by Frank Tallis
Liebermann tapped his index finger on the side of his temple.
“Herr Beiber,” said Liebermann, “have you ever experienced sexual relations with a woman?”
The great romantic looked somewhat flustered.
“I… erm… There has never been anyone… special to me. No.”
“Does the idea of sexual congress frighten you?”
Beiber laughed. “Good heavens, no, Doctor. What a ludicrous idea!”
Liebermann was familiar with the work of the French neurologist Guillaume Duchenne, particularly his The Mechanism of Human Facial Expression. Although Beiber's mouth had curved upward, the orbicularis oculi muscles around his eyes had not contracted. The smile was-without doubt-false.
51
A LARGE MAP OF Vienna hung on the wall behind Rheinhardt's desk. The heart of the city was clearly demarcated by the Ringstrassereally a horseshoe, the ends of which connected with the Danube Canal. Farther north was the wide diagonal of the mighty Danube itself. To the east were the open grassy spaces of the Prater, and to the west the foothills of the famous Vienna Woods. In the bottom left corner of the map was a complex grid that represented the paths and gardens of the Schonbrunn Palace. A tack with a broad silver head had been planted within the boundary of the imperial zoo. There were three more: one just outside the eastern curve of the Ringstrasse, one in the town center, and one in Wieden-close to a delta of black railway lines that terminated under the word Sudbahnhof.
Rheinhardt connected the tacks with four strokes of an imaginary pen. The exercise produced a mental impression of something that looked vaguely like a kite. The inspector wondered if-in the unfortunate event of more pin-tacks being added-a more significant pattern might possibly emerge. Salieri clearly had a weakness for programs and symbols. He could autograph the entire city by striking in carefully chosen locations.
The inspector's thoughts were disturbed by the sound of Haussmann turning the pages of his notebook.
“We've been keeping a close eye on the List residence for three weeks now,” said the assistant detective.
Rheinhardt raised and lowered himself on his toes, unaware that he was doing so. “Indeed.”
“And, in spite of his infirmity,” continued Haussmann, “or perhaps because of it, he has been receiving many visitors. His eye doctor, of course; the Englishman, Chamberlain; Counselor Schmidt; a student called Hertz; the actor, Bernhard-I've never heard of him but I understand that he's supposed to be quite famous.”
“Yes, yes, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, trying to hide his growing impatience. “But if I'm not mistaken you told me this last week.”
Haussmann turned another page. “Quite right, sir. Please accept my apologies. In addition to the aforesaid gentlemen, Herr List has also received… Viktor Grasz, a publisher; August Haddorf-another actor, and a well-known patron of the arts called Gustav von Triebenbach.”
Rheinhardt trained his melancholy baggy-eyed gaze on his assistant. Trying hard not to sound impatient, he said, “Haussmann, do you actually have something interesting to report?”
The assistant detective reddened slightly. “Yes, sir-although it may only be interesting in my estimation, you understand.”
“I am happy to proceed on that basis.”
The younger man blinked, unsure how to interpret the inspector's arch expression. “All these people,” he continued warily, “are affiliated with associations and societies. For example, the Richard Wagner Association, the German League, the Alemania Dueling Fraternity, and the Aryan Actors’ guild.”
“Well, given the nature of Herr List's writings it does not surprise me that he mixes with individuals who share his Pan-German sympathies.”
“Yes, sir. But Baron von Triebenbach…”
“What about him?”
“He is the president of a small group who call themselves the Eddic Literary Association.”
“The Edda, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, suddenly striking a pedagogical attitude, “are the two collections of early Icelandic literature that together constitute the principal source of all Norse legends.”
“Yes, sir. However, it wasn't the name of the society that struck me as interesting, but rather where they meet.”
“Which is where?”
“At Baron von Triebenbach's apartment, on Mozartgasse.”
Rheinhardt swallowed. “What did you say?”
“Mozartgasse, sir. I thought that…” The younger man shrugged. “What with all this talk of The Magic Flute… there might be some… connection?” Haussmann touched the map and ran his finger down the length of the Naschmarkt. He stopped at a minor road adjoining a square. “Mozartgasse. It's in Mariahilf-I know it quite well.”
Rheinhardt rested a gentle hand on Haussmann's shoulder. “That is interesting, Haussmann-very interesting.”
“Shall I obtain a list of members?”
“Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, leaning closer, “I am bound to disclose that for some time now I have harbored the suspicion that you are, in fact, a psychic. I swear, the security office's loss would be vaudeville's gain.”
The assistant detective risked a fragile smile.
“Well done, Haussmann!” bellowed Rheinhardt. “Commendable detection!”
52
THE SHELVES OF THE library were now full. The packing cases had been cleared away and the librarian, ever industrious, was working on a more advanced cross-referencing system. All that could be heard was the scratching of his nib on pieces of card, like the movements of a mouse behind a skirting board.
The venerable stepped over the threshold and the librarian looked up.
“Please,” said the venerable. “Do carry on-I did not mean to disturb you.”
The librarian nodded and returned to his task.
In the corner a new and very handsome porcelain stove had been fitted. Leather reading chairs had been placed beneath gas lamps. All in all, the ambience was most welcoming.
The venerable walked across the rectangular space and examined the colorful embossed spines.
Humanitas: Transactions, Societas Rosicruciana, The Order of the Secret Monitor.
Below these was a shelf of much larger volumes. They were extremely old and were concerned with ceremonials of all kinds.
The Kabbalistic Master Ritual, The Egyptian Rite, Anointing and Purification.
Then there were the works on philosophy and alchemy.
“Has he agreed?”
It was the librarian.
The venerable turned and smiled. “Yes, brother.”
“He will be initiated here?”
“Yes. He will stay for a few nights with our friends in Pressburgand then he comes to Vienna.”
The coenobitic librarian put his pen down on the desktop. The venerable noticed that the man was breathing heavily.
“Are you well?”
“Yes, of course,” said the librarian, his face flushing slightly. “Very well. I am simply excited by the prospect…”
The venerable walked over to the desk and laid a hand on the librarian's shoulder. “It is wonderful news. But now we have much work to do: such an auspicious occasion must be celebrated with a unique rite. I have some small modifications in mind… Tell me, brother, where can I find the rituals of the Grand Lodge of the Sun?”
53
MAXIMILANPLATZ WAS A CONVENIENT place for them to meet, being equidistant from the Schottenring police station and the General Hospital. Liebermann was sitting on a bench, watching Rheinhardt- who was in the process of buying a large bag of roasted pumpkin seeds from a street vendor. The coals in the vendor's brazier glowed brightly and the air was filled with a sweet smell-like caramelized sugar. Beyond the pumpkin-seed stall stood the gray stone edifice of the Votivkirche, its twin Gothic spires thrusting up energetically into the clear blue sky.
The small park in which Liebermann sat was surrounded by a wide road around which a merry-go-round of red and white streetcars circulated, seemingly in perpetual motion. Thi
s fine spectacle was accompanied by the ringing of bells.
Rheinhardt returned, carrying a paper bag that had become mottled with oil. Liebermann extended his cupped hands and the inspector obligingly filled them with a pile of hot green seeds. They emitted a smoky fragrance that combined the scent of burning wood with honey and spices. Liebermann's stomach tightened and grumbled.
“I've been to see Herr Arnoldt,” said Rheinhardt.
“Who?”
“Hildegard's keeper-at the zoo.” Liebermann nodded, and tipped some of the seeds into his mouth. “It was Salieri,” Rheinhardt added, bluntly.
“You're sure?”
“Herr Arnoldt paid us a visit about three weeks ago, claiming to have recovered his memory-you will recall that the poor fellow had lost consciousness after being struck on the head. It appears that the man who knocked him out had been whistling a tune. Unfortunately, it was young Haussmann who took Herr Arnoldt's statement.”
“I had formed the impression that you thought quite highly of Haussmann?”
“Oh, I do. He's very competent. It was just unfortunate on this occasion because, unbeknownst to me, Haussmann is tone-deaf. As a result I couldn't get him to reproduce Herr Arnoldt's melody.” Rheinhardt sampled some pumpkin seeds, and nodded approvingly. “What with the Spittelberg, Ruprechtskirche, and Wieden murders, establishing the musical tastes of Herr Arnoldt's assailant was not my uppermost priority and I decided to let the matter rest. However, after our meeting in Cafe Mozart, I realized that I had-once again, perhaps-overlooked an important detail. The following afternoon I journeyed out to Schonbrunn. Herr Arnoldt was most helpful and sang me what he was able to remember of his assailant's ditty. Herr Arnoldt doesn't have a terribly strong voice, but the melody he produced sounded very much like this.” Without pause, Rheinhardt began to softly sing: “Der Vogelfanger bin ich ja…”
“ ‘The Bird Catcher's Song!’ ” exclaimed Liebermann.
“Indeed. Thus, we can now be quite certain that it was Salieri who disposed of Hildegard!”
A little boy dressed in a hussar's uniform, with a buckled-on sabre and a pistol in his belt, marched by. He saluted Rheinhardt, who adopted a deadly serious expression and returned the gesture. The diminutive hussar was followed by a pretty nursemaid who was carrying a much smaller child in the crook of her elbow-she smiled at the two gentlemen as she passed. Liebermann felt an unwelcome tug of carnal attraction.
“We know that, in all probability, Salieri will kill again,” continued Rheinhardt. “And we know that his next victim will also correspond with a character in Mozart's singspiel. But which one, Max? If we knew that, then we might have some chance-albeit small-of preventing yet another atrocity.”
Liebermann shook his head. “Salieri might contrive to organize his program of murder according to any number of principles,” said Liebermann. “But he is certainly not following any of the obvious ones: for example, the disposal of characters according to the order in which they appear in the opera, or the elimination of minor roles before major ones. This suggests two possibilities. One, Salieri is conducting his campaign according to a scheme that is simply too eccentric for us to comprehend. It exists-yet we cannot see it. Or, two, there is no scheme other than that of which we are already aware. That is to say, Salieri's choice of victim is guided by the dramatis persona of The Magic Flute, but there are no further consistencies to discover. If so, we have absolutely no way of predicting where he will strike next. Salieri will be operating opportunistically. When he encounters an individual who-in his mind-represents Tamino, Sarastro, the Speaker of the Temple, or any of the other remaining characters in the cast, his murderous instincts will be aroused and he will begin to plot their slaughter.” On this grim note, Liebermann raised his hand and poured the remaining pumpkin seeds into his open mouth. Then, after some vigorous chewing, he added, “Now, Oskar… you really must tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“About the significant breakthrough. That is the purpose of our meeting here today. Is it not? I am expected back at the hospital within the hour, and would therefore urge you to divulge this important information without further delay.”
“Ha!” said Rheinhardt. “You've done it again! How on earth did you know that?”
“We are meeting on Sunday to practice Dvorak's Gypsy Songs. It is our custom to discuss cases after our musical activities have been brought to a satisfactory conclusion. You obviously couldn't wait until then. Clearly, you mean to tell me something important.”
Rheinhardt chuckled and shook the paper bag. “More pumpkin seeds, Herr Doctor?”
“No, thank you.”
“You're quite right. There has been a significant discovery.” Rheinhardt leaned closer to his friend. “Since finding Guido List's pamphlet, young Haussmann has been keeping a close eye on the great man's apartment. List and his wife-an actress called Anna Wittek- have received numerous guests. All of them share List's obsession with Germanic folk traditions and culture. One of them-Baron Gustav von Triebenbach, a well-known patron of the arts-is president of an organization called the Eddic Literary Association.” Rheinhardt removed a pamphlet from his coat pocket and handed it to his friend. “This is an example of their work. It is very similar in content to List's preliminary communication. We find references to the skaldic tradition, Norse legends, the religions of the Aryo-Germanic peoples… and again, just as with List, a conclusion in which various groups and institutions are denounced.”
“The enemy nomads?”
“I'm afraid so-as well as the Jesuits, the Freemasons, Slavs, supporters of women's suffrage, Secessionists, and anarchists.”
“What's this?”
Liebermann pointed to the symbol on the front page. It looked like three sticks arranged in the form of a lopsided arch.
“Ur-a letter of the runic alphabet. It is referred to in List's pamphlet.”
“Does it have any special meaning?”
“It is supposed to represent the primordial-primal light or primal fire. List suggests that it has healing powers and that doctors should employ it as a kind of charm.” Unable to contain his disgust, Liebermann made a loud plosive sound. He brushed a stray pumpkin seed from his coat. “But what's really interesting about all this,” Rheinhardt continued, “is where the Eddic Literary Association meets.
…”
He paused, theatrically delaying the moment of revelation.
“Mozartgasse,” said Liebermann-a flat, preemptive interjection.
Rheinhardt's lower jaw dropped open like a mechanical toy. “Sometimes, Max, you can be so very irritating.”
“Was I right?”
“Yes.”
“Given our previous conversation, it couldn't really be anywhere else.”
Rheinhardt shook his head, a little peeved at the ruination of his dramatic coup, and continued doggedly, “The Eddic Literary Association was approved by the commissioner of associations some eight years ago. By law, all societies are obliged to provide the commissioner's office with a list of members. The Eddic Literary Association has forty-three full members and ten associates.”
The inspector produced a sheet of paper on which two columns of names-one short, one long-had been neatly copied out. Two names in the long column had been underlined: Hefner and Aschenbrandt. Below the second name, Liebermann's attention was captured by another name with which he was very familiar.
“Professor Erich Foch.”
“Do you know him?”
“I know of him-he lectures at the university. Professor Foch is a surgeon and a very disagreeable individual. In fact, he recently tried to expel Miss Lydgate from one of his classes. He believes that women are inferior to men and therefore should not be allowed to study medicine.”
“We have always thought that Salieri might be a doctor. And all these runes and symbols…” Rheinhardt gestured toward the pamphlet. “They do seem to be associated with the craft of healing.”
“It seems inconceivable, thou
gh,” said Liebermann, “that a man in Professor Foch's position should be capable of such appalling inhumanity. Having strong views on the education of women is one thing-but murder? Brutal, mindless murder?”
“May I remind you again of the London Ripper-he too was supposed to be a surgeon.”
“But it was never proved, Oskar. Was it?”
The inspector shrugged.
Liebermann returned his attention to the list of society members.
“Lieutenant Ruprecht Hefner?”
“An Uhlan with the eighteenth. I've already interviewed him-I did so a few days after the Spittelberg murders. His name was found on a promissory note in Madam Borek's brothel. He had an alibi- provided by his batman-which of course means nothing. It is extremely interesting that we should encounter his name again.”
“What was he like?”
“Young, handsome, and insufferably arrogant. Even though he professed to have developed a certain fondness for the Galician girl, Ludka, he was completely unmoved by her terrible fate. He struck me as a man who was deficient in natural feelings.”
Rheinhardt's modest reference to psychological abnormality was enough to arouse the young doctor's interest. Liebermann sat up and turned to face his friend.
“What else do you know about him?”
“We made further inquiries and learned that Lieutenant Hefner has a reputation for being something of a ladies’ man and that his romantic involvements usually end in scandal. He is also rumored to be an inveterate duelist.”
“So, we have an arrogant, narcissistic man, who is motivated by the pursuit of sensual pleasure. He does not develop sincere attachments, he exploits women, and he is content to risk his life repeatedly on the field of honor. He subscribes to a supremacist doctrine, which identifies certain institutions and groups as ‘enemies.’ Moreover, he is a soldier and can carry a sabre with him at all times without arousing the slightest suspicion. Do you think, perhaps, that I should interview Lieutenant Hefner?”
