by Frank Tallis
A malicious diatribe followed, denouncing the enemies of the German people: the Jews, the Slavs, the Catholic Church-the southern races.
“There you are!” exclaimed Rheinhardt. “It must be him. It's as good as a confession!”
Liebermann turned the paper over. Nothing was written on the other side.
“We know that he frequented Madam Borek's brothel,” Rheinhardt continued, excitement widening his eyes. “He was a member of the Eddic Literary Association and a member of the Richard Wagner Association. He carried a sabre and wished to save Vienna from all those peoples and institutions despised by Guido List. It must be him. He must be Salieri!”
“No, Oskar,” said Liebermann. “I'm afraid you're mistaken.”
Rheinhardt snatched Hefner's note from Liebermann's hand and read out aloud, “Our glorious city has become infested. I did what I could.”
The sentence hung in the air between them.
“He means dueling, Oskar-that is all. He obviously took great pleasure in provoking those whom he counted as enemies: Jews, Czechs, Hungarians… people like Freddi Lemberg.”
Rheinhardt sighed, suddenly deflated. “But the evidence, Max… Madam Borek's, the sabre.”
“Salieri would not have been able to resist mentioning The Magic Flute.”
“He is a member of the Richard Wagner Association.”
“And then there are Miss Lydgate's findings.”
“She must have made a mistake.”
“As I have said before, I very much doubt it.”
Rheinhardt suddenly turned on his friend. He could not keep the irritation from his voice. “Max, how can you be so sure!”
Liebermann smiled and clapped his hands on Rheinhardt's shoulders.
“I can be sure, Oskar, because tonight you and I will be paying Salieri a house call.”
73
COUNT ZABORSZKY LOOKED ACROSS the low Turkish table at Otto Braun. He sucked the mouthpiece of his hookah and blew out a cloud of pungent smoke. The candle flickered in the draft created by his opiated exhalation.
“So,” he said. “The fool is dead?”
“Yes,” Braun replied. “It was reported in the late edition of the papers.”
The count's lips parted, and he showed his sharp teeth. Braun took it to be a smile.
“You Germans…”
Braun tutted. “He was Austrian. Born in Vienna.”
The count dismissed Braun's remark with a sneer and a languid gesture.
“…with your ridiculous code of honor.”
The sound of a squeaking mattress came from above. A repeated, querulous rhythm. The count's eyes flashed toward the ceiling. “Have you tried the new girl yet? The Galician?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“I don't have any money.” Braun spoke these words deliberately.
The count slid his hand into his pocket, took out a small leather purse, and tossed it onto the table. The younger man picked it up, weighed it in his hand, and put it into his pocket.
The squeaking stopped.
“How did you do it?” asked the count.
“It's easy… I used to do something very similar in my magic show at the Blue Danube Theatre. A little routine built around a wager in which I always won. A quick swap-it was nothing.”
“Yes. But how?”
Braun shook his head. “That would be telling.” Then, assuming a mock-dignified pose, he added, “No honorable magician would break the code.”
The count sucked gently on his hookah and allowed himself a gravelly dry laugh. “Very good, Braun. Very good.”
A door opened and closed upstairs. The sound of footsteps on the landing, and boots making unsteady progress down the stairs. A cavalryman appeared out of the darkness.
“Good evening,” said the count. “I wonder whether you would care to join us for a game of cards.”
The Uhlan's cap was perched at an acute angle. “I am duty bound to warn you-I have a formidable reputation.”
“I'm sure you do,” said the count. “Please…” He gestured toward the seat next to Braun. The magician produced a deck of cards, which he dropped next to the candle. “What shall it be?” he asked, throwing a wicked glance in the count's direction.
Part Four
74
THE COBBLED STREET ROSE up, leading to a short, elevated cul-de-sac. It was a dark place, illuminated by a solitary gas lamp, and somewhat desolate. All the squat two-story buildings had been converted for commercial use, and their occupants had long since concluded their business for the day. Large wooden signs identified the premises of a wheelwright, a blacksmith, and a carpenter. The cul-de-sac was overlooked by the fenestrated eminence of a tall apartment block. Lights shone from a few of the higher windows, suggesting that not all of the residents were asleep.
Earlier that evening the warm, dry fohn wind had descended from the mountains, melting all the snow and ice in a matter of hours. The air was filled with the sound of trickling and dripping as rivulets of running water sought out drains. This freakish meteorological phenomenon could raise the temperature by more than twenty degrees Reaumur.
Liebermann opened his coat and loosened his necktie. “It's associated with insanity, you know.”
“What? The fohn?” Rheinhardt responded.
“Yes. Ask any hospital psychiatrist. The patients get restless and there are always more admissions.”
“How does it have its effect?”
“We have absolutely no idea.” The young doctor sighed. “It's not a good omen.”
“I thought you didn't believe in omens.”
“Salieri is disturbed enough as it is-without the fohn making his mental state worse. Did you bring your revolver?”
“Of course,” said Rheinhardt.
They were concealed in a deep doorway. Rheinhardt leaned out and looked up at a row of blank, black windows.
“Still nothing… He's not in.” Rheinhardt puffed out his cheeks. “You do realize, Max, that if you're wrong about this-and if we get caught-then I will be severely reprimanded by Commissioner Brugel.” The young doctor gazed out across the damp cobbles. “And to be frank,” Rheinhardt continued, “you haven't been very forthcoming about your method of deduction.”
“I will provide you with a full explanation in due course.”
Rheinhardt twisted the points of his mustache. “He isn't a librarian.”
“I know.”
“You and Miss Lydgate can't both be right.”
Liebermann shrugged.
The inspector tutted but did not press his friend. He was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, being familiar with the young doctor's habit of appearing at his most enigmatic when his deductions were correct. Be that as it may, Rheinhardt reflected, his mannerisms can be most irritating.
“It may be possible to enter and leave the property without damaging anything,” said Rheinhardt. “In which case, no one need ever know we've been there. On the other hand, if we discover anything incriminating, I shall have to wait here in order to make an arrest. You must not feel obliged to stay. Indeed, it would be better, perhaps, if you went to get help.”
“And leave you to face the monster alone? That is out of the question.”
Rheinhardt smiled. “You wait here. Call out if you see him coming.” He then crossed the street and began inspecting a plain wooden door. Liebermann could see that his friend was busying himself with the lock, which rather surprised him. To his knowledge, the inspector had no special understanding of lock mechanisms. But after a few minutes Rheinhardt beckoned, scooping the air in wide arcs with his hand. Liebermann crept out from his hiding place and hurried across. As he arrived, Rheinhardt turned the door handle and pushed it open.
“How did you do that?” asked Liebermann, thoroughly impressed.
Rheinhardt held up a bunch of curious-looking rods with spindly protrusions.
“Skeleton keys,” said Rheinhardt. “They don't always work-but this ti
me we were lucky.”
He produced an object that Liebermann had never seen before: a short cylinder, not unlike a telescope, encircled by several silver hoops.
“What on earth is that?”
“A flashlight.”
“A what?”
“It's from America. Watch. I slide this bridge switch…” Rheinhardt pushed a raised metal bar forward with his thumb and a pulse of light illuminated the hallway. It lasted for a few moments before fading.
“Remarkable,” exclaimed Liebermann. “A portable electric lightbulb!”
“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. “It'll revolutionize police work: the incendiary risk associated with conducting nighttime investigations is now a thing of the past!”
They closed the door behind them and ascended steep stairs that led to a small landing. To one side was a small, sparsely furnished room containing a camp bed, stove, wardrobe, and bookcase.
“In here,” said Rheinhardt.
They entered the room and began a systematic search, starting with the wardrobe. It contained nothing exceptional and smelled strongly of mothballs. Under the bed they found a half-full chamber pot. The bookcase was filled with predictable titles: Carnuntum, Deutsch-mythologische Landschaftsbilder, Der Unbesiegbare, Pipara, and other volumes by Guido List. There were also works by the Englishman, Houston Stewart Chamberlain: a biography of Richard Wagner and his famous history, Die Grundlagen des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts.
Their investigation was slow, its pace dependent on the brief periodic illumination of the flashlight. After a time, though, both men fell into the rhythm dictated by the device's limitations. It became almost hypnotic.
Flash-fade-darkness. Flash-fade-darkness.
Move-stop, move-stop.
Liebermann glanced anxiously through the open door. “Come on,” he said. “There's nothing in here. We must hurry.”
“Well, there's not much in there, either,” Rheinhardt answered, directing a burst of luminescence across the landing.
“Oh, there will be-I can assure you.”
Rheinhardt recognized a new note of confidence in Liebermann's voice.
“You've seen something, haven't you?”
“Later, Oskar,” Liebermann hissed.
Rheinhardt silently endured another wave of irritation.
The two men cautiously entered the studio.
It was much the same as Rheinhardt remembered: a battered chest, a small table, wooden frames, and a full-length mirror against the wall. The only significant difference was the absence of paintings.
Liebermann walked ahead, his shoes making a hollow noise against the floorboards. The sound suddenly changed as something began to crunch underfoot.
“Oskar…”
Rheinhardt lowered the flashlight to reveal a mass of glittering fragments. Liebermann crouched down. Reaching out, he touched one of the bright points of light.
“Glass.”
As Liebermann stood up, he accidentally kicked something hard. It rolled across the floor, making a curiously loud rumble, which for a brief moment rose to a higher pitch.
Flash-fade-darkness. Flash-fade-darkness.
The sound had been made by an empty bottle that had come to rest against one of the legs of an easel. Liebermann picked it up and read the label. “Vodka,” he muttered. His attention was then drawn to what was left of the painting. Red strips of canvas hung in tatters from the frame.
“It's been cut to pieces,” he whispered.
“Why would he do that?”
“Because of his reviews. Did you read any of them?”
“Yes, a few. They were all terrible. Rather unfair, I thought-he's not that bad.”
“He got drunk to deaden his pain, threw a glass against the wall in a rage, and then, overcome with despair, destroyed his latest work. I wonder what it was.”
Rheinhardt opened the battered chest and directed the flashlight's beam inside.
Flash-fade-darkness. Flash-fade-darkness.
Some dirty smocks, a plaster-cast torso, and a few exhibition posters.
“Well, we won't get a conviction on the basis of what's in here.”
Rheinhardt lowered the lid of the chest and stopped working the bar of his flashlight. The room dissolved into dark nothingness. Outside, the gentle music of trickling water could still be heard-and in the distance the clop of hooves and the jangling of a carriage horse's harness.
The inspector sighed. “You were certain that we would find evidence.” The young doctor was silent. “Well,” Rheinhardt continued, at last unable to disguise his irritation, “where is it?”
“Did you notice the sound that the bottle made as it rolled across the floor?” The change in pitch?”
“No.”
“We analysts always listen very carefully. You'll find what you're looking for over there somewhere.”
Rheinhardt slid the bridging switch forward, illuminating his companion. The young doctor's arm was outstretched, his index finger pointing at the floor space between the table and chest.
“Under the boards?” said Rheinhardt.
“Yes,” came the blunt reply.
The inspector got down on all fours and began to crawl along a single floorboard. He held the flashlight very close to the ground.
“What on earth are you doing, Oskar?”
It occurred to Rheinhardt that he might use this opportunity to give the young doctor a taste of his own enigmatic medicine so he remained silent.
“Oskar?” Liebermann persisted. “What are you doing?”
When Rheinhardt was satisfied that he had made his point-and that the young doctor had registered the purpose of his unusual taciturnity-he deigned to answer.
“It would take too much time to raise all the boards,” he began, “so I'm looking for signs of recent disturbance. When a floor is first constructed, the nails holding the planks to the crossbeams are driven in as far as possible-it is impossible to get them out without damaging the surrounding wood. If there are no such signs, then it is pointless proceeding.”
Rheinhardt crawled backward and forward across the floor, his knees protesting with percussive cracks and snaps. Eventually he cried out, “Aha! Here we are-damage! Come over here, Max, take a look.” Liebermann went over to his friend and observed splintering and bruising of the wood around some of the nail heads. “And this board here,” Rheinhardt continued, rocking a plank from side to side, “is quite loose.”
“I suppose this means that you will have to come back to conduct an official search in the morning?”
“Not at all.”
“But we don't have the means to take up these boards.”
“Oh yes, we do.”
Rheinhardt sat back on his haunches and produced a pair of pliers from a pocket of his baggy coat.
“Good God, Oskar, what else are you carrying in there?”
“In addition to my revolver and skeleton keys, I have a notebook, a pencil, a penknife, another smaller pair of pliers, tweezers, a magnifying glass, handcuffs, and some gusseted envelopes. One must always be prepared, Max. Here-you take the flashlight.”
Rheinhardt then set about extracting nails. He did so with the systematic, grim determination of a skilled dentist.
Squeeze, twist, pull. Squeeze, twist, pull.
When he had completed drawing the nails from the first plank, he used his penknife to lift it from the underlying crossbeam. Liebermann directed a burst of light into the hole. “I think there's something there,” he gasped.
Rheinhardt lay flat on his stomach and thrust his arm into the opening. As he felt around, the expression on his face changed from determined concentration to a curious mixture of surprise and triumph.
“God in heaven!” he cried. “It feels like… I can hardly believe it… a cello case!” His tactile exploration became more frantic. “Yes, yes-a cello case!”
Rheinhardt withdrew his arm and grabbed his pliers. “Come, let us continue.”
The inspector returned to his ta
sk with renewed gusto, wresting each nail free with a single powerful wrench. Beads of perspiration began to appear on his forehead. Soon the second plank had been removed, and the flashlight revealed a telling curve of scuffed leather. Its undulating form clearly followed the waist and belly of the instrument inside.
As Rheinhardt began work on the third plank, he found that the pulsing beam had wandered away from the nail head.
“Max!” said Rheinhardt. “More to the right!”
But the young doctor did not respond. Instead, he raised the flashlight and aimed it at the doorway. Time seemed to dilate. He slid the bar forward, but its progress was strangely delayed. Light oozed out like viscid liquid. It rolled across the room with the sluggish momentum of spilled honey.
Flash-fade-darkness.
The figure of the artist lingered in his memory like the patterns that appear after staring at the sun. What he saw had the quality of a theatrical illusion. A stocky man with widely spaced eyes, dressed casually. Olbricht did not appear frightened. Indeed, he seemed to be quite calm.
When Liebermann delivered the next pulse of light, the doorway was empty and the air was vibrating with the sound of Olbricht's running footsteps.
75
Liebermann leaped to his feet and ran for the door. From the landing he directed the flashlight's beam down the stairs and saw Olbricht veer to the right. Without pausing to consider the wisdom of his actions, Liebermann threw himself into the darkness, using the wall as his guide. His descent was unsteady, and on the final step he stumbled. He was able to regain his balance as he burst through the open door.
Liebermann stopped and peered into the shadowy depths of the cul-de-sac. The single gas lamp sputtered. Could he see something moving? No more than a shimmer-a certain hint of instability in the fabric of the night?
He continued his pursuit, running across the damp cobbles. As he penetrated the pitchy shadows, he became aware that he was approaching a high wall, a daunting structure that linked the last houses in the cul-de-sac and effectively closed the street off. There was no sign of Olbricht, yet it was obvious that the artist, however agile, could not have scaled the precipitous wall. Liebermann leaned forward, rested his hands on his thighs, and attempted to catch his breath. As he did so he became conscious of Rheinhardt's approach.
