Vienna Blood

39

LIEBERMANN PLACED FRANZ LISZT'S Consolations on the music stand. It was almost eleven o'clock, and he would have time to play only one of these miniatures before he was legally obliged to stop playing. Yet he could hear the low growl of a cello emanating from somewhere else in the building-possibly the apartment below-so a few extra minutes would not offend at least one of his neighbors.

Liebermann turned the pages of the score until he found the third piece, a lento placido-the most popular and pleasing of the set. His fingers found the familiar notes and he enjoyed the feel of the piano keys surrendering to his touch. Depressing and releasing the pedals carefully, to give the music depth without muddying its harmonic subtleties, Liebermann allowed the pure, meditative melody to soar above the shimmering accompaniment. It was supposed to be a work celebrating the virtues and rewards of solitude, but it drew its sustenance more from the romantic wellhead of Chopin than from the ascetic aspirations of its actual composer.

As the music progressed, Liebermann found himself thinking of his patient, Herr Beiber. His love for the Archduchess Marie-Valerie was so intense, so deep, so profound, but it was merely a delusion. Cases of monomaniacal love had been described for centuries.

What makes one man mad, and another a great romantic?

What is the difference between real love and insanity?

If the Archduchess Marie-Valerie were to reciprocate, then Herr Beiber would no longer be a lunatic, but a very lucky man.

The music seemed to recede as his thoughts became more involved.

Professor Freud is of the opinion that all forms of romantic love are-at least to some extent-delusional.

If so, then how can love be trusted?

A mistake in the left hand alerted Liebermann to how far his mind had wandered from the music. He tutted to himself and refocused his attention on the score. But his playing had become soulless, and he executed the final bars without feeling. Dissatisfied with his mechanical rendition, he did not allow the final notes to linger and closed the piano lid abruptly.

Liebermann retired to the smoking room, where he examined the bookcase. He found Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams and sat down in one of the leather armchairs. He began reading the section titled: “The Dream Is a Fulfillment of a Wish.” Professor Freud wrote beautifully: “When, after passing through a narrow defile, we suddenly emerge upon a piece of high ground, where the path divides and the finest prospects open up on every side, we may pause for a moment and consider in which direction we shall first turn our steps.” No other professor at the university would compose such daring prose-turning the experience of reading into an imaginary Alpine journey. Liebermann read on, seduced by the author's insistent, persuasive voice. He continued reading for some time until his eyelids became heavy and the continuity of Freud's thesis was lost among intermittent brief noddings-off. The room flickered in and out of existence, as if Liebermann's consciousness were a flame, illuminating the world in fits and starts before its inevitable sputtering extinction. In due course his mind lost its tenuous purchase on conscious awareness, and fatigue dragged him down into darkness…

Miss Lydgate sits in the laboratory of the Schottenring police station; but it is also the Grand Hotel in Baden. She is looking through a microscope. She makes a note and removes the glass slide, but when she offers it to him, he discovers that she has something else in her hand. It is an oversize fig. The fruit is round, purple, and the skin has a powdery bloom. It has been cut, from top to bottom, and the red pulp glistens within. He scoops the fleshy interior out with his finger, and lifts it to his mouth-at which point there is a tremendous crash of thunder, and he is overwhelmed by intense fear.

Liebermann opened his eyes.

Tachycardia.

His heart was beating, fast and furious in his ears.

There was someone pounding at his front door.

He glanced at his watch. It was quarter to one in the morning.

Liebermann stood and limped to the door, his limbs resisting their rude awakening.

In the hall he called out, “Just a moment. I'm coming.”

When he opened the door, he discovered Haussmann standing outside.

The two men looked at each other for a moment, and Liebermann, immediately grasping the significance of the other man's presence, said, “Another one-already?”

“Yes, Herr Doctor. I am sorry to disturb you at this late hour, but Inspector Rheinhardt respectfully requests your assistance.”

The carriage rattled to a halt outside a large bow-fronted villa in Wieden. Two other carriages were already parked nearby. Liebermann surmised that one of them had only recently arrived-the horse's flanks were still steaming. Stepping out of the vehicle, Liebermann raised the collar of his astrakhan coat against a bitter wind. Black clouds raced across the face of a brilliant moon.

Liebermann followed Haussmann to the front door of the villa. The assistant detective gripped the large black knocker, which had been cast in the unusual shape of a scarab beetle, and tapped out a rhythm that reminded Liebermann of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Dit-dit-dit Dah. They stamped the snow off their shoes and were admitted by a uniformed police constable.

“This way, Herr Doctor,” said Haussmann.

Liebermann felt odd. It was as though he were gliding down the hallway, his buoyancy assisted by the thickness of a deep oriental carpet. When they reached an open door, Haussmann turned to look at his companion. The assistant detective's expression was pained, as though he wished to spare Liebermann the coming trial but was powerless to grant the necessary reprieve.

They crossed the threshold, entering a generously proportioned reception room. It reminded Liebermann of Professor Freud's study. The walls were decorated with pictures of Egyptian monuments- pyramids, Sphinxes, and obelisks-and the mantelpiece was crowded with figurines: the familiar parade of animals, falcon-headed deities, and hierophants.

Rheinhardt was standing behind the police photographer, who was making a minor adjustment to the height of his tripod. When the operation was completed, the photographer disappeared beneath a dark cloth and signaled to his assistant. The boy lit a strip of magnesium ribbon and a violent incandescence illuminated the object of their attention.

In the center of the room was a massive circular table. Spread-eagled across its surface was the body of a man, whose skin was the color of a brauner coffee. Liebermann had seen pictures of black men in books, and had even seen one or two real black men on the Prater. This man, however, looked rather different. He had long curly hair and his features were sharper, his lips and nose being not so full and wide. His head was thrown back, exposing a deep cut that had opened the trachea and severed both carotid arteries and jugular veins. In the magnesium glare the gaping wound looked as bright and moist as the flesh of a watermelon. His arms were outstretched, hanging lifelessly over the edge of the table. He was wearing a loose, collarless cotton shirt (that might once have been white but that now was drenched in blood) and a small embroidered vest. His trousers were loose, like pantaloons, and were made of cotton.

Where his legs met, the material had been torn away, and a ragged, pulpy cavity occupied the place where his manhood should have been. In a dark pool of blackening blood on the floor, an assembly of fleshy parts revealed the magnitude of the perpetrator's malevolence and perversity.

Rheinhardt walked over to welcome his friend, but when they shook hands, all that he could utter was, “I'm sorry.” He rested a hand on Liebermann's shoulder and guided him into the hallway, calling back as he did so, “Haussmann-the floor plan, if you will.”

The two men retired to an adjacent room, smaller than the first though more comfortably furnished. They sat down on a large, low sofa.

“The same monster-undoubtedly,” said Rheinhardt. “There are no obvious oddities like the Sanskrit symbol, but he may have tampered with the body again-which will, of course, be for Professor Mathias to discover. But we did find this outside.” Liebermann was still so overwhelmed by the crime scene that he had not noticed that his friend was holding a large paper bag. Rheinhardt tilted it toward Liebermann. Inside was a bundle of green and yellow material. “It's a gentleman's scarf. Notice, there are no bloodstains. It was either dropped by someone else entirely, or the perpetrator must have changed his clothes before leaving.”

“Who is the victim?” asked Liebermann.

“We don't know-that's why I needed you here.”

“Oskar, I'm a psychiatrist. I can't commune with the dead!”

“You won't have to-well, not exactly. The murder was reported by a businessman from Trieste-Signore Borsari. He arrived on the late train just after eleven. As he was passing this building, the front door was flung open and he was confronted with the sight of an elderly gentleman in an evening suit, who pleaded with him for help. When the Italian saw the body, he was understandably fearful and made a swift exit. As luck would have it, he bumped into a constable from the local police station and the crime was registered at the security office by twenty past eleven. We have been able to establish-from papers found on the premises-that the old gentleman who hailed Borsari was Professor Moritz Hayek, an archaeologist of some repute. But we don't have a clue who that unfortunate next door is.”

“Where is Professor Hayek now?”

“In a bedroom upstairs.”

“Then why don't you ask him?”

“I have.”

“And…”

“He doesn't reply.”

“What, he refuses to speak?”

“No, Max. He can't speak.”