by Frank Tallis
66
LIEBERMANN AND RHEINHARDT WERE attempting Guglielmo's aria from the first act of Cosi Fan Tutte. Rheinhardt's Italian was less than perfect. “Guardate… taccate…” Look… touch…
He struggled with the liquid vowels. “Il tutto osservate…” Observe everything…
They had not conferred greatly on the selection of songs, yet their musical evening contained an unusual number of piano and voice arrangements taken from the operas of Mozart. It was a fact that made Liebermann feel distinctly uncomfortable. Unconsciously, they were looking for clues. “Il tutto osservate…” Observe everything…
Their music-making had always been sacred: they had always resisted discussing other matters, however urgent, until the final chords of the final song had faded into silence. But now Salieri seemed to have violated their tradition. He had insinuated himself into the music room-between the very notes of Mozart's divine melodies. He stood in the shadow of the Bosendorfer: an unwelcome, ghostly presence.
After performing the Mozart pieces, they returned to more familiar territory-lieder by Brahms. The luscious, romantic harmonies seemed to repel the spectral visitor (at least temporarily) to some distant outer region. But when the recital was done-ending with Wir wandelten-Liebermann still felt uneasy. For it was not only the thought of Salieri that was causing him discomfort. There was also the matter of his pending confession. He had resolved to inform Rheinhardt of his decision to terminate his engagement to Clara, and he was not sure how his friend would receive such news.
The two men retired to the smoking room and took their respective places in front of the fire. They lit cigars, sipped brandy, and permitted themselves a few moments of quiet repose. When the room had become hazy with smoke, the young doctor spoke.
“Forgive me, Oskar. I owe you an apology.”
The inspector turned. “Oh?”
“It was remiss of me not to respond to your note last week.”
“I had assumed that you were ill.”
“No, I was not ill. And you are due more than the dashed-off reply that I sent on Monday.”
Rheinhardt detected that his friend was unusually tense. His restless fingers betrayed an inner state of agitation.
“What is it, Max?”
Liebermann hesitated. Then, bracing himself, he threw back his head and swallowed a medicinal quantity of brandy. “Last week,” he said deliberately, “I had to make a decision regarding a personal issue, which left me feeling utterly dejected. Indeed, my spirits were so low that I could barely summon the energy to attend my patients.” Liebermann studied the refracted rainbows in the finely cut glass. “The decision I made was one that I believe will not meet with your approval.” He looked anxiously at his friend. Rheinhardt dismissed the remark with a hand gesture and signaled that Liebermann should continue. “You will recall that I once expressed some doubt as to whether I should proceed with my engagement to Clara Weiss.”
“Indeed. We spoke at some length on the subject.”
“Well, Oskar. In spite of your wise counsel, I have found it impossible to dispel the feelings of apprehension surrounding the prospect of our union. I arranged an interview with Clara's father and explained that I could not-in good faith-marry his daughter. Needless to say, he was horrified and forbade me to see Clara. I understand she has since been removed from Vienna, and I suspect that she has been taken to a sanitorium.” Liebermann drew on his cigar and expelled a great cloud of smoke. “So, you see, Oskar, I have achieved much since we last met. I have thoroughly embarrassed my parents, caused incalculable pain to a woman whom I had previously professed to love, and declined membership of a family who have hitherto shown me only kindness and the deepest affection. I wouldn't blame you for thinking badly of me.”
A log on the fire suddenly blazed up and a fierce shower of sparks erupted onto the hearth. The inspector squeezed his lower lip and appeared to descend into a meditative state. After a considerable length of time had elapsed, Rheinhardt stirred. He cleared his throat, hummed, and finally spoke.
“First of all, Max, I hope that you will accept my most sincere commiserations. I had no idea that you were so very racked with doubts, and if I had, perhaps my advice to you would have been different. Second, I have every confidence in your character. I cannot claim to have any special knowledge of the human mind-I am no psychiatrist-but I am a fair judge of men, and I understand you well enough to appreciate that your intentions were honorable. You did not want to enter upon a sham marriage-that much is clear. To do so would have been bad for you, and even worse for Clara. Finally, I have always found you to be a man of singular courage. In my small estimation-for what it is worth-this act is perhaps the bravest I have ever known you to perform. The right course of action is rarely the easiest, and to have proceeded with an insincere marriage, for the sake of maintaining appearances, would have been morally reprehensible. As a man whose calling… no, whose very reason for existence is to alleviate human suffering, the events of last week must have cost you dearly. I am so very sorry. Be that as it may, I suspect that this trial need not prick your conscience forever. Given time, they will all come to realize the propriety of your decision-your family, the Weisses, and, most important, your dear Clara.”
Liebermann turned slowly, and looked at his friend's world-weary face: the sagging pouches of skin beneath his eyes, the heavy jowls, and the incongruously jaunty pointed mustache. And as he did so, he felt a wave of affection that brought him close to tears. What a great and generous soul this man possessed, he thought.
“Oskar, I don't know what to say. You are too kind. I do not deserve such-”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” cried the inspector.
“No-I really don't deserve-”
“Enough!” Rheinhardt raised his hand. “The quality of your character is not in question. You have nothing to thank me for.” Then, unexpectedly, he stood up to leave. “As you know, there were many things that I wished to discuss with you this evening concerning Salieri… but let us instead postpone. I do not wish to burden you with the concerns of the security office at this difficult time. We shall meet again in due course-when your spirits have rallied.”
“But, Oskar,” Liebermann protested, “my spirits have already rallied. Your kind words have acted as a restorative. Moreover, I can think of no better remedy than to make myself useful to the security office. Now, please, do sit down!”
Rehinhardt's eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The inspector smiled. “Excellent.”
Rheinhardt opened his bag and produced a stack of photographs. Then, returning to his seat, he handed them to Liebermann.
The young doctor looked at the first image: a dark, grainy impression of a hooded figure lying on a stone floor.
“Another Salieri killing?”
“I'm afraid so.”
“When did he strike?”
“Thursday.”
“Has the murder been reported?”
“In the Zeitung, the Freie Presse, and that dreadful new rag, the Illustrierte Kronen-Zeitung.”
Liebermann began working through the pile of prints. Each image showed the body from a different perspective. Close-up, long view, looking down from above.
“His name is Brother Francis,” Rheinhardt continued. “A Capuchin monk. His body was discovered by one of his confreres, Brother Ignaz, in the crypt of the Kapuzinerkirche. In Salieri's scheme, his corresponding character in The Magic Flute must be one of the many priests.”
“Or the Speaker of the Temple, perhaps-who is a kind of high priest.”
“Indeed. Professor Mathias ascribed the cause of death to loss of blood, resulting from a sabre wound.”
“The same sabre?”
“That, he couldn't say.” Rheinhardt shifted in his chair and leaned closer to Liebermann. “When I descended into the crypt, several monks had stationed themselves by the body and were reciting offices for the dead. Naturally, I assumed that Brother Franci
s was no longer with us. But I was very wrong.”
“He was still alive!”
“Yes. The poor fellow had certainly arrived at death's door, but he was yet to step over the threshold. He managed a few desperate gasps, and seemed to regain consciousness. I immediately asked him who had performed the dastardly deed. His reply was… intriguing. He said, ‘A cellist.’ Then he passed away.”
Liebermann examined a close-up photograph of the dead monk's face. A hooked nose projected out from between two sunken eyes.
“Extraordinary,” said Liebermann, working down to the last of the shots. It showed the royal tomb, emerging out of the darkness like a galleon crewed by ghosts. “The crypt was not desecrated with symbols?”
“No.”
“Professor Mathias did not discover any objects concealed in the Capuchin's corpse?”
“No.”
“And no mutilations?” Liebermann tapped the pile of photographs.
“Salieri was disturbed by the arrival of Brother Ignaz. I imagine that he did not have time.”
“Which would also explain why he did not deliver an efficient sabre blow.”
“Indeed, he must have been distracted at the key moment.”
“ ‘A cellist.’ ” Liebermann rotated his glass. The rainbows broke and re-formed. “What are we to make of that? Salieri couldn't have been sitting in the crypt, playing a Bach sonata. So, did Brother Francis recognize him? Is he an artist of some renown? A virtuoso? Or perhaps some rank-and-file orchestral player who participated in a recent religious concert?”
“All are possible.” Rheinhardt smiled grimly. “And are we to suppose that in styling the murderer ‘Salieri’ our choice of name was more apposite than we could possibly have imagined?”
“I believe that the real Salieri studied the harpsichord and violin rather than the cello. Whatever, the evidence gathered so far certainly suggests that our quarry is a musician.”
“Aschenbrandt?”
“He is the only musician to be counted among your suspects-and he is also a cellist. I saw the instrument leaning against the wall when I visited his apartment.”
“Yes. Aschenbrandt-could he be the killer? I read your report with great interest. But I found it rather… perplexing.”
“Oh? Why?”
“You draw several conclusions, Max-but were they really merited by that interview? I take it that your transcript is faithful and nothing more was said?”
“That is correct.”
“Perhaps my memory is at fault, but was it not the case that you talked to him about a single topic only? That is to say, music.”
“What did you expect me to do? Raise the subject of murder?”
“Well… under the circumstances…”
“Oskar, what is the point of such questions? People lie, misdirect, and make up alibis that are subsequently confirmed by confederates. I am interested only in the truths that people reveal about themselves inadvertently: a raised eyebrow, a hesitation, a slip of the tongue- subtle reactions. These are far more valuable. They are authentic communications, emanating from the unconscious. Had I mentioned murder, it would almost certainly have put Aschenbrandt on his guard.”
Liebermann lit another cigar.
“Aschenbrandt,” he continued, “is definitely a disturbed young man. An anti-Semite who entertains semi-delusional beliefs about a Teutonic Messiah whose destiny it is to save the German-speaking peoples. It is possible that he has surrendered himself to this potent mythos, and it has now taken hold of his mind like a possessing demon. He may even see himself as ‘the Invincible’ of his string quintetwhose mission it is to rid Vienna of enemy nomads, Slavs, Negroes, and even, perhaps, representatives of the old order-a corrupt Catholic Church. But as to whether he is Salieri… Well, I have my doubts. When we were discussing The Magic Flute, Aschenbrandt seemed unperturbed. The Magic Flute is Salieri's organizing principle-the channel through which he expresses all his hate and violence. If Aschenbrandt is Salieri, there should have been more signs. He was angry, of course-angry about being interrupted, angry that I called Wagner's music bombastic-and he found my delight in Mozart extremely irritating. But at no time did discussion of The Magic Flute produce a discernible change in his demeanor. He seemed quite comfortable debating a subject that should have stirred up the most powerful emotions; emotions that he should have struggled to conceal.”
“That's all very well, Max,” said Rheinhardt.” But I am still minded to launch a full investigation into Aschenbrandt's musical activities. If we discover that he has participated in any chamber concerts in the Kapuzinerkirche, or any other church for that matter
…”
“Of course,” said Liebermann, “I offer you only an opinion-and Salieri might be such an exceptional creature that his mental processes might not even obey the laws of psychoanalysis.” He knocked the ash from his cigar. “Now, tell me, what of the other suspects?”
“I went to see the artist, Olbricht. What a peculiar fellow.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Something about his expression.”
“I do hope you are not going to invoke Lombroso again. Once and for all, Oskar, there is no relationship between a man's appearance and his nature.”
“Yes, you're quite right. Curiously enough, Olbricht is something of a war hero. He saved his commanding officer's life in the Bosnia-Herzegovina campaign of 1878. And-for a military man-he was rather reticent about the whole affair. He invited me to the opening of his next exhibition. It's at the Hildebrandt Gallery-on Karntner Strasse. Other members of the Eddic Literary Association are bound to be there. Would you be interested in coming along?”
“Very much so.”
“Excellent.”
“And what of Lieutenant Hefner?”
Rheinhardt's features contracted into a small circle of disgust. “Haussmann spent some time in Cafe Haynau, a sordid little place much frequented by military men. It is also a hotbed of gossip. Hefner is rumored to have killed more than a dozen men in duels-probably an exaggeration, but if it proves true, it wouldn't surprise me. His name was recently linked with that of Lemberg, the industrialist's son. The young man is supposed to have died after sustaining a fatal wound in a shooting accident.”
Liebermann sank lower down in his chair. “It seems that killing is Hefner's sport.”
“And they say he is a stranger to fear. Always keeps his nervealways the second to shoot in a barrier duel.”
“Cold, calculating… and arrogant?”
“Insufferably.”
“There is a professor in Berlin who has described a certain pathological ‘type,’ characterized by blunting of the emotions, self-obsession, and lack of conscience. He attributes this syndrome to a disease process affecting the frontal lobes of the brain.”
Both men stared into the flames. The gas lamps hummed harmoniously on a major third.
“The thing is,” said Rheinhardt, not wishing to be drawn into a technical discussion on an arcane branch of medicine, “neither Hefner, nor Aschenbrandt, nor Olbricht, nor any member of the Eddic Literary Association-to my knowledge-is a librarian, or a seller of antiquarian books.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Liebermann. Rheinhardt suspected that his friend was still occupied with thoughts of frontal lobes.
“While you were”-Rheinhardt smiled-”absent, I took the liberty of calling upon Miss Lydgate again to analyze samples of dust found close to the Capuchin's body.”
“Oh?” Liebermann sat up.
“She occupied the Schottenring laboratory for almost two whole days.”
“And what did she conclude?”
“She concluded that the dust from the crypt contained particles of leather, glue, and cloth that were identical to those found in her previous analysis-although they were present in much smaller quantities. She even went so far as to say that one kind of leather-of reddish hue-appeared in both samples, and very likely came from the same book.” Rheinhardt poured himself an
other brandy. “We have interviewed most of the city's librarians and antiquarian book dealers. None of them could possibly be Salieri. Moreover, her evidence is inconsistent with the rest of the investigation: none of our suspects are librarians. I hesitate to say this, because I am very fond of this remarkable lady, but could it be that Miss Lydgate is simply mistaken?”
“No, Oskar,” said Liebermann solemnly. “I think there is very little chance of that.”
“In which case,” said the inspector, taking a sip of brandy, “we are still utterly lost.”
67
THE EXHIBITION WAS WELL attended, providing Liebermann and Rheinhardt with a degree of anonymity. Somewhere behind the milling crowd a string quartet was playing a gentle landler.
Occasionally Rheinhardt leaned closer to his friend and pointed out a particular individual.
“That fellow there-the distinguished-looking gent-that's Von Triebenbach. And the woman he's talking to is Baroness von Rautenberg-Olbricht's patron.”
They stood in front of a full-length portrait of Wagner's Brunhilde.
Rheinhardt nodded toward the entrance. “Plump fellow with the ruddy complexion-Counselor Hannisch. He's talking to-”
“Professor Foch,” Liebermann interrupted.
“Of course, you know him.”
The counselor and the professor made an odd couple. Foch wore his usual funereal garb, and Hannisch was dressed in a green suit with a bright blue cravat.
“I know of him,” Liebermann said, correcting Rheinhardt.
Liebermann resumed his scrutiny of the Valkyrie. She wore the horned headdress of a Viking, thick furs, and her spear was tipped with a daub of red paint. Rheinhardt's head swiveled around.
“No Aschenbrandt.”
The general hubbub rose in volume, swelling with the sound of jovial greetings and cries of satisfaction. Close by, the crowd parted, affording Liebermann and Rheinhardt a glimpse of a short man whose hand was being squeezed by a colonel of the infantry.
