Mortal Mischief

Mortal Mischief

Frank Tallis is a writer and practicing clinical psychologist. He has held lecturing posts in clinical psychology and neuroscience at the Institute of Psychiatry and King's College London and is one of Britain's leading experts on obsessional states. In 1999 he received a Writers' Award from the Arts Council of Great Britain and in 2000 he won the New London Writers' Award (London Arts Board)

He lives and works in London. For further information visit

www.franktallis.com

Also by Frank Tallis

Love Sick

(Century, 2004)

Mortal

Mischief

Frank Tallis

VOLUME ONE OF THE

LIEBERMANN PAPERS

Copyright © Frank Tallis 2005

Part One

The God of Storms

1

It was the day of the great storm. I remember it well because my father – Mendel Liebermann – had suggested that we meet for coffee at The Imperial. I had a strong suspicion that something was on his mind . . .

A ROILING MASS OF BLACK

cloud had risen from behind the Opera House like a volcanic eruption of sulphurous smoke and ash. Its dimensions suggested impending doom – an epic catastrophe on the scale of Pompeii. In the strange amber light, the surrounding buildings had become jaundiced. Perched on the rooftops, the decorative statuary – classical figures and triumphal eagles – seemed to have been carved from brimstone. A fork of lightning flowed down the mountain of cloud like a river of molten iron. The earth trembled and the air stirred, yet still there was no rain. The coming storm seemed to be saving itself – building its reserves of power in preparation for an apocalyptic deluge.

The tram bell sounded, rousing Liebermann from his reverie and dispersing a group of horse-drawn carriages on the lines.

As the tram rolled forwards, Liebermann wondered why his father had wanted to see him. It wasn't that such a meeting was unusual; they often met for coffee. Rather, it was something about the manner in which the invitation had been issued. Mendel's voice had been curiously strained – reedy and equivocal. Moreover, his nonchalance had been unconvincing, suggesting to Liebermann the concealment of an ulterior – or perhaps even unconscious – motive. But what might that be?

The tram slowed in the heavy traffic of the Karntner Ring and Liebermann jumped off before the vehicle had reached its stop. He raised the collar of his astrakhan coat against the wind and hurried towards his destination.

Even though lunch had already been served, The Imperial was seething with activity. Waiters, with silver trays held high, were dodging each other between crowded tables, and the air was filled with animated conversation. At the back of the café, a pianist was playing a Chopin mazurka. Liebermann wiped the condensation off his spectacles with a handkerchief and hung his coat on the stand.

'Good afternoon, Herr Doctor.'

Liebermann recognised the voice and without turning replied: 'Good afternoon, Bruno. I trust you are well?'

'I am, sir. Very well indeed.'

When Liebermann turned, the waiter continued: 'If you'd like to come this way, sir. Your father is already here.'

Bruno beckoned, and guided Liebermann through the hectic room. They arrived at a table near the back, where Mendel was concealed behind the densely printed sheets of the Weiner Zeitung.

'Herr Liebermann?' said Bruno. Mendel folded his paper. He was a thickset man with a substantial beard and bushy eyebrows. His expression was somewhat severe – although softened by a liberal network of laughter lines. The waiter added: 'Your son.'

'Ahh, Maxim!' said the old man. 'There you are!' He sounded a little irritated, as though he had been kept waiting.

After a moment's hesitation, Liebermann replied: 'But I'm early, father.'

Mendel consulted his pocket watch.

'So you are. Well, sit down, sit down. Another Pharisäer for me and . . . Max?' He invited his son to order.

'A Schwarzer, please, Bruno.'

The waiter executed a modest bow and was gone.

'So,' said Mendel. 'How are you, my boy?'

'Very well, father.'

'You're looking a bit thinner than usual.'

'Am I?'

'Yes. Drawn.'

'I hadn't noticed.'

'Are you eating properly?'

Liebermann laughed: 'Very well, as it happens. And how are you, father?'

Mendel grimaced.

'Achh! Good days and bad days, you know how it is. I'm seeing that specialist you recommended, Pintsch. And there is some improvement, I suppose. But my back isn't much better.'

'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.'

Mendel dismissed his son's remark with a wave of his hand.

'Do you want something to eat?' Mendel pushed the menu across the table. 'You look like you need it. I think I'll have the Topfenstrudel.'

Liebermann studied the extensive cake-list: Apfeltorte, Cremeschnitte, Truffeltorte, Apfelstrudel. It ran on over several pages.

'Your mother sends her love,' said Mendel, 'and would like to know when she can expect to see you again.' His expression hovered somewhere between sympathy and reprimand.

'I'm sorry, father,' said Liebermann. 'I've been very busy. Too many patients . . . Tell mother I'll try to see her next week. Friday, perhaps?'

'Then you must come to dinner.'

'Yes,' said Liebermann, suddenly feeling that he had already committed himself more than he really wanted. 'Yes. Thank you.' He looked down at the menu again: Dobostorte, Gugelhupf, Linzertorte. The Chopin mazurka ended on a loud minor chord, and a ripple of applause passed through the café audience. Encouraged, the pianist played a glittering arpeggio figure on the upper keys, under which he introduced the melody of a popular waltz. A group of people seated near the window began another round of appreciative clapping.

Bruno returned with the coffees and stood to attention with his pencil and notepad.

'The Topfenstrudel,' said Mendel.

'The Rehrücken, please,' said Liebermann.

Mendel stirred the cream into his Pharisäer – which came with a tot of rum – and immediately started to talk about the family textile business. This was not unusual. Indeed, it had become something of a tradition. Profits had risen, and Mendel was thinking of expanding the enterprise: another factory, or even a shop, perhaps. Now that the meddling bureaucrats had lifted the ban on department stores, he could see a future in retail – new opportunities. His old friend Blomberg had already opened a successful department store and had suggested that they might go into partnership. Throughout, Mendel's expression was eager and clearly mindful of his son's reactions.

Liebermann understood why his father kept him so well informed. Although he was proud of Liebermann's academic achievements, he still hoped that one day young Max would step into his shoes.

Mendel's voice slowed when he noticed his son's hand. The fingers seemed to be following the pianist's melody – treating the edge of the table like a keyboard.

'Are you listening?' said Mendel.

'Yes. Of course I'm listening,' Liebermann replied. He had become accustomed to such questioning and could no longer be caught out, as was once the case. 'You're thinking of going into business with Herr Blomberg.'

Liebermann assumed a characteristic position. His right hand – shaped like a gun – pressed against his cheek, the index finger resting gently against the right temple. It was a 'listening' position favoured by many psychiatrists.

'So – what do you think? A good idea?' asked Mendel.

'Well, if the existing department store is profitable, that sounds reasonable enough.'

'It's a considerable investment.'

'I'm sure it is.'

The old man stroked his beard. 'You don't seem to be very keen on the idea.'

'Father, does it matter what I think?'

Mendel sighed.

'No. I suppose not.' His disappointment was palpable.

Liebermann looked away. He took no joy in disappointing his father and now felt guilty. The old man's motives were entirely laudable and Liebermann was perfectly aware that his comfortable standard of living was sustained – at least in part – by Mendel's exemplary management of the family business. Yet he couldn't ever imagine himself running a factory or managing a department store. The idea was ludicrous.

As these thoughts were passing through his mind, Liebermann noticed the arrival of a gentleman in his middle years. On entering the café, the man removed his hat and surveyed the scene. His hair was combed to the side, creating a deep side parting, and his neatly trimmed moustache and beard were almost entirely grey. He received a warm welcome from the head waiter who helped him to take his coat off. He was immaculately dressed in pinstriped trousers, a wide-lapelled jacket and a 'showy' waistcoat. He must have made a quip, because the head waiter suddenly began laughing. The man seemed in no hurry to find a seat and stood by the door, listening intently to the waiter, who now appeared – Liebermann thought – to have started to tell a story.

Mendel saw that his son had become distracted.

'Know him, do you?'

Liebermann turned.

'I'm sorry?'

'Doctor Freud,' said Mendel in a flat voice.

Liebermann was astonished that his father knew the man's identity.

'Yes, I do know him. And it's Professor Freud, actually.'

'Professor Freud, then,' said Mendel. 'But he hasn't been a professor for very long, has he?'

'A few months,' said Liebermann, raising his eyebrows. 'How did you know that?'

'He comes to the lodge.'

'What lodge?'

Mendel scowled.

'B'nai B'rith.'

'Oh yes, of course.'

'Although God knows why. I'm not sure what sort of a Jew he's supposed to be. He doesn't seem to believe in anything. And as for his ideas . . .' Mendel shook his head. 'He gave us a talk last year. Scandalous. How well do you know him?'

'Quite well . . . We meet occasionally to discuss his work.'

'What? You think there's something in it?'

'The book he wrote with Breuer on hysteria was excellent and The Interpretation of Dreams is . . . well, a masterpiece. Of course, I don't agree with everything he says. Even so, I've found his treatment suggestions very useful.'

'Then you must be in a minority.'

'Undoubtedly. But I am convinced that Professor Freud's system – a system that he calls psychoanalysis – will become more widely accepted.'

'Not in Vienna.'

'I don't know. One or two of my colleagues, other junior psychiatrists, are very interested in Professor Freud's ideas.'

Mendel's brow furrowed: 'Some of the things he said last year were obscene. I pity those in his care.'

'I would be the first to admit,' said Liebermann, 'that he has become somewhat preoccupied – of late – with the erotic life of his patients. However, his understanding of the human mind extends well beyond our animal instincts.'

The professor was still standing by the door with the head waiter. He suddenly burst out laughing and slapped his companion on the back. It was clear that the head waiter had just told him a joke.

'Dear God,' said Mendel under his breath, 'I hope he doesn't come this way.' Then he sighed with relief as Professor Freud was ushered to a table beyond their view. Mendel was about to say something else but stopped when Bruno arrived with the cakes.

'Topfenstrudel for Herr Liebermann and Rehrücken for Herr Doctor Liebermann. More coffee?' Bruno gestured towards Mendel's empty glass.

'Yes, why not? A Mélange and another Schwarzer for my son.'

Mendel looked enviously at his son's gateau, a large glazed chocolate sponge cake shaped like a saddle of deer, filled with apricot jam and studded with almonds. His own order was less arresting, being a simple pastry filled with sweet curd cheese.

Liebermann noticed his father's lingering gaze.

'You should have ordered one too.'

Mendel shook his head: 'Pintsch told me I must lose weight.'

'Well, you won't lose weight eating Topfenstrudel.'

Mendel shrugged and took a mouthful of pastry but stopped chewing when a loud thunderclap shook the building. 'It's going to be a bad one,' said Mendel, nodding towards the window. Outside, Vienna had succumbed to a preternatural twilight.

'Maxim,' Mendel continued, 'I wanted to see you today for a reason. A specific reason.'

At last, thought Liebermann. Finally, he was about to discover the true purpose of their meeting. Liebermann braced himself mentally, still unsure of what to expect.

'You probably think it's nothing to do with me,' Mendel added. 'But—' He stopped abruptly and pushed the severed corner of his Topfenstrudel around the plate with his fork.

'What is it, father?'

'I was speaking to Herr Weiss the other day and . . .' Again his sentence tailed off. 'Maxim.' This time he returned to his task with greater determination. 'You and Clara seem to be getting along well enough and – understandably, I think – Herr Weiss is anxious to know of your intentions.'

'My intentions?'

'Yes,' said Mendel, looking at his son. 'Your intentions.' He carried on eating his cake.

'I see,' said Liebermann, somewhat taken aback. Although he had considered many subjects that his father might wish to discuss, his relationship with Clara Weiss had not been one of them. Yet now the omission seemed obvious.

'Well,' replied Liebermann. 'What can I say? I like Clara very much.'

Mendel wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned forwards.

'And?'

'And . . .' Liebermann looked into his father's censorious eyes. 'And . . . I suppose that my intention is, in the fullness of time to—' (Now it was his turn to hesitate.)

'Yes?'

'To marry her. That is – if she'll have me.'

Mendel relaxed back in his chair. He was clearly relieved and a broad smile lifted his grave features.

'Of course she'll marry you. Why shouldn't she?'

'Sometimes we seem to be . . . well, just good friends.' In all areas of life, Liebermann was entirely confident of his powers of perception; however, where Clara was concerned, he was never entirely sure if her affectionate gestures were tokens of love or merely of flirtation. Desire had blunted his clinical acumen. 'It isn't always clear what—'

'You have nothing to worry about,' Mendel interrupted, inclining his hand in a courtly gesture. 'Believe me.' He leaned forward again, and squeezed his son's arm: 'Nothing to worry about at all. Now eat your Rehrücken!'

But Liebermann had no desire to eat. Clara had obviously told her father that she would accept a proposal of marriage. He had nothing to worry about. Liebermann thought of her delicate features: her expressive eyes, small nose, and rose-petal lips – her straight back and slender waist. She was going to be his wife. She was going to be his Clara.

'I won't tell your mother,' continued Mendel. 'I'll leave that to you. She'll be delighted, of course. Delighted. As you know, she's very fond of Clara. In fact, she was saying only the other day how pretty Clara's become. And they're a good family, the Weisses. Good people. Jacob and I go back many, many years. We went to the same school, you know, in Leopoldstadt. And his father helped my father – that's your grandfather – into the trade. They shared a market stall together.'

Liebermann had been told this more times than he cared to remember. Even so, he knew that his father took immense pleasure in reiterating family history, and simulated interest as well as he could. Mendel warmed to his theme, and continued to expound upon the several other links that existed between the Weiss and Liebermann families. The Rehrücken helped Liebermann to survive the repetition. Eventually, when Mendel had exhausted the topic, he attracted Bruno's attention and ordered more coffee and cigars.

'You know, Maxim,' said Mendel, 'with marriage comes much responsibility.'

'Of course.'

'You have to think about the future.'

'Clearly.'

'Now tell me, will you really be able to provide for a young family on that salary of yours?'

Liebermann smiled at his father. It was extraordinary how Mendel never missed an opportunity.

'Yes,' Liebermann replied patiently. 'In due course, I think I will.'

Mendel shrugged.

'We'll see . . .'

The old man managed to sustain his stern expression for a few seconds longer before allowing himself a burst of laughter. Again, he reached over the table, and patted his son on the shoulder.

'Congratulations, my boy.'

The gesture was curiously affecting, and Liebermann recognised that – in spite of their differences – the relationship they shared was predicated on love. His throat felt tight and his eyes prickled. The bustle of the café faded as the two men stared at each other, suspended in a rare and vivid moment of mutual understanding.

'Excuse me,' said Mendel, rising precipitately and setting off towards the cloakroom. But the old man had been too slow. Liebermann had already observed a tear in his eye.

Liebermann watched his father disappear into the bustling Ringstrasse crowd. A gust of wind reminded him that – unlike Mendel – he was not carrying an umbrella. Fortunately, a cab was waiting just outside The Imperial. There was another rumble of thunder – the growl of a discontented minor god. It made the cab horse toss its head, jangle its bridle, and stroke the cobbles with a nervous hoof.

'Easy now,' called out the driver – his voice barely audible above the rattling of the carriages. Across the road a loose café awning snapped like a sail.

Liebermann looked up at the livid millstone sky. Ragged tatters of cloud blew above the pediment of The Imperial like the petticoats of a ravished angel. The air smelled strange – an odd, metallic smell.

Liebermann raised his hand to catch the cab driver's attention but was distracted by a familiar voice.

'Max!'

Turning, he caught sight of a sturdy man approaching. His coat was undone and flapping around his body as he walked into the wind – a precautionary hand kept his hat from flying off his head. Liebermann immediately recognised his good friend Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt, and smiled broadly.

'Oskar!'

The two men shook hands.

'Max, you will think this a dreadful impertinence, I know,' said Rheinhardt, pausing to recover his breath. 'But would you mind awfully if I took your cab?'

The Inspector possessed a face that suggested weariness. The skin under his eyes sagged into discoloured catenated pouches. Yet he had grown a miraculously trim moustache, the turned-up extremities of which tapered to form two sharp points.

'An incident?' asked Liebermann.

'Indeed,' said Rheinhardt, puffing. 'A matter of some urgency, in fact.'

'Then please be my guest.'

'Thank you, my friend. I am much indebted.'

Rheinhardt opened the door of the cab and as he climbed up, called out to the driver: 'The market square – Leopoldstadt.' The driver responded by touching his forelock with a gloved finger. Before closing the cab door, Rheinhardt addressed Liebermann again: 'Oh, and by the way, the Hugo Wolf songs are coming along nicely.'

'Until Saturday, then?'

'Until Saturday.'

With that, Rheinhardt pulled the door shut and the cab edged out into the noisy traffic.

A sheet of white lightning transformed the Ringstrasse into a glaring monochrome vision. Moments later a great ripping sound opened the heavens, and the first heavy drops of rain detonated on the paving stones.

Liebermann looked around for another cab – knowing already that the attempt would be futile. He sighed, good-naturedly cursed Rheinhardt, and stomped towards the nearest tram stop.

2

RHEINHARDT PRESSED HIS shoulder against the locked door and pushed. It didn't budge.

A blast of wind rattled the windows and unholy-sounding voices wailed in the chimney flues. A shutter was banging – again and again – like an impatient revenant demanding entry, and all around was the inescapable sound of rain: a relentless artillery. Teeming, drenching, torrential. Drumming on the roof, splashing from the gutters and gurgling out of drains. The deluge had finally come.

Rheinhardt sighed, turned, and looked directly at the young woman sitting in the dingy hallway. She was slight, wore an apron over a plain dress, and was very nervous. Her fingers fidgeted on her lap, a mannerism that reminded him of his daughter Mitzi. The young woman stood up as Rheinhardt approached.

'Please,' said Rheinhardt, 'stay seated if you wish.'

She shook her head. 'Thank you very much, sir, but I think I'd rather stand.' Her voice shook a little.

'I'd like to ask you a few questions, if I may?'

She mouthed the words 'Yes, Sir' – but no sound escaped.

Having determined the girl's name – Rosa Sucher – Rheinhardt asked: 'What time did you arrive today?'

'My usual time, sir. Nine o' clock.'

'And is Fräulein Löwenstein usually up by then?'

'Usually, but not always. As you can see – the bedroom door is open.' Rheinhardt responded politely by looking across the hallway. The corner of a drab counterpane was just visible. 'The bed had not been slept in, so I—' She broke off, her face suddenly flushing with embarrassment.

'Naturally you assumed that your mistress had not spent the night at home.'

'Yes. That's right, sir.'

'And what did you do then?'

'Well, sir, I got on with my duties . . . but I found that I couldn't get into the sitting room. The door had been locked – and I didn't know what to do. So I carried on cleaning, thinking my mistress would eventually return . . . but she didn't. And today is Thursday. My mistress always sends me to the shops on Thursdays, to get things. Things for her guests. Pastries, flowers—'

'Guests?'

'Yes, sir. Fräulein Löwenstein is a famous medium.' The young woman said this with some pride. 'She has a meeting here, every Thursday at eight.'

Rheinhardt felt obliged to look impressed.

'Famous, you say?'

'Yes. Very famous. She was once consulted by a Russian prince who travelled all the way from St Petersburg.'

The downpour intensified and the unfastened shutter banged with even greater violence. Rosa Sucher looked towards the sitting-room door.

'Please, do go on,' said Rheinhardt.

'I waited until the afternoon – and still my mistress hadn't come home. I began to worry . . . finally I went to Café Zilbergeld.'

'On Haidgasse?'

'Yes. I know Herr Zilbergeld, I worked for him last summer. I told him that my mistress had not returned, and he asked me if this had ever happened before? I told him that it hadn't, and he said that I should call the police. So I ran around the corner, to the police station on Grosse Sperlgasse.'

The young woman pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. She was clearly about to start crying.

'Thank you, Rosa,' said Rheinhardt. 'You have been very helpful.'

The young woman curtsied and sat down, steadying herself by touching a small rosewood table.

Rheinhardt walked up the hallway, peering into the various rooms. The apartment was not very large: a bedroom, a drawing room, a bathroom and a kitchen – which also housed the closet. The maid watched him: a large man in a dark blue coat, apparently deep in thought. He paused, and twisted the right horn of his moustache into an even sharper point. Returning to the locked door, he crouched and looked through the keyhole.

He could see nothing. It had obviously been locked from the inside, suggesting that the room was still occupied. The occupant, however, had not moved, nor spoken a word since Rosa Sucher's arrival in the morning.

Rheinhardt could hear his assistant, Haussmann, and the constable from the Grosse Sperlgasse police station running up the stairs. Within seconds they appeared at the end of the hallway.

'Well?' Rheinhardt asked, slowly straightening up. He was a stout man, and pressed the palms of his hands down on his thighs to gain extra lift.

The two men marched towards him, leaving a trail of wet footprints in their wake.

'All the shutters are bolted,' said Haussman, 'except for one. It's difficult to see the window in the rain . . . but I think it's closed. The sitting room is completely inaccessible from outside.'

'Even with a ladder?'

'Well, a very long ladder would do it, sir.'

The two young men came to an abrupt halt in front of Rheinhardt. Even though they were thoroughly soaked, their expressions suggested a kind of canine enthusiasm – the controlled agitation of a retriever as a stick is about to be thrown. Beyond them, the pathetic figure of Rosa Sucher sat biting her nails.

'Constable,' said Rheinhardt, 'would you escort Fräulein Sucher downstairs?'

'Downstairs, sir?'

'Yes, to the foyer. I'll follow shortly.'

'Very good, sir,' said the constable, turning swiftly on his heels.

Rheinhardt clapped a restraining hand on the officer's shoulder before he could spring forward. 'Gently now,' said Rheinhardt close to his ear. 'The young woman is upset.'

Rheinhardt released his grip, allowing the constable to approach Rosa Sucher. He did so with the exaggerated slowness of an undertaker. Rheinhardt rolled his eyes at the ceiling, and turned to face Haussmann.

'I don't think we should waste any more time. It's a strong old door but we should be able to do it.' Haussmann removed his sopping cap and twisted it in his hands. Rainwater dripped to the floor, creating a small puddle between his feet. When he had finished wringing the cap he placed it back on his head.

'You'll catch a cold,' said Rheinhardt. Haussmann looked at his superior, unsure how to react. 'Why don't you take it off?'

Haussmann obediently removed his cap and stuffed it into his coat pocket.

They positioned themselves on the opposite side of the hallway.

'Ready?' asked Rheinhardt.

'Yes, sir.'

Running towards the door, they threw their shoulders against it. There was a dull thud, and the sound of air being forced from their lungs. Haussmann stepped back, grimaced, and rubbed his shoulder.

'That hurt.'

'You'll live,' said Rheinhardt. At the end of the hallway, the constable was holding the front door open for Rosa Sucher. For a brief moment she looked back before hurrying out, ducking beneath the policeman's arm.

'Now, let's try again,' said Rheinhardt.

They returned to their former positions and repeated the procedure. This time, however, when their shoulders made contact, the frame split and the door burst open with a loud crack. The two men struggled to keep their balance as they fell forward into the room beyond.

It took a few seconds for Rheinhardt's eyes to adjust. The curtains were drawn and the light was poor. Even so, the unpleasant smell was enough to confirm his worst fears.

'God in heaven . . .' The timbre of Haussmann's voice suggested a combination of reverence and horror.

The room was large, with a high bas-relief ceiling of garlands and floating cherubs; however, Rheinhardt's attention was drawn to a massive circular table, around which ten sturdy chairs were evenly spaced. In the middle of the table stood a gaudy silver candelabra. The candles had burned down, and long wax icicles hung from excessively elaborate arms.

Gradually more shapes began to emerge from the gloom, one of which was a chaise longue located on the other side of the room. The couch was not empty but was occupied by a shadowy form that swiftly resolved itself into a reclining female figure.

'Haussman,' said Rheinhardt. 'The curtains, please.'

His assistant did not respond but stood very still, staring.

Rheinhardt raised his voice: 'Haussman?'

'Sir?'

'The curtains, please,' he repeated.

'Yes, sir.'

Haussman walked around the table, keeping his gaze fixed on the body. He pulled one of the curtains aside, which filled the room with a weak light. As he reached for the second curtain Rheinhardt called out: 'No, that's enough.' It seemed improper, or disrespectful, to expose the body further.

Rheinhardt advanced, stepping carefully across the threadbare Persian rug, and stopped next to the chaise longue.

The woman was in her late twenties and very pretty. Long blonde tresses fell in ringlets to her slim shoulders. Her dress was of blue silk – its neckline tested the limits of decency – and a double string of pearls rested on an ample alabaster bosom. She might have looked asleep had it not been for the dark stain that had spread from her décolletage and the coagulated blood that had crusted around the jagged hole over her ruined heart.

There was something odd – almost affected – about her posture, like that of an artist's model. One arm lay by her side, while the other was placed neatly behind her head.

'Sir?'

Haussman was pointing at something.

On the table was a sheet of writing paper. Rheinhardt walked over and examined the note. It was written in a florid hand:

God forgive me for what I have done. There is such a thing as forbidden knowledge. He will take me to hell – and there is no hope of redemption.

It appeared that the writer had been jolted, just as the final word was finished. A line of ink traced an arc that left the page just above the bottom right-hand corner. On closer inspection, Rheinhardt also noted that the writer had made a mistake in the final sentence. A word that she'd obviously decided against had been crossed out – before the me in He will take me to hell.

'Suicide,' said Haussmann.

Rheinhardt said nothing in response. Haussmann shrugged and walked around the table to the chaise longue. 'She's very beautiful.'

'Indeed,' said Rheinhardt. 'Strikingly so.'

'Fräulein Löwenstein?'

'Very probably. I suppose we should get Rosa Sucher back up here to identify the body. Though she was so upset – perhaps that's not such a good idea.'

'It might save us some legwork, sir.'

'True. But being a good policeman isn't only about making expedient decisions, Haussman.' His assistant looked slightly hurt, forcing Rheinhardt to amend his reprimand with a conciliatory smile. 'Besides,' Rheinhardt added, 'Fräulein Löwenstein was expecting some guests tonight – perhaps there will be a gentleman among the company who may be willing to assist us.'

Although the room had at first appeared rather grand, closer inspection soon revealed that this was an illusion. The paintwork was chipped, the floorboards scuffed, and a brown stain under one of the windows suggested damp. At one end of the room was an austere marble fireplace, above which an ornate Venetian-style mirror had been hung. Rheinhardt suspected that it was a copy. Recesses on either side of the fireplace contained shelves on which an array of items had been placed: a cheap porcelain figure of a shepherdess, an empty bowl, two vases, and a ceramic hand (displaying the chief lines of the palm). The other end of the room was occupied by a large embroidered screen. The total effect of the room was somewhat depressing, moth-eaten and shabby.

'We're going to need a floor plan for the file – can you do that, Haussmann?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And an inventory of items?'

'Yes, sir.'

Rheinhardt continued to scan the room.

The rain lashed against the windows, running in streams down the casement. Outside, the shutter continued to bang against the wall. Rheinhardt unlocked the offending window, opened it, and peered out. A blast of cold air scoured his face and the curtains billowed inwards. The road had become a river in spate – a rushing, tumbling flood. Peering over the ledge, the Inspector looked downwards. It was a sheer drop.

Rheinhardt fixed the loose shutter and closed the window. He wiped the rain from his face with a handkerchief and examined his reflection, making some minor adjustments to his moustache. His satisfied exhalation fogged the glass.

'Sir?'

The young man's voice was slightly edgy – uncertain. The room trembled as the celestial cannonade continued.

'Yes?'

'You'd better take a look at this.'

Behind the screen was a large lacquered box, decorated with Japanese figures. Rheinhardt tried to lift the lid but discovered that it was locked.

'Shall we force it open?'

'That won't be necessary. You can ask Rosa Sucher where her mistress kept the key.'

'Shall I do that now, sir?'

'No. Not yet, Haussmann. Let's just think a little, eh?'

Haussmann nodded, and assumed what he hoped the Inspector would recognise as a contemplative expression.

Rheinhardt's attention was drawn again to the body. Slowly, he advanced towards the sofa and knelt to inspect the wound. As he did so, he accidentally brushed against the woman's delicate but unyielding fingers. Her frozen touch made him shudder. He instinctively wanted to apologise but managed to stop himself. Rheinhardt used the damp handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose. Close up, the smell of stale urine and the beginnings of decomposition became deeply unpleasant. There was a double flash of lightning, and the crystals of dried blood around the wound glowed like garnets.

'Impossible.' He whispered the word almost unconsciously.

'I'm sorry, sir?'

The thunder roared like a captive giant.

Rheinhardt stood up and looked around the room, unnerved by the evidence of his own senses.

'Sir?' Haussmann sounded anxious.

Rheinhardt walked over to the door and checked that the key was still in the lock. It was – a large black key. He wheeled around. Haussman was staring at him, his head tilted to one side.

'What do you think happened here?' asked Rheinhardt.

Haussman swallowed: 'The Fräulein has committed suicide, sir.'

'Very well. Reconstruct events – tell me how she did it.'

Haussmann looked confused.

'She shot herself, sir.'

'Clearly – but from the beginning.'

'The Fräulein must have come into this room last night – well, that's what I would assume, given the way she's dressed. She locked the door and then sat at this table, where she began to compose a suicide note. She was evidently in a distressed state of mind, and gave up on the task after completing only a few lines.'

'And what do you make of those lines?'

Haussmann took a step towards the table and looked down at the note before continuing: 'They're a confession of some kind. She felt that she had done something wrong and should therefore make reparation by taking her own life.'

'Go on.'

'Then, perhaps after further deliberation – who can say? – the Fräulein sat on the chaise longue, lay back, and shot herself in the heart.'

'I see,' said Rheinhardt. And waited.

Haussmann pursed his lips and walked over to the couch. He looked at the Fräulein's wound, and then followed the line of her arm and hand. Kneeling on the floor, he looked under the couch and then said: 'Sir . . .'

'Quite,' said Rheinhardt. 'There's no weapon.'

'But there must be.'

Haussmann got up and opened a drawer in the table.

'What are you doing?' asked Rheinhardt.

'Looking for the gun.'

'Haussmann,' said Rheinhardt patiently. 'The Fräulein has been shot through the heart. Do you really think that after sustaining such an injury she would have had sufficient time, firstly, to conceal a weapon, and secondly, to recover her position on the chaise longue?'

'She might have fallen back, perhaps?'

Rheinhardt shook his head: 'I don't think so.'

'But the door,' said Haussmann, almost petulantly, pointing to the broken frame. 'It was locked from the inside. The gun must be here somewhere!'

Rheinhardt pulled the remaining curtains aside.

'All of the windows were locked. And anyway, who in their right mind would choose to make an escape from up here?'

Through the streaming rainwater, Rheinhardt saw the blurred image of a solitary cab struggling up the road, its driver hunched up beneath a waterproof cape.

'In which case . . .' Haussmann started enthusiastically, but then smiled sheepishly and let his sentence trail off.

'Yes? What were you going to say?'

His assistant shook his head: 'Nothing, sir, it's ridiculous.'

Rheinhardt frowned at his young companion.

'Very well, sir,' said Haussmann, 'But it's only a thought, you understand?'

'Of course.'

'Fräulein Löwenstein. Her note . . .'

'What about it?'

'Forbidden knowledge?'

Rheinhardt shook his head: 'Haussmann, are you suggesting some kind of supernatural explanation?'

His assistant raised his hands: 'I did say it was only a thought.'

Rheinhardt gave an involuntary shiver. He picked up Fräulein Löwenstein's note.

He will take me to hell – and there is no hope of redemption.

Although Rheinhardt was still tutting and shaking his head, try as he might he could not think of a single alternative to Haussmann's suggestion. As far as Rheinhardt could see, Fräulein Löwenstein had indeed been murdered by someone – or something – that could pass through walls.

3

THE DOOR OPENED

and the hospital porter wheeled in the subject of Professor Wolfgang Gruner's demonstration. She was dressed in a plain white hospital gown and wore no shoes. Her head was bowed, and her long dark hair had fallen in front of her face. The doctors – numbering over fifty and assembled on tiered benches around Professor Gruner – began to murmur.

Liebermann sighed loudly, slouched, and folded his arms.

'Max?'

He looked up at his friend and colleague, Doctor Stefan Kanner.

'What?'

Kanner pulled the cuffs of his shirt down to expose his gold cuff links and then adjusted his bow tie. He was wearing a particularly sweet cologne.

'Don't start, Max.'

'Stefan, I don't think I can watch another one of these.'

He began to rise, but Kanner grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down again.

'Maxim!'

Liebermann shook his head and under his breath declared: 'This is a circus.' The man occupying the bench directly in front of Liebermann glanced back over his shoulder and rebuked him with a scolding stare.

'Enough,' Kanner hissed, digging a pointed elbow into Liebermann's ribs. 'He's probably one of Gruner's friends!'

'Gruner is already acquainted with my views.'

'Indeed, so well acquainted is he that your position here becomes more uncertain day by day.'

The porter parked the rickety wheelchair close to Professor Gruner. Together, they lifted the woman up onto the modest stage where she was carried the short distance to a large wooden throne-like chair. There she was seated and her limbs arranged. The professor then slid a metal plate under the woman's feet. As he was doing this, the porter removed the wheelchair and assumed the stance of a guard by the door.

'Gentlemen,' declared the professor, his resonant voice filling the large room. The thrum of background conversation stopped dead. Outside, the storm had abated and the ferocious drumming of the rain had been replaced by a gentle pitter-patter.

Gruner was a tall, imposing figure, with a long brindled beard and an unruly mass of receding grizzled hair. The expression that he habitually wore was one of mild but constant disgruntlement, to the extent that a permanent vertical crease divided the professor's high forehead.

'Gentlemen,' the professor repeated. 'May I introduce Signora Locatelli?'

The woman stirred, and brushed the hair from her face. Liebermann judged her to be in her mid-twenties, and if she was not beautiful she was certainly striking. Her eyes were dark, and deeply set above sharp features. She surveyed the audience, and then looked towards Gruner, who inclined his head and smiled – but for no more than a fraction of a second.

'The signora,' continued Gruner, 'is the wife of an Italian diplomat. Some three to four months ago, she began to develop symptoms suggestive of a hysterical illness and was subsequently diagnosed by a local physician. She became increasingly infirm, anorexic, and now suffers from an apparent and seemingly total paralysis of both legs. On examination, we find no evidence of traumatic injury or disease.'

Turning towards his subject, Gruner addressed her directly.

'Signora. You cannot walk, is that correct?'

The woman nodded.

'I beg your pardon?' said Gruner. 'I am afraid I did not hear your reply.'

The woman swallowed, and in slightly accented German responded: 'No. I cannot walk.'

'Do you ever experience pain in your legs?'

'I experience nothing. They are . . .' Her face twisted in anguish. 'Dead.'

Gruner addressed the audience again.

'Sadly, at this time, and in Vienna especially, there is a pernicious trend in our profession towards psychological explanations of hysteria.' Gruner's head turned slowly until he was looking directly at Liebermann, who sat perfectly still. Liebermann knew that he was expected to shift uncomfortably and cower. Instead, he proudly held the professor's minatory gaze, and even dared to let the ghost of a smile animate his features. Gruner continued: 'Gentlemen, I would urge you most strongly to question the legitimacy of this approach, and the judgement of all those who endorse it. Hysteria is a medical condition, caused by a constitutional weakness of the nerves. A weakness that can be easily and swiftly corrected by electrotherapy.' Gruner gestured towards the apparatus that stood on the table next to Signora Locatelli.

'Today I will be demonstrating an instrument from the United States of America. My initial impression is that it is superior to those of local manufacture.'

Liebermann was familiar with Gruner's 'instruments', all of which were very similar in appearance. This one, however, was notable on account of its size – being much bigger than the others he had seen to date. Gruner moved to the table and caressed the polished surface of a large teak box. He released two brass hasps and gently lifted the lid, the underside of which was lined with red leather that was embossed in gold lettering:

The Galvanic and Faradic Battery Company of Chicago, Ill. USA.

Inside the box was an arrangement of knobs, rollers and dials. Gruner removed two bright metal rods with wooden handles, which were attached to the assembly by long leads.

'For those interested in the technical specifications of this instrument, it is of standard design. It is powered by six-volt dry batteries which are both safe and easy to maintain. The output voltage can be varied by adjusting a simple metal cylinder that slides over the core of the induction coil.'

Gruner flicked a switch and the room immediately filled with a loud buzzing. He then invited one of the assembly to assist. A middle-aged man rose from his seat.

'Thank you, Herr Doctor,' said Gruner. 'If you would position yourself on the other side of the patient?' The man walked across the bare wooden floor boards, stepped up on to the stage, and stood to attention beside the diplomat's wife.

'Signora Locatelli,' continued Gruner. 'Could I prevail upon you to raise your gown?'

The woman gathered up the material of the skirt of her gown in her hands and, as she did so, the hem began to lift, revealing her slim ankles and calves.

'Signora,' continued Gruner, 'it will be necessary to raise your gown to a level above the knee.' The woman blushed and, gripping more material in her hands, exposed her legs completely. Liebermann turned away and looked disdainfully at his colleagues, most of whom had leaned forward. Sensing his friend's movement, Kanner delivered another elbow jab and nodded towards the demonstration.

Gruner stepped forward and passed the metal rods over Signora Locatelli's legs.

'Do you feel anything?'

'No.'

'Nothing – not even a tickling sensation?'

'No.'

Gruner addressed the audience. 'I will now increase the charge.'

He took both rods in one hand and reached into the box, adjusting the dials and cylinders. The pitch of the buzzing ascended an octave. Gruner then returned to his patient and passed the metal rods over her legs a second time. She did not move, and her gaze remained fixed on some elevated point at the back of the room. Liebermann saw that she was staring at the bust of some long-forgotten medical luminary.

'Signora,' said Gruner. 'You must feel something now. Perhaps pins and needles?'

Without moving her head to make eye contact, the diplomat's wife simply continued staring.

'Signora?' Gruner said tetchily. 'What do you feel?'

'I feel . . .' The woman paused before saying: 'That there is no hope.'

Gruner shook his head: 'Signora, please refrain from obtuse answers. Do you feel any sensations in your legs?'

Still without moving, she said softly: 'No. I feel nothing . . .' And then, after another pause, she added: 'In my legs.'

'Very well,' said Gruner. He passed both rods to his assistant and then plunged his hands into the electrical apparatus. The buzzing became louder: a horrible glissando ascending to a pitch that made Liebermann's ears ache. Gruner then took back the rods.

It was clear that Gruner had increased the charge considerably and the room was tense with expectation. Even Liebermann found himself attending more closely, drawn into the drama by the woman's declaration that there was no hope – a statement that he felt resonated with many meanings.

Gruner extended his arms and then, after the briefest of hesitations, prodded Signora Locatelli's legs. She opened her mouth and let out a cry, not of pain but of anguish. It was not particularly loud, yet it was deeply disturbing to Liebermann. It reminded him of an operatic sob, full of despair and melancholy. At the same time, the woman's right leg moved forward.

'Good,' said Gruner. He applied the rods again.

The woman's legs began to shake.

'Stand up, Signora.'

The shaking became more pronounced.

'Stand up!' Gruner commanded.

Grimacing, Signora Locatelli pressed her hands down hard on the arms of the wooden throne and a moment later she was standing up, her whole body trembling. Gruner stepped back so that every member of the audience could see and appreciate his achievement. He held the metal rods up like trophies.

'Observe, gentlemen. See how the subject stands. If hysteria were a psychological illness, then what you are now witnessing would not be possible.'

To Liebermann, Signora Locatelli's balance looked precarious. Her arms were extended outwards, a little like an acrobat standing on a high wire. She did not appear to be pleased or surprised by her accomplishment. Instead, her features seemed to be contorted by fear and confusion.

'Signora,' said Gruner. 'Perhaps you would care to venture a step or two?'

Her upper body swayed and wobbled above legs that refused to respond. It was as though the patient's feet were fixed to the floor.

'Come now, Signora. Just one step.'

Using all her strength, the diplomat's wife cried out as she forced her left leg forward. But as she did so she finally lost her balance and fell. The assisting doctor caught Signora Locatelli under the arms and lowered her gently onto the chair, where she lay back, breathing heavily, her forehead beaded with sweat.

Gruner placed the rods in the box and switched off his machine. The buzzing stopped, creating a strangely solid silence that was broken only by Signora Locatelli's loud exhalations.

A smattering of applause, which then became more vigorous as others joined in, passed through the audience. The man sitting in front of Liebermann suddenly stood up and cried out: 'Bravo, Herr Professor.'

Liebermann turned towards Kanner, raising his voice above the applause.

'I'm never going to sit through one of these absurd, barbaric and humiliating demonstrations again.'

Kanner leaned towards his friend and spoke directly into his ear.

'You'll be dismissed.'

'So be it.'

Kanner shrugged: 'Well, don't say I didn't warn you.'

4

THE CENTRAL PATHWAY

was flanked by eight muses and ascended to the lower cascade: a giant stone shell, supported by a team of tritons and sea nymphs. The balustrades lining the steps on either side of the fountain were populated by chubby putti, and beyond was the first of the Belvedere's celebrated sphinxes.

'Did the storm frighten you?'

'Max, I'm not a child. Of course it didn't frighten me.'

The ground was still wet, and Liebermann had to guide Clara through an archipelago of puddles. He couldn't help noticing her boots – so small and elegant.

'Although Rachel made a fuss.'

'Did she?'

'Oh yes, she knocked on my door and insisted that I let her in.'

'And did you?'

'Of course I did. I told her that there was nothing to be frightened of – and that the storm would pass. But it didn't seem to do much good. She simply crawled into my bed and pulled the covers over her head.'

'How long did she stay like that?'

'Until it stopped.'

Once they had negotiated the puddles, Liebermann offered Clara his arm, which she took without hesitation. 'What was Rachel frightened of? What did she think was going to happen?'

'I don't know. Perhaps you should analyse her – although it wouldn't do any good. Rachel wouldn't listen to anything you said.'

Liebermann had explained to Clara that psychoanalysis was more about listening than 'telling', but resisted the urge to correct her. 'True. But neither do you!'

Clara broke away, laughing. She turned and, facing Liebermann, started walking backwards.

'Be careful,' said Liebermann. 'You might stumble.'

'No, I won't. It's better this way – I'm enjoying the view.'

Clara was wearing a long coat with a fur collar and a Cossack-style hat. The ensemble emphasised the delicacy of her features. Her little face, peering out from its bed of sable, appeared curiously feral.

Was this the right moment?

Since meeting with Mendel in The Imperial, Liebermann had thought of nothing else but this walk. He had been looking forward to it with fervid impatience. Every intervening second had passed slowly – particularly those spent at Gruner's demonstration – stretching the minutes into refractory hours. For much of the afternoon the storm had threatened to scupper his plan, but now nothing stood in his way. He cleared his throat, ready to speak.

'Do you know what my father said this morning?' asked Clara.

The opportunity vanished as swiftly as it had appeared.

'No. What did he say?'

'He said that we're going to Meran in the summer.'

'Really? For how long?'

'A month or two . . . He thinks it will help Rachel's asthma.'

'I'm sure it will. The Tyrol air is very good for bronchial problems.'

Clara stopped, turned again, and extended her arm, allowing Liebermann to take it as he advanced.

'Have you ever been there, Max?'

'Yes,' Liebermann replied. 'I worked in Meran when I was a student. Let me offer you a piece of very useful advice. Avoid anything that's supposed to have medicinal properties – particularly the whey cure.'

'What's that?'

'A local remedy, much favoured by the good people of Meran. It consists of coagulated milk with white wine, strained from the curd and sweetened with sugar.'

Clara screwed up her face.

'Oh, that sounds utterly disgusting.'

'It is – but the locals swear by it. However, if you're going in the summer you might be all right. I think it's a seasonal delight, served mostly in the spring.'

A cold gust of wind blew in from the east, and they instinctively drew closer together.

'Will I get bored, do you think?'

'A little, perhaps. But there are fairs and market days. And there are so many Viennese there – you're bound to bump into someone you know . . .'

Ahead of them the detail of the baroque palace was becoming clearer. It was an enormous building of white stucco that extended between two octagonal domed pavilions; however, it looked as though a garrison of Turks had pitched a line of green tents on the roof. This was, of course, an architectural conceit, intended to remind onlookers of the great siege.

Clara squeezed Liebermann's arm in the crook of her elbow.

Again, Liebermann wondered whether the moment had arrived. Whether he should stop walking, take Clara in his arms, and ask her to be his wife.

'Herr Donner came today.'

The sound of her voice brought him out of his reverie.

'I'm sorry?'

'Herr Donner, my piano teacher.'

'Of course . . . and what did he teach you?'

'We played a duet by Brahms. A waltz.'

'Which one?'

'I don't know. I've forgotten.'

'Then how does it go?'

Clara attempted to sing the melody, but quickly lost her way in a succession of chaotic key changes. 'No,' she said. 'It didn't go like that at all.' She tried again, this time managing to hum a lilting tune that sounded more like a lullaby.

'I know that. It's one of the Opus 39 waltzes. Number fifteen, I think. Perhaps we should try it when we get back?'

'Oh good heavens, no. It's too difficult . . . I need more practice.'

Clara continued describing her day: a trip to Blomberg's with her mother; the purchase of curtains for the sitting room; the shortcomings of the new maid. Liebermann had little interest in the Weisses' domestic arrangements, yet he derived enormous pleasure from listening to the familiar cadences of Clara's speech and her musical laughter. And most of all he enjoyed being close to her, feeling the warmth of her body and inhaling the subtle fragrance of her perfume.

There was something hypnotic about their slow ascent, the pleasing regularity of their step, accompanied by the satisfying scrunch of damp gravel underfoot. Indeed, it seemed that this gentle rhythm had assisted their transition between worlds. They had passed into a kind of waking sleep and had entered the landscape of a dream.

Liebermann looked over his shoulder. They were totally alone in the gardens, having no other company except for the sphinxes. The inclement weather had obviously deterred other visitors. After ascending the final incline, they paused to enjoy the view.

At the foot of the slope, beyond the sunken hedge gardens, fountains and statuary, was the relatively modest lower palace. Further out, the spires, domes and mansions of the city dispersed and dissolved into an elevated horizon of blue hills. A subtle mist softened the panorama and intensified an opaque silence. The proud capital looked spectral – even oddly transparent.

'It's beautiful, isn't it?' said Clara.

'Yes,' said Liebermann. 'Very beautiful.'

He knew, at last, that the moment had arrived. He had been rehearsing lines in his head all day: poetic set pieces of increasing power that culminated in dramatic declarations of love. But suddenly all these words seemed redundant. Forged endearments. Corpulent language, bloated with insincere affectation.

'Clara.' He spoke the words quietly and clearly: 'I love you very much. Will you marry me?'

Taking her small gloved hand in his, he raised it to his lips.

'Please say yes.'

Clara's expression trembled with uncertainty, oscillating between emotions. Then, finally, she produced a hushed and breathless response – a mere whisper: 'Yes, Maxim. I'll marry you.'

Liebermann gently raised her chin and tested her lips with the briefest of kisses. She closed her eyes and he embraced her, pulling her suddenly limp body close to his.

When they drew apart, she was smiling. But her eyes had become glassy. She sniffed, and the first of many tears spilled down her glowing face.

Liebermann had never seen her cry before, and his eyes narrowed with concern.

'It's all right,' said Clara. 'Really. I'm just so happy.'

5

KARL UBERHORST LOOKED up at the Inspector through the oval lenses of his silver pince-nez. He was a small man with short brown hair and a thick moustache combed down to cover his upper lip. Rheinhardt had noticed that it was the habit of most small men to counter their diminutive stature by standing erect. This was not the case with Uberhorst, who allowed his shoulders to slope, his spine to curve, and his head to project forward. There was something about his appearance that reminded Rheinhardt, in some vague way, of a tortoise. Uberhorst was probably in his thirties, yet his stoop and his conservative dress made him look much older.

Uberhorst was the second 'guest' to arrive. The first had been a young woman called Natalie Heck: an attractive girl, with large dark eyes. She was now sitting on the chair by the rosewood table – the one previously occupied by Rosa Sucher.

'The others will be here shortly,' said Uberhorst. 'They're usually very punctual.'

It was obvious that the little man was reluctant to view the body, but Rheinhardt could not justify a further delay. Looking towards Haussmann he said: 'Perhaps you should take Fräulein Heck into the drawing room?'

The young woman rose and adjusted her shawl – which had been beautifully embroidered. It looked, thought Rheinhardt, to be a more expensive item of clothing than a girl with her accent should have been able to afford. Her lustrous black hair had been arranged so as to reveal only one ear, from which a large glass earring dangled. She looked like a little gypsy.

'She's not in there – is she?' said the girl, pointing towards the drawing-room door, her voice quivering.

'No,' said Rheinhardt. 'The body is in the sitting room. Herr Uberhorst will make the identification.'

The woman sighed with relief.

Haussmann guided Fräulein Heck towards the drawing room and Rheinhardt observed – with some satisfaction – that his assistant had already taken out his notebook. He could be trusted to undertake the preliminary interview.

'This way, please,' said Rheinhardt to Uberhorst.

The light in the sitting room was no better than when the storm had been raging. It emanated from a single paraffin lamp that had been placed on the massive circular table. As they entered, the police photographer crouched next to his tripod and pulled a large black cloth over his head. The apprentice, a gangly, doleful-looking adolescent, struck a match and a moment later a strip of magnesium ribbon flared. Suddenly the body was illuminated by a harsh, petrifying light. Its cruel brilliance made the blue dress and bloodstains burn with a terrible intensity.

'Well?' asked Rheinhardt.

'Yes,' said Uberhorst. 'That is Fräulein Löwenstein.'

'Fräulein Charlotte Löwenstein?'

'Yes.'

'Thank you.'

The already fetid air thickened with smoke and chemical fumes from the burning metal ribbon.

Rheinhardt touched the little man's arm. He seemed mesmerised by the hellish vision.

'Herr Uberhorst?'

He shook his head and allowed the Inspector to guide him, like a sleepy child, through the broken door frame.

Once in the hallway, Uberhorst rushed towards the chair by the rosewood table. He collapsed on to it, placing his head in his hands. Within moments his whole body was convulsing. Rheinhardt waited patiently until the sobbing had begun to subside.

Uberhorst sat up, took a deep breath, and removed his pince-nez. Taking a neatly pressed handkerchief from his pocket, he unfolded it, dabbed at his eyes and finally blew his nose loudly.

'I'm sorry, Inspector.'

'I understand,' said Rheinhardt.

'I'm a locksmsith. I've never—' His sentence was interrupted by another sob. Uberhorst stuffed the soggy handkerchief back into his pocket and began to rock, ever so slightly, backwards and forwards. After some time, he said, 'I can't believe it,' and after another long pause he asked, 'What happened?'

'We don't know yet,' said Rheinhardt.

Uberhorst sniffed, and shook his head.

'It's unbelievable. Unbelievable . . .'

'Herr Uberhorst, who else is expected this evening?'

'The regular members of the circle.'

Rheinhardt produced a notebook and waited, his pencil poised.

Uberhorst suddenly realised that the Inspector had anticipated a more comprehensive answer.

'Oh, I see. You want names. We are also expecting Otto Braun, Heinrich Hölderlin and his wife Juno. Hans Bruckmüller . . . and the Count.'

'The Count?'

'Zoltán Záborszky – he's from Hungary.'

Another magnesium ribbon flared, spilling its merciless mineral light into the hallway.

'Herr Uberhorst, how long have you been attending Fräulein Löwenstein's meetings?'

'For about four months.'

'And how did you come to join her circle?'

'By chance. I met her one day on the Prater and she invited me.'

A constable appeared from behind the front door.

'Two more gentlemen, sir.'

'Let them through.'

The door opened fully, revealing a somewhat overweight man in a camel-hair coat. He removed his bowler hat and walked briskly down the hallway. His moustache was similar to Rheinhardt's, turned up at the ends – but perhaps less finely groomed. He was followed by another man, whose flamboyant but shabby dress gave him the appearance of a down-at-heel impresario.

The first man stopped beside Uberhorst.

'Karl? Is it true? Lotte?'

His voice was a rich bass – deep and resonant.

Uberhorst nodded and whined: 'Yes. It's true. She's dead.'

'My God!' the big man boomed. Then, looking towards Rheinhardt, he added: 'I beg your pardon . . . Inspector?'

'Rheinhardt.'

'Inspector Rheinhardt. My name is Bruckmüller. Hans Bruckmüller.' He removed a calfskin glove and extended his hand. Rheinhardt was surprised by the strength of his grip. 'The young constables downstairs said –' Bruckmüller made an unsuccessful attempt at lowering his voice, '– that Fräulein Löwenstein has been shot?'

'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'She has.'

'When? When did it happen?'

'Some time late last night, or in the early hours of the morning.'

'Extraordinary.'

Bruckmüller began walking down the hall.

'Herr Bruckmüller!' Uberhorst called out. The cry was loud and distraught.

Bruckmüller stopped and looked back

'Don't go in there,' said Uberhorst. 'It's terrible. The stuff of nightmares.'

Bruckmüller caught Rheinhardt's eye.

'I see,' said Bruckmüller. Then gesturing to the door he added. 'If it would help, Inspector . . . I would be willing to—'

'No,' said Rheinhardt. 'That won't be necessary. The body has already been identified.'

Bruckmüller walked over to Uberhorst and rested a fat hand on the little man's shoulder.

'Good fellow,' he said, and squeezed.

Uberhorst winced.

Rheinhardt turned towards the other man, the 'impresario', who had positioned himself by the bedroom door. He wore a moth-eaten fur coat over a tired pongee suit, his necktie was made of red silk, and a monocle – attached to a length of black ribbon – dangled from his waistcoat. In his hand he carried a walking cane. His features were broad, suggesting a trickle of Mongolian blood in his veins. This general impression of foreignness was exaggerated by an oriental moustache, which hung down to his chin, and a small goatee beard. He did not react but stood stock-still, impassively accepting Rheinhardt's scrutiny.

'Forgive me, Inspector' said Bruckmüller, his stentorian declaration filling the hallway. 'May I introduce Count Zoltán Záborszky?' Then, feeling that further explanation was necessary, he added: 'We arrived at the same time – outside.' It was as though Bruckmüller wanted to clarify the nature of their relationship by stressing that they had not come together. They were companions by coincidence rather than choice.

The Count inclined his head slightly and raised his cane, the top of which was a small gold likeness of a jaguar's head baring its teeth. He moved forward – an unhurried, swaying swagger.

'The body is in the sitting room?' His German had a distinctive Magyar accent.

'Yes,' replied Rheinhardt.

'I must see it.'

It was clear that the Count had no intention of asking Rheinhardt for permission. He simply sashayed towards the sitting-room door, barely acknowledging the Inspector's presence. Although tempted to assert his authority, Rheinhardt was also curious to see how this odd man would react and followed in his scented wake – the fragrance was like stale pot-pourri.

The Count stepped through the broken door frame and positioned himself by the large circular table. He peered through the gloom, which was immediately dispersed by another magnesium flash. Fräulein Löwenstein's corpse leapt out of the darkness.

The Count's nostrils flared.

'Evil,' he whispered softly. 'I smell evil.' His face was entirely without emotion – an inscrutable blankness. Taking a small ivory crucifix from his waistcoat pocket, he kissed the figure of Christ and placed it on the table. 'God protect us,' he whispered.

His eyes flicked from side to side, as though trying to locate a concealed demon.

6

THE PUBLIC HOUSE – a gloomy cellar, illuminated by flickering gas lights and the red glow from a squat cast-iron stove – was situated in the working-class suburb of Meidling. A beggar sat in the corner, scraping tunelessly at his violin, while three old men, seated at a central table, argued loudly. The atmosphere was dense with pipe smoke. At the bar a woman with yellow skin was picking at a plate of sliced cucumber and chewing on a black rusk.

Otto Braun emptied the last drops of vodka into his glass and ran a hand through his hair. It was long and kept on falling into his eyes.

One of the old men called out: 'Gergo! Gergo, where the hell are you?'

Braun tilted his head back and swallowed. The alcohol was finally beginning to work, making him feel pleasantly detached.

Beyond the bar, two boots (with red trim) appeared on the staircase, followed by a heavily built Ruthenian who called out: 'All right, all right . . .' He was wearing loose trousers and a greasy satin waistcoat.

'Well, well.' The voice floated into Braun's consciousness. 'Haven't seen you here before.'

Braun looked up. The woman from the bar was standing by his table.

'I've been watching you,' she said, taking the seat next to him.

'Have you?'

'Oh yes. And I've been thinking, there's a man who could do with some company.'

Before Braun could answer, the woman had caught the landlord's arm. 'Gergo?'

'What?'

She held up the empty vodka bottle.

'The gentleman's finished.'

The landlord looked from the bottle to Braun.

'You want another?'

Braun looked at the woman and inspected her features. Although her skin was sallow, her eyes had retained a suggestion of former beauty.

'Yes,' said Braun. 'Why not?'

The woman smiled, and a network of creases tessellated her face.

Perhaps Braun had overreacted. It was inevitable that the police would be involved. Crossing the deserted square, he had seen the two officers outside the main entrance to Lotte's apartment building: constables, in long blue coats and spiked helmets – and armed with sabres. He had hidden himself behind an abandoned market stall in order to observe what was happening. Herr Bruckmüller and the Count had arrived at the same time, and after some questioning had been allowed in. Not long after, Hölderlin and his irritating wife had arrived. Braun had acted instinctively, turning away without thought and keeping close to the wall as he crept back the way he had come. He had responded like an animal. It was probably the wrong thing to do but it would give him an extra day or two – and sometimes an extra day or two made all the difference.

The landlord returned with another bottle of vodka and banged it down in the middle of the table.

'So,' said the woman. 'What's your name, then?'

'Felix,' said Otto.

'Mine's Lili.'

Otto lifted the bottle and tilted the neck over his glass. He had tipped it too steeply, and the clear liquid began to splash out, over the rim and onto the deeply scored table top.

'Hey, hey,' said Lili, straightening his hand. 'Take it easy, Felix.'

She guided the bottle back to its upright position, letting her hand linger on Otto's. One of the old men was shouting something about the battle of Solferino, and the fiddler suddenly burst into a discordant but recognisable gypsy folk melody. Otto picked up the glass and poured the contents down his throat. The cheap vodka was rough and excoriating.

An image entered his mind, uninvited and vivid.

Lotte.

Her blonde hair – like spun gold in the candlelight. Her green eyes incandescent with rage.

He shouldn't have asked her for more money and he certainly shouldn't have hit her. But the argument had escalated. And suddenly there she was, framed in the doorway, brandishing a kitchen knife. Otto shook his head, and made a gesture – as though trying to push the memory out of his mind.

'What's the matter?' said Lili.

'Nothing,' Otto replied. He turned to look at the violinist who, except for a pair of cloudy white irises, was almost invisible in his shadowy recess. The vagrant was sawing his bow with a crude violence. The sound he created was diabolical – as were his mephitic exhalations.

Lili poured another drink and, without looking to Otto for approval, drained the glass herself. She then caressed the arm of his jacket.

'Very nice,' she said. 'Velvet. And so well cut.'

She leaned back and looked at Otto more carefully, inspecting his clothes and estimating their value. Although somewhat dishevelled, he was a handsome young man. His long dark hair and the squareness of his jaw gave him the look of a Romantic poet.

'So what do you do, eh?'

Otto didn't reply.

'An artist?'

He pushed his fringe back, plastering the hair over his crown with the sweat from his forehead.

'Of a kind.'

'How d'you mean?'

Otto took Lili's hand and deftly removed a paste ring from one of her fingers.

'Oi!'

'Quiet,' said Otto. 'Watch.'

He then presented Lili with two closed fists.

'Which hand is it in?'

Lili smiled and touched his left. Otto showed her that it was empty. She then touched his right – which also proved empty.

'Very clever! I'll have it back now!'

Otto pointed at the vodka bottle.

Lili leaned forward, and said softly: 'Well, I never . . .' Her ring was inside – where it had apparently floated to the bottom.

'Now we'll have to drink the whole lot to get it out,' said Otto.

Lili laughed loudly – like a rattle. She edged closer, and as she did so Otto felt her hand slide across his thigh.

'Show me another one,' said Lili. 'Go on.'

'All right,' said Otto. He took the last three coins from his pocket and laid them out in a row. 'I want you to watch very, very carefully . . .'

7

THE MORGUE WAS cavernous and cold. A large electric light suspended at the end of a long cord hung several feet above the body. Its wide conical shade created a pool of illumination beyond which it was difficult to see anything but shadow.

Professor Mathias peeled back one of the mortuary sheets and examined Fräulein Löwenstein's face. Her skin was without blemish and under the close light her hair shone brighter than ever. Although her lips were no longer red but a curious blue, she was still very beautiful. Indeed, the strange colouring of her lips seemed to add a further dimension to her unnatural perfection. She looked, to Rheinhardt, like an exotic doll.

'Forgive me,' said Mathias. 'What did you say her name was?'

'Does it matter, Herr Professor?'

Mathias looked over his glasses

'Of course it matters, Inspector.'

Rheinhardt shrugged.

'Her name was Charlotte Löwenstein.'

Mathias looked down at the woman's angelic face and repositioned a spiral of her hair. Then, after a few moments' silence, he rested his knuckles against her cheek and began to intone: 'Lotte! Lotte! Just one more word! Just a word of farewell! Farewell, Lotte! For ever adieu!'

'Goethe,' said Rheinhardt.

'Well done, Inspector. The Sorrows, of course.'

Mathias did not remove his hand. Instead, he stared at the corpse, his face brimming with compassion.

Rheinhardt coughed, somewhat disconcerted by the professor's eccentricities.

'Professor. If we could proceed . . .'

Mathias sniffed in disapproval.

'When you work with the dead, Rheinhardt, you learn to take things slowly.' He continued to gaze at the Fräulein's face, and as he did so he sighed, his breath clouding the air. Mathias turned to look at Rheinhardt, his head descending and rising with almost bovine slowness. His rheumy eyes swam behind thick magnifying lenses. 'Do the dead make you uncomfortable, Rheinhardt?'

'Actually, Professor, they do.'

'Be that as it may,' said Mathias, 'it is my belief that the dead are still deserving of small courtesies.' Saying that, the professor covered Fräulein Löwenstein's face, and under his breath continued to quote from The Sorrows of Young Werther:

'Be of peaceful heart . . .'

Rheinhardt was relieved when Mathias finally snapped out of his abstracted state and began to show signs of industry. The professor rolled up his shirtsleeves, tied his apron, and began to arrange the tools of his trade on a white metal trolley: knives, saws, chisels, small metal mallets, and a drill. The professor was clearly unhappy with the arrangement and began tinkering with the positions of several objects. Rheinhardt could see no obvious reason for these trivial changes, and suspected that Mathias was engaging in some obscure superstitious ritual. After a few minutes of deliberation, the professor nodded, and his expression changed from mild anxiety to satisfaction.

'Let us begin,' he said.

Mathias picked up an oversized pair of scissors and began cutting the corpse's dress. He began in the middle of the décolletage and proceeded down to the waist. When the cut was complete, he tugged gently at the material: dried blood had made it adhere to the corpse's skin. The material came away gradually, revealing Charlotte Löwenstein's naked breasts and torso.

'No corset,' commented Mathias.

He pulled at the sheets, covering the body so that nothing was exposed except the blood-encrusted crater over Fräulein Löwenstein's heart. When one of the dead woman's nipples threatened to reappear, Mathias repositioned the sheet to protect her modesty.

'I beg your pardon,' he said softly.

Rheinhardt was finding Mathias's sympathy for the dead both tiresome and macabre.

The old man probed gently around the wound with the tips of his fingers. As he did so, he started to hum a tune. Rheinhardt listened to the first verse and wondered whether he was being tested again. He found it impossible not to rise to such easy bait.

'Schubert.'

The professor stopped, ending his impromptu recital on a wheezy, unsteady note. The sound called to mind a set of ancient bellows closing.

'Is it? The tune just came into my head. I don't know what it is.'

'It's Schubert.

Das Wandern. . .'

'Ah yes, I remember now. You sing a little, don't you?'

'A little . . .'

'Das Wandern, eh?'

'Without a doubt.'

Mathias began to hum again and continued probing the wound. He then took a magnifying glass from his trolley and lowered his head to get a closer look. The professor suddenly stopped humming mid-phrase, and gasped. After a moment's silence, he said in a dramatic stage whisper, 'Ahh, yes.'

'What is it?' asked Rheinhardt.

'She's been shot,' replied Mathias.

Rheinhardt sighed.

'I thought we had already established that, Professor.'

Mathias shook his head.

'I have always been a great believer, Rheinhardt, in the Roman dictum: festina lente. More haste, less speed.'

'You know,' said Rheinhardt, 'I can't say that surprises me.'

The professor ignored Rheinhardt's pointed remark and continued his leisurely inspection. Closing one eye, the old man altered the focal length of the magnifying glass and nodded. Then, speaking more to himself than to Rheinhardt, he said: 'A direct shot – into the heart, at close range. There are the powder burns and . . . yes, I see some muzzle bruising.'

Rheinhardt's fingers were going numb, and he was beginning to regret seeking Professor Mathias's assistance. Mathias returned the magnifying glass to its special position on the trolley and picked up a medium-sized silver knife. He then made a deep cut in Fräulein Löwenstein's white flesh, which opened with the slow grace of a scallop shell, exposing the pulpy redness within. Rheinhardt had attended many autopsies but he still found them highly disturbing.

'Excuse me, Herr Professor,' Rheinhardt took a step backwards. 'I think I'll leave you to it.'

'As you wish, Inspector,' said Mathias, clearly becoming more absorbed in his task.

Rheinhardt walked around the autopsy table and out into the darkness. Behind him he could hear Mathias sorting through his tools. First he heard some tapping, and then the grating of a saw. Rheinhardt assumed that Mathias was removing a rib. As Mathias worked, he began to hum the Schubert tune again. His performance was slow, and many of the notes were cracked or unsteady. Yet his old voice, and the lingering quality of each phrase, imbued Schubert's joyful walking tune with infinite pathos.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Rheinhardt found that he was standing next to a bank of square metal doors. He knew that most of the chambers behind them were, in all probability, occupied by corpses. The frozen dead.

He turned and looked back at the strange little man who was hunched over Fräulein Löwenstein's body like a goblin or dwarf, something from a fairy tale by the brothers Grimm. Under the bright light, Mathias's breath had condensed in the cold air and collected over the table as a fine, luminous mist. Rheinhardt blew into his cupped fists and rubbed his hands together. The mortuary chill was seeping into the marrow of his bones.

Making his way back to the autopsy table, Rheinhardt stopped to examine Professor Mathias's tools, attempting to ignore a sound that reminded him of the leg being pulled from a roast chicken.

Suddenly the lights went out and the morgue was plunged into total darkness: an expanse of impenetrable pitch.

Professor Mathias was still quietly humming the Schubert song and Rheinhardt, already unnerved by the eerie ambience, was conscious that his heart was beating a little too fast. Count Záborszky's words – like an auditory hallucination – entered his mind: I smell evil.

'Professor?' Rheinhardt called into the void.

The humming stopped.

'Oh, it's all right, Inspector, the light usually comes on again after a few minutes – probably something to do with today's storm. Personally, I think we should have stuck to gas.'

There was a small movement, and the clatter of metal on tiles. Rheinhardt felt something hit his foot.

'Oh dear,' said Mathias. 'I seem to have disturbed one of my instruments.'

There was a loud click, and suddenly the light came on again.

'There we are,' said the professor. 'Told you so.'

Rheinhardt looked down and saw a scalpel on the floor by his foot. He crouched down and picked it up.

'Your scalpel, Professor?'

'Just put it back on the trolley for the moment – not with the others, though. Bottom shelf, in the glass retort.' As he said this, Mathias was removing a large piece of bloody matter from Fräulein Löwenstein's chest. Rheinhardt quickly looked away, bowing his head. To distract himself, he turned the blade idly in his hands and let it flash a few times as it caught the light. Rheinhardt noticed that the scalpel was engraved with a cursive script: Hans Bruckmüller and Co.

'Professor?'

'Yes, what is it?'

'Does the name Hans Bruckmüller mean anything to you?'

'Yes, of course. Bruckmüller's. It's the surgical-instrument shop near the university.'

'Do you know Herr Bruckmüller?'

'No. Why do you ask?'

'He was an acquaintance of Fräulein Löwenstein.'

'Really?' said the professor – although it was clear that he wasn't paying much attention. Rheinhardt placed the scalpel in the glass retort. It rang like a bell.

As Rheinhardt stood behind Mathias, he couldn't help but notice that, in spite of the old man's earlier exhortations concerning haste, he was working much faster now. He was employing different instruments, one after the other, and tutting loudly. Indeed, he was looking increasingly agitated – if not actually annoyed. Rheinhardt thought it best not to interfere and waited patiently.

After several minutes Mathias wiped the blood from a long pair of tweezers and, displaying an uncharacteristic lack of care, tossed them on to the trolley. Rheinhardt was startled. The old man then stared directly at Rheinhardt, saying nothing. His expression was far from friendly.

'Professor?' ventured Rheinhardt.

'What is the meaning of this?' asked Mathias, gesturing towards the corpse.

'I beg your pardon, Professor?'

'Was it Orlov? Or was it Humboldt? Did they put you up to this?'

Rheinhardt raised his hands.

'I'm sorry, Herr Professor, but I haven't a clue what you're talking about.'

Mathias grunted, took off his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. Rheinhardt wondered whether Mathias's eccentricity wasn't, after all, something very close to madness. The old man replaced his spectacles and undid his apron with a decisive tug. He lifted the collar over his head, rolled the apron up, and placed it on the bottom shelf of the trolley. He then began to fidget with his instruments, moving them around as though they were the pieces in a bizarre chess game.

'Professor,' said Rheinhardt. 'I would be most grateful if you would explain yourself.'

Mathias looked up from his instruments. Again, he stared at Rheinhardt, his enlarged eyes swimming behind their lenses. Rheinhardt endured the silence for as long as he could before finally losing his patience.

'Herr Professor, I have had a long and difficult day. I have not eaten since this morning, and I am tired. I would very much like to go home. Now, for the last time, I would be most grateful if you would explain yourself!'

The professor snorted, but a fog of doubt passed across his face, softening his angry pout.

'This isn't a joke?' he said in a neutral voice.

Rheinhardt shook his head.

'No, Professor, this isn't a joke.'

'Very well,' said Mathias warily. 'I will explain my findings, and if you can make any sense of them, you're a better pathologist than I am.' The old man paused before turning to face the corpse. Pointing at the gaping hole in Fräulein Löwenstein's chest, he continued: 'This woman has been shot. Here is the point where the bullet entered her body. The heart has been torn open, as one would expect.' He poked his finger into her chest and lifted a flap of skin. Rheinhardt felt a little sick. 'See here,' said the professor. 'This is where the bullet ripped through the left ventricle. Everything is consistent with a gunshot wound.'

'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'I can see that.'

'But,' said Mathias, 'there is no bullet.'

'I beg your pardon, Herr Professor?'

Mathias said again: 'There is no bullet.'

Rheinhardt nodded.

'It passed through her body?'

'No,' replied Mathias. 'The entry canal has a definite terminus. Nothing came out the other side of her body.'

'Then what are you saying?' asked Rheinhardt. 'That the bullet was . . . removed?'

'No. The bullet has not been removed.'

'You're absolutely sure?'

'Absolutely.'

'Then how can you explain . . .'

Rheinhardt's words trailed off into silence. The electric-light system began to buzz, and the lights blinked out again for a second or two.

'I can't explain this,' said Mathias, flicking the flap of skin back like the lid of a jewellery box. 'Rheinhardt, you have brought me a physical impossibility. That is why it is my belief that I – or perhaps both of us – are the victims of a tedious prank. Goodnight, Inspector.'

Mathias wiped his bloody fingers on a white towel. He then walked towards the door, his metal-tipped shoes sparking on the flagstones as he dragged his heavy heels.

8

HEINRICH AND JUNO HöLDERLIN were seated in the spacious breakfast room of their Hietzing villa. Two housemaids were clearing the plates – and as they did so they exchanged surreptitious, knowing glances: the master and mistress of the household were clearly not very hungry. A slab of gleaming yellow butter had been scraped no more than a few times and the breadbasket was still piled high with freshly baked rolls. The bacon and boiled eggs had hardly been touched.

Hölderlin rang the table bell to summon the steward, who swiftly materialised with the coffee. He was immaculately turned out in white gloves and a brick-red coat with a black velvet collar.

'Thank you, Klaus,' said Juno, as the decorous manservant deposited a large silver pot and tray on the table.

'Cook will be preparing suckling pig and artichokes for supper – and wanted to know whether sir would like pineapple mousse or ice cream to follow.'

Hölderlin looked briefly at his wife.

'The mousse?'

'Yes,' said Juno. 'The mousse.'

The steward bowed, clicked his heels, and marched out of the room, pursued by the heavily burdened housemaids. Hölderlin picked up his copy of the Wiener Zeitung and turned to the financial pages.

'What does it say?' asked Juno nervously.

The polished dome of her husband's pate rose above the newspaper's horizon like the dawn sun.

'About Fräulein Löwenstein?'

Juno nodded, eyelids flickering rapidly.

'Nothing, of course. It's too early.'

Juno poured a cup of coffee for her husband, and then for herself.

'Who would do such a thing? It's such a terrible business,' she said quietly.

'No one would disagree with you there,' said Hölderlin, turning a page.

'I couldn't sleep.'

'Nor me.'

Juno looked around the room and made an impromptu inspection of her house plants. She thought that the aspidistra was looking a little withered, and made a mental note that it should be given extra water. Next to the aspidistra was a framed picture of her beloved sister, Sieglinde.

Sieglinde had died (or, as Juno preferred to say, had 'departed') in the autumn of the previous year after a long and painful illness. The doctors had done little to ease her suffering, and it had been with mixed feelings that Juno had buried her sister in the Zentralfriedhof. Juno had known that she would feel her sister's absence like the loss of a limb – but watching Sieglinde coughing up dark clots of blood and writhing in agony had been intolerable.

Throughout the winter months, even when it had been snowing, Juno had journeyed from Hietzing to the Zentralfriedhof to lay flowers on her sister's grave. Then, one bleak December morning while leaving the cemetery, she had fallen into conversation with another mourner, a handsome young man by the name of Otto Braun. He had explained how, after the loss of his own dear mother, the desolation of his grief had been relieved by a talented medium in Leopoldstadt. Juno begged Heinrich to accompany her. The woman, Fräulein Löwenstein, held meetings every Thursday evening and Juno did not want to venture into Leopoldstadt on her own. After only one sitting, Juno was convinced that the woman was no charlatan. Heinrich had been sceptical at first – but even he was forced to change his mind when his father 'came through'.

Yes, Fräulein Löwenstein had been special.

'Do you think the Inspector will call today?'

'I have no idea.'

'What was his name? I've forgotten it.'

'Rheinhardt – Inspector Rheinhardt.'

'He said that he would, didn't he?'

Hölderlin looked at his wife. The rate of her blinking had increased.

'He said that he would like to interview us again, yes,' said Hölderlin, 'But I don't think he said that it would be today, specifically.' He raised the newspaper. 'Well, that wasn't my impression, anyway.'

'Why does he want to ask us more questions?'

'I don't know.'

'Surely . . . surely he doesn't suspect us. Surely he doesn't think that we—'

'Of course not!' said Hölderlin, raising his voice. 'Don't be so ridiculous! Of course he knows it's got nothing to do with us!' He turned the page angrily.

Juno lifted the coffee cup to her lips but did not drink. 'I do hope so,' she said more calmly. 'He seemed a sensible man.'

'Yes,' Hölderlin replied gruffly. 'Very sensible.'

Juno took a minute sip of coffee. 'The little locksmith,' she said. 'He was so upset. Devastated.'

From behind the paper Hölderlin replied: 'Herr Uberhorst is a very sensitive fellow.'

'Yes, he is,' said Juno. 'I believe he still has one of my books. I lent him my Madame Blavatsky. Perhaps you could get it back from him, my dear – if you're passing?'

'Yes . . . yes.'

'He is a sensitive fellow. But there was more to it, don't you think?'

Hölderlin did not reply.

'The way he used to look at her . . .'

Hölderlin lowered his paper with evident impatience.

'What?'

'Didn't you ever notice?'

'Notice what?' Hölderlin asked irritably.

Juno blinked at her husband.

'The way Herr Uberhorst used to look at Fräulein Löwenstein. The way he would hang on her every word.'

Hölderlin shook his shiny head and continued reading.

'He was like a schoolboy,' Juno continued. 'Mind, he wasn't the only one, of course. She seemed to have, how can one put it, an influence over men. Wouldn't you say? If you ask me, the Count was besotted too – as was that young fellow Braun. There's no denying her gift, of course. She was very talented. Blessed, one might say. Strange, isn't it? That such a – would it be fair to say this, I don't know – that such a vain woman who was so very particular in matters of appearance should possess such a gift. Still, who am I to question the Lord's will? Such a gift is God-given – of that I'm sure.'

When she had finished speaking, the silence was crushing.

'Heinrich?'

Her husband said nothing.

Juno allowed her coffee cup to drop loudly into its saucer.

'Heinrich?' she said again, somewhat louder. 'You're not listening, are you?'

Behind the protective cover of his newspaper, Heinrich Hölderlin was sitting with eyes wide, staring blankly at an advert for Kalodont toothpaste: Indispensable. He had heard every word, and his mouth had gone wholly dry – as though packed with sawdust. Hölderlin swallowed to relieve the uncomfortable sensation, but to no effect.

9

HER HAIR WAS pulled back tightly from her face and the cast of her features, set in a permanent half-frown, suggested habitual seriousness. Although young, there was nothing about her that suggested naivety or insouciance.

Beyond the confines of the examination room, Liebermann could hear a man screaming. He was accustomed to such sounds in the hospital; however, he was concerned that these anguished cries – suggesting the practice of some medieval torture – would upset his new patient.

The woman raised her left hand to stifle a repetitive cough. Her right hand remained conspicuously still – the palm and fingers curled upwards on her lap like the petals of a dying flower.

The screaming stopped.

'If I may,' said Liebermann, 'I would like to examine your arm, Miss Lydgate.'

'Of course.' Her voice was soft, but serrated with a certain huskiness: a consequence, no doubt, of her incessant coughing.

Liebermann rolled up the right sleeve of her gown. Her arm was slender, almost emaciated, and beneath the crêpe-paper transparency of her skin a network of branching veins was clearly visible.

'Could you close your eyes, please? Now, tell me if you feel anything.'

Liebermann tapped the woman's palm, wrist and forearm with his pencil, to none of which was there any response. When he reached a point close to her shoulder, she suddenly flinched, saying: 'Yes, I feel something there.' By continuous tapping in this region, Liebermann was able to establish that the woman's paralysis had begun quite suddenly. It was as though an amulet encircled her upper arm, below which the sensory apparatus was no longer functioning. Such a decisive boundary did not correspond with the underlying continuities of the nervous system. The phenomenon was a physical impossibility and a cardinal symptom of hysteria.

'Thank you, Miss Lydgate, you can open your eyes now. When did you first notice the paralysis?'

'Last week.'

'Had you ever had problems of this kind before?'

'No.'

'Did the paralysis develop suddenly or gradually?'

'Suddenly. When I woke up, I could no longer move my arm.'

'Not even the fingers?'

'No.'

'Is the paralysis continuous, or do you get the feeling back sometimes?'

'It is continuous.'

Liebermann let Miss Lydgate's sleeve down and somewhat pedantically positioned the fringe of her cuff along the crease-lines of her wrist.

'Did the cough begin at the same time?'

'Yes.'

'Did anything significant happen – last week?'

'No. Not really.'

'Do you suffer from any other problems?'

She paused and took a deep breath.

'Amenorrhoea.'

'I see,' said Liebermann, attempting to gloss over her embarrassment with workaday efficiency. 'And when was the last time you menstruated?'

Miss Lydgate's cheeks coloured as though they'd been sprinkled with a pinch of ochre.

'Three months ago.'

'I imagine your appetite hasn't been very good lately.'

'No, that's right. It hasn't.'

Liebermann opened his notebook and began scribbling.

'Your German is remarkably good, Miss Lydgate.'

A smile began to flicker into existence, but failed to ignite: the half-frown quickly reasserted itself.

'Well, it isn't so remarkable. My grandfather was German – and my mother spoke to me in German when I was a child.'

Liebermann turned to a fresh page and proceeded to ask Miss Lydgate several questions about her circumstances. He discovered that she lived with distant relatives: Herr Schelling (a Christian-Social parliamentary minister), Frau Schelling, and their two children Edward and Adele. Herr Schelling had agreed to provide Miss Lydgate with a room and a monthly stipend, contingent upon her performing the duties of a governess; however, in reality her only significant task was to provide Edward and Adele with instruction in written and spoken English.

'How long do you intend to stay in Vienna?' asked Liebermann.

'For some time,' replied Miss Lydgate. 'Years, perhaps.'

'The Schellings have agreed to this?'

'That isn't necessary,' she replied. 'I do not wish to retain my position as the Schellings' governess.'

'No?'

She shook her head, and continued: 'No. I want to study medicine.'

'Here?' asked Liebermann, raising his eyebrows. 'In Vienna?'

'Yes,' replied Miss Lydgate. 'The university department has recently started accepting female students.'

'Indeed,' said Liebermann. 'But why here? Surely, if you wish to study medicine it would be more convenient for you to study in London?'

'I came to Vienna because of Doctor Landsteiner. You see, I am interested . . .' She paused before beginning her sentence again: 'I am interested in blood.'

Her eyes were an unusual colour, neither blue nor grey but something in between: a blend that reminded Liebermann of pewter. They had an arresting depth, enhanced by a subtle darkening at the edges of each iris. She could see that Liebermann required further explanation.

'My grandfather was a physician, and wrote extensively on diseases of the blood. He was also greatly fascinated by the virtuosi of the British Enlightenment – particularly those who had experimented with transfusion. I became interested in the subject after reading my grandfather's journal, which contains a detailed record of his thoughts and observations. By mixing blood samples and examining them under the microscope, he established that blood is not a singular substance but one that can be classified according to type – and he subsequently proposed that incompatibility of bloods was the principal reason why early and subsequent attempts at transfusion have failed. Thus, my grandfather seems to have anticipated Landsteiner's recent discovery by over half a century. I corresponded with Doctor Landsteiner when I was still living in England, and when I arrived in Vienna he invited me to attend some meetings at the Pathological Institute.'

'To discuss your grandfather's work?'

'Yes, and . . .' She paused again before continuing: 'And to review some ideas of my own. Doctor Landsteiner has since promised that if I am accepted by the university I can also work in his laboratory.'

'He must have been very impressed.'

She looked down at her feet, discomfited by Liebermann's compliment.

Liebermann encouraged Miss Lydgate to talk in greater detail about her grandfather and his journal. Although his patient was a little reticent at first, she was soon speaking with considerable fluency and enthusiasm. Doctor Ludwig Buchbinder had moved to England at the request of none other than Prince Albert. He was appointed Physician-in-Ordinary by Queen Victoria, but his duties extended well beyond the practice of medicine. He was the Prince Consort's confidant and played a significant role in the planning and organisation of the Great Exhibition. He was also one of a relatively small group of doctors who championed the use of the stethoscope (an instrument viewed with considerable suspicion by most British physicians on account of its Continental provenance). Although there were considerable demands on his time, Buchbinder still managed to indulge his passion for medical history and in due course came across several accounts of transfusion experiments conducted in the seventeenth century under the aegis of the Royal Society. Buchbinder settled in London – marrying late. He and his wife produced two daughters, the youngest of whom was Greta (Miss Lydgate's mother). In later life Buchbinder continued to speculate on many practical issues, including the analgesic properties of plants. Among his list of candidates was Salix Alba – the white willow tree (a derivative of which had been introduced into medical practice as aspirin by Hoffmann only three years earlier).

'Fascinating,' said Liebermann. 'He sounds like a truly remarkable man.'

'Indeed,' replied Miss Lydgate. 'Doctor Landsteiner believes that my grandfather's journal should be edited for publication.'

'Would you be willing to undertake such a task?'

'When I am better, yes.'

'And what of the rest of your family?'

Miss Lydgate progressed from the topic of her illustrious grandfather to her mother, whom she described with great affection. She then spoke of her father, Samuel Lydgate, a science master and a gentleman with distinctly progressive sympathies. He believed that modern women should have the same opportunities and rights as men, and had treated his daughter accordingly. Miss Lydgate was an only child, and Liebermann wondered whether her upbringing would have been different had Greta Lydgate provided her husband with more than one child on whom to practise his pedagogic theories. Liebermann could see that Miss Lydgate was the beneficiary – or victim – of a singularly taxing education.

The Lydgates lived a few miles north of the capital. Liebermann had visited London many times but had never heard of Highgate. Miss Lydgate's description called to mind a kind of English Grinzing: a village built on a natural eminence, from which at night an observer could enjoy the glittering spectacle of the city lights below.

After Liebermann had gained enough background information he drew a line under his notes and looked up. He was again surprised by the intensity of his patient's expression: the way her pewter eyes glowed beneath her troubled forehead, the tightness with which her hair had been pulled back. Liebermann smiled, inviting her to reciprocate – but Miss Lydgate simply tilted her head to one side (almost as though she was puzzled by his behaviour). Then, unexpectedly, she said: 'Is that a battery, Doctor Liebermann?'

Liebermann turned and looked across the room. In the corner a large wooden box sat on the top shelf of a hospital trolley.

'Yes, it is.'

'Will my course of electrotherapy begin today?'

She spoke these words evenly, without emotion.

'No,' replied Liebermann.

'Tomorrow, then?' She stifled a nervous cough.

'Perhaps.'

'I was told by Professor Gruner that—'

'Miss Lydgate,' Liebermann interrupted. 'For the moment, I think we should just talk.'

'What about?'

Liebermann formed a steeple with his fingers.

'About you. And your symptoms, of course.'

'But what good will that do?'

Before he could answer there was a knock on the door.

Stefan Kanner entered. He glanced briefly at Miss Lydgate and then spoke quietly to Liebermann.

'I'm sorry, Max, but I think you walked off with the keys to the storeroom.'

Liebermann stood up and pulled three bunches of keys from his pocket: his apartment keys, the hospital keys and, finally, the keys to the storeroom.

'Ah yes, how foolish of me.'

Before Kanner could take them, both men were distracted by Miss Lydgate. She had begun to cough with considerable violence – an ugly, rasping bark. Without warning she bent forward and started to retch. The vertebrae of her spine and the sharp edges of her shoulder blades showed clearly through the hospital gown. It looked as if some strange marine creature, with massive gills and a long segmented tail had attached itself to her body – and was in the process of shaking her to death.

Kanner was nearest to the sink, under which stood an old tin pail. He acted swiftly, picking it up and placing it on the floor in front of the woman's chair. As he did so, he laid a comforting hand on her back.

What happened next also happened very quickly but it left a lasting impression on Liebermann.

The young woman's body twisted – as though Kanner had pressed a white-hot branding iron between her shoulder blades. She squirmed at his touch, her spine warping sinuously to escape his fingers.

Miss Lydgate had undergone an extraordinary transformation. The softly spoken Englishwoman had been possessed by something demonic, and her expression had become hateful and venomous. Her bloodshot eyes bulged from their sockets and a thick blue vein had risen on her forehead – a livid weal against the paleness of her skin. She was sneering, scowling, animated by an inhuman anger. Kanner could not move – he stood, watching, in a state of utter shock. But it was not Miss Lydgate's fiendish expression that had caught Liebermann's attention. Something far more significant was happening: her hitherto dead hand had come to life, and was twitching furiously.

10

ABOVE THE HEAD of Commissioner Manfred Brügel hung a huge picture of the Emperor, Franz Josef. It was a portrait that could be found in most homes and in virtually every public building. The imperial patriarch, seemingly eternal, was an inescapable and watchful presence. Like many senior officials, Brügel had chosen to affirm his support for the Habsburgs by growing an exact copy of the monarch's oversized mutton-chop whiskers.

Brügel examined the first of several photographs: Fräulein Löwenstein, reclining on the chaise longue, the bloodstain clearly visible over her heart.

'Pretty girl.'

'Yes, sir,' said Rheinhardt.

'Do you have any idea what happened to the bullet?'

'No, sir.'

'Well, do you have any theories?'

'None as yet, sir.'

'What about Mathias? What does he think?'

'Professor Mathias could not explain his findings.'

Brügel dropped the first photograph and picked up a second: a head-and-shoulders portrait of the victim. She looked like a sleeping Venus.

'Very pretty,' Brügel repeated. After further contemplation of Charlotte Löwenstein's image, the Commissioner raised his blockish head and fixed his subordinate with a sullen stare.

'Do you believe in the supernatural, Rheinhardt?'

The Inspector hesitated.

'Well?'

'I believe,' said Rheinhardt, selecting his words with utmost care, 'we should only consider a supernatural explanation when all other explanations have been eliminated.'

'Indeed . . . but I asked whether or not you believed in the supernatural?'

Rheinhardt changed his position to ease the discomfort of the Commissioner's scrutiny.

'It would be presumptuous to suppose that we have a complete understanding of the world in which we live. I dare say there are many phenomena that have not ceded their secrets to science. But with the greatest respect, sir . . . I'm a policeman, not a philosopher.'

Brügel smiled: an enigmatic half-smile – opaque and saline.

'This business is going to attract a lot of attention, Rheinhardt. You do realise that, don't you?'

'The facts of the case that we have gathered to date are . . . intriguing.'

'Intriguing?' The Commissioner puffed as though the word was goose down and he was trying to dislodge it from his upper lip. 'The facts are not intriguing, Rheinhardt – they are extraordinary! I imagine our friends at the Zeitung will sensationalise every detail. And do you know what that means, Rheinhardt?' The Commissioner's question was rhetorical. 'Expectations!'

Brügel picked up the third photograph: a close-up of the bullet wound. Next to the ragged crater was a metal ruler. The hand of whoever was holding the ruler appeared in the bottom right-hand corner.

'Such cases shape public opinion, Rheinhardt,' continued Brügel. 'Solve a mystery like this and the Viennese security office will be lauded from here to the furthest outposts of His Majesty's Empire.' As he said this, his thumb jerked back at the painting of Franz Josef. 'Fail, and . . .' The Commissioner paused. 'Fail . . . and we run the risk of becoming a laughing stock. I can see the headline now: Leopoldstadt Demon Foils Viennese Detectives. We don't want that, now, do we, Rheinhardt?'

'No, sir.'

Brügel pushed the photographs of Charlotte Löwenstein across the table.

'Keep me informed, Rheinhardt.'

The interview was over.

11

WHILE OSKAR RHEINHARDT turned the pages of his songbook, Liebermann amused himself by improvising a simple chord sequence on the Bösendorfer. On repeating the sequence, he realised that he had unconsciously chosen the basic harmonies of Mendelssohn's bridal march. Looking up at Rheinhardt – the happiest of husbands – he experienced a curious sense of camaraderie. Soon, he too would be joining the fraternity of married men. Liebermann was impatient to share the news of his engagement with Rheinhardt, but recognised that it would be somewhat improper to inform his friend before he had told his own family.

'Oskar? It's your wedding anniversary soon – isn't it?'

'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'Next month.'

'The nineteenth?'

'That's right.'

'Have you bought Else a present yet?''

'I've been having clandestine meetings with Maria, her dressmaker.'

'Ah,' said Liebermann, letting his hands fall on an ominous-sounding chord at the lower end of the keyboard.

'It's a complicated business, dressmaking,' said Rheinhardt. 'More complicated than you'd imagine.'

'I dare say that's true.'

'Maria has been recommending all sorts – you know, materials, patterns . . . said that she could imitate a design she saw in Bertha Fürst's boutique – the fashionable one on Stumpergasse . . . Hope I've done the right thing.'

'Oh, I'm sure you have. What colour did you choose?'

Liebermann began playing a chromatic scale, in thirds, but stopped when he realised that his friend hadn't answered. Raising his head, he saw that Rheinhardt appeared a little uncomfortable. His immaculately groomed moustache was shifting from side to side as his expression changed to reflect increasing degrees of mental exertion.

'What is it, Oskar?' asked Liebermann.

'You know,' replied Rheinhardt. 'I'm not sure what we decided on in the end. There was so much talk – and so many colours. Was it a shade of green? You know, I can't remember.'

Liebermann shrugged.

'Don't try so hard – it'll come to mind soon enough.'

Seeing that his friend had taken little heed of his advice, Liebermann tapped the tower of song books by the music stand and asked: 'Well, what shall we finish with?'

'Nothing else in here . . .' Rheinhardt put the volume he was holding down. 'How about some Schubert?'

'Excellent.'

'Das Wandern?'

Liebermann ran a finger down the scores' spines and pulled Die Schöne Müllerin from the pile. He opened the volume at the first page and, when Rheinhardt was ready, launched into the repetitive figure of the accompaniment. The Bösendorfer was sounding particularly full-bodied, and Liebermann pounded the keys with relish.

Unexpectedly, Rheinhardt held up his hand.

'No, Max.'

Liebermann stopped playing and looked inquisitively at his friend.

'I was wondering,' continued Rheinhardt. 'Could we try it a little slower?'

'Of course.'

Liebermann began again, this time, playing the accompaniment to suggest a gentle amble rather than a brisk march. After a few bars, Rheinhardt opened his mouth and filled the room with his sweet, lyrical baritone.

'Das Wandern ist des Müllers Lust, Das Wandern!'

The walking song – evoking a rural idyll of open roads, babbling brooks, and mill wheels turning.

'Das Wandern! Das Wandern!'

Rheinhardt lingered on every word, savouring the shape of each phrase, and Liebermann responded, labouring the accompaniment. The musical effect suggested effort. A tired walker, sapped of strength, struggling towards his destination. The performance was strangely elegiac. After the last bar, both men were silent, lulled into states of meditative reflection.

'Enchanting,' said Liebermann. 'Not the standard interpretation, of course, but enchanting nevertheless.'

He closed the music book.

'Ah,' said Rheinhardt, as though he had been suddenly startled.

'What?'

'The colour of Else's dress. It was blue! A blue evening dress.'

'There you are,' said Liebermann. 'I told you it would come.'

Liebermann placed Die Schöne Müllerin on top of the book pile, folded the music stand and closed the piano lid. He couldn't resist stroking the shiny surface of the instrument as he stood up.

The music room was large and decorated in a modern style. The chairs were matt black and upholstered with a fabric of Spartan design – red lines on a buff background. The rug, too, had little detail – nothing more than a border of small blue and red squares. Rheinhardt did not share his friend's modern taste. In fact, it mystified him. Rheinhardt felt much more comfortable when Liebermann opened the double doors, revealing the panelled smoking room beyond: leather armchairs, a roaring fire and a table on which the servant had placed a decanter of brandy, crystal glasses and two freshly cut fat cigars.

Rheinhardt lowered himself into the right-hand chair, the one he always chose, and surrendered his awareness to the flames of the fire. He could hear Liebermann pouring the brandy but did not look up until his friend offered him a cigar. When they were both settled, Liebermann was the first to speak.

'Well, Oskar, you are about to tell me of a murder investigation. And if I'm not mistaken, you'll be wanting my help.'

Rheinhardt laughed: 'Is it that obvious?'

'Yes,' said Liebermann. 'The body was discovered on Thursday afternoon and you had to break down a door to enter the apartment. The victim was a young woman in her twenties – and quite attractive. She had lost a considerable amount of blood, which had gushed from a fatal wound, staining her . . . let me think: was it a blue dress?' Liebermann took a sip of brandy and smiled at his friend: 'This is good, try some.'

Rheinhardt responded to Liebermann's invitation and nodded with approval before saying, 'So, how did I give myself away this time?'

'Earlier this evening' began Liebermann, 'we were discussing Schubert and you unintentionally confused the Death and the Maiden string quartet with The Trout quintet! Now I know for a fact that you are very familiar with the Schubert repertoire. So I considered that the mistake, this slip of the tongue, was significant. Being, as you are, a detective inspector, the kind of death that naturally preoccupies you most, is murder. The term "maiden" implies youth and beauty . . . Putting all this together, I inferred the influence of an unconscious memory. An unconscious memory of a murdered young woman.'

Rheinhardt shook his head in disbelief.

'All right. But what about the blood – the blood on the blue dress? How did you work that out?'

'When we were performing the Hugo Wolf song – Auf dem See – you stumbled over the word "blood" on both renditions. I took this to be confirmation of my earlier speculation. When I asked you just now what you intended to buy your wife on your wedding anniversary, you said a dress. But you couldn't, at first, remember the colour of the material that her dressmaker had recommended; however, some time later, you were able to say that it was blue. I took this to mean that the idea of a blue dress was being repressed.'

Liebermann flicked his cigar, letting a cylinder of ash fall into the tray.

'And the date of the investigation? How did you know it was Thursday?'

'We bumped into each other outside The Imperial – remember?'

'Yes, of course, but—'

'You were in a terrible rush. I made an educated guess – nothing more psychological than that, I'm afraid.'

Rheinhardt leaned towards his friend.

'Incidentally, thank you again for allowing me to requisition your cab. Did you get very wet?'

'Yes. Very.'

'Oh, I am sorry . . .'

Rheinhardt looked inordinately pained – his sagging, melancholy eyes expressed considerable anguish and pity.

'It really wasn't that bad, Oskar,' said Liebermann, embarrassed by his friend's contrition.

Rheinhardt smiled weakly and continued to puzzle over Liebermann's deductions: 'Max, you said that I had to break a door down – to get into the apartment. Did you guess that, too?'

'No. You've been rubbing your right shoulder in a distracted fashion for most of the evening. You always do that after you've broken a door down. I expect it's quite bruised. Might I recommend that you use your foot next time?'

Rheinhardt paused for a few moments before allowing himself to laugh. 'Remarkable. That really was very perceptive, Max.'

Liebermann leaned back in his chair and drew on his cigar. 'But,' he added, 'what I haven't been able to work out is why you need my help? There must be something different – or special – about this case?'

Rheinhardt's expression darkened.

'Yes. There is.'

Liebermann turned to face his friend.

'Go on . . .'

'The victim,' said Rheinhardt, 'was a spiritualist, a medium called Charlotte Löwenstein. We discovered her body on Thursday afternoon in an apartment in Leopoldstadt, overlooking the market square.'

Liebermann assumed his listening position, his right hand pressed to his cheek, index finger flat against his temple.

'Apparently,' Rheinhardt continued, 'she had been shot through the heart. However, the room in which we found her body had been locked from the inside and there was no murder weapon. There was also no means of escape.'

'You're quite sure?'

'In the annals of detection, there have been a number of cases of this kind – a body found in a locked room. Usually, the effect is achieved through concealment. The murderer waits in a secret compartment, and then leaves when the door is finally opened. The walls of Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment were completely solid and the floor was sound.' Rheinhardt exhaled a billowy cloud of cigar smoke before continuing. 'Moreover, when Professor Mathias conducted a post mortem examination, he was unable to find a bullet. There was no secondary wound – showing where the bullet might have exited from her body – nor any evidence to suggest that a bullet had been removed.'

Rheinhardt paused to gauge Liebermann's reaction, and recognised in the narrowing of the young doctor's eyes the suspicion he had expected. Liebermann's index finger tapped against his temple.

'It's a trick – isn't it? An illusion.'

'I suppose it must be.'

'Why suppose? How fascinating, that someone should go to so much trouble . . . I mean, what sort of a person would—'

'There's more, Max,' Rheinhardt cut in. 'We found this by the body.'

Reaching into his pocket, Rheinhardt produced Fräulein Löwenstein's note and handed it to Liebermann.

'God forgive me,' Liebermann began reading, 'for what I have done. There is such a thing as forbidden knowledge. He will take me to hell – and there is no hope of redemption.' His voice was steady and without inflection.

'Well,' said Rheinhardt. 'What do you make of that?'

Liebermann inspected the note closely before answering.

'Clearly, this is the rather pleasing hand of a woman. I've never seen a man's handwriting in which dots are executed as small circles.' Liebermann then turned the note over and looked at the reverse side. 'She was extremely tense when this was written. The nib of the pen was pressed hard into the paper. She paused when she had completed the final word. I know this because the paper has absorbed more ink here.' He pointed to a specific area. 'Then, I imagine, she got up in a hurry, producing the arc that runs off the page . . .' Liebermann's eyes glinted in the firelight. 'But what I'd really like to know,' he continued 'is the identity of the third person.'

Rheinhardt almost choked on his brandy.

'Third person? What do you mean, third person?'

Liebermann gave a sly smile.

'When this note was written there were three people in the room. Fräulein Löwenstein, her murderer, and a third person who – we must assume – accompanied her on her journey to hell.'

Rheinhardt shook his head.

'That's preposterous, Max! How can you possibly know such a thing just by looking at that note?'

Liebermann rose from his chair, and after a swift examination of his bookcase returned with a volume that he held out for Rheinhardt to inspect.

'The Psychopathology of Everyday Life,' read Rheinhardt. 'By Doctor Sigmund Freud.'

'Yes,' said Liebermann, sitting down again. 'I can't recommend it strongly enough. As you know, Freud suggests that mistakes such as slips of the tongue can be very revealing. But so can inadvertent actions, such as slips of the pen while writing. Now, take a look at Fräulein Löwenstein's note.' He handed it back to Rheinhardt. 'Do you see anything interesting?'

'You are, of course, referring to this crossing-out before the word me.'

'Exactly. Look at it closely – what word do you think she started to write before she crossed it out? Hold the note up in front of the fire – the ink becomes more transparent.'

Rheinhardt did as he was instructed.

'It's difficult to say . . . but I think – I think she started to write the word us.'

Liebermann smiled.

'Exactly. She had started to write He will take us to hell when she meant to write He will take me to hell. Now, why should she make a mistake like that?'

Rheinhardt looked somewhat disappointed.

'You know, Max, sometimes, a mistake is just a mistake.'

Liebermann executed a silent scale on the arm of his chair and began to chuckle.

'Yes, you're probably right, Oskar. Like many who enjoy Freud's work, I am inclined to spoil things by going just a little too far.'

12

AS NATALIE HECK passed the brightly coloured marquees of the Volksprater, she found herself stopping, yet again, to look up at the Riesenrad. It was a miracle of engineering. The circumference of the wheel was an approximate circle, achieved by the continuous linkage of bolted iron girders, while the space inside the circle was filled with a reinforcing webbing of immense metal cables. Natalie imagined a Titan's hand, strumming them like the strings of a giant harp. The most eye-catching feature of the Riesenrad, however, was its fleet of red gondolas, each the size of a tram and each carrying a fragile human cargo high above the city.

Natalie's friend Lena had actually ridden on the Riesenrad. She had been taken by her father four years earlier in 1898. Natalie knew the exact date because the wheel had been erected to commemorate Emperor Franz Josef's golden jubilee and Lena had been among the first to step into one of its gondolas. Lena's description of the ride had frightened Natalie. The juddering ascent, the gasps of the passengers, the groaning and creaking of the stressed metal cables. And worst of all, the terrible moment of suspension at the highest point, where the wind had buffeted Lena's gondala – making it tremble and rock like a cradle. Apparently, another young woman had swooned.

Lena was lucky – her father was still alive. Natalie's father had died three years before the Emperor's golden jubilee, so there had been no one to take her on the Riesenrad even if she had wanted. Natalie had adored her father. After his death, she would talk to him in the moments before sleep, addressing the darkness and imagining his replies. She often needed advice, but could turn to no one. Her mother had become cold and distant.

The aching sense of loss that Natalie felt persisted for years, and would have continued had she not made the acquaintance of the woman whom the stallholders (particularly the men) called 'The Princess' – an elegant, graceful woman who spoke so very nicely.

The Princess was particularly fond of Natalie's table, which always displayed a fine selection of embroidered shawls. She had introduced herself as Fräulein Charlotte Löwenstein, and Natalie was genuinely surprised that the woman did not possess an aristocratic title. Friendly exchanges became conversations, and when Fräulein Löwenstein learned of Natalie's loss she immediately invited the 'poor girl' for tea in her apartment, which was situated just across the road. It was while taking tea with Fräulein Löwenstein that Natalie Heck had learned of the woman's strange gift. The following Thursday evening, Natalie arrived at Fräulein Löwenstein's door at eight o'clock precisely. Three hours later, Natalie was hugging herself in bed, weeping with joy.

But since that time her relationship with Fräulein Löwenstein had become increasingly complicated – her feelings more confused . . .

The wheel's progress was slow, and Natalie had to watch it very carefully to detect any movement. Although the prospect of a ride on the Riesenrad made Natalie's breath quicken so that her chest pressed against the restraining whalebone cage of her corset, the emotions she felt were not straightforward. She was both frightened and excited at the same time.

Natalie drew her shawl closer around her shoulders and hurried along. It was a very attractive shawl – but then, everything she made was attractive. She was nothing if not industrious.

Fräulein Löwenstein is dead

.

Like the Riesenrad, the thought evoked both fear and excitement. Natalie's conscience was perturbed by a subtle eddy of guilt as she dared to believe that now things might change for the better.

On entering Leopoldstadt, Natalie chose a circuitous route in order to avoid going anywhere near Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment. Last Thursday evening was still fresh in her memory: the police with their notebooks, hushed voices, the sound of Herr Uberhorst sobbing and all the time knowing that she was still in the next room. Natalie had been unable to dismiss disturbing mental pictures – macabre imaginings – of Charlotte Löwenstein's corpse either sprawled out on the floor or draped across the chaise longue like an ill-fated Romantic heroine.

Fräulein Löwenstein was – or, rather, had been – a beautiful woman. So beautiful that Natalie had never attempted to compete with her. She had never bothered to pin her hair up, powder her face or wear a revealing dress in her presence. It was not that Natalie was unattractive. Indeed, quite the opposite. She was young, shapely and had dark eyes that – in recent years – had invited many compliments. However, she knew as well as anyone that Charlotte Löwenstein was an unassailable rival in matters of the heart. During a seance, in the flickering candlelight, when her full lips parted to produce a radiant smile, her beauty was uncanny.

When Natalie had confessed her secret (and her despair) to Lena, her friend had said that a woman like Fräulein Löwenstein must be in league with the devil. It had been said in jest, but Natalie now wondered if such a thing were possible. The police had asked her some very strange questions . . .

Although the main thoroughfares of Leopoldstadt were respectable, the back streets were still run-down and shabby. The dreary old buildings were tall and blocked out most of the sky. Natalie quickened her pace, slipped, and had to grab a lamp-post to stop herself from falling.

She was getting closer to where he lived.

A large black rat ran out from under a pile of rubbish and scurried down the street ahead of her. Natalie shuddered and slowed to a halt. She decided to take a detour. Turning a corner, she progressed further into the dismal labyrinth.

It was so unfair, thought Natalie, that a man of his class and talent should be reduced to such circumstances through no fault of his own. He had been cheated out of an inheritance by his contemptible older brother Felix and now had to eke out an impecunious existence as an artist. He was always struggling to find the money to pay his rent, and Natalie had got into the habit of lending him small amounts to prevent his eviction. As their friendship had deepened, Natalie had repeatedly taken coins from her savings box, which she kept beneath a loose floorboard in her bedroom. Over time these small amounts had added up and now the box was almost empty.

Even so, it was worth it. Only a month ago, they had been walking on the green open spaces of the Prater, watching the deer, and talking of his plans for the future – a large exhibition in the new Secession building with the likes of Gustav Klimt. He had thanked her for her assistance, calling her his 'saviour', his 'angel'. Then, without warning, he had leaned forward to plant a kiss on her cheek. It had been improper but she had not protested: the strange combination of fear and excitement had been dizzying.

Natalie raised a hand to her face, in order to feel the place where his lips had touched her skin.

Beauty isn't everything, she thought.

There is also kindness.

But again an image of Fräulein Löwenstein invaded her mind – made even more striking by her recent acquisitions: her pearl necklace, her diamond earrings, and her exquisite butterfly brooch (supposed to be the work of Peter Breithut). Thus adorned, Löwenstein's perfection had mocked the seamstress's worthy sentiment.

When Natalie arrived at his apartment building she found the main door open. It was hanging off the frame on only one hinge. Natalie eased through the gap and found herself in a dank, lightless hallway. The stale air smelled of boiled cabbage and urine. She could hear a baby crying, but no adult voices. The walls were streaked with damp and in one or two places lumps of plaster had fallen away. Natalie shivered, ran up the steep stairs, crossed the landing and gently knocked on his door.

'Otto,' she said. 'Otto, it's me. Natalie.'

There was no response.

She knocked again, this time a little harder.

'Otto' she said. 'Are you in there?'

As she pressed her ear against the door, she became dimly aware of a movement in the shadows. Before she could turn, a large gloved hand came down heavily on her shoulder.

13

IT WAS SUNDAY afternoon and Rheinhardt was sitting in the parlour, smoking an after-dinner cigar. In his lap was the first volume of the Handbook for Examining Magistrates by Professor Hans Gross, the definitive work on the subject of criminology. Rheinhardt was perusing a passage that exhorted the investigator to seek out men with specialist skills: With such men at his disposal, proclaimed the authoritative voice of Gross, much labour and trouble and many mistakes may be obviated.

Yes, thought Rheinhardt. That makes perfect sense. And congratulated himself for consulting his friend Liebermann the previous evening.

Rheinhardt raised his head and looked around the room. Seated at the table was his wife Else, sewing a silver button back onto his old tweed jacket. Fifteen years of marriage had not diminished the pleasure he experienced just looking at her. She had the kindest face, and a mouth the curve of which – even in repose – suggested a certain readiness for laughter. On the sofa sat his two daughters, Therese – who was just thirteen – and little Mitzi, aged eleven. The older girl was entertaining the younger by reading stories from a book of folk tales. Rheinhardt sighed with pleasure, and turned to another section of the Handbook. It dealt with the dangers of preconceived theories . . . As he tried to follow the professor's line of reasoning, his attention wandered back to the girls.

'Another one?'

'Yes, please.'

'Are you sure, Mitzi?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, very well then.'

Therese cleared her throat like an orator and began reading.

'High up in the Böhmerwald – the mountain range that lies between Austria, Bavaria and Bohemia, is the ancient city of Kasperske Hory. As you approach the city, you must be very careful, because nearby lives the old hag Swiza. She is not like other old women, not like your grandmother, or even your great-grandmother. If you saw her your blood would run cold. Swiza has the antlers of a deer and wears the fur of a wolf. She has lived near Kasperske Hory for longer than anyone can remember. No one knows who she is, or where she comes from, or why she is there. Some say that she is a witch. When travellers arrive at the tavern, claiming to have seen the old hag, men stop talking and the women pray. For whenever Swiza is seen, misfortune must follow . . .'

Rheinhardt looked over at his wife. She too had stopped working and was listening to the story.

'Many years ago,' continued Therese, 'a man from Zda . . . Zdan—'

'Zdanov,' Else called out.

'Oh yes, Zdanov – a man from Zdanov was riding into Kaperske Hory and met Swiza. He knew who she was and tried to escape, but the old hag ordered him to stay and worship her. The man from Zdanov was a Christian and did not wish to do so. As a punishment, Swiza turned him to stone.'

'Therese,' said Rheinhardt. 'Must you read your sister such stories? You'll frighten her.'

'I'm not frightened,' piped the younger girl.

'Well, you say that now, Mitzi, but you won't say that at bedtime.'

'I like these stories.'

Rheinhardt sighed and looked to his wife for guidance.

'I like them too,' said Else, her eyes sparkling with good humour.

Accustomed to making concessions when confronted with female solidarity, Rheinhardt grumbled: 'Then carry on . . . but if Mitzi has nightmares don't come running to me.'

He buried his nose back between the pages of Gross's tome.

'Father?'

It was Mitzi.

'Yes.' The syllable was extended and dipped a little in the middle, signalling mild irritation.

'Do you believe in witches?'

'No.' He spoke the word loudly, as if by denying the existence of witches he could deny the existence of all things supernatural.

14

'SHE WAS FOUND THERE,' said Rheinhardt, pointing at the chaise longue.

Liebermann's gaze wandered from corner to corner, and once or twice ventured up the walls to the cracked bas-relief ceiling.

'She was reclining,' Rheinhardt continued, 'with one hand behind her head, and the other at her side.'

'It struck you as odd?'

'Of course. She looked like she was relaxing. Not what you'd expect, given the circumstances.'

Liebermann crouched beside the open door and examined the lock. It was still working, and he turned the key a few times to test it. The lock worked perfectly. Liebermann allowed the thick metal bolt to slide out of its casing and press against his palm.

'So . . .' he said, thinking out loud. 'What are we supposed to believe? That Fräulein Löwenstein was expecting some form of supernatural retribution? She composed her note and, recognising that there would be no escape, lay back on the chaise longue where she patiently awaited her transport to hell. Like Faust, Fräulein Löwenstein had benefited from forbidden knowledge, the price of which was eternal damnation?'

Liebermann walked over to one of the windows and, reaching up, released the lock. He then opened the window and looked out – a blast of cold air made him wince. The apartment was high up, and there was no visible means of escape. Closing the window, he continued to think aloud.

'In due course, a spectral assassin did arrive, armed with a ghost gun, the chamber of which was loaded with an ectoplasmic bullet. Apparently, our demonic friend then promptly dispatched Fräulein Löwenstein and sailed away through a locked door – or through one of the windows, perhaps – presumably dragging the doomed soul of the unfortunate Fräulein Löwenstein behind him.'

It was clear from Liebermann's tone that he found the idea entirely ridiculous.

'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'It is absurd – but unfortunately there are no alternative explanations.'

Liebermann walked over to the shelves and picked up the ceramic hand, showing palpable disdain.

'Do you have any suspects?'

Rheinhardt threw his arms up in the air and looked despairingly around him.

'Suspects? Do impossible murders have suspects? To be honest, Max, I haven't really given the matter of suspects much consideration.'

'Which, of course,' said Liebermann, 'was the intention. The picture you paint of the crime scene is so bizarre that all of our mental resources are expended on the task of working out how the murder was accomplished. We become so preoccupied with this question, we don't even think to ask the more important question: who killed Fräulein Löwenstein? Further, I imagine that even if you were to arrest a particular individual on suspicion of murder, at present there would be little prospect of a satisfactory prosecution. How can you try someone for an impossible crime! It's all very clever. The man – or woman – you are looking for is certainly very intelligent and highly imaginative.'

'So, how do you think we should proceed Max?'

'Don't be fooled by the illusion. Forget demons, visitations, and Faustian pacts. Just go about your business as usual.'

'And you're convinced it's an illusion?'

'Of course it's an illusion!' exclaimed Liebermann, evidently appalled that his friend should ask such a question. 'Illusions are the stock-in-trade of these people – these spiritualists! I mean, take a look at this table.' Liebermann rapped it with his knuckles. 'Listen.' As his fist moved across the surface the quality of the sound changed. 'Parts of it are hollow. Look at the size of the thing! Open it up and you'll find all manner of trickery inside. Fräulein Löwenstein must have had accomplices who helped her to practise her deceptions. A locked room, a disappearing bullet – it all smacks of theatre to me. Stagecraft. Smoke and mirrors! Perhaps one of her accomplices killed her. And perhaps you should be consulting a stage magician rather than a psychiatrist!'

'Well, as it happens,' said Rheinhardt, 'I visited the Volksprater this morning and spoke to one Adolphus Farber, better known to circus patrons as The Great Magnifico. He makes people vanish after locking them inside cabinets.'

'And?'

'Although Herr Farber is reputed to be the finest of illusionists, when I told him the facts of the case he was unable to help.'

'What did he conclude?'

'He said that the murder must have been the result of a supernatural visitation.'

Liebermann shook his head in despair.

'This crime is an illusion, make no mistake, and if we fail to understand how it was accomplished this will only demonstrate the intellectual and creative superiority of our adversary, nothing more.'

Rheinhardt was heartened by his friend's confidence, but the extraordinary facts of the case still made him deeply uneasy.

'If,' said Liebermann, 'this murder was perpetrated by an accomplice, then he – or she – must be a member of Fräulein Löwenstein's spiritualist circle. Do you know much about them?'

Rheinhardt took out his notebook.

'There's a locksmith called Uberhorst. Hans Bruckmüller – a businessman – makes surgical instruments. A banker and his wife – Heinrich and Juno Hölderlin. Natalie Heck – a seamstress. And Zoltán Záborszky – a Hungarian aristocrat. I say aristocrat, but from his appearance I would guess that he has fallen on hard times. These people seem to represent the nucleus of her group. Oh, and there's another one – a young man called Otto Braun. He was expected on Thursday night as usual, but he didn't arrive. He hasn't been seen since.'

'Well, that's suspicious . . .'

'Indeed. Haussmann and I undertook some preliminary interviews with the circle – so we know a few things about him. What he looks like, where he lives . . .'

'What does he do?'

'He's an artist.'

'An artist? I've never heard of him,' said Liebermann.

Rheinhardt shrugged. 'It's possible that something might be going on between Braun and the seamstress – Natalie Heck. She visited Braun's apartment yesterday, and was surprised by one of our constables.'

'What about the locksmith? Did you discuss the door with him – the lock, I mean?'

'No. We haven't disclosed the unusual nature of the murder to anyone – as yet.'

'But you will eventually?'

'Of course.'

'What about the newspapers?'

'Yes, they'll be told everything in due course.'

'Why the delay?'

'Commissioner Brügel is concerned that if the newspapers are informed then the Löwenstein murder will attract a lot of interest. You know how the people of this city love anything sensational, and if we are unable to solve this mystery . . .'

'You'll appear incompetent?'

'Well, let's say it could certainly damage public confidence in the security office.'

Liebermann touched the door frame.

'One cannot help thinking that a locksmith might have the means to accomplish such an illusion – or at least this part of it, anyway.'

'But he was devastated. On Thursday he was absolutely consumed with grief.'

'Real grief?'

'That was my impression.'

'Why, though? Could it be that their relationship went beyond that of fortune-teller and client?'

'I couldn't imagine a more ill-matched couple!'

'Even so . . .'

Rheinhardt scribbled a memorandum in his notebook.

'What about the others?' Liebermann continued.

Rheinhardt pocketed his notebook and twirled his moustache.

'The Hungarian – Záborszky – was a strange fellow. He said something odd about being able to smell evil.'

'And that unsettled you?'

'If I'm honest, it did.'

'Perhaps that tells us more about you than about him,' said Liebermann, smiling broadly.

Rheinhardt looked puzzled.

'Oskar,' said Liebermann, resting a friendly hand on the Inspector's arm, 'it was an illusion! I assure you!'

Rheinhardt shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was embarrassed. The young doctor had obviously detected in him an underlying seam of credulity – a latent willingness to accept the supernatural. The Inspector envied Liebermann's urban sensibility, his seeming immunity to the shadowy forces that every Middle European learned to respect before leaving the nursery. Somewhere in the darker recesses of Rheinhardt's troubled mind an old hag with antlers was cackling with glee – a dry, mocking laugh.

'What's in here?' It was Liebermann. He had disappeared behind the screen and was drumming on something that produced a hollow, wooden sound.

'Oh God!' said Rheinhardt under his breath.

'Oskar?'

Liebermann appeared again, carrying the Japanese box.

'I'd completely forgotten about that. Haussmann was supposed to be getting the key.'

Liebermann shook the chest a little.

'There's something in it.' He placed the box on the table, and the two men looked at each other.

'Well?' said Liebermann.

'I suppose we'd better open it,' said Rheinhardt. He walked to the door and called into the hall: 'Haussmann?'

A few moments later his assistant appeared. He entered the room and executed two small bows: 'Inspector. Herr Doctor.'

'Haussmann, did you find the key to this box?' asked Rheinhardt.

'No, sir,' replied Haussmann. 'Fräulein Sucher didn't have a key and she said she'd never seen the box opened.'

'That's probably because it contains some trickery,' said Liebermann.

Haussmann looked at Liebermann, not quite sure what to make of his statement.

Rheinhardt beckoned Haussmann to the table.

'Force it open.'

Haussmann took a penknife from his inside pocket and began to jemmy the lid. The thin lacquered wood splintered easily.

Liebermann stepped forward and opened the box. He could feel Rheinhardt and Haussman peering over his shoulders.

Inside, lying on a bed of velvet, was a small stone figure. It had a canine body, slanting eyes, square-tipped ears and a long curved snout. The most striking feature of the creature was its long forked tail.

'What on Earth is that?' asked Rheinhardt.

'I don't know,' said Liebermann. 'But it looks very old. An antiquity, I think.'

He reached in and lifted the effigy. It was quite heavy for its size. But as he did so he noticed a small key protruding from the container's edge. The creature had been locked in the box – from the inside.

15

'BUT WHY MUST I LIE DOWN?'

'Because I want you to relax.'

Miss Lydgate was seated on an examination table. She swung her legs around and leaned back slowly. When her head touched the pillow she began rolling it from side to side. She couldn't find a comfortable position because of the way she had pulled back her hair.

'Well, I can't relax like this . . .'

Her voice was slightly tetchy. She sat up again and after removing numerous pins, ribbons and a net she released her mane. It sprung out and tumbled down her back: a flaming mass, streaked with russet and flecks of copper. Liebermann was surprised that so much bulk had been so cleverly concealed. She lay back for the second time.

'That's better.'

'You may close your eyes if you wish.'

They remained open and rolled upward, searching for the speaker.

'Miss Lydgate,' Liebermann sighed. 'It is important that you do not try to look at me. You will strain your eyes.'

Miss Lydgate stared blankly at the ceiling and dragged her right arm across her stomach with her left hand.

'I do not feel comfortable lying here like this, with you behind me.'

'You will become accustomed to the procedure in time, I assure you.'

The young woman bit her lower lip, coughed into her left hand, and finally settled; however, her toes were curled with tension.

'Miss Lydgate,' Liebermann asked. 'Do you remember the last time you were in this room?'

'Yes.'

'Tell me what happened?'

'You examined me . . . and we discussed a number of topics. I seem to recall talking, at some length, about my grandfather.'

'Indeed. And what else did we discuss?'

'The Schellings, Doctor Landsteiner . . .'

She stopped and sighed.

'Please continue.'

'There is nothing wrong with my memory.'

'Of course. I am interested in your impressions of our last meeting.'

'I don't understand what you want me to say, Doctor Liebermann? Do you want me to repeat everything, word for word?'

'No. I just want you to tell me what happened.'

'Very well. I was escorted here by a nurse. You examined my arm. We then discussed how I acquired my position working for the Schelling family. I told you of my intention to study medicine, and I explained why I wanted to study here rather than in London. I told you about my grandfather's journal and something of his life. You then asked me about my family and our home. Shortly after, there was a knock on the door and one of your colleagues came in.'

'Doctor Kanner.'

'Is that his name?'

Liebermann nodded: 'And what happened then?'

'You talked together – for some time, I believe.'

'How long?'

'It must have been . . . it's difficult to say.'

'Five minutes, ten minutes? How long?'

'Long enough for me to fall asleep.'

'You can't remember anything else?'

'No. I assume that you thought it was in my best interests not to be disturbed and subsequently had me removed to the ward.'

Liebermann said nothing.

'Did—' Miss Lydgate was hesitant and her voice quivered slightly with anxiety. 'Did something happen, Doctor Liebermann? Something that I cannot remember?'

'Yes. Something did happen.'

'What?' Miss Lydgate shifted uncomfortably and squeezed her dead right hand with her left. 'Please tell me.'

'You became very agitated. It was a little like a seizure.'

'And I did something?'

'You really don't remember?'

'No!' Her voice rose in pitch, and she began to cough.

'You were extremely distressed and Doctor Kanner came to your assistance. You were going to be sick, so he placed a pail in front of your chair.'

'This cannot be true.'

'He tried to comfort you by resting a hand on your back. It was then that you threatened to kill him – before hitting him in the stomach with—' Liebermann broke off. The room was absolutely silent. Even Miss Lydgate's cough was subdued. Liebermann continued: 'With your right fist.'

Liebermann observed Miss Lydgate's chest, rising and falling as her breathing accelerated. She rocked her head from side to side, and her habitual half-frown melted into an expression of total disbelief.

16

UBERHORST STOOD IN the middle of his small workshop. He was wearing a white apron smeared with oil; however, his hands were meticulously clean.

'You were very distressed, the evening her body was discovered?'

'Yes, Inspector – I still can't believe it happened. She was a dear friend.'

Uberhorst was clearly still struggling to manage his emotions.

'How well did you know her?'

'In some ways I didn't know her at all. If you were to ask me where she was born, who her parents were, or where she went to school, I couldn't answer. But I do know other things . . .'

Uberhorst could not maintain eye contact. He looked away and then all around the workshop, his abrupt birdlike movements suggesting anxiety.

'What things?' asked Rheinhardt.

'That she was a kind person – and brave.'

'Did you ever meet with Fräulein Löwenstein privately? On your own?'

'Yes. For readings.'

Uberhorst held up his palm and traced a crease with the forefinger of his left hand.

'She made predictions?'

'No, she never spoke of the future.'

'Then what was the point of the consultation?'

'She told me about . . . myself.'

'Was she accurate?'

'Very. It made me feel . . . understood. Less . . .' The little man's voice trailed off, and he looked up at an effigy of Christ on the cross that hung above a small bookcase. His lower lip trembled.

'Less what?' Rheinhardt pressed.

'Alone,' said Uberhorst. His eyes filled with tears.

'How much did Fräulein Löwenstein charge for these readings, Herr Uberhorst?'

'Nothing, but I was happy to make a voluntary contribution.'

'Which was how much?'

'Two krone.'

'You could have gone to the Court Opera for less.'

'But then I would never have benefited from her extraordinary powers.'

Uberhorst wiped his forearm across his cheek, attempting to conceal his tears. It was a pathetic gesture, like the pitiful attempt of a hurt child to maintain its dignity.

'Why did you say she was kind? And brave?'

'She had a difficult life, Inspector. Only a courageous soul could overcome such terrible adversity.'

'Oh? In what way was her life difficult?'

'Her mother and father died when she was very young – she was about ten or eleven, I think. She was sent to live with her uncle, her father's brother. He lived alone and Lotte had to cook and care for him. She did her best, but he was never satisfied. He would often beat her . . . and when she was older – when she was turning into a woman – he . . . He was a cruel man and . . .'

Uberhorst shuddered.

'What, Herr Uberhorst?'

'I believe he may have . . .'

'Taken advantage of her?'

Uberhorst nodded and adjusted his pince-nez, mutely confirming the Inspector's speculation.

'Why do you think Fräulein Löwenstein told you these things? They are very personal, are they not?'

'Perhaps she was lonely too.'

Rheinhardt considered this statement. Was it possible? That the beautiful Löwenstein and the diminutive Uberhorst were equally alienated? That an intimate friendship had developed between them? Rheinhardt pencilled the words 'loneliness' and 'disclosure' in his notebook, followed by three question marks.

'What happened then? After she went to live with her uncle?'

'She ran away . . .'

'To where?'

'I don't know.'

'And how did she live?'

'She found menial jobs – cleaning, running errands – and then I think she may have worked in the theatre. Inspector?'

'Yes?'

'What I just said – about her uncle? She told me these things in confidence.'

'Obviously.'

'The others – Bruckmüller, Záborszky, the Hölderlins – I would be grateful if you did not discuss these matters with them.'

'You have my word. Herr Uberhorst, when did Fräulein Löwenstein become a medium?'

'She was always sensitive – she always saw things.'

'Spirits?'

'Yes.'

'All right – when, then, did she become a professional medium?'

'I don't know. But she accepted her vocation after a vision.'

'What kind of vision?'

'She said that it could not be described – how can one describe communion with the infinite?'

'You think that she was instructed by a higher power?'

'Certainly.'

'I see.' Without pause or preparation Rheinhardt added: 'Do you remember what you were doing on Wednesday evening, Herr Uberhorst?'

'Yes.' There was a slight wavering in Uberhorst's voice.

'Where were you?'

'Please, I don't wish to be discourteous, Inspector, but I did tell your assistant who . . .'

Rheinhardt's brow furrowed, prompting Uberhorst to answer the question without further hesitation.

'I was here. I live upstairs.'

'And is there anyone who can confirm your story?'

'It isn't a story, Inspector. I was here – and no, I have no alibi. I rarely have visitors.'

Rheinhardt walked to the lathe, his shoes crunching on a carpet of metal shavings. Above it hung a framed mezzotint. It appeared to have little artistic merit, being only a diagrammatic representation of a mechanism, the parts of which were labelled with the letters of the alphabet.

'What is this?' asked Rheinhardt.

'It is a drawing of the detector lock designed by Jeremiah Chubb. It was patented in 1818. A masterpiece, I believe.'

Rheinhardt took a few steps and examined the titles that filled the bookcase. They were mostly bound journals and technical histories.

'You seem to be something of a connoisseur,' he said.

'I enjoy my work.'

Uberhorst joined Rheinhardt and pulled a volume from the top shelf. The spine was embossed in English, but Uberhorst translated:

'On the Construction of Locks and Keys – by Jeremiah Chubb. It is a first edition.' He caressed the cover and produced a weak, nervous smile.

Rheinhardt tried to look impressed and pointed to another volume.

'Locks of the Ancient World? I didn't realise they had them . . .'

'Oh yes,' said Uberhorst, his eyes now shining with the special light generated by fanatical interest. 'The very earliest were made of wood, but metal examples – of a similar design – can be found dating back to the time of the Caesars. Roman keys are still being found today . . . I have one in my possession, in fact. It was found when they were building the new Karlsplatz station.'

Uberhorst slid Jeremiah Chubb's treatise back into its vacant slot.

'Herr Uberhorst, are you familiar with the locks in Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment?'

'I didn't give them any special attention. But I imagine, given the age of the building, they are all some form of lever tumbler.'

'When we found her body,' Rheinhardt said casually, 'there was no weapon in the room, and the door had been locked from the inside. Do you have any idea how Fräulein Löwenstein's murderer accomplished this?'

'He must have locked the door and climbed out of the window.'

'I don't think so. The windows were locked too, and as you know the drop is quite considerable.'

Uberhorst thought for a moment.

'Then you must be mistaken, Inspector.'

'Why?'

'It's impossible.'

'Really? Even for a master locksmith?'

The little man touched his lower lip with his forefinger. His lip was no longer trembling, but his finger very clearly was.

17

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON but the chandeliers of the Café Schwarzenberg were blazing. Outside, a thin, persistent rain had subdued the light. Looking out of the window and on to Scharzenberg Platz, Liebermann could see the large equestrian statue of Prince Karl von Schwarzenberg, a pallid, ghostly rider, emerging slowly from the fine mist. Beyond the spectral prince, just visible, was the spout of a fountain.

'I don't understand,' said Clara. 'If there's nothing wrong with her arm, why can't she move it?'

They were sitting in a cosy wood-panelled alcove. Even though the café's vaulted interior was almost full their seating felt private. They were also isolated by the peculiarly potent, almost tangible intimacy of lovers.

'The arm is paralysed,' said Liebermann.

'All right, if it's paralysed how is it that she was able to hit Doctor Kanner? Can't you see? She's just pretending, Maxim!'

Having offered her very definite opinion, Clara began to dissect her apfelstrudel. She broke the sugar-coated pastry case: large pieces of cooked apple and several raisins spilled across her plate. The sweet bouquet of cinnamon and cloves mingled with the aroma of coffee and cigar smoke. Fixing her fiancé with an ambiguous expression that vacillated between impertinence and amusement, Clara scooped a cube of aromatic apple into her mouth.

'In a way . . . you're right,' said Liebermann. His words were almost lost in the din of cutlery, conversation and piano music. 'She is pretending. But not to us. She's pretending to herself.'

Swallowing quickly, Clara retorted: 'Maxim, how can you pretend to yourself – you'd know you were pretending!'

'Well, that depends on how you think about the mind,' Liebermann replied. 'What if the mind is not one thing – but two? What if the mind has a conscious region and an unconscious region? Then it might be possible for memories in the unconscious to influence the body without the conscious mind knowing anything about those memories. If this is how the mind works, then when she says she can't move her arm, she's telling the truth. She really can't.'

'But she can move her arm!' said Clara again, a hint of genuine frustration entering her voice.

'No,' said Liebermann firmly, 'she can't. There is a part of her mind – the unconscious part – which can move her arm. But that is not the part of her mind that corresponds with her daily thoughts, emotions, and perceptions.'

'Oh, it all sounds so . . . so . . .' Clara waved a chunk of apple on the end of her pastry fork.

'Complicated?' said Liebermann.

'Yes.'

'Well, I suppose it is.'

Clara smirked and offered Liebermann the piece of impaled apple. Glancing around to ensure that no one was looking, he thrust his head forward and took the glistening fruit into his mouth. His indecorous behaviour seemed to make Clara absurdly happy. She beamed like a naughty child who had just escaped punishment.

'And how is Doctor Kanner now?'

'Oh, Stefan is in excellent health.'

'Is he still pursuing that singer – what's her name?'

'Cora. No.'

Clara lowered her head and looked up with doleful supplicatory eyes.

'She was very pretty . . .'

Liebermann knew that a diplomatic response was required, and suppressing the urge to laugh replied in an offhand manner: 'I did not find her especially attractive.'

His words had the desired effect. Clara's face beamed again and she promptly offered him another chunk of apple. This time he declined.

The rain continued to patter against the window with patient determination. A tram rattled by, arcing around the phantom horseman.

'She's English, you say?'

'Who?'

'This patient of yours.'

'Yes.'

'They're rather odd, don't you think, the English?'

'In what way?'

'Lacking in warmth.'

'Sometimes . . . but when you get to know them they're much the same as us. I made some very good friends while I was staying in London.'

'Frau Frischmuth employed an English nursemaid last year . . .'

'And?'

'They didn't get on at all.'

Liebermann shrugged.

At the far end of an adjacent road, the ornate green dome of the Karlskirche shimmered in the distance like a fairy-tale palace. The pianist, who had previously been playing some unsophisticated waltzes, began a rendition of Schumann's Träumerei. It was delightful: innocent, wistful, almost veering into sadness but somehow resisting at the last moment as each inventive chord melted into the next. The music floated in the air like incense, wafting and lulling the mind into an opiate languor. Liebermann's fingers automatically shadowed the melody on the marble table top.

Surfacing from his reverie, Liebermann became aware that Clara was pressing her knee against his. He looked at her, and for a moment her confidence stalled. She blushed and looked away, but then, recovering her sense of purpose, allowed his leg to slip between hers. They maintained contact for a few seconds, and then simultaneously disengaged.

'Do you know what this is?' asked Liebermann, smiling.

'Yes,' said Clara. 'It's the piece about dreaming . . . by Robert Schumann.'

'And what are you dreaming of?'

'Can't you guess, Maxim?'

The look she gave him was little short of indecent.

18

'So,'

SAID PROFESSOR FREUD. 'Two Jews meet outside the bathhouse.

Have you taken a bath already? asks one.

How come? says the other.

Is one missing?'

Liebermann laughed, although more at Professor Freud's delivery than at the joke itself. Freud had adopted a pronounced Yiddisher accent and had chosen to end the joke with a fixed gesture, hands raised, a grotesque parody of the mannerisms of Eastern Jewry.

'Let me tell you another,' said Freud. 'A young man goes to the matchmaker, and the matchmaker asks: What kind of bride do you want?

The young man replies: She must be beautiful, she must be rich, and she must be clever.

Fine, says the matchmaker. But I make that three wives.'

Freud stubbed out his cigar, and was unsuccessful in his attempt to stop a reticent smile from turning into a wheezy chuckle that continued for some time. He was looking very well, Liebermann thought. Indeed, Freud had been much happier since February – when, finally, after many years of unjustified delay he had been distinguished with the all-important title of Professor Extraordinarius. It was odd that a man whose advancement had been obstructed because of anti-Semitism should be so fond of Jewish jokes, many of which portrayed Jews in a less than flattering light. But then, Professor Freud was a complex man, and Liebermann was disinclined to analyse the father of psychoanalysis. There was only one individual equipped to embark on such a daunting enterprise, and that was Freud himself.

As Freud's chuckling petered out, he raised a finger.

'One more. Then I'll stop.'

'As you wish,' replied Liebermann.

'How do we know that Jesus was Jewish?' asked Freud.

'I don't know,' said Liebermann. 'How do we know that Jesus was Jewish?'

'He lived at home until he was thirty, he went into his father's business, and his mother thought he was God!'

This time Liebermann burst out into genuine laughter. 'Why have you started collecting jokes?' he asked.

'I haven't started. I've been collecting them for years. I'm thinking of writing a book about them.'

'Jokes?'

'Yes. Jokes. It is my belief that jokes, like dreams and slips of the tongue, reveal the operation of the unconscious.'

The professor lit another cigar. It was his third since Liebermann had arrived, and the study was thick with smoke. Some hung like a dense fog around the feet of the ancient figurines on Freud's desk. From Liebermann's point of view, Freud's collection looked like a mythic army emerging from a primal swamp.

'Are you sure I can't interest you in another?' asked Freud, pushing the box of cigars across the desktop. 'They're very good, you know. Cuban.'

'Thank you, Herr Professor. But one was quite enough.'

Freud looked at Liebermann as though his reluctance to take another cigar was completely beyond comprehension.

'My boy,' said Freud, 'I consider smoking to be one of the greatest – and cheapest – enjoyments in life.' He drew on the cigar, leaned back in his chair, and smiled blissfully.

'I see that your collection is growing,' said Liebermann, pointing at the figures. 'Every time I visit, you seem to have acquired another.'

'Indeed,' replied Freud. He reached out and stroked the head of a small marble ape, almost as though it were a real pet. 'This is my latest acquisition. It is the baboon of Thoth. Egyptian, of course, 30 BC – or thereabouts.'

Liebermann did not know a great deal about archaeology. Nor did he understand the aesthetic appeal of antiquities (his sympathies were decidedly modern). Even so, he did not want to offend the professor and so nodded his head appreciatively.

While Freud was admiring his collection, Liebermann seized the opportunity he had been waiting for.

'Actually, Herr Professor, I wondered whether I might consult you in your capacity as an archaeologist?'

Freud looked up and smiled, a little embarrassed.

'Archaeologist? Me? It's a hobby, that's all . . .'

Liebermann gestured at Freud's bookcase.

'Still, I don't know anybody who has read more on the subject.'

The professor nodded vigorously. 'That is true. You know, I'm ashamed to admit it but I've read more archaeology than psychology.'

'Perhaps you should have been an archaeologist?'

Freud blew a cloud of smoke over the desk.

'Ahh,' he said. 'But, in a way, I am. Don't you think?'

Liebermann tacitly accepted the professor's point. Then, reaching into his leather bag, he took out the statuette from Charlotte Löwenstein's apartment.

'Do you think that this is an authentic antiquity?' He showed it to Freud. 'And if so, do you have any idea what it's supposed to be?'

Freud placed his cigar in the ashtray and reached out – his expression becoming more intense and serious. He took the piece gently in his hands, and began to rotate it, inspecting every detail. The silence was disturbed by the sound of the professor's children, running and shouting upstairs. Freud raised his head, momentarily distracted by the noise, before falling once again into a state of total absorption. Liebermann was judging whether it would be considered impolite to remind the professor of his presence when Freud suddenly announced: 'It's Egyptian. Certainly looks genuine – but it's difficult to say. You'd have to get a dealer to confirm that.'

'And what's it supposed to be?'

Freud looked up and fixed Liebermann with his penetrating stare.

'There is only one deity with a snout and a forked tail. That is Set or Seth. The god of chaos – the god of storms and mischief.'

Liebermann appeared unperturbed, yet inside his head his thoughts were racing. The professor's words were like hammer blows: storms and mischief. He had always assumed that Fräulein Löwenstein's murder was a clever illusion. Nothing more than a sophisticated stage trick. Mischief, most certainly, but mortal mischief. For the first time Liebermann experienced doubt. What kind of illusionist could conjure a storm? Liebermann remembered Thursday's unseasonal deluge: massive forks of lightning – followed by apocalyptic thunder – and rain spilling from the gutter and crashing on to the pavement below like a waterfall.

'Where did you get this?' asked Freud.

'It belongs to a friend of mine,' answered Liebermann. 'He asked me to get it valued.'

'Ah,' said Freud, holding the piece up to the light. 'It won't be worth a great deal of money. Egyptian antiquities aren't very popular in Vienna. It's all Baroque and Biedermeier these days.'

'Is it?'

'Oh yes. But there are some good dealers on Wieblinger Strasse. You should take it there.'

'I will—'

'And,' Freud cut in very quickly, 'if your friend isn't satisfied with the offer, please let me know. I would be keen to add this little fellow to my collection.'

The professor placed the statuette on his desk, between the ape and a bronze of Horus. Then he patted the demon's head, saying: 'Handsome little fellow. Handsome.'

A spiral of smoke curled around the creature's legs and tail, evoking, once again, an impression of primeval power – the awakening of an ancient and frivolous malevolence.

Part Two

The Third Person

19

IT WAS EARLY EVENING, and the gaslights were low. Rheinhardt poured his Türkische coffee from a small copper pot and raised the cup to his lips. Dissatisfied, he added another half-teaspoon of sugar and took a second sip.

'That's better,' he said. 'How's yours?'

'Adequate,' replied Liebermann.

On the other side of the room, under the first of two low arches, the café proprietor was standing like a guardsman. With the exception of an old man in a kaftan, Liebermann and Rheinhardt were his only customers.

'Locks seem to have acquired a special significance for Herr Uberhorst.'

'In what way?'

'Well, he described one as . . . a masterpiece. He seems to approach lock mechanisms with the same degree of veneration that you or I might reserve for a Beethoven sonata. Now that I've actually interviewed him properly – and seen his shop – I have to admit that I am more suspicious . . . But . . .'

'You don't think him capable of murder.'

'Frankly, no.'

Liebermann detected a certain hesitancy – a telling pause between words.

'What is it Oskar?'

The Inspector frowned.

'I don't think he's capable of murder, but I'm not convinced that Herr Uberhorst is being candid.'

'Why do you say that?'

'He's so very nervous.'

'That might be his disposition.'

'It very probably is. Even so . . . call it a hunch.'

'Could he have used his skills to assist someone else? Someone temperamentally better fitted to the task of murder?'

'Braun? It's a possibility . . .'

Liebermann looked out of the window. Two hussars marched past. From within the shabby café, they looked like creatures from another world, birds of paradise with extravagant plumage. The uniform of the light cavalry was striking: a high busby, a heavily braided jacket, and the distinctive loose cloak that hung from the left shoulder. In a few seconds they were gone and the window became a vacant square of darkness again.

'May I see Fräulein Sucher's statement?' asked Liebermann.

'Yes, of course.'

Rheinhardt took two sheets of paper from his pocket and handed them to his friend.

'Is this her handwriting?'

'No, it's Haussmann's.'

'I thought as much.'

'The important information is on the second page. Just there,' said Rheinhardt, pointing.

Liebermann studied the paragraph.

'So, Braun was a frequent visitor.'

Rheinhardt nodded.

Liebermann began reading: '

Herr Braun visited my mistress's apartment when I was there. She entertained him in the sitting room. On several occasions I heard raised voices, but I don't know what passed between them. It was none of my business.'

Liebermann raised his eyebrows and sipped his Schwarzer.

'What? Don't you believe her?'

'A maid who doesn't eavesdrop?'

'It's possible,' said Rheinhardt, with just enough emphasis to arouse Liebermann's interest.

'Why do you say that?'

Rheinhardt's expression changed from indignation to embarrassment: 'All right, all right. She reminded me a little of Mitzi.'

'Ahh . . .' said Liebermann.

'Even so,' said Rheinhardt, 'I have the utmost confidence in Fräulein Sucher. She's a good girl, believe me.' Rheinhardt's use of the term 'good girl' only strengthened Liebermann's conviction that his friend had somehow conflated Fräulein Sucher and his daughter. 'To be honest, Max,' continued Rheinhardt, 'I'm not sure about this evening's enterprise. What else can we expect to learn? Fräulein Sucher has already told us all she knows.'

Liebermann pushed the statement back across the table. 'However, memory and knowledge are not the same thing.'

'And what's that supposed to mean?'

'Fräulein Sucher might be able to remember more than she knows.'

Rheinhardt twisted the corner of his moustache and was about to ask a further question when the clock began to chime.

'Eight o' clock,' said Liebermann. 'We should be going.'

Rheinhardt picked up Rosa Sucher's statement and dropped some hellers into a silver tray. Then, glancing around at the empty tables, he allowed a few more coins to fall as a gratuity. The old man in the kaftan looked up, his attention captured by the sound of falling coins.

'And you're always insisting that I'm extravagant,' said Liebermann quietly.

The proprietor bowed and clicked his heels as the two strangers collected their coats and left.

It had been raining again – a brief shower that had glazed the cobblestones. The air smelt of horse manure and coal dust.

Rheinhardt set off at a brisk pace, immediately turning along a narrow alley. It was so dark that Liebermann found himself instinctively reaching out to touch the wall. Rheinhardt forged ahead, incongruously whistling the introductory theme of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony: a jaunty melody, supposed to represent the awakening of cheerful feelings on arriving in the countryside.

At the end of the alley, Rheinhardt stopped to get his bearings: 'Over there, I think.'

They were on a principal road again, although it was completely devoid of traffic and people. The street lights had been lit, and the dank air produced a haze of phosphorescence around the flickering lanterns.

Liebermann noticed a woman standing in a doorway on the opposite side of the road. She stepped out of the shadows as they approached, raising her skirt high enough to reveal lime-green stockings and her petticoats.

'Good evening, gents,' she said in a brassy voice.

Her face had been thickly powdered, giving it the vacant and slightly disturbing appearance of a Venetian mask.

'Good evening,' said Rheinhardt curtly.

The woman shrugged and walked away, providing unequivocal confirmation of her profession. She glanced back over her shoulder, still hopeful, before disappearing into the darkness of another alleyway. The sound of her footsteps pinking on the cobblestones faded into the night.

After walking another hundred yards or so, Rheinhardt stopped outside a large dilapidated apartment building.

'This is it.'

Liebermann looked up at the façade. It must have been beautiful once. The remains of statues could be seen in several alcoves, as could the ghosts of gilded relief work – thick cords and spectral foliation. The front door was massive and decorated with a rusting iron grid that suggested the portcullis of a medieval castle. Rheinhardt tested it with the palm of his hand and was surprised to feel little resistance. The hinges groaned and the door swung open.

Liebermann followed Rheinhardt into an austere hallway. The walls were featureless and the floor a crude checkerboard of black and white tiles, many of which were either cracked or missing. To their immediate right, a few steps led to a landing and the scuffed and dented door of Rosa Sucher's apartment. Rheinhardt took the iron knocker in his hand and tapped three times.

The door opened almost immediately.

'Good evening, Inspector.'

Rosa Sucher was exactly as Rheinhardt had remembered her: plain, polite, and timid.

'Good evening, Rosa. May I introduce my colleague, Doctor Max Liebermann.'

Rosa's eyes widened, suggesting a combination of surprise and respect. 'Please, come in, Herr Doctor.'

Rosa took their coats and hung them on the hallstand before ushering them into what served as the guest room. It was small and sparsely furnished; however, much effort had been expended on the arrangement of ornaments and cushions to create an illusion of homeliness. In the corner an old woman had risen to her feet and was wobbling precariously as she leaned on a walking stick.

'My grandmother,' said Rosa, before rushing over to help support her tiny frame.

'Fetch the gentlemen some schnapps,' croaked the old woman as she crouched and fell back into her seat. 'It's a cold night, they'll be wanting schnapps.'

'We don't have any, grandmother,' said Rosa quietly, glancing desperately at Rheinhardt.

The Inspector waved his hand in the air: 'Dear lady, thank you so much for your kind offer, but my colleague and I will have to decline.' Then, looking directly at Rosa, he added more tenderly, 'Thank you for agreeing to a further interview.'

The young woman blushed and performed a barely perceptible curtsy.

Rosa took some chairs from beneath a table and invited her guests to sit close to a pot-bellied stove. She then sat on a stool next to her grandmother, taking the old woman's hand in her own.

Rheinhardt made some small talk about the weather before thanking Rosa again. He then looked at his companion and said that the doctor wished to ask her a few questions.

Rosa smoothed the creases from her dress and looked nervously at Liebermann.

'Fräulein Sucher,' he began, 'are you familiar with the notion of hypnosis?'

20

THE PARAFFIN LAMP was turned down low and emitted only a miserly light. Rosa Sucher was completely still, her body laid out on an ottoman like a corpse in a casket. Liebermann sat at the head of the ottoman, out of Rosa's view but observing her intently.

'I want you to stare at a point on the ceiling – the beading near the curtain rail will do.'

Rosa did as she was instructed, rolling her head back to catch sight of the beading.

'As you concentrate,' continued Liebermann, 'your eyes may begin to feel tired – your eyelids will become heavy.'

Rheinhardt was surprised to see that Liebermann's words had an immediate effect. Rosa Sucher began to blink with increasing frequency, and in due course her eyelids were fluttering as though she was engaged in a struggle to stay awake. Liebermann modulated his voice, speaking in a persuasive monotone: 'Your arms feel heavy. Your legs feel heavy. Heavy and relaxed.' Rosa Sucher's hand slipped off her thigh, and hit the ottoman with a dull thud. 'See how your breathing is becoming shallow. Every time you breathe out, you relax a little more . . .'

The stove hissed as the scorched logs inside exuded a smoky fragrance.

'Your eyelids are becoming heavier and heavier,' murmured Liebermann. 'Heavier and heavier. You are sinking into a deep, deep, relaxing sleep.'

A detonation in the stove made Rheinhardt startle. His neck muscles had become slack, allowing his head to roll from side to side, and he was alarmed to discover that his breathing had acquired the limping rhythm that typically accompanies the mind's descent into oblivion. Rheinhardt bit his lower lip until the pain cleared the fog in his head, and then, to ensure continued wakefulness, he surreptitiously pinched himself.

'When I count to three,' said Liebermann, maintaining his languid delivery, 'your eyes will close, and you will enter a deep, dreamless sleep. However, this sleep will be very different from the ordinary sleep to which you are accustomed. While you are in this sleep, you will retain the ability to hear my voice, and you will be perfectly capable of answering questions. One. Two . . .' Rosa's eyelids began to close, continuing to flutter with the restless agitation of a butterfly. On the count of 'Three', however, she succumbed to sleep with the decisive swiftness of a falling guillotine. Her eyelids dropped, and in an instant her face had acquired the cherubic composure of a slumbering infant's.

Liebermann raised his head and smiled at Rheinhardt – clearly satisfied that the procedure had been successful. He then proceeded to ask Rosa a number of questions about the domestic duties she had been instructed by Fräulein Löwenstein to perform. The young woman's answers were perfectly intelligible, although her voice sounded somewhat flat as though she was under the influence of a powerful soporific. This form of questioning went on for some time. Indeed, Rheinhardt found himself becoming a little impatient, as Liebermann's interrogation progressed from one inconsequential matter to the next: flower arrangement, laundry, dusting, furniture polish, and so on. Rheinhardt became particularly exasperated when Liebermann seemed to get caught up in a protracted discussion on the subject of shopping lists and food.

'So, you ordered less coffee?'

'In February, yes.'

'And fewer eggs?'

'Mistress went off eggs.'

'But noodles appeared more frequently on the shopping list?'

'My mistress asked me to make her some Schinken-fleckerin.'

'For breakfast?'

'Yes, sir.'

'How many times.'

'Five, sir.'

'Did that strike you as unusual?'

'Yes, sir. Mistress rarely ate breakfast.'

'Tell me, did Fräulein Löwenstein ever ask you to purchase peppermint tea?'

'Yes. From a shop on Kärntner Strasse.'

'Recently?'

'In February.'

'Had she ever asked you to buy peppermint tea before?'

And so the peculiar conversation went on, touching upon one trivial topic after another. Eventually Liebermann abandoned his exhaustive investigation into the minutiae of Charlotte Löwenstein's domestic arrangements and raised the subject of Otto Braun. Rheinhardt sighed with relief, attracting Liebermann's attention, who turned to see if anything was wrong. Rheinhardt shook his head as if to say, 'Nothing.' Liebermann continued: 'How often did Herr Braun visit your mistress?'

'Very often, sir.'

'Every day?'

'No. Not every day.'

'Two or three times a week?'

'Yes, about that. Although not always. Sometimes he would not call for several weeks.'

'Why was that? Do you think he had to go away sometimes?'

'No. Because he always attended Fräulein Löwenstein's meetings.'

'Where did Fräulein Löwenstein entertain Herr Braun?'

'In the sitting room, sir.'

'And where were you? When they were together?'

'Sometimes I was in the kitchen . . . sometimes in the drawing room . . . and sometimes—' Rosa's brow furrowed.

'Yes?' said Liebermann.

'Sometimes, Fräulein Löwenstein suggested that I should leave the apartment . . . for a few hours.'

'She wanted to be alone with Herr Braun?'

'I don't know.'

'That seems likely, don't you think?'

'I don't know.'

Rheinhardt found her loyalty touching. Even under hypnosis, she strived to protect her mistress's honour.

'Listen to me very carefully,' continued Liebermann. 'You must answer my questions honestly. I repeat: do you think your mistress wanted to be alone with Herr Braun?'

The corner of Rosa's mouth twitched.

'You must answer,' Liebermann pressed.

'Yes,' said Rosa, sighing heavily. 'Yes, I do think that.'

Liebermann glanced at Rheinhardt and then continued: 'Did they ever argue, Herr Braun and Fräulein Löwenstein?'

'Sometimes . . . sometimes I heard their voices. When I was in the kitchen. They sounded upset . . .'

'What were they saying?'

'I can't remember.'

Liebermann leaned forward.

'Rosa, imagine you are in Fräulein Löwenstein's kitchen. Picture it with your mind's eye. Every detail. The floor, the cupboards, the sink . . . The curtains hanging in the window casement. Can you picture those things?'

'Yes.'

'The picture in your mind is so clear, so vivid, that it is almost real. It feels like you are in the kitchen again. It feels like you are there. Tell me, are you seated? Or are you standing?'

'Seated. Seated at the table.'

'What are you doing?'

'Sharpening knives.'

'Now listen. Listen very carefully . . . You hear voices. It is Fräulein Löwenstein and Herr Braun. They are in the sitting room, and you can hear their voices. They sound upset . . .'

'Yes. Upset and . . .'

'What?'

'Angry.'

'Listen carefully now. What are they saying?'

'I can't hear them properly. They are too far away.'

'Try, Rosa. Concentrate. Listen to their voices. What are they saying?'

'It's nothing to do with me. It's none of my business.'

'But you cannot help yourself from hearing. They are shouting at each other. What are they saying, Rosa?'

'I can't hear them. They are too far away . . .'

Liebermann leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of Rosa's head. Applying a gentle pressure to her temples with his fingertips, he continued in a low, persuasive purr: 'Listen, Rosa. Listen to the voices. As the pressure increases, so the voices become louder. Listen to them . . . You are seated at the table, sharpening knives . . . and in the sitting room Fräulein Löwenstein and Herr Braun are shouting at each other. What are they saying, Rosa? What are they saying?'

Suddenly, Rosa gasped.

'Get out . . .' Her voice was quite different. The dead tones of the trance state had been replaced by an eerie, emotionally charged stage whisper: 'Get out of here . . . you . . . you . . . disgust me . . . I need more money . . . You always need more money . . . Get out, get out or I'll—' Rosa's voice dropped to an agitated grumble: an odd, muffled sound that arose from the back of her throat. Before long, more fragments of language surfaced from the chaotic burble of tones: 'Theo . . . Never . . . last time, I swear I'll . . . God help me, I will—'

And then there was silence again. Silence, except for the gentle sibilance of the stove.

'Feel the pressure,' said Liebermann. 'The voices are becoming clearer – what can you hear?'

'There are no voices.'

'Are you sure?'

'A carriage is passing – passing in the street below . . . and a tinker is shouting . . . shoelaces – shoelaces for sale . . . shoelaces . . .'

Liebermann removed his hands from Rosa's head and sat back in his chair. The girl's face had once again assumed the expression of a sleeping child's.

21

THE AFTERNOON HAD been uneventful and the hospital ward was as peaceful as a lake in summer.

Sabina Rupius was a graduate of the prestigious Rudolfinerhaus – where only girls of 'good family' were admitted for a thorough education in nursing. The institution had a reputation for producing conscientious professionals. Yet her mind was adrift.

She was supposed to be preparing the medication trolley. But between checking the dosage of Frau Auerbach's gelatin chloral hydrate capsules and pouring Frau Bertram's mentholated linctus, she had become distracted by her own thoughts and was now fully immersed in a daydream, the subject of which was Doctor Stefan Kanner.

There was no doubting it – Doctor Kanner was an exceedingly handsome man. Sabina formed a mental picture of his face and contemplated the unnatural blueness of his eyes. Even thinking about them produced a curious sensation in the pit of her stomach and made her cheeks burn. He was so particular about his dress – so fastidious. And when he stood close, the fragrance of his cologne was intoxicating.

Nurse Rupius shook her head.

This won't do. This really won't do at all.

She forced herself to focus her attention on the pot of chloral hydrate capsules. Counting out Frau Auerbach's prescription again, she replaced the heavy lid with a sigh.

A strand of thick auburn hair fell from under Nurse Rupius's cap. She tutted, lifted it back into place, and secured it with a pin. Inspecting her reflection on the metal surface of the trolley, she admired her handiwork.

I have large eyes – and a delicate chin. I am not unattractive.

Looking up, she noticed that the English governess had walked over to Fräulein Dill's bed and the two women were engaged in polite conversation.

Nurse Rupius removed the cork from the dark green bottle of mentholated linctus and, measuring out two teaspoons, transferred the syrup into a small glass. Then, sitting down, she made a note on Frau Auerbach's and Frau Bertram's charts.

The young woman and the English governess continued to talk in subdued voices. Nurse Rupius had not yet recovered from her daydream, and the image of Doctor Kanner's face still haunted her imagination, interposing itself between her and the two patients. Through the transparent shadow of Kanner's benign visage, Rupius saw the Dill girl uncover her needlepoint.

Again, Sabina Rupius shook her head to dispel the image.

Dill held up her unfinished needlepoint for the English governess to inspect. Then she produced a small basket from which she took a ball of wool and a pair of scissors.

The English governess's smile vanished. It was a dramatic change, like the sun being swallowed by a cloud. Suddenly she looked fearful – troubled. Nurse Rupius watched as Fräulein Dill tried to comfort her, but the young woman's efforts had no effect. The governess had become completely unresponsive. Her face was locked in an attitude of terror, and her frozen stare was fixed on the wool and scissors.

'Nurse?' Fräulein Dill called out. 'Nurse, I think something's wrong.'

Nurse Rupius got up and went to Dill's bed.

'What is it, Fräulein Dill?'

'We were talking,' said the young woman. 'And all of a sudden, the English Fräulein just stopped. She started looking at me in a funny way – as though she was scared.'

Sabina Rupius bent down and rested a hand on the governess's shoulder.

'Miss Lydgate?' She shook the Englishwoman a little. 'Miss Lydgate? What is the matter?'

The English governess did not reply. It was as though she was suffering from catalepsy; yet her left hand was gripping her right arm very tightly. So tightly, in fact, that the nails had broken the papery skin and bright beads of blood had begun to seep out.

'Nurse?' Sabina Rupius looked up to see that Miss Lydgate's rictus of terror was being mirrored on the face of Fräulein Dill.