaper. He tossed it across the desk, and it landed so that the masthead was exposed. It read: Das Vaterland. At once Liebermann understood what was really going on. He looked up at the chancellor, and for a moment was consoled by a glimmer of sympathy.
29
THE TWO MEN HAD finished their music-making and taken their customary places in Liebermann’s smoking room. Somewhat unusually, though, it was Rheinhardt who spoke first. “You seem a little preoccupied, Max.”
“Yes,” Liebermann replied. “I do have a lot on my mind. Something happened at the hospital a few weeks ago that has had unforeseen consequences, and I now find myself in an invidious position.”
He told his friend about the death of the young Baron von Kortig, his—Liebermann’s—alleged forceful obstruction of Father Benedikt, and of his unhappy interviews with the chancellor. Throughout, Rheinhardt’s solicitous expression was constant. Occasionally he muttered “outrageous,” “appalling,” or “intolerable.” When Liebermann had finished, the detective inspector blew out a great cloud of cigar smoke and asked, “What do you think will happen?”
“I have no idea. But I simply refuse to make an apology.
This would be tantamount to an admission of improper behavior.”
“Indeed. As far as I can see, you acted irreproachably—thinking first and foremost of your patient. The old baron should have been grateful that his son’s dying moments were spent in the care of such a scrupulous physician.” Rheinhardt sipped his brandy and added, “Who do you think contacted the journalist?”
“I don’t know. It could have been anyone: Father Benedikt, the old Baron von Kortig, one of the committee members… even the nurse or the aspirant.”
“Someone is clearly trying to turn an inconsequential incident into a scandal—and, sadly, their motivation is all too transparent.”
“Yes. I tried to resist the obvious conclusion, but the article in Das Vaterland soon brought an end to my doubts. The author repeatedly stressed that fewer and fewer doctors in Vienna understand the importance of the Christian sacraments.”
They spoke for a little while longer about Liebermann’s situation, until the young doctor seemed suddenly to grow impatient and tire of the subject. He made a gesture with his hand as if to brush the matter away. After a short pause, Liebermann said in a more animated voice, “I stopped for coffee at the Café Museum this afternoon and saw the late editions.”
Rheinhardt nodded his head solemnly.
