Vienna Blood

45

LIEBERMANN RUSHED OUT OF the Opera House and marched briskly to the rear of the building. To his left was the eastern extremity of the Hofburg Palace, the bastion of which was surmounted by an equestrian statue of Archduke Albrecht. In spite of the archduke's overbearing presence, the plaza in front of him was dominated by another figure: a white marble likeness of Mozart examining an open score on an ornate music stand. He was dressed in a long cape that tumbled artfully off his left shoulder, a short jacket, frilly cuffs, and tight breeches. Putti danced and cavorted around a substantial pedestal, which was decorated with discarded manuscripts, laurel wreaths, and a somewhat chaotic jumble of instruments. Next to this arresting monument was Liebermann's destination, the eponymous Cafe Mozart.

Once inside he was immediately blinded as his glasses steamed up. He removed them impatiently and approached one of the waiters.

“Good evening-could I use the telephone, please?”

The waiter bowed and escorted him to a private kiosk. Being somewhat preoccupied, Liebermann tipped the waiter an excessive amount. The waiter smiled obsequiously and opened the door with the florid flourish of a courtier. Once inside, Liebermann called Rheinhardt.

“Oskar-it's Max. I need to see you immediately.” His words were animated with a breathless urgency. “I know how he's doing it. I know how he's choosing his victims.”

The line crackled. Liebermann heard the sound of Rheinhardt's two daughters laughing in the background.

“Where are you?”

“Cafe Mozart.”

“Wait there. I'll be with you shortly.”

Liebermann replaced the receiver in its cradle and stepped out of the kiosk. Nearby, two rakish gentlemen in striped jackets were entertaining a loud lady friend. A dark green magnum bottle of champagne suggested that she had been plied with an injudicious, if not positively reckless, quantity of alcohol. Peering through thick, undulating curtains of cigar smoke, Liebermann tried to locate an empty table. None seemed to be available; however, he was soon rescued by the waiter, who-perhaps anticipating further tokens of gratitude-guided the young doctor to a vacant window seat.

Liebermann ordered a schwarzer.

“And something to eat, sir?” The waiter offered him the menu. Liebermann gestured to indicate that he did not need to read it.

“Mozart torte,” he said decisively.

“An excellent choice, sir,” said the waiter, smiling and stepping backward, his head lowered between hunched shoulders.

The inebriated woman threw her head back and produced a shrill, abrasive laugh. Her hair had begun to unravel and loose dark strands tumbled wildly past her shoulders. The two rakes exchanged eager glances, their eyes alight with concupiscent interest. A group of portly burghers at an adjacent table shook their heads and scowled disapprovingly.

Liebermann's attention was recaptured by the waiter, who had returned with his coffee and cake. The Mozart torte was a colorful checkered arrangement of chocolate and pistachio sponge, on top of which was a marzipan coin bearing the profile of the great composer. Liebermann took a mouthful, found it a little too sweet, and decided that the time might pass just as quickly with a cigar.

Some twenty minutes later Rheinhardt appeared at the door. He did not take his coat off and came directly to Liebermann's table.

“Well, Max,” said Rheinhardt. “This is most unexpected.”

Liebermann rose and they shook hands firmly.

“Please, sit.”

Before they had settled, the waiter seemed to materialize out of a vortex of cigar smoke.

“Another schwarzer,” said Liebermann. “And a turkische for my friend.”

“Strong-with extra sugar,” Rheinhardt added.

The waiter retreated into the yellow-brown fug.

“It's extraordinary,” Liebermann began. “He must be unique… peerless in the annals of abnormal psychology. We are dealing with a most remarkable individual. A mind of singular peculiarity.”

“Max,” said Rheinhardt, halting his friend with an expression that demanded moderation. “Slowly, please. And from the beginning.”

Liebermann nodded. “I am quite feverish with excitement.”

“And I do not doubt that you have good reason to be; however…”

“Yes, of course. Slowly, and from the beginning.” Liebermann sat back in his chair and loosened his necktie. “This evening I went to the opera.”

“It must have been uncommonly short.”

“I left early.”

“Was it that bad?”

“Not at all-Director Mahler's Magic Flute.”

“Then why-”

“Do you know it?”

“The Magic Flute? Not very well… I haven't seen it in years.”

“Nor have I.”

“Well?”

“The characters, Oskar-can you remember the characters?”

“There's a prince-Tamino… and a princess, Pamina. The Queen of the Night, who has that glorious aria-the famous one in which the melody hops about on the very highest notes.”

“Yes, the Queen of the Night! Now think, Oskar! Does that name-the Queen of the Night-not sound to you like a certain colloquialism?”

Rheinhardt twisted the right tip of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “Lady of the night?”

“Or, as the French would say, fille de nuit. Meaning what?”

“A prostitute, of course!”

“The Queen of the Night has three attendants-or serving women…”

The inspector's eyes widened until he began to resemble an exophthalmic patient whom Liebermann had examined earlier the same day.

“Good heavens,” Rheinhardt gasped. “Madam Borek and the three Galician girls.”

“Exactly! And then there is Papageno, the bird catcher. Who is punished for lying. Can you remember the punishment, Oskar?”

“Dear God! His mouth is sealed with a padlock!”

“Now think of the Wieden murder. The black man.”

“Why, he must correspond to the Moor.”

“Monostatos.”

Suddenly Rheinhardt's expression changed. It vacillated on some nameless cusp before collapsing into unequivocal despondency.

“Oh, no, no, no.” The inspector groaned as if in physical pain.

Liebermann was puzzled at his friend's unexpected response. “Oskar?”

Rheinhardt placed his head in his hands.

“What a fool I've been. What an absolute fool!”

Liebermann felt rather deflated by his friend's response. “It wasn't that obvious, Oskar. The recognition of these correspondences did require some imagination.”

“Forgive me, Max. I did not mean to belittle your achievement. But it really should have been obvious… to me!”

“Why? You are a policeman. Not a Mozart scholar.”

The waiter arrived with the coffees. The inspector lifted his head, tasted his turkische, and dropped two pieces of crystallized sugar into the cup. His melancholy sagging eyes looked close to tears.

“It begins with a snake, doesn't it?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Liebermann, somewhat confused.

“The Magic Flute: it begins with the slaying of a snake.”

“Yes.”

“Well, so did this series of murders.”

Liebermann slid the remains of his Mozart torte across the table toward the dejected inspector. On numerous occasions he had witnessed Rheinhardt's spirits rallying after a few mouthfuls of pastry. Almost unconsciously, Rheinhardt plunged the fork through the invitingly pliant sponge.

“Before the Spittelberg atrocity,” said Rheinhardt, “a giant anaconda was killed at the zoo.”

“Hildegard.”

“That's right-did you read about it?”

“Yes. I recall that the animal was supposed to be a favorite of the emperor's.”

“Indeed. I investigated the incident myself. It was a highly irregular crime, but in the light of subsequent events, it paled into insignificance. The Spittelberg murders occurred the following day… and I simply forgot about the emperor's prize snake. Even the life of the most exalted royal animal should not be valued above the life of a human being-however wretched-and with that thought in mind I transferred all my attention from one case to the other. But now, of course, I can see the error of my ways. How stupid of me!”

Rheinhardt mechanically deposited a corner of Mozart torte into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and continued: “The anaconda was cleanly sliced into three sections with a large weapon-most probably a sabre. The perpetrator entered the snake-pit and made his exit without leaving a single mark in the soil. Madam Borek and two of her girls were also killed with a sabre… and even though the brothel had been flooded with blood, the perpetrator escaped without leaving a single footprint on the floorboards. It was clearly the same man.”

Rheinhardt examined the remnants of sponge on his plate. “Mozart torte? Is this your idea of a joke, Max?”

“It seemed appropriate but I discovered that I wasn't very hungry.”

Rheinhardt took another mouthful and for the first time exhibited his usual appreciative response.

“Very good-are you sure that you don't want some?” Liebermann shook his head. The inspector sampled a pistachio square and continued speaking. “Now that you have discovered his method, Max, what does this tell us about him? Is he a devotee of Mozart, do you think? A fanatical student of his operas?”

“Oskar, no one who appreciates Mozart could possibly commit such atrocities.” The young doctor straightened his back. “Mozart is an entirely civilizing influence.”

“Yet the perpetrator is certainly very familiar with Mozart.”

“Yes, but I find it difficult to believe that an individual truly fond of Mozart's singspiel could divine within its plot and characters a program for murder. Indeed, I suspect that the very opposite is true. The perpetrator is no friend of Mozart and very probably despises The Magic Flute.”

Rheinhardt scraped some chocolate curlicues from the outer circle of his plate. “Yet I can't think of a less offensive opera.”

“It is, without doubt, a work of incomparable charm. But in the perpetrator's mind The Magic Flute has become shadowed by the darkest of emotions: hate, fear, envy.” Liebermann pressed his hands together. “It would not surprise me to discover that something very bad happened to him in early childhood-perhaps while listening to Mozart's music.”

“But would such an experience-however unpleasant-have predetermined that this unfortunate child should in due course become a monster?”

“No, not at all. Professor Freud insists that psychopathology arises when the mental apparatus draws power from a primal source, or origin. I would suppose that The Magic Flute acquired terrible significance during the perpetrator's infancy; however, it has since become a means of organizing and directing his current violent impulses. To understand them we would have to have knowledge of his history-and the contents of his unconscious.”

A waiter passed the table and discreetly removed Rheinhardt's empty plate.

“There's a legend, isn't there?” said Rheinhardt. “Connected with an Italian composer accused of murdering Mozart. What was his name?”

“Salieri,” Liebermann replied. “Although some say that Mozart was murdered by his Masonic brothers for revealing their secrets in The Magic Flute.”

“A suitable sobriquet for our perpetrator-don't you think? Salieri?”

“Salieri.” Liebermann savored the exotic combination of vowels and consonants. “Yes, very apposite.”

“Salieri it is, then!” said Rheinhardt.

As if in response, the inebriated woman clapped her hands together and squealed with pleasure. One of her companions had handed her a small box. She opened it up and removed a piece of cheap jewelry.

“There are two further questions that must be raised concerning The Magic Flute,” said Liebermann. “First, can we learn anything more of Salieri's objectives by making a study of the opera? And second, to what extent does the opera cast new light on evidence already in our possession?”

Rheinhardt tugged at his lower lip.

“I am no expert on Mozart operas, but The Magic Flute must surely be counted the least coherent.”

“That is because nothing in The Magic Flute is what it appears to be. It is full of arcane Masonic symbols.” Liebermann suddenly remembered that he was still carrying the Court Opera program. He pulled it out of his pocket and flicked through the pages until he found some biographical notes on the composer. “Here we are… Mozart… initiated into the degree of apprentice in the Loge zur Wohltatigkeit on 14 December 1784… and in 1785 initiated into the degree of fellow and that of master one month later… libretto by Schikaneder-who has been described as a Lodge brother…” Liebermann flicked over the page. “Baron Ignaz von Born… Grand Secretary of the Vienna Loge zur wahren Eintracht… The outline of the opera was discussed at the bedside of Born, a master of Masonic symbolism and an authority venerated by all Viennese Masons.”

“Does it say anything about what these symbols are supposed to represent?”

“No. For that you will probably have to consult a Freemason.”

“I very much doubt whether they will agree to help.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Relations between the security office and the Freemasons are not good.” Liebermann tilted his head questioningly. “Oh, it's all very complicated.” Rheinhardt fussed with his napkin.

“Go on.”

“The Freemasons have not been allowed to perform their rituals in Austria for more than thirty years. The law permits them to meet under the aegis of friendly societies-but nothing more.”

“Freemasonry is illegal?”

“Well, not exactly. Many years ago it was decided that something should be done about the proliferation of subversive societies. People were more worried about dissent in those days, which is understandable: the revolution of 1848 was still a recent memory. So the Law on Associations was passed. This established state control of all associations.”

“What does that mean?”

“Very simply, if you wish to form a society-philosophical, artistic, political, or otherwise-you must apply for a license that is granted at the discretion of a specially appointed commissioner. Now, the outcome of this process was-for the Freemasons-quite unsatisfactory. It is not illegal to be a Freemason. Nor is it illegal for Freemasons to meet. However, it is illegal for Freemasons to gather for the purpose of conducting a ‘secret’ ritual. So the security office has been obliged to monitor the Freemasons quite closely, which has been the cause of considerable bad feeling. If we are to discover more about the symbolism of The Magic Flute, then I suspect this will be best achieved by long hours spent poring over books in a library. Fortunately, I have Haussmann at my disposal.”

“I wonder whether…” Liebermann's voice trailed off as his brow furrowed with concentration.

“You wonder what?”

Liebermann looked at Rheinhardt. “I wonder if the swastika features in their arcana.”

“Very possibly. I believe that the Masons make use of many ancient emblems. Alchemical signs, the all-seeing eye, the sevenfold flame…” Rheinhardt stopped listing enigmatic symbols. “Max?”

The young doctor had already detected the expression of deep concern on the inspector's face.

“Yes, Oskar. Salieri has murdered the Queen of the Night, her three ladies, Papageno, and Monostatos. But the cast of The Magic Flute contains so many more characters: Tamino, Pamina, Sarastro.”

“And children! Isn't there some sort of chorus-composed of three boys?”

“Yes,” said Liebermann, turning the page of the program and staring ruefully at the long list of singers. “If he means to eliminate all of them, his work has hardly begun.”