Amelia Lydgate's pewter eyes glowed in the dying light.

Liebermann graciously accepted that he might be mistaken and then set about describing the crime scene: Fräulein Löwenstein, reclining on the chaise longue, her heart ruined by an impossible bullet. The note on the table, and the Japanese box with its demonic occupant. He did not describe any of the suspects, nor how the investigation had proceeded to date.

When he had finished, Miss Lydgate remained silent. Then, noticing the failing light, she rose from her chair and lit the nearest gas lamp. She performed these actions without speaking to or so much as glancing at Liebermann. She seemed wholly absorbed, her forehead lined by a customary frown.

'I could take you to the apartment,' said Liebermann, 'if it would help.'

She sat down and poured herself another cup of tea.

'What kind of lock was it?'

'On the sitting-room door?'

'Yes.'

'I don't really know.'

'A warded lock? A lever tumbler? A detector?'

'I'm sorry. . .' Liebermann raised his hands helplessly, indicating that he had no further knowledge to declare.

'Never mind,' said Amelia Lydgate. 'You noticed nothing remarkable about its design? There was nothing odd about it?'

'No. It was just an ordinary lock.'

'Good.'

'Inspector Rheinhardt would not object to our visiting the apartment, I'm sure we could—'

'No, Doctor Liebermann,' the young woman said firmly. 'That won't be necessary. But I'd be most grateful if you would bring me both keys – the key to the sitting-room door and the key to the Japanese box. I would like to examine them.'

Her face was impassive and, in a way that resisted analysis, tempered by a subtle beauty.



76

BEATRICE SCHELLING TIPTOED up the stairs, past the hissing gas lamps, ascending into the upper region of the house where light gave way to shadow. She fumbled in her dressing gown for a candle and, having lit it with a match, continued her journey. The sound came again – indistinct but undoubtedly real. Beatrice held her breath so that she could hear better, but found that her heart was thumping in her ears.

Creeping across the landing, she came to the last flight of stairs. They were uncarpeted and she had to negotiate them with even greater care. Stepping out of her slippers, she grasped the banister and pulled herself upward. The wood protested, groaning under her weight. Beatrice froze, paused, and gingerly placed the ball of her foot on the next step.

On reaching the attic area she heard the susurration again. It sounded like sobbing. Beatrice approached the door ahead and pressed her ear against one of its panels. She imagined the girl on the other side, sitting on her bed, her knees pulled up against her chest, abundant tears soaking her cheap nightdress. The new maid had recently arrived in Vienna from the country. She was slight, with curly brown hair – little more than a child.

The whimpering increased in volume.

Beatrice's instinct was to turn the door handle and enter the room – to place her arm around the poor girl's shoulder and console her.

You miss your mother and father, of course you do. But you will see them again in the autumn. Don't fret, my dear.

She had done the same when the previous maid had been tearful, and the maid before her – a beautiful creature from Croatia with jet-black hair and bright blue eyes. But Beatrice could no longer play her part. She was weary of the role, and knew that her lines would be delivered without conviction. Moreover, she was perfectly well aware that the ponderous step that had descended the attic stairs some thirty minutes earlier had belonged to her husband. Far below, in the entrance hall, a clock struck the second hour of the morning.

The whimpering subsided, to be replaced by a pathetic sniffling.

A drop of hot candle wax fell on to Beatrice's foot. She did not flinch but remained still, allowing the burning sensation to increase briefly in intensity. She found it perversely satisfying. The pain was in some obscure way redeeming. It seemed to purify her soul.

Behind the door the girl seemed to be drifting into a fitful sleep. All that Beatrice could hear now was a continuous sotto voce grizzling.

Beatrice straightened her back and walked – perhaps less cautiously now – to the edge of the landing. She paused for a moment, sighed, and blew out the candle.

When she reached her husband's study, she switched on the lamp. From his desk she took a sheet of creamy paper. Staring at its blankness, she began composing a letter. It began: Dear Amelia . . .



77

NURSE RUPIUS AND Stefan Kanner approached each other from opposite directions. Both were wearing their outdoor coats.

'Good evening, Sabina.'

'Herr Doctor . . .'

They turned along the main corridor and continued walking side by side.

'Please call me Stefan.' He made a show of looking at his pocket watch. 'We are no longer at work.'

Nurse Rupius's cheeks coloured a little at his familiarity.

'Do you have far to go?'

'Josefstadt.'

'Not very far, then.'

'No.'

Kanner was desperate to keep the conversation going, but could not think of anything else to say. Sabina Rupius came to his assistance.

'And you, Herr Doc—' she broke off. 'Stefan?'

'Oh, Mariahilf.'

'Have you lived there long?'

'No. I moved from Döbling in January.'

'I have fond memories of Mariahilf. My father used to take me to see

The Magic Flute

there – every Christmas, or so it seemed.'

'The Am der Wien?'

'Yes.'

'A lovely old theatre. It's just been done up, you know.'

'Has it?'

'I go quite often. Do you still go to the theatre?'

'Not as much as I should, or would like to.'

She turned her head. Her eyes glistened.

Is she expecting me to ask?

It certainly looks that way.

Kanner swallowed nervously; however, as he prepared to speak, the opportunity that had presented itself was suddenly lost. Ahead, he noticed the approach of Brunnhilde Grützner – the surliest of hospital matrons. He watched as Nurse Rupius's expression changed from anticipation through dismay to disappointment.

Matron Grützner greeted them from a distance: 'Good evening, Herr Doctor.' Then, looking at Sabina with undisguised disapproval, she added curtly: 'Nurse Rupius.'

'Good evening, Matron,' they replied in unison while unconsciously moving apart. It was common knowledge that the Matron took a very dim view of young nurses socialising with doctors. The woman seemed to possess an almost preternatural gift for detecting nascent romance.

Kanner waited for Matron Grützner's footsteps to fade before attempting to pick up the threads of their broken conversation.

'Did you know,' said Kanner, 'the very first performance of The Magic Flute took place in that theatre.'

'Yes,' said Sabina Rupius, thinking that it might have been more advantageous to feign ignorance. 'Yes, I did know that.'

They both managed to smile but neither could ignore the undercurrent of shared embarrassment. Fortunately, they were rescued from this conversational quagmire by the unexpected appearance of several men outside Professor Gruner's room: porters, dressed in brown aprons and carrying large boxes towards the staircase.

'Is he going?' whispered Rupius.

'It looks like he's gone,' said Kanner, glancing into Gruner's room.

'Your friend will be pleased.'

Stefan laughed: 'Yes, he will. Gruner and Max never got on – it has to be said.'

'I wonder what happened?'

'The inquiry – he must have been dismissed.'

'Or he could have resigned.'

'Extraordinary.'

'Will we have a new professor?'

'Indeed– let's hope the new one is an improvement on the old one.'

Nodding to some porters at the head of the stairs, they made their way to the ground floor. Although they did not speak, the silence was no longer uncomfortable.

When they reached the foyer, Kanner felt a curious sense of urgency. They would step outside and go their separate ways – she to Josefstadt, he to Mariahilf. He must do something, say something.

The evening was pleasantly warm and they both paused on the hospital steps. Sabina Rupius looked up at her companion – the look of expectation had returned.

'Sabina . . .' said Kanner. 'Would you like to go to the theatre? Tomorrow evening? Of course, I would understand if—'

'I would be delighted, Stefan,' said Nurse Rupius, her face glowing.

'Well . . . that's excellent. Excellent,' said Kanner.

They stood looking at each other for a few moments before Sabina Rupius said: 'I must go.'

She glanced quickly around the courtyard and, seeing that it was empty, offered Kanner her hand. He took it and kissed her fingers.

Nurse Rupius smiled, turned and walked away – her hips swaying with each unhurried step.



78

AMELIA LYDGATE STOOD by her newly acquired laboratory bench. An umbilical pipe of red rubber dropped from a gaslight fitting to a battered Bunsen burner, and a conspicuously large microscope stood next to a row of empty test tubes. The surface of the bench was heavily scored, suggesting to Liebermann that Miss Lydgate had purchased this bulky piece of furniture from one of the junk shops near the hospital.

The curtains were open and the attic room was filled with light. The young governess's hair was pinned back but its colours were particularly vibrant – streaks of ochre, rust and gold. As usual, she was dressed plainly but effectively: a simple white blouse and a long grey skirt. She looked slender and willowy, in possession of a disarmingly fragile hauteur.

'I have the keys,' said Liebermann.

Reaching into his pocket, he took out two envelopes and handed them to Miss Lydgate. She opened both and tipped the keys onto her work bench.

'The larger is the key to the sitting room,' continued Liebermann. 'The smaller is the one for Fräulein Löwenstein's Japanese box.'

Amelia Lydgate picked up the larger key and seemed to be judging its weight in her right hand. She then raised it above her head and turned it in the sunlight. Her expression was particularly intense.

'What are you looking for?' asked Liebermann.

Miss Lydgate did not reply. She was completely absorbed in her task. Carefully placing the larger key on the laboratory bench, she picked up the smaller one and repeated the weighing and inspection procedures.

Liebermann could not prevent himself from admiring her figure. Anorexia had narrowed her frame, but now, as her recovery progressed, she was becoming more shapely. Her small bosom and the curvature of her hips was more pronounced. As his gaze wandered over her body, he felt a frisson of arousal, which immediately curdled with guilt. He remembered Katherine – the clinging hospital gown – the suggestion of her sex straining against constricting fibres – her naked feet and the ivory-white skin of her ankles . . .

'Very interesting,' said Amelia Lydgate.

'What is?' asked Liebermann, his voice humbled by a prickling sense of shame.

Again the young woman did not reply. But Liebermann was not offended. She was obviously lost in thought. Moreover, he was satisfied, at that moment, not to become the focus of interest for those enquiring eyes.

Miss Lydgate pulled a high stool from under the bench and, standing on tiptoe, managed to push herself up to sit on the elevated wooden seat. She then reached for the microscope – a beautiful instrument made from lacquered brass and black enamelled iron. It was obviously heavy, and she held her breath as she moved it. Placing the larger key on the silver viewing plate, she leaned over the eyepiece and turned the revolving turret of lenses. While adjusting the coarse- and fine-adjustment wheels, she tilted the mirror to get more light. Her movements had a certain fluency – an ease that indicated many hours spent in scientific study. It was unusual to see a woman so comfortable with a piece of optical technology.

She removed the larger key and replaced it with the smaller one.

'Doctor Liebermann? Are you carrying any keys?'

'Yes.'

'May I see them, please?'

Liebermann handed her two bunches.

'These are my apartment keys – and these are from the hospital.'

'Thank you.'

Amelia Lydgate systematically examined each key, occasionally changing the lens to increase or reduce levels of magnification. While she was still looking into the microscope, she said: 'Doctor Liebermann, would you be so kind as to fetch the key from my bedroom door – the second on the right as you leave this room.'

'Of course.'

Liebermann left the room and opened the second door, as instructed. The curtains were drawn and the room was filled with a dusky half-light. His gaze lingered on the bed, the cover of which was half off. The sheets were rumpled in a pattern of concentric loops – like sand on a beach at low tide. The mattress was depressed slightly, retaining in its tired springs the impression of her body. He removed the key from the lock and closed the door softly behind him.

When he entered the 'laboratory' Miss Lydgate was still bent over the microscope, her fingers deftly exchanging keys and rotating lenses. Hearing Liebermann approach, she extended her open palm. He placed the key in her hand.

'Thank you,' she said, without looking up. Her fingers closed around the key, which she immediately placed under the microscope.

'Yes,' she said. 'Just as I thought.'

Then, raising her head, she beckoned Liebermann closer.

'If you would care to look at this key first.'

Liebermann looked into the eyepiece and saw a slightly flecked metal surface.

'It is the key to my bedroom. And now, the key from Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment. What do you see?'

Liebermann adjusted his glasses and squinted.

'It looks like . . . it looks like the metal is marked. With a pattern?'

'Indeed.'

The key was ridged with minute parallel lines.

'The pattern appears on both sides,' continued Miss Lydgate.

She was standing very close and her proximity was somewhat distracting. Her dress material rustled loudly when she moved.

'And now – the small key from the Japanese box.'

Amelia Lydgate placed the smaller key under the objective.

'Another pattern,' said Liebermann.

'No,' said the young woman, rather petulantly. 'The same pattern, Herr Doctor. Only smaller. It does not appear on any of the other keys – and I suspect that we should not find anything similar even if we had a much larger assortment to examine.'

Liebermann stood up straight and looked into Miss Lydgate's eyes. Her expression was still calm and unemotional. She did not appear self-satisfied and there was nothing in her bearing that suggested she was in need of a compliment.

'What does this mean?' asked Liebermann.

'I think,' replied Amelia Lydgate, 'that it means we can confidently reject a supernatural explanation.'



79

THE LETTER FROM England had been placed among his other correspondence. She had wanted to ask about it – and had even dropped some hints – but her husband had not been forthcoming. He dismissed her enquiries and assumed a somewhat patronizing air.

'My dear, how tired you look. Perhaps you should leave the children with Marie again. Go out and buy yourself something – a new pair of gloves, perhaps.'

Before leaving, he had said, almost in passing, that he was interviewing another governess: a fine, virtuous young woman – recommended to him by Schmidt, one of the Mayor's colleagues. Nothing like poor Amelia. A hardy German. Healthy, stolid, someone who would set a good example for the children.

The door closed and Beatrice Schelling was left standing in the hallway, feeling dizzy and confused. It was as though she had become lost in her own home, and did not know where to go or which way to turn. A clock struck the hour. The day would proceed, with her or without her.

The children were delighted to see their aunt again. They threw their arms around Marie's neck and kissed her plump, pink face.

'Children, children! How lovely to see you again.'

Beatrice felt something unpleasant stirring in her belly. The swelling of a dark emotion – a corrosive mixture of envy and hurt. When the bile had drained from her stomach, she felt dry and empty.

As she and Marie chatted, Beatrice felt entirely dissociated. She listened to her own voice as though it belonged to someone else. It was like eavesdropping.

'I need to go to the lingerie shop on Dingelstedstrasse and, if I have time, to Taubenrauch's. We have to attend a function in a few weeks and I can't wear the same dress again. The navy-blue taffeta – you've seen it, I'm sure. Frau Förster never wears the same dress twice.'

Beatrice piped on like a church organist improvising around an inauspicious theme. When she felt that the performance had lasted long enough, she simply stopped and excused herself. It had been her custom to raise the contentious subject of Demel's just before her departure, but on this occasion, she said nothing. Today, Edward and Adele could eat as much chocolate as they liked.

'Say goodbye to your mother!' Marie called out to the children, who were already playing noisily on the stairs.

'No, it's all right – let them play,' Beatrice said distractedly, affecting a tepid smile.

She did not go to Dingelstedstrasse or to the ladies' outfitters. Instead, she wandered the streets, drifting, by degrees, in a southerly direction. Eventually she found herself standing by one of the new station entrances on Karlsplatz. Her husband had said that they were a disgrace and that the architect should be shot. Beatrice had agreed, but looking at them now she could not understand why some people found them so offensive. The green wrought-iron framework of the two pavilions reminded her of a conservatory.

Beyond the pavilions was the massive Karlskirche. Its huge Italianate dome was flanked by giant columns. Scenes from the life of St Borromeo, in relief, spiralled to the top of each, where gilded Habsburg eagles had made their eyries.

What was in that letter? What had the girl said?

Would there be a scandal? Would they accuse her, too?

A tram bell sounded and a gentleman grabbed her arm, pulling her back on to the pavement.

A flash of red and white.

'I beg your pardon, madam – but the tram . . .'

'Yes, of course, how silly of me.'

'You must be more careful.'

'Indeed. Thank you.'

Stepping backwards, Beatrice hurried off into the crowd.

At the tram stop passengers were climbing aboard. She joined the queue and, without thinking, mounted the vehicle's platform and found herself a seat. She was oblivious to the journey, and eventually found herself delivered outside the mock Renaissance edifice of the Süd-bahnhoff.

The booking hall was like a palace. A glorious stone staircase ascended and diverged, leading to two high arches: the banisters were festooned with artificial candelabra, as tall as apple trees, and an austere white light streamed through high windows.

Beatrice stood under the clear glass globes of the cast-iron lampposts, and watched the people coming and going, the busy throng of the concourse. After composing herself, she visited the post office and deposited the letter she had written in the early hours of Tuesday morning. She then returned to the booking hall, where she examined the destination board.

There were so many places.

Baden, Wiener-Neustadt, Semmering . . .

Bruck an der Mur (Klangfurt, Meran, Udine, Venice).

Graz (Marburg, Agram Trieste).

Beatrice glided towards one of the ticket booths where she purchased a single to Trieste.

The clerk looked at her.

'Single, madam?'

'Yes, single.'

Clutching her ticket, she walked to the platform area.

Two servant girls passed, giggling into their hands; a soldier in a long coat stood with a large pack on his back; three middle-aged men, looking remarkably similar, with turned-up moustaches and bowler hats, were discussing business. Beatrice continued her journey, and was no longer sure whether the Süd-bahnhoff was real or a dream.

A stationmaster caught her attention.

'No need to go any further, madam.'

She paused. But when the man had gone she continued placing one foot in front of the other.

The platform began to tremble. In the distance, she saw the approaching engine. A whistle sounded.

She stared at the sleepers, which were covered in sand and coal dust.

Shame pressed down on her.

It would not be difficult – and, if she landed in the right place, it would be painless.



80

THEY HAD DINED on caviar, sardines, goose liver, and pheasant's eggs in aspic, washed down with two bottles of Asti and followed by the sweetest pineapple. Coffee was served with cognac pastilles, each delicately wrapped in silver foil. They had intended to leave an hour earlier, but somehow satiety, slivovitz and cigars kept them seated. None of the other tables were occupied, and a hovering waiter suggested that they had overstayed their welcome.

'We had a splendid time,' said Kanner. 'The play was excellent, and afterwards we walked the length of the Naschmarkt . . . I couldn't take my eyes off her. You know, Max, I have to admit that I haven't felt this way in a long time.'

'But Stefan, you said much the same thing of that shop girl – what was her name?'

'Gabrielle.'

'And the singer?'

'Cora.'

'And, if I'm not mistaken, the actress?'

'Emilie.'

'So how is Nurse Rupius different?'

'She just is . . .' said Kanner, making a circle in the air with his cigar. A flake of ash traced a figure of eight as it floated down to the table. 'I can't explain it. Which makes me more inclined to trust the authenticity of my affection.'

'You are a romantic, Stefan.'

'There are some things in our nature that defy analysis, Max – and love is one of them.'

'Ahh . . .' said Liebermann, leaning forward and clutching the edge of the table with both hands. 'So you are in love with Nurse Rupius.'

'Well, put it this way – Cupid might not have landed an arrow yet but he's certainly emptied a quiverful in my direction.'

The waiter coughed.

Liebermann looked at his wristwatch and noticed that he was having some difficulty focusing. The hands blurred, making it difficult for him to establish the exact hour. He should have refused the slivovitz.

'It's not time to go yet, is it?' asked Kanner.

Liebermann shrugged and lifted his glass. He swilled the contents around and took a sip. As the warmth spread through his body, he felt his purchase on reality slip a little more.

'I wonder what really draws two people together?'

The question he posed was involuntary, finding expression as soon as the thought formed in his mind.

'Fate,' said Kanner, with mock solemnity.

'We need fate to bring us together, undoubtedly. If two people never meet, it's unlikely that they'll fall in love. But assuming that fate works in their favour . . .'

'I don't know why you're asking me, Max – you're the one who's engaged to be married!'

'Seriously, Stefan . . .'

Kanner drew on his cigar and grimaced: 'It has to be said, it isn't easy to fall in love with an ugly woman.'

'We fall in love with beauty, then?'

'Beauty certainly sharpens desire.'

'Then why don't we fall in love with every attractive woman?'

Kanner paused for a moment and, looking somewhat perplexed, exclaimed: 'Perhaps I do!' A beat of silence was followed by a quick burst of laughter. 'What does your friend Professor Freud have to say about love?'

'Not much,' Liebermann replied. 'He is more taxed by sexuality. But I gather he takes a rather dim view of romance. He believes that love is a kind of symptom that arises through the repression of libido.'

'Mmmm . . . which implies that once one has become intimate with a woman, passion cools?'

'Bluntly, yes.'

'He has a point . . . don't you think?'

Perhaps that was all it was, then: this dull ache, this longing to be with her – an urge, and nothing more. Something that he could master, like any other basic drive. If only he tried harder, it might be like skipping a meal or putting off sleep. But in truth Liebermann knew that this wasn't so. His attachment, for that was what it had become, was more complex.

'I don't agree with everything Freud says. I can't help feeling that the pleasure we derive from the company of a woman – a woman with whom one has formed an attachment – is more than just a frustrated animal instinct.'

'Now who is being romantic?'

'You misunderstand me, Stefan,' Liebermann continued. 'I am not referring to anything mystical or magical. What I mean is that there are more factors than just libido to consider. We are prone to desire, of course, but don't we also seek companionship, conversation? The comforting proximity of a kindred spirit?'

'Yes, but not all of us are lucky enough to have found her.' Kanner raised his glass. 'To the future bride!'

Liebermann could hardly bear the irony of their conversation, the cruel cross-purposes. The fug of his alcoholic stupor suddenly closed around him, making him feel cut off from Kanner, the restaurant, and, indeed, the whole of Vienna.

'Stefan . . .'

A note of desperation had entered Liebermann's voice.

'Yes?' his companion replied.

'I'm not always sure that . . . You know, sometimes I think . . .' He looked at Kanner, who was smiling foolishly.

What wise counsel could he expect from his friend now? If he had meant to take Kanner into his confidence he should have done so at the beginning of the evening. 'Oh, it doesn't matter.'

Kanner's hand dropped to the table, splashing the starched white tablecloth with slivovitz.

Liebermann beckoned the waiter and snapped: 'The bill, please. We're ready to leave.'





Part Six


The Riesenrad



81

AMELIA LYDGATE CLIMBED the steps of the university like a pilgrim, at once awed and giddy with excitement. The atmosphere of scholarship affected her being like a cleansing balm, emollient and soothing. In such a place she might leave the world behind, forgetting its vain preoccupations, empty chatter and tiresome emotional complexities, and seek solace in a universe of absolute values – the unquestionable certainties of science. Her destiny, she determined, was connected with these stones.

She paused and glanced upwards. The university was a beautiful construction, built in the style of a Renaissance palace. Its dimensions would have made a merchant prince envious. Along the rooftop, figures looked down on her like a detachment of guardian angels. Amelia took a deep, tremulous breath, and stepped beneath the shelter of three massive arches. If there were such things as benign protective agencies, they had been considerate of her fate.

Only a few months earlier, it had seemed that her ambition to study medicine in this Mecca of learning would never be realised. Yet now everything had become possible again. Doctor Liebermann had come by chance into her life, transforming her circumstances. Fear and shame had been replaced by hope and quiet optimism. Amelia suspected that she would never be able to repay Doctor Liebermann for his kind ministrations; however, she had resolved to show her gratitude by assisting him with his police work.

She pressed her palm against the heavy door of iron and glass.

The foyer was shrouded in perpetual twilight, an amber gloaming never relieved by sunlight or the sulphurous inadequacy of the artificial lighting. A forest of columns, like prehistoric tree trunks, ascended to a vaulted ceiling of bas-relief concavities. Although it was early evening the university was still buzzing with activity and conversation (lectures began before dawn and continued until eight o'clock in the evening). Knots of students gathered in the shadows, while others trailed behind frock-coated sages. One of the professors sported a long white beard that dropped well below his waistband. Amelia was amused by his retinue, all of whom had followed his example and had grown beards of similar length.

Among these masculine crowds Amelia caught sight of only one other woman, marching briskly through the sea of waistcoats, wing collars and pinstriped trousers. As the lone female passed they acknowledged each other, as two countrymen might in a foreign land. There was a flash of recognition, the registration of surprise, followed by a smile of solidarity. Encouraged by this encounter, Amelia approached the porter.

'Good evening, sir.'

The man looked up and examined her with a look on his face that could only be described as sceptical.

'I have an appointment to see Professor Holz,' Amelia continued. 'Could you please direct me to the department of physical sciences?'

The porter issued some peremptory directions but seemed disinclined to be anything more than minimally helpful.

The corridor that intersected the foyer led to a grand double staircase, the stone balustrades of which supported cast-iron gas-lamps. At the summit of each post a trio of opaque globes emitted a weak light. The walls of the enormous stairwell were high and, although decorated in baroque relief, had a pleasing simplicity. Black marble columns supported what looked like a gallery, and the remote curved ceiling captured the last remnants of the day's afterglow through high arched windows.

Amelia reached the top of the stairs, after which the porter's miserly directions became impossible to follow. Excusing herself, she asked a young man in a short cape for directions. He laughed and said that he had only just finished attending Professor's Holz's interminable class. He insisted on escorting Amelia to a small lecture theatre where the professor was still examining some equations on the blackboard.

'Herr Professor,' called the young man. The professor did not turn, merely pushing his hand back as if repelling an assailant. The young man grinned inanely. He tried again: 'Herr Professor, a young lady to see you.'

This time the professor pulled himself away from his work and looked up the aisle.

'You will excuse me,' whispered the young man to Amelia. 'The pleasure is now undoubtedly all yours.' He winked impertinently and scurried off.

'Yes!' demanded Professor Holz.

'My name is Miss Amelia Lydgate. You kindly agreed to see me this evening.'

'Ahh . . .' said the professor. 'Did I? Very well, come in, and sit there for a moment, will you?' He motioned towards a seat and added: 'I won't be long.' Amelia lifted her skirts slightly, and made her way down the precipitous wooden stairs. The professor returned his attention to the blackboard, which he attacked – violently – with a stub of chalk. A stream of Greek letters and relational symbols appeared, spreading across the dusty surface like a skin disease. Amelia sat on a bench in the front row and immediately applied herself to the professor's problem; however, she found it almost impossible to understand his purpose. Eventually the professor stopped, groaned and tossed the chalk on to the lectern. Amelia wanted to say something consoling but thought it better to remain silent.

'So, Miss Lydgate,' said the professor – still with his back to her and gazing at his fluxions – 'what can I do for you?'

'I have a question pertaining to your area of study.'

'You have a question concerning ballistics?'

'Yes, Herr Professor. I recently discovered your monograph on trajectory calculus, which I found most stimulating.'

The professor paused and, turning slowly, looked at Amelia properly for the first time. He peered through a pair of tortoiseshell pince-nez that balanced precariously at the end of his nose. His nostrils flared, like a wild animal testing the air for predators.

'Stimulating, you say?'

'Very much so, and I have a question – to do with projectiles and their integrity.' The professor continued to stare at her. 'I understand that you are a very busy man, Herr Professor, and I do not wish to waste your valuable time. For that reason, I have taken the liberty of expressing the problem in a formula – which I hope you will be kind enough to examine.'

Standing, Amelia took a sheet of foolscap from her bag and offered it to the professor. Holz condescended to look at her mathematics and almost immediately uttered a dismissive 'Pfha!'

Amelia paused respectfully before saying: 'There is an error?'

'My good woman,' said Holz, 'surely you do not mean to ascribe theta with these value parameters? An elementary mistake!'

Holz tossed the paper back at Amelia, who caught it before it fluttered to the floor.

'With the greatest respect,' said Amelia, 'it is not an elementary mistake. I have given theta these values for a very specific reason – because I am interested in answering a very specific question.'

The professor looked at Amelia again with renewed interest. He blinked, sniffed the air, and demanded: 'What sort of question?'



82

THE GIRL HAD fallen asleep. Before leaving, Braun paused to look at her. She was young, probably not much older than seventeen, and a Slav. Madam Matejka had said that she was originally from Galicia. Wherever Felka came from, her German was terrible and Braun had had to mime his requirements. The girl had watched him with intelligent, serious eyes before carrying out his instructions with unexpected industry and imagination.

Felka uttered a few unintelligible words in her sleep, made some mewling sounds, and then rolled over. The blanket fell from her body, revealing a pleasing landscape of fleshy contours that swept towards a patch of tight black curls. She was still wearing her cotton stockings and garters.

Experiencing an odd and uncharacteristic combination of pity and gratitude, Braun found some loose change in his pocket – a pitiful clutch of ten-heller silver coins – which he left on the table. (The girl would see very little of the money he had given to Madam Matejka.) In the cold grate, he noticed a stick and a sponge lying in a bowl of cloudy liquid. Felka had forgotten to douche – but that wasn't his problem. Braun shrugged and crept to the door.

The floorboards creaked as he walked along the upstairs landing. A gust of wind rattled the casement and his candle flickered in his grip. With his other hand touching the mildewed wall, he made his way cautiously to the rickety stairs. Before he reached the bottom he peered over the banister. The room was, as usual, poorly lit, and a woolly haze of thick smoke hung in the air. Two gentlemen were occupying the deep sofas. The first was unconscious, scrunched up, looking like a pile of discarded rags. The other was sitting straighter, drawing on a bubbling hookah. The second man was Count Záborszky.

Braun felt a surge of anxiety, but his depleted body was too weak to sustain the emotion. His heart, after the briefest of accelerations, slowed to a more pedestrian beat and his breathing became regular.

He clumped down the stairs, walked to the low Turkish table and, placing the candle next to the hookah, slumped down next to the unconscious patron, whose form was no more discernibly human at close quarters. Braun squeezed the candle's flame out with his fingers, and watched the ascending thread of grey smoke wind upwards like the soul departing from a dead body.

Braun looked into Záborszky's eyes, which were dull and lifeless. The Count showed no sign of recognition – until he removed the hookah's mouthpiece and whispered: 'How is your hand, Braun?'

Braun smiled, and held it up. It was still bandaged.

The Count nodded, approvingly. Braun was unsure whether he was impressed by the dressing or pleased that the wound hadn't properly healed. The younger man produced a box of six handmade Egyptian cigarettes. The pale yellow wrapping papers were the same colour as the tobacco, threads of which protruded from either end.

'Which girl did you have?' asked the Count.

'Felka,' replied Braun, tamping the loose tobacco.

'The new one?'

'Yes.'

'Would you recommend her?'

'She was very conscientious.'

The Count inhaled and closed his eyes.

'That witch Matejka wouldn't let me have her.'

'Why not?'

'Thinks I'm too rough.'

'To be frank, I'm inclined to agree.'

The Count's eyes opened slowly and his lips curled upwards.

'I take it that you've heard about Hölderlin?' said Braun, finally lighting his cigarette.

'Of course.'

'It seems, then, that I owe you an apology.'

Záborszky executed a languorous benediction with crossed fingers – before releasing a deep, world-weary sigh. He drew on the hookah again and, after another lengthy silence, said: 'You were Fräulein Löwenstein's lover?'

Braun assented with a curt nod.

'And accomplice?' Záborszky added.

Braun nodded again, and let his body slide forward on the sofa.

'But the children were not yours.'

'No, they weren't mine.'

The Count brought his two hands together and, linking his fingers, made a dome. He was wearing so many rings that it looked as though he had magically conjured up a jewelled orb. A big emerald caught the light, producing a viridescent glimmer.

'Hölderlin,' said the Count. 'The bank manager. The devoted husband!' He began to laugh – a curious rapid barking that suddenly stopped dead. 'Who would have thought it?'

Their unconscious companion suddenly belched and sat bolt upright, looking around the room as if he had awakened from a nightmare only to find himself in the lower circles of hell.



83

LIEBERMANN TOOK THE letter and sat back in the armchair, letting his head rest on the antimacassar.

Dear Amelia – I know what he did to you. You were not the first and I know you will not be the last. I am truly sorry: forgive me. I should have done so much more but I did not have the courage to speak out. Beatrice.

'When did this arrive?' asked Liebermann.

'Thursday,' Miss Lydgate answered.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Outside, a church bell began to chime. The evening was drawing in.

'It is a tragedy,' said Amelia Lydgate. 'Especially for the children.'

'Indeed,' said Liebermann. 'I wonder what arrangements Minister Schelling will make for their care?'

'Edward and Adele are very fond of their Aunt Marie. I hope that he has the good sense to seek her assistance. She is a childless widow and will love the children as if they were her own, of that I am sure.'

Miss Lydgate rose from her seat, took a box of matches from the mantelpiece and lit a gas lamp.

'But what are your own feelings, Miss Lydgate? Concerning Frau Schelling? Her death is a terrible tragedy – but this –' Liebermann raised the letter '– is also a dreadful admission.'

The young woman sat down and stared directly at Liebermann. In the gaslight her metallic-hued eyes had turned a pellucid shade of blue.

'I pity her, Doctor Liebermann. By keeping silent, she undoubtedly colluded with her husband – but what else could she do? Had Frau Schelling petitioned for divorce, she would have encountered terrible disapproval. The Catholic church is not renowned for its liberal attitude to the dissolution of the marriage bond. Edward and Adele would have been stigmatised and Herr Schelling's political career might have suffered, which in turn would have affected the children's financial security. Even worse, Frau Schelling's complaints and grievances might have been misconstrued as abnormal symptoms. I dare say that during the ensuing conflict her voice might have become raised, her speech more excited, her passions more violent, and then what?' Amelia Lydgate smiled sadly. 'There are many, particularly in your profession, Herr Doctor, who would associate such unfeminine behaviour with mental illness. Frau Schelling might have found herself incarcerated in the General Hospital or even at Am Steinhof. Herr Schelling's behaviour was despicable, but I am not naive, Doctor Liebermann. Men like Herr Schelling are not so unusual in this city, or in any other European capital – nor is the silent suffering of the women whom they subjugate.'

'You pity her because you identify with her.'

'Of course. All women know what it is like to be caught on the horns of an impossible dilemma, and all women share a precarious fate. We tread an acrobat's wire, delicately weighing and balancing our own needs and desires against the needs and desires of men. And if we deviate from this narrow wire – we fall.'

Liebermann felt disturbed by her speech – even accused.

'Please excuse me, Herr Doctor,' Miss Lydgate continued, detecting his discomfort. 'You did not ask me for so forthright an opinion. And I may have caused you some offence.'

'No, not at all . . .' he replied. 'I . . . I have much sympathy with your view. Women are ill served by our society, and by medicine. There are some doctors in Vienna who still believe women are uniquely vulnerable to hysteria on account of their having a wandering womb. There is much to be achieved.'

Liebermann handed the letter back to Amelia Lydgate who folded it in two and placed it on the table.

'Perhaps,' said the young governess, 'when there are more women doctors, such risible ideas will attract the scorn they deserve.'

'I hope so,' said Liebermann with evident sincerity.

Their conversation progressed naturally to the subject of women's suffrage – a cause which seemed to have attracted more vociferous advocates in London than in Vienna. Liebermann acknowledged that his countrymen, particularly those who sympathised with the Pan-German movement, were violently against women's involvement in politics or public life. As far as the Pan-Germans were concerned, the education of females should serve only one purpose: preparation for motherhood. Although the university had opened its doors to female medical students, the principle had been opposed by the entire faculty. It was only when old Franz Josef himself had insisted that the Muslim women of Bosnia must have female physicians that the concession had been made. Moreover, it was still impossible for a woman to study law and there seemed to be little prospect of change.

When the opportunity arose, Amelia Lydgate excused herself and returned with a pot of tea. Liebermann was conscious of a certain irony. After expressing such militant views concerning women's rights, the young Englishwoman was curiously compliant with respect to one particular gender convention. She would not permit Liebermann to pour his own tea.

Miss Lydgate tilted the pot and the hot liquid bubbled and steamed into his teacup. 'Oh, incidentally,' she said casually. 'I have given the matter of your murder inquiry some more thought.'

'Really?' said Liebermann, sitting up in his chair. 'And have you reached any conclusions?'

'Yes,' said the young woman. 'I have.'

Liebermann craned forward.

'Would you like some milk, Doctor Liebermann?'

'No, thank you, Miss Lydgate.'

'Are you sure? I always find that a splash of dairy improves the flavour of Earl Gray immeasurably.'

'I really am quite happy to forgo the pleasure – but thank you, nevertheless.'

Miss Lydgate's expression became earnest as she tipped the milk jug, allowing a carefully calculated quantity to spill out into her own cup.

'You were saying . . .' said Liebermann.

'Oh yes, forgive me, Herr Doctor. The murder . . .'

She placed the jug back on the tea tray.

'With regard to the autopsy results and that mysterious bullet wound . . . It seems to me that such an effect could be achieved in two ways. Firstly, by using an ice projectile. Ordinary water, frozen in a bullet-shaped mould, could be inserted into the chamber of a revolver and employed as conventional ammunition. The bullet would – of course – melt away. However, there are some obvious problems with this method. Although a frozen-water bullet might feasibly produce a wound identical to that inflicted by a metal counterpart, it might not be very . . . reliable. A frozen bullet could easily shatter in the chamber. And then there is the problem of refrigeration. I take it there was no means of refrigeration close by? There was no ice store? It had not been snowing?'

'No.'

'Well, then, it is most unlikely the murderer used this method.'

'You said there was another way?'

'Yes – a second, much simpler way. It is more reliable and does not require refrigeration.'

She picked up her teacup and took a sip.

'Miss Lydgate.' Liebermann clasped his hands together, his knuckles whitening. 'I would be most grateful if—'

'Indeed, I am being dilatory and you are impatient to hear my conclusion.'

What she said next was so extraordinary, so compelling, that Liebermann could barely suppress his excitement. Moreover, he now knew who it was who had killed Fräulein Löwenstein

.



84

THE OMNIBUS HAD made surprisingly good progress. It had already crossed the Danube Canal and was rattling up the wide thoroughfare of the Praterstrasse. Liebermann glanced at his watch and realised that he would be arriving too early. The conductor, a short, jovial man with a military moustache, shook his leather satchel and took another fare.

Liebermann's euphoria had subsided, leaving in its wake a rising sense of unease. When he had explained his scheme to Rheinhardt it had seemed faultless. But now, as he came closer to his destination, he wondered whether it was such a good idea after all. He might be wrong, in which case the consequences would be awkward and embarrassing, particularly for Rheinhardt. The Commissioner was sceptical, and his equivocation had been exacerbated by von Bulow's insistence that Hölderlin was about to make a full confession. But, on reflection, Liebermann determined that he was worried not so much about being wrong as being right. His scheme, formulated in a moment of heady excitement, was not foolproof. Things could go wrong.

Rheinhardt had made it quite clear that his friend should not consider himself under any obligation. He might choose to abandon his assignment at any point and would still retain the respect of Rheinhardt and his colleagues: You're a doctor, Max, not a police officer.

But in reality Liebermann knew that it wasn't so simple. Withdrawal was no longer an option. Now that he had embarked upon his task he must complete it. Failure to do so would be dishonourable – an abnegation of duty. It was precisely because he was a doctor, and not a policeman, that he had to proceed.

Should I have written a letter? To mother and father, to Clara? Just in case?

He chastised himself for being morbid – yet his exhortations were hollow. The unabated sense of foreboding folded the contents of his stomach like cream in a revolving churn. He found himself thinking about Amelia Lydgate. How would she fare in his absence? Would Landsteiner continue to help her? These were questions to which there were no answers. Yet the fact that he had posed them at all exposed the depth of his attachment – a factor that compounded rather than relieved his anxiety.

The omnibus slowed down.

'Not a very pleasant evening, is it, sir?' said the conductor.

'No,' Liebermann replied, standing up and flattening his coat against his trousers.

'Still, the rain might hold off – if we're lucky.'

'Perhaps . . .'

The conductor raised his cap, turned around and called out: 'Prater. Last stop. Prater.'

The other passengers – an ill-assorted assembly of young men – followed Liebermann as he jumped off the back platform. When the vehicle was empty, the driver, exposed to the elements in his open cabin, shook the reins and the horses moved forward.

The sky was indeed overcast, for which Liebermann was quietly thankful. There would be fewer people milling around the Volksprater. He looked up and caught sight of his destination for the first time: the awesome structure of the Riesenrad. It turned, like the principal cogwheel in a universal clock, ratcheting time, bringing Liebermann's fate steadily closer.

As he made his way down the Hauptallee, he could hear the sound of a barrel organ grinding out a simple, happy march – the bass part oscillating between a low C and its octave. The inane melody was soon competing with the cries of Prater folk who were trying to attract the attention of potential customers. The air began to smell of sausages.

Liebermann wandered into the labyrinth of marquees and pavilions: past the shooting hall, a wrestler's tent and the closed puppet theatre. Then he passed the double-arched entrance of 'Venice in Vienna' – a reconstruction of the famous canals, complete with singing gondoliers. Soon after, he came across a curious wooden cabin, its exterior painted with mystical scenes, the most striking of which appeared to be a mesmeric monk levitating a woman in white robes. A large board hung beside the curtained entrance, bearing a crudely painted upturned palm in a circle. The drapes suddenly parted and a man wearing a top hat poked his head out.

'Want to know your future, sir?'

'Unfortunately, I know it only too well.'

'No man knows his own fate, sir.'

'Then I am the exception.'

'The clairvoyant is very pretty . . .'

'I'm sure she is.'

'Face like an angel.'

'Thank you, but I'm afraid I must decline.'

The man shrugged and his head vanished behind the drapes as quickly as it had appeared.

Liebermann drifted away from the attractions and found himself standing on an open concourse. To his left was the Lustspieltheater, Restaurant Prohaska, and the four towers of the water chute. To his right were the low roofs of more entertainment buildings and the Café Eisvogel. Directly ahead, viewed from this angle, the Riesenrad had become an ellipse.

A gust of wind washed the concourse with a diaphanous veil of drizzle, sending a small group of men running towards the café. Luckily, the sprinkling was brief and light. Liebermann had neglected to bring an umbrella. He cleaned the rain off his spectacles and combed his damp hair back with his fingers. Looking at his watch, he took a deep breath and marched briskly towards the colossal wheel.

There was no queue at the kiosk. The Riesenrad was not a popular attraction on a dull evening – the damp haze would obscure the view. Even so, a steady trickle of thrill-seekers paid for their tickets and entered one of the thirty red gondolas, eager to experience the juddering ascent. While the wheel was stationary, the wind plucked a strange keening from its taut steel cords. Then, like a waking giant, the girders yawned and groaned as the wheel began to turn again.

Liebermann looked at his watch.

Ten minutes late.

He had expected him to be more punctual and hoped that this small error of judgement was not symptomatic of a more profound miscalculation. The red of the gondolas suddenly reminded Liebermann of blood-caked muslin – the horror of Karl Uberhorst's ruined face and exposed cortex. His adversary was not only clever but capable of inhuman brutality.

'Herr Doctor – forgive me.' Liebermann flinched. 'There was an accident on the Schweden-brucke and I was delayed.'

He turned slowly and was obliged to shake the new arrival's hand.



85

AN ATTENDANT CLOSED the gondola door and the two men stood on opposite sides of its cabin-like interior.

'I must say, Herr Doctor,' said Bruckmüller in his resonant bass, 'although I appreciate that the information in your possession is sensitive, was this really necessary?'

'I could think of no better place in which to have a wholly private conversation,' said Liebermann.

'Indeed,' said Bruckmüller. 'But I would have been perfectly happy to entertain you at my club. The rooms are excellent and the staff exemplary – the model of discretion.' The steel cords vibrated and the girders groaned as the wheel turned and the gondola lifted. 'On the telephone, you said that this new information concerns me directly.' Bruckmüller removed his bowler hat and placed it on a seat.

'It does,' said Liebermann. 'There have been a number of developments in the Löwenstein investigation.'

'Really? It was my understanding that the police have their man. Isn't that so?'

The gondola lurched as the wheel came to an abrupt halt and both men stumbled to retain their balance. Liebermann looked out of the window and saw that a soberly dressed man was being helped into the next gondola.

'Is there a problem?' asked Bruckmüller.

'No, I don't think so,' said Liebermann.

Bruckmüller repeated his original question: 'Well, Herr Doctor – isn't it so? Isn't it true that the police have their man? It said so in the Zeitung.'

'That is certainly Inspector von Bulow's opinion.'

'And mine, indeed. God in heaven! You were there – at Madame de Rougemont's. You saw how Hölderlin reacted.'

The gondola lifted again. This time the movement was more smooth.

Liebermann did not respond and Bruckmüller shifted uncomfortably. The big man's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

'Tell me, Herr Doctor – are you acting in an official capacity this evening?'

'Yes, I am.'

'Then why are you not accompanied?'

'As I said, the information in my possession is extremely sensitive.'

Bruckmüller was obviously dissatisfied with Liebermann's answer. But, after a moment's tense hesitation, he decided not to quibble. He nodded and produced a disingenuous flat smile.

'In which case, Herr Doctor, I would be most grateful if we could proceed.'

'Of course.'

Liebermann walked to the opposite window. His breath steamed the glass and he wiped it clear with his hand.

'I must begin by sharing with you some of the facts concerning Fräulein Löwenstein's history . . .' Through the criss-cross lattice of metalwork Liebermann watched the water chute produce two walls of high spray.

'It would seem,' continued Liebermann, 'that Fräulein Löwenstein was not, as members of your spiritualist circle asserted, a talented medium. Rather, she was an unsuccessful actress who in partnership with her lover sought to exploit the gullible for financial gain.'

'That is absurd, Herr Doctor! Hölderlin is a man of means.'

'Hölderlin was not her lover, Herr Bruckmüller.'

'But of course he was.'

'No, Herr Bruckmüller, her lover was Otto Braun – not an artist, as he would have you believe, but a stage magician. He very probably did his apprenticeship down there.' Liebermann glanced down at the Volksprater. 'The relationship between Charlotte Löwenstein and Braun had become strained and unhappy. Braun was becoming increasingly dissolute – you may have noticed some changes in his appearance yourself – and was amassing substantial debts. As a result, Fräulein Löwenstein realised that she could no longer depend on Braun to sustain her livelihood. An unreliable accomplice would inevitably jeopardise their little enterprise. Being a perceptive woman, she also recognised that her principal asset, her beauty, could not last for ever. In the fullness of time, Charlotte Löwenstein began to devise a plan that would provide her with long-term security. It involved the use of blackmail.'

Liebermann turned to catch Bruckmüller's expression. His veneer of bluff affability suddenly hardened and flaked away like dry scales. A ridge of muscle tightened beneath his jaw.

'She was a very attractive woman – wasn't she?' said Liebermann.

The wheel stopped to admit more passengers. The gondola rocked in the buffeting wind.

'Yes, she was.'

'I only saw photographs of her, and not very good ones at that. Even so, it was obvious that she was a woman of quite exceptional beauty. In the flesh she must have been . . . irresistible.' The Riesenrad creaked and groaned like the ropes and timbers of an ancient galleon. A string of electric lights suddenly flashed into brightness outside one of the restaurants on Austelungstrasse. 'Did you find her attractive, Herr Bruckmüller?'

The big man turned away and appeared to be admiring the view. He seemed to have vanquished his emotions again and was now quite composed.

'It would be a strange man who did not appreciate Fräulein Löwenstein's beauty. Yes, of course I found her attractive.'

'Attractive? Or, in truth, would it be more accurate to say irresistible?'

Bruckmüller laughed.

'Herr Doctor, are you really insinuating—'

The wheel began to move.

'She seduced you, Herr Bruckmüller.'

'That is an utterly ridiculous accusation.'

'And you would have been happy to retain her as your mistress indefinitely—'

'Herr Doctor!' Bruckmüller interrupted. 'You are testing my patience.'

'But unfortunately she became pregnant, at which point the nature of your relationship changed. She began to ask you for money – substantial sums, I imagine – which you obligingly provided. She was, after all, in quite a strong position. If she chose to announce that she was carrying your child, the ensuing scandal would have ruined your chances of marrying into the von Rath fortune – to say nothing of your political ambitions. And even if you did manage to survive the initial scandal, the likelihood of your marriage and reputation surviving the appearance of an illegitimate child – or children, in this case – would have been vanishingly small.'

Bruckmüller shook his head: 'Aren't you forgetting something rather important, Herr Doctor?'

'Hölderlin?'

'Indeed.'

'Fräulein Löwenstein was not entirely sure that she would be able to succeed with her plan. You might, for example, have become resigned to your fate. Disgrace does not kill a man. There is nothing stopping an entrepreneurial spirit from transferring his assets to another capital, where he might start an entirely new life. And where would that have left Fräulein Löwenstein? No, she was determined to have financial security for the rest of her days at whatever cost. I dare say that the few months in which she enjoyed the benefits of your . . . patronage, merely strengthened her resolve. Poor Hölderlin was simply an insurance policy. A safety net that would catch her if, ultimately, you failed to comply with her demands.'

As they gained height, the landscape of the city was being slowly revealed. A few early gas lamps had been lit, and smudges of yellow light began to gleam through the mizzle.

'Of course,' continued Liebermann, 'you knew nothing of Fräulein Löwenstein's contingency plan, and the pressure on you was mounting. You needed to resolve this difficult situation – and quickly.'

The wheel juddered to a halt.

'Do you know something, Herr Doctor . . . I must confess, I have never been on the Riesenrad before. The view is quite extraordinary.'

Liebermann was unnerved by Bruckmüller's uncharacteristically quiet delivery and the incongruity of his statement. Yet it was symptomatic of a dissociative process that he was eager to encourage.

'You visited Charlotte Löwenstein and at gunpoint forced her to write a note suggesting that she had made a Faustian pact with the devil. Halfway through, she realised that she might be writing her own death certificate, paused, and got up abruptly. You pressed the revolver to her chest and pulled the trigger. Inside the chamber was a modified bullet. It was made not of metal but of compacted meat and bone. Such a bullet would be strong enough to punch a hole in Fräulein Löwenstein's chest but would ultimately disintegrate. Tiny fragments of – let us say – a pork chop would be completely undetectable in an autopsy.

'Charlotte Löwenstein died instantly. You then arranged her body on the chaise longue and placed the Egyptian statuette in the Japanese box. The key was left on the inside, and locked from the outside using minute surgical forceps – made by Bruckmüller & Co. The same technique was used to turn the larger key in the sitting-room door. Correct me if I am mistaken, but the subsequent deluge was sheer good fortune, reinforcing the idea that Fräulein Löwenstein had been visited by the devil in the person of Seth – the god of storms, chaos and mischief.'

Over the distant hills, a cloud break allowed the setting sun to peek through. A ruddy haze spread across the horizon, and for a moment the sky acquired the texture and colour of beaten bronze. Under this vengeful firmament, Vienna appeared like a biblical city, a decadent sprawl ripe for retribution and the cleansing lick of holy fire.

Bruckmüller was entirely motionless.

'Your ruse worked remarkably well, Herr Bruckmüller. The police were baffled, mystified, bewildered. The Löwenstein murder seemed to have been perpetrated by a supernatural entity. The police were so distracted by the bizarre circumstances of Fräulein Löwenstein's death that they almost forgot to conduct a proper investigation! And even when the police did start to ask pertinent questions you remained unconcerned. You were confident that your clever illusion would never be unravelled. And you knew that no one would ever be successfully tried for committing an impossible crime. I congratulate you, Herr Bruckmüller: it was a brilliant plan.'

The wheel groaned and the gondola continued its ascent. Bruckmüller turned his large head.

'But then your fiancée, Fräulein von Rath, organised a seance, during which it became obvious to you that Herr Uberhorst was in possession of some very important information. Information that he was considering disclosing – very probably – to the police. Perhaps Fräulein Löwenstein had confided in him? Perhaps he knew that she was pregnant? Perhaps he suspected – or even knew – the name of her lover? These must have been some of the troubling questions that you began to ask yourself. Soon after, you might also have learned – although I'm not sure how – that Herr Uberhorst was trying to work out how the illusion of the locked door was achieved. If he determined that such a trick could be performed by using surgical forceps, then he would become doubly dangerous to you.

'Perhaps you imagined the von Rath fortune slipping through your fingers? Or was it the dead weight of your body, swinging from the gibbet? Whatever image it was that played on your mind, you panicked. In the early hours of the morning you entered Uberhorst's shop, again using forceps, and crept into his bedroom. He was, I believe, asleep when you bludgeoned him to death.'

The wheel ground to a halt. The gondola had reached the very top of the Riesenrad. It was the strangest sensation to be suspended in such a high place. Looking directly out of the window, it indeed felt like flying. More lights were appearing below, like the majestic stellar revelation that accompanies dusk in winter – a general twinkling of stars, the constellations of which were the streets and squares of Vienna.

'It is such a beautiful city,' said Bruckmüller. 'Wouldn't you agree, Herr Doctor?' But before Liebermann could answer he began talking again. 'No, I suppose you wouldn't agree. Being Viennese . . . I dare say it would offend your urban sensibility to make such an admission. You would prefer, no doubt, to make some cynical remark about its excesses.'

A firework, launched from the Prater, shot into the air and exploded – a starburst of blue and yellow stars.

'But what a prize . . .' continued Bruckmüller reflectively. Then, shaking his head, he repeated: 'What a prize.'

The gondola was slapped by a gust of wind, rocking it backwards and forwards like a cradle.

'You wanted to be Mayor,' said Liebermann, recognizing the reach of Bruckmüller's ambition.

The big man's face swung around. Perspiration was trickling off his forehead.

'He's got some good ideas, has Lueger – but he never goes far enough . . .' The four hundred tons of iron on which they were perched began to revolve again. 'He'll never do what's necessary.'

'And what's that?'

'To get rid of the vermin. The journalists, the subversives, the intellectuals . . . I pray that someone has the good sense to do what needs to be done. Before it's too late.'

They had begun their descent.

'Vienna,' said Bruckmüller again. 'The jewel of the empire . . . but it won't hold, you know. All these people. All these different people. They are too numerous, and too varied. It'll need a strong arm to protect the honest, decent folk when it all begins to unravel. Do you believe in destiny, Doctor Liebermann?'

The young doctor shook his head.

'I didn't think you would,' said Bruckmüller.

Liebermann's clinical sensibility had not deserted him. He examined Bruckmüller as if he were a patient. He saw a man who believed that he was, in some way, chosen. A narcissist who subscribed to a suspect Pan-German philosophy in which the threads of mysticism, prejudice and a folkish idealism, had become hopelessly entangled. It was little wonder he could kill so easily. A man like him would kill anyone who got in the way of his lofty ambitions.

Bruckmüller puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. Then, bracing himself, he stood up straight and took a step towards Liebermann.

'Well, Herr Doctor, you must be feeling very pleased with yourself. I feel almost obliged to return the compliment that you paid me earlier. Yes, and why not? I think I will. Congratulations, Herr Doctor: a brilliant exposition. I can only assume that when we reach the ground the police will be waiting to arrest me.' Bruckmüller's smile was broad and humourless. 'Which makes me wonder: are you so very clever, after all? Sly, cunning, slippery – as one would expect from a member of your race – but clever? Maybe not.'

Liebermann took a step back and shifted to the other side of the gondola.

'You have left me very few options, Herr Doctor. But I can still exercise some choices. I take it that you now realise your mistake.' Bruckmüller reached for the door and yanked it open. A gust of damp air blew into the cabin.

'Don't jump!' cried Liebermann automatically.

Bruckmüller laughed.

'I don't intend to, Herr Doctor.'

The big man moved towards Liebermann, his fists held up like a pugilist's. Bruckmüller's bulk made him appear more squat than his true height but now that he was up close Liebermann realised that his antagonist was disconcertingly tall.

The young doctor was able to dodge the first punch but there was nowhere to run. A second swipe cuffed Liebermann on the side of the head and he stumbled towards the open door. The gondola rolled and Bruckmüller lurched forward, clawing the air before his heavy paw landed on Liebermann's shoulder, his grip tightening as he pressed down. Bruckmüller's fingers dug into Liebermann's flesh like the teeth of a Rottweiler. The sheer weight of his arm threatened to snap the young doctor's collarbone. Liebermann flailed around helplessly before Bruckmüller landed an eviscerating punch. It felt like a cannon ball tearing through Liebermann's stomach and scorching his innards. Unable to breathe and wanting to vomit, he was still bent double when a second punch lifted him off his feet and deposited him inches from the door. Dazed, Liebermann managed to stand for a brief moment before losing his balance and falling backwards.

He grabbed the door frame but found himself hanging out of the gondola, his feet barely keeping their precarious purchase on the cabin floor. He looked down at the vertiginous drop.

'That's it,' shouted Bruckmüller. 'See where you're going!'

Bruckmüller smacked his palm against the fingers of Liebermann's right hand, producing a white-hot shock of pain. The fear of death was suddenly superseded by a lesser anxiety: it occurred to Liebermann that his fingers might be crushed and that he might never play the piano again. A helpful gust of wind allowed him to pull himself forward a little. But again, Bruckmüller's palm slammed against his grasping fingers like a mallet blow. This time, the incandescent pain was short-lived and was soon replaced by a terrible numbness. Liebermann's hand had become insensate and he watched with detached resignation as his fingers slowly began to slip away from the door frame.

Bruckmüller raised his arm, ready for the final blow.

Suddenly there was a loud report and the noise of glass shattering.

The big man spun round, bewildered. A stain had appeared close to his shoulder – a dark circular stain that spread quickly, fed by a small bullet hole from which blood was bubbling. Liebermann scrambled back into the gondola and threw the weight of his body against Bruckmüller who lost his footing and stumbled backwards – grabbing at the lapels of Liebermann's coat.

Liebermann found himself being dragged after Bruckmüller. The big man's shoulders hit the cabin's woodwork, bringing his bulky body to an abrupt halt. Bruckmüller leaned against the cabin wall for support and drew Liebermann's head up so that it was level with his own. Liebermann struggled to get away but found that he could not move. Bruckmüller's superhuman grip held fast. Glancing down at the expanding stain, Liebermann said: 'Herr Bruckmüller, you have been shot.'

Bruckmüller's jaw began to move, as though he was chewing. Then, after clearing his throat, he hawked into the young doctor's face. Liebermann flinched as a ball of bloody mucus hit him and splattered across his cheek.

'I know I've been shot,' said Bruckmüller. 'And I don't want to be shot again.'

Liebermann realised that Bruckmüller was using him as a shield.

'There is no escape, Herr Bruckmüller.'

'Not for you – Doctor Jew.'

Bruckmüller's basso profundo vibrated in Liebermann's chest. Before Liebermann could respond, Bruckmüller's free hand closed around his neck. An instant later, Liebermann could not breathe. Instinctively, he tried to prise Bruckmüller's thick fingers apart – but his right hand was still numb and each of Bruckmüller's digits was slick with blood.

Liebermann was horrified by the look in Bruckmüller's eyes. Malice had been replaced by something far more sinister: detached concentration. Bruckmüller was like a scientist observing a creature expiring in a vacuum jar. He seemed to be willing Liebermann dead – dispassionately consigning him to oblivion. As the world began to darken around him, Liebermann became aware of a thought forming in his mind – a small voice, striving to be heard amid the noise and confusion.

I am not ready to die.

It was the closest that he had ever come to praying and even though he had not requested the intervention of a higher power this assertion – resentful and pathetic – was still an appeal. An entreaty. And, against all expectations, it appeared to have some effect.

Bruckmüller's serious, studious gaze clouded. His lids fell and then lifted in a sluggish blink – and, miraculously, Liebermann found that he could breathe again. He gulped the air hungrily, sucking it deep into his lungs through his painfully restricted windpipe. Bruckmüller's grip weakened and his fingers peeled away from Liebermann's throat one by one.

The big man's coat was soaked with his own blood. He blinked again and this time his lids remained closed for longer. Then he swayed and fell sideways, toppling to the floor.

Liebermann rested against the side of the gondola and tried to catch his breath. Looking out of the window, he experienced a curious illusion. The ground seemed to be rising up to meet the gondola. He glanced at Bruckmüller, whose supine body looked like that of a slumbering giant.

Bruckmüller pushed himself up with his left hand and then clasped his shoulder. Blood was gushing out between his big white knuckles. With his mouth wide open he was panting like a thirsty bulldog.

The wind whistled through the smashed window. In the next gondola, the soberly dressed bourgeois – clearly a police marksman – had his revolver at the ready for a second shot, should it prove necessary.

Bruckmüller shifted and immediately winced.

'If you get up,' said Liebermann, 'I have reason to believe that you'll be shot again. I would strongly advise that you remain exactly where you are.'

Bruckmüller closed his eyes and let his body fall back on to a bed of broken glass.

'May I . . .' Liebermann paused. 'May I attend to your wound, Herr Bruckmüller? You are losing a great deal of blood.'

The big man tried to open his eyes.

'Stay away from me . . . you filthy . . .'

But before the insult was complete Bruckmüller's eyelids flickered and he lost consciousness.

Liebermann crouched beside Bruckmüller and did what he could to staunch the flow of blood. But his right hand was still insensate and Bruckmüller was lying in an awkward position. He applied as much pressure as he could. The big man was still breathing but each breath seemed more shallow and difficult. His chest and stomach were hardly moving.

A chorus of metallic voices filled the air – the demented strains of the great wheel coming to a halt. The gondola had returned to the ground.

The door flew open and Rheinhardt stepped into the cabin.

Liebermann looked up from his patient.

'I believe he'll live,' he said softly.



86

THE SONGS THAT they chose were necessarily slow. Liebermann's right hand was better but his fingers were still bruised and stiff. He did not feel ready to play anything with a tempo marking faster than allegro moderato.

As a result their buoyant mood was not reflected in their music-making and what might have been an evening of carefree Ländler and popular songs became instead a programme of wistful ballads and soulful meditations. Yet, as he plumbed the darker sonorities of the Bösendorfer, Liebermann recognised that this valedictory concert was more fitting. It was, after all, a murder investigation that had been brought to a successful conclusion.

After some dignified choral-like Beethoven they decided to end with 'Der Leiermann' from Schubert's Winterreise. The piano part was so sparse, so frugal that Liebermann had no trouble producing an entirely faultless performance. Bare fifths in the left hand imitated the sound of a drone, while the right hand picked out a sad, desolate melody. It was chilling music – stark and emotionless. Even the scarcity of notes on the page suggested the open, blank whiteness of a frozen landscape.

Rheinhardt's voice was sweet and true – each note produced with hardly any vibrato.

Drüben hinterm Dorfe steht ein Leiermann.

'Over there beyond the village stands an organ-grinder . . .'

Numb with suffering, Schubert's narrator follows blindly:

'Strange old man, should I come with you?'

As the final chord faded, with its promise of redeeming cold and oblivion, Liebermann lifted his hands off the keyboard. Reverently, he closed the piano lid, allowing the sustain pedal to amplify its beat, the hollow echo of which dissolved into the vastness of an imaginary icy waste.

'Well, Max,' said Rheinhardt, 'that wasn't too bad at all, considering. You acquitted yourself rather well.'

'Thank you,' said Liebermann, raising his right hand and rubbing his fingers together with a swift scissoring movement. 'Another week or two and I'll be ready for the Erlkönig.'

Rheinhardt laughed and slapped his friend on the back.

'You might be, Max, but I'm not sure that I will.'

Without further delay the two men retired to the smoking room where, between the leather armchairs, a new table had appeared – a simple, empty wooden cube, the upper plane of which was a square of polished ebony.

Rheinhardt stared at the new acquisition and tilted his head from side to side.

'You don't like it – do you?' said Liebermann.

'Was it expensive?'

'Yes. It's from Moser's workshop.'

'Who?'

'Koloman Moser?'

'No, can't say I've heard of him.'

'Never mind. Regardless of its aesthetic properties, I can assure you that this table will serve our purposes as well as the old one.' Liebermann gestured towards the brandy and cigars.

The two men sat down, Rheinhardt to the right, Liebermann to the left, and stared at the glowing embers in ritual silence, puffing and sipping. Eventually, Liebermann shifted his position and said, somewhat sheepishly: 'You want to know everything, I presume.'

'Yes, I do.'

'Well, I must say, Oskar, you have exercised admirable restraint this evening. A lesser man might have insisted that we should forgo some of our musical pleasures.'

'Indeed. And having shown such admirable restraint, I feel bound to advise you that any further equivocation on your part will test our friendship to the limits of endurance.'

'Yes, of course, Oskar,' said Liebermann, smiling. 'Forgive me.'

The young doctor turned to look at his friend. 'You know, I've told you most of it already.'

'I should hope so, too,' said Rheinhardt with justified indignation. 'Even so, I am curious to know how it all came together – in your head, I mean.'

'Very well,' said Liebermann, 'kissing' his cigar to sustain the burn and producing great clouds of pungent smoke. 'I am happy to satisfy your curiosity. But I must begin with a confession. It was not I who solved the mystery of Fräulein Löwenstein's impossible wound, but Miss Lydgate.'

'The microscopist?'

'Indeed – although her talents extend well beyond the novel employment of optical devices: she is now registered with the university and will begin studying for a medical degree in the autumn.'

'But she's—'

'A woman – obviously. The university has recently changed its admission policy.' Rheinhardt assumed a benign but perplexed expression. Liebermann's cuboid table had been enough modernity for one evening. 'She's quite remarkable, Oskar, and endowed with extraordinary intellectual gifts. I simply told her the circumstances of the crime, and after a few days she had the answer, claiming – quite rightly – that a bullet made from meat was the only solution. Such is her predilection for rational thought that she wasn't distracted or tempted in the least by supernatural considerations.

'Once Miss Lydgate had explained how the illusion of the vanishing bullet had been achieved, I had what can only be described as a . . . a moment of revelation! I remembered that Bruckmüller started life as a provincial butcher. I also remembered seeing him with Mayor Lueger at the Philharmonic – Lueger has always received strong support from butchers and bakers – and it occurred to me that perhaps Bruckmüller's origins were much more significant than any of us had guessed – and in more ways than one. Bruckmüller, by virtue of his original occupation, would have been very familiar with the properties of meat, in much the same way as I, being a psychiatrist, am familiar with the properties of the human mind. Who else but a butcher would recognise the ballistic possibilities of his supper!'

'It is extraordinary,' said Rheinhardt, 'and yet—'

'So simple,' said Liebermann. 'I couldn't agree more.'

They both raised their glasses at the same time.

'Go on . . .' said Rheinhardt, eager for his friend to continue.

'Of course,' said Liebermann, 'as soon as I had identified Bruckmüller as the likely perpetrator other things about him started to acquire greater significance – his business, for example. You will recall that Miss Lydgate's microscopic examination of Charlotte Löwenstein's keys revealed unusual indentations. She had suspected that some instrument or other had been employed to rotate the keys.' Liebermann sipped his brandy and shook his head. 'Had I been a surgeon, Oskar, I think I would have linked Bruckmüller with the crime immediately. Even though Miss Lydgate's results suggested the use of a specialised tool I simply failed to think of forceps. My mind was fixed on some train of thought to do with locks and locksmiths . . . However, when Miss Lydgate suggested that a bullet could be constructed from meat, and I remembered that Hans Bruckmüller was a butcher, the significance of his business became obvious. Armed with a microscope, I went to the department of surgery and discovered that the indentations on Fräulein Löwenstein's keys corresponded exactly with a gripping pattern found on forceps manufactured by Bruckmüller & Co. We have since, of course, found the very same pattern on the key to Uberhorst's shop.'

'Why didn't you want to see that key too – before suggesting your meeting with Bruckmüller?'

'I didn't need to and anyway we were running out of time. There was always a possibility that von Bulow was going to succeed in extorting a bogus confession from Hölderlin, which would have complicated matters a great deal. When I tried to lock the door of my own apartment using Bruckmüller's forceps, I found the task extremely difficult. Turning keys in this way requires considerable strength – the kind of strength that had already betrayed itself in Bruckmüller's memorably firm handshake (which I had the pleasure of experiencing on the night of the seance) and the depth of Uberhorst's wounds.'

'Indeed,' said Rheinhardt, shuddering as he recollected the carnage. 'And I presume you had also already visited the antique dealers?'

'There are only a few establishments on Wieblinger strasse who sell Egyptian artefacts. Apparently, they aren't very collectable at the moment. I soon learned that an Egyptian statuette with a forked tail had been sold to a big man with a strong handshake some time in March.'

'Thus,' said Rheinhardt, 'we had in our possession – at this point – some extremely good evidence. So why . . . why on Earth were you so insistent that your meeting with Bruckmüller should take place?'

'Extremely good evidence, you say? But was it really? Anybody can purchase forceps from Bruckmüller & Co. And he isn't the only big man in Vienna!'

'Yes, that's true.'

'And Bruckmüller is very well connected – and potentially very rich: a friend of the Mayor, no less. Sadly, I am not convinced that our judicial system always reaches the correct verdict under such circumstances. We had collected some incriminating evidence, but it was not decisive evidence.'

'All right, but why the Riesenrad? You told Brügel that you needed to be completely alone with Bruckmüller to extract a confession. Yet there are many secluded places in Vienna. I'm afraid I can't help feeling that you're concealing something, Max.'

Liebermann knocked the ash off the end of his cigar.

'It was necessary to meet Bruckmüller on the Riesenrad because of its peculiar effect on the mind.'

'Oh?'

'Have you been on it lately?'

'No, but I did take Mitzi last year.'

'Did you not find the experience . . . unreal?'

'It is certainly very odd, being taken to such a great height.'

'Exactly. It detaches the passenger from everyday existence and suspends him in an environment that is usually the exclusive province of birds. Now, think, Oskar: when else does one experience something similar?'

'Well, I don't know that there is somewhere similar. Still—'

Liebermann interrupted: 'Are you sure?'

'Yes, quite sure.'

Liebermann swirled his brandy round in its glass and tested the aroma.

'What about when you dream?'

Rheinhardt twirled his moustache and frowned.

'Isn't it just like flying in a dream?' Liebermann persisted.

'Yes,' Rheinhardt replied. 'Now that you mention it, I suppose the two experiences are not dissimilar.'

'You see . . . it is my belief, Oskar, that a ride on the Riesenrad blurs the boundary between reality and unreality – the conscious and unconscious divisions of the mind draw closer together.'

'Which means . . . ?'

'Did you read that book I gave you?'

'The one on dreams? Well, I started but—'

'Never mind,' said Liebermann. 'In the dream-world, our inhibitions break down. Forbidden wishes are frequently dramatised. Even the most devoted husband cannot avoid assignations during his sleep.' Rheinhardt shifted in his chair and looked faintly embarrassed. 'When Bruckmüller learned that I had discovered his method and understood his motives he had one wish, and one wish only: to kill his adversary, an adversary who (at least for him) embodied all of his irrational prejudices. Bruckmüller's political ambitions had been thwarted, and in the dreamlike atmosphere of the Riesenrad, his forbidden wish found expression all too easily. He attempted to kill me – and in doing so as good as confessed to the crime.'

'In which case, it was never your intention to extract a verbal confession. You always meant to provoke Bruckmüller!'

Rheinhardt's voice had risen slightly.

'Now, Oskar, do you see why it was impossible for me to be entirely candid? Brügel would never have accepted a psychoanalytic rationale for the operation—'

'And nor would I – particularly if I had known all the details of your thinking!' Rheinhardt shook his head. 'You do realise, don't you, that the police marksman was instructed at the very last minute? It was an afterthought.'

'Yes,' said Liebermann. 'I am extremely lucky to possess, in your person, such a conscientious friend, and I owe you both an apology and a debt of gratitude.'

'I can't believe you didn't tell me!'

'It was absolutely necessary.'

'To provoke him – knowing that he would probably attempt to kill you!'

'There was no other way. I had hoped that by the time Bruckmüller responded to my provocation the wheel would be nearing the end of its descent. I thought I would be relatively safe . . .'

'Relatively safe! I can't believe you didn't tell me!'

'Well, to be frank, Oskar, I still can't quite believe you didn't tell me that the seance you arranged was a sham!'

'That was different.'

'Was it?'

Rheinhardt grumbled something under his breath and sustained a mask of disgruntlement – which gradually, and grudgingly, softened by degrees towards resignation.

'Still . . .' he finally murmured. 'It all worked wonderfully, and it was good to see von Bulow squirm for once!'

The two friends looked at each other and simultaneously burst out laughing.

For several hours they continued to savour their triumph. The room had filled with cigar smoke and the fire had long since died down. As Liebermann poured the last of the brandy, Rheinhardt chanced to remark that Charlotte Löwenstein's fate would no doubt serve as an example to others of her kind. But instead of agreeing, Liebermann found himself not judging the dead woman but defending her.

'Without question, Fräulein Löwenstein was a femme fatale – a siren worthy of a place in a work of romantic fiction; however, I cannot condemn her, Oskar. In modern Vienna there are few opportunities for intelligent, spirited women to make their way in the world. The majority either relinquish their ambitions and resign themselves to marriage and motherhood – or, alternatively, they protest and attract a diagnosis of hysteria. Charlotte Löwenstein should be pitied. She was, after all, only trying to protect her interests.'

Rheinhardt did not always share his friend's liberal sympathies but this analysis prompted him to consider the future world that his daughters might inhabit. He thawed a little. On reflection, he hoped that Therese and Mitzi would not have to accept an unhappy destiny through want of opportunity. Rheinhardt finished his brandy and prised his watch from the fob pocket of his waistcoat.

'Good heavens, Max, it's almost eleven. I must be getting home.'

As he was leaving, Rheinhardt stopped for a moment and looked at his friend. His eyes expressed a great deal: pleasure, amiability and even, perhaps, amusement.

'Well done, Max,' he said softly. Liebermann did not reply, but simply increased the pressure of his handshake.



87

MISS LYDGATE PICKED up the card and read aloud: 'To Miss Amelia Lydgate, with heartfelt gratitude for services rendered to the security office of Vienna. Please accept this small token of our esteem. Sincerely, Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt.'

Liebermann was seated at the gateleg table and tapped the large mahogany box.

'For me?' she said, her voice uncertain.

'Yes,' said Liebermann.

Miss Lydgate released the hasps and opened the lid. As she did so, the metal object inside lit her face with a reflected warm, golden light. She did not gasp or smile. The only visible response was a slight creasing of her brow; however, Liebermann was not offended. He understood that the young Englishwoman's impassive exterior belied the depth and authenticity of her appreciation.

'Thank you,' she whispered.

Inside the box, among folds of blue velvet, was a large brass microscope.

'It was made by Eduard Messter of Frerichstrasse, Berlin. The case is signed by the maker – see here.' Liebermann pointed to the manufacturer's signature. 'I believe this instrument is more powerful than the one you currently employ – and the lenses are ground more finely. You will experience less distortion at higher levels of magnification.'

Amelia Lydgate lifted the microscope from the box with a gentleness that was almost maternal. It was obviously too heavy for her to manipulate with ease, yet she held it aloft and admired it from every angle. The brass gleamed triumphantly.

'You will be so kind as to thank Inspector Rheinhardt – it is a gift I do not deserve,' the young woman said in a level voice.

'Oh, but you do deserve it, Miss Lydgate!' Liebermann exclaimed. 'The Löwenstein murder would not have been solved without your help.'

Amelia Lydgate lowered the microscope carefully to the table's surface. Then, sitting down, she said: 'I would like you to tell me more of what transpired, Doctor Liebermann. I read in the Zeitung that the "Leopoldstadt demon" had been caught, but the article contained very little detail.'

'Very well,' said Liebermann, and he proceeded to give a full account of the investigation, from Rheinhardt's presentation of Fräulein Löwenstein's note to his own almost fatal encounter with Bruckmüller on the Riesenrad. As he was describing the point at which he was forced out of the gondola and his grip was failing, Miss Lydgate reached across the table and touched his sleeve. The moment of contact was so brief, so inconsequential, that it could easily have been missed. Yet this simple sign of concern had a profound effect on Liebermann. He felt as though his thoughts had become like dewdrops trembling on a cobweb. He felt insubstantial – weightless and airy.

'You were very brave, Doctor Liebermann,' said Miss Lydgate. Her gesture had been apparently unconscious. She showed no sign of embarrassment or self-awareness.

Liebermann cleared his throat and, after managing to utter some self-deprecatory remarks, gradually recovered a sufficient degree of composure to complete his story.

'It is strange, Doctor Liebermann, that the two murders were so different. One meticulous and clever – the other crude and brutal.'

'It is of course possible,' said Liebermann, 'that this was part of Herr Bruckmüller's plan. Perhaps he intended that the police should think that there had been two different murderers, in the hope that they would also conclude that the killings were unrelated. But I do not think this was the case. Fear is a very fundamental emotion. It strips away our sophisticated veneer and reduces the person to his or her core elements. Bruckmüller feared discovery, and in a state of panic his true, savage self found expression all too easily.'

Miss Lydgate seemed extremely interested in the workings of Bruckmüller's mind, and prompted Liebermann to speculate about the man's personal psychology.

'He wanted to be Mayor of Vienna, almost certainly – but I suspect that his ambition was even more far-reaching. When he was dissociating, he began talking about the Empire unravelling, the need for leadership. I believe that he may have seen himself as some kind of Messiah. The German people have a highly evolved mythology in which a semi-mystical hero figure almost always appears to usher in a new dawn. When Herr Bruckmüller's house was searched by the police, a horoscope was found with an attached commentary suggesting that his birth was in some way auspicious. It was both Fräulein Löwenstein and Herr Uberhorst's misfortune to threaten his appointment with destiny.'

'And it was almost your misfortune too,' said Miss Lydgate pointedly.

Liebermann smiled.

'Yes,' he replied. 'I am lucky to be alive.'

When Liebermann glanced at his wristwatch he realised that he had stayed for several hours longer than he had originally intended. Evening had given way to night, and it was no longer proper for him to be alone with Miss Lydgate. He stood to leave. Amelia Lydgate requested again that he should thank Inspector Rheinhardt for her gift, and escorted him to the door. They descended the dark stairs, and the sound of her skirts rustling behind him made a sensuous music – teasing and haunting.

Liebermann did not attempt to hail a cab. He felt like walking. In due course he passed the Josephinum, where he paused in order to admire the statue of Hygieia. Elevated and unattainable, eternally feeding the great serpent that coiled around her arm, the goddess looked down at him with regal indifference.

Bracing himself against the chill night air, Liebermann marched through Alsergrund and down Berggasse to the Danube Canal. There he stared into the dark water and enjoyed a cigar in solitude.

When he returned to his apartment he still felt restless, and contemplated playing some Bach – something undemanding, like the two- and three-part inventions – but remembered the time. Such was the level of music-making in Vienna that there was a general edict banning the playing of musical instruments after eleven o'clock. He needed something to occupy his mind.

Liebermann drifted from the piano to his writing bureau where he switched on the electric lamp. He collected some loose papers from the bottom drawer, sat down, filled his fountain pen with ink, and began writing:

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





Acknowledgements

I WOULD LIKE to thank my agent, Clare Alexander, for taking me out to lunch in September 2002 and suggesting that I might want to think about a detective series; Hannah Black and Oliver Johnson for providing indispensable editorial guidance, Steve Matthews for his finely honed critical faculty, Sarah Liebrecht for translating various documents from German to English, David Coffer for alerting me to the existence of the inestimable Raymond Coffer (a walking encyclopedia of early twentieth-century Viennese lore), Eva Menassa in Berlin for yet more help translating correspondence, Sonja Busch and Fabrizio Scarpa for being splendid hosts in Vienna, Wolfgang Sporrer for recommending some very useful books, and Toni Nagel and Anna Maxted for advising on Jewish observances. I would also like to thank Maria Käfer of the Austrian Embassy in London, Bruno Splichal and Herr Winter of the Bundespolizeidirektion Wien, Harald Seyrl of the Wiener Kriminal Museum, and Dr Ulrike Spring of the Historisches Museum der Stadt Wien. Finally, I would like to thank Nicola Fox, yet again, for helping in ways that really are too numerous to mention.

Frank Tallis


London, 2004

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