Vienna Blood

87

Rheinhardt pressed his knuckles against his eyes and after releasing them looked steadily at the wall clock. At first he could see nothing but a kaleidoscopic arrangement of luminous blotches. Then, slowly, his vision began to clear, and the hands came into sharp focus: a quarter past one. It had been a long, tiring day.

On returning home he had been unable to sleep. He had sat on a chair next to the telephone, dreading its fateful ring followed by the crackling connection and the voice of the Schottenring sergeant regretfully informing him of the discovery of two bodies. Rheinhardt had fallen into a fitful half sleep and when-as expected-the bell had sounded, he had lifted the receiver in a confused, fearful state. He had listened to the sergeant's report, but could not quite believe what he was hearing. He had asked the man to repeat himself. The officer politely obliged, prompting Rheinhardt to pinch his thigh to establish whether or not he was dreaming.

The long hand of the clock jumped forward and Rheinhardt lowered his gaze. Liebermann was fussing with some lint on his trousers, tutting impatiently at its obstinacy.

“So,” said Rheinhardt, “you arrive at the Schottenring station dressed in a top hat, white gloves, and tailcoat-which, if I am not mistaken, has been cut in two places by a sabre blade. In your custody-bound and gagged-is the monster, Andreas Olbricht! The duty officer requests, very reasonably, that you give an account of yourself. You choose, however, to respond in the vaguest possible terms, suggesting that you managed to find and capture him with the help of some Freemasons… Now, my dear friend, although I am accustomed to your predilection for evasive answers and your often quite taxing insistence on dramatic subterfuge, it seems to me that tonight you have excelled yourself.”

During his speech, the inspector's voice had risen in pitch and his eyes had acquired a menacing shine.

The young doctor gave up trying to remove the intransigent lint from his trousers and, chastened, straightened his back.

“I may not possess the most incisive mind,” continued the inspector, attempting to calm himself by spreading his hands out flat on the table. “But one doesn't need to be so very clever to guess how you came to deliver Olbricht earlier this evening-or, more correctly, yesterday evening.” His finger flicked up toward the wall clock. “You infiltrated a clandestine Masonic gathering, where you discovered Olbricht preparing to murder persons corresponding with the figures of Sarastro and Prince Tamino. You challenged Olbricht, fought with him, and finally, with the assistance of those present, overpowered him.”

Liebermann nodded. “Yes, broadly speaking, that is correct.”

“Now, I am bound to ask you a very obvious question: Did you not think to inform the security office?”

“Of course I thought to inform the security office-it just wasn't possible.”

Rheinhardt picked up his pen and dated the official notepaper that he had laid out on his desk.

“Oskar,” said Liebermann, “before we proceed, you must promise me something.”

“What?”

“That the security office will not investigate or hound the Masons.”

“I am very happy to leave the Masons to their own devices. But Commissioner Brugel may take a different view.”

“Then you must persuade him otherwise.”

“Commissioner Brugel is nothing if not opinionated. I fear he will take his own view, whatever I say.”

“Come now, Oskar, a man possessed of your quite considerable eloquence and charm should-” Rheinhardt raised a cautionary finger. Liebermann acknowledged the transparency of his flattery with a wry smile and chose a different approach. “At the very beginning of this investigation you likened Olbricht to the infamous Ripper of London. Well, unlike Scotland Yard we have actually caught our ‘Ripper.’ This will no doubt raise the international standing of the Viennese security office. It is even conceivable that your superior- having presided over such a coup-might expect to receive some token of recognition from the Hofburg.” Liebermann assumed an expression of cherubic innocence. “I do not wish to interfere with your dealings with the good commissioner, but I am convinced that touching upon the subject of honors will be… expedient. Once he is preoccupied with dreams of the emperor pinning a ribbon on his chest, Brugel will be much less inclined to rake over the minor details of your report.”

Rheinhardt sighed. “We shall see.”

“Thank you, Oskar.”

“Be that as it may, I must press you for more information.” Rheinhardt underlined the date and looked up at his friend. “Commissioner Brugel will expect more than a few opaque lines-and, needless to say, I have some questions of my own.” Liebermann leaned back in his chair and gestured for Rheinhardt to continue. “First, how on earth did you manage to get yourself into a secret Masonic meeting?”

“On Saturday I was taking dinner with a trusted friend, with whom I sometimes discuss my involvement with the security office. I told him of the discovery of Olbricht's diary and of our fear that Olbricht might attempt to kill a member of the royal family and a high-ranking Mason the following day. To my great surprise my friend revealed that he was a Mason. Moreover, he informed me that Sunday the twelfth of December was, for him and his brethren, a date of great significance. A foreign prince was to be initiated at a secret location in Vienna on that very day. I was given permission to attend the ritual, providing that I gave my solemn word not to disclose anything of what I saw to anyone, and in particular”-Liebermann tapped Rheinhardt's desk twice-”a certain detective inspector with whom my name has become recently associated.”

Rheinhardt grunted dismissively and began writing. “Who was this foreign prince?”

“I am afraid I cannot say-I gave my word.”

“Very well. What is your friend's name?”

“I am afraid I cannot say.”

“All right. Did you encounter a man with a Vandyke beard?”

“I saw many men with Vandyke beards.”

“A man called Losch?”

Liebermann shrugged.

The inspector raised his head slowly, revealing a pained countenance.

“Oskar, I have already broken one promise this year,” said Liebermann gravely. “I do not intend to break another.”

The inspector gave a colossal sigh, and with exaggerated movements made a show of putting his pen down. He then opened the drawer of his desk and removed a small bottle of slivovitz and two glasses. He filled the glasses to the brim and then offered Liebermann a marzipan mouse, which the young doctor observed for a few moments before politely refusing. Rheinhardt sat back in his chair and said resignedly, “Very well. You will please proceed.”

Liebermann, looking much relieved, continued his story. “I was taken to the secret location yesterday.”

“I don't suppose there is any point in my asking-”

“No,” Liebermann interrupted. “There isn't. Not because I won't tell you, this time-but because I can't. I have no idea where it is. I was blindfolded. And on my return with Olbricht, I was blindfolded again.”

“How long did the journey take?”

Liebermann shrugged.

Rheinhardt smiled, sipped his slivovitz, and urged his friend to continue.

“I attended the initiation rite-”

“About which you can say nothing,” Rheinhardt cut in.

“And in due course I observed a gentleman whom I supposed to be Olbricht.”

“Supposed?”

“It was quite dark. The Masonic temple was large and inadequately illuminated by candles.”

“I see.”

“When Olbricht was in striking distance of both the principal Mason and the prince-”

“Sarastro and Tamino.”

“I noticed that his fingers had closed around the hilt of his sabre.”

“He was wearing a sabre?” Rheinhardt cut in again.

“I hope that I am not betraying the trust invested in me by the Masons-”

“Heaven forfend!”

“If I disclose to you that they were all wearing sabres.”

“Were they indeed,” said Rheinhardt, nodding with interest.

“At which point…”

The inspector lifted his hand.

“One moment, please! What was Olbricht doing at this secret meeting? How did he get in?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

Rheinhardt's eyebrows knitted together. “Surely not…”

Liebermann pressed his lips together and jerked his head forward.

“He is a Mason. And not only that, he is a librarian! He has been engaged for many months in the arduous task of cataloguing a vast collection of Masonic literature. Several of the books he has handled are very ancient in origin-guides to arcane rites and rituals.”

“So Miss Lydgate was right after all.”

“Of course-she is a remarkable woman.” Liebermann paused for a moment.

“Max?”

Liebermann coughed, a little embarrassed by his momentary lapse of concentration.

“I am of the opinion that Olbricht entered the craft as a kind of spy. One can imagine such an infantile act of daring, such a caper, earning him the respect of his friends at the Eddic Literary Association. As you know, nationalists despise Masons. In my ignorance I have often wondered why. I had attributed their hostility to some species of paranoia; however, the answer is very simple. At the heart of Masonry is a belief in universal fraternity and equality-a belief that stands in stark opposition to the exclusive, supremacist philosophy of Guido List. As a Mason, Olbricht was known as Brother Diethelm. Gunther Diethelm. Interesting, don't you think, that he should choose that as his nom de guerre?”

Rheinhardt looked puzzled.

“Gunther,” Liebermann continued, “means ‘warrior’ and Diethelm means ‘protector of the folk or people.’ All of which suggests to me a powerful identification with the legendary Unbesiegbare-The Invincible, or strong one from above, the Teutonic savior.”

Rheinhardt sipped his slivovitz.

“He played a perilous game. What if a Mason with whom he was acquainted had come to one of his exhibitions? His masquerade would have been discovered immediately.”

“It wasn't such a risk. First, Olbricht rarely had his work shown in galleries. He was never good enough, and without Von Rautenberg's patronage he would never have exhibited at all. Second, German nationalists and Freemasons occupy very different worlds and those worlds rarely touch. It is a peculiarity of our city that different peoples can coexist and live in close proximity but never meet.”

Rheinhardt grumbled his assent. The memory of the sewer people was all too vivid.

“I do not imagine,” Liebermann continued, “that Olbricht joined the Masons intending to murder any of their number. Rather, the possibility presented itself as his curious program for murder-and the disease process-progressed.”

“Disease process?”

“Forgive me-I am racing ahead of myself.” Liebermann tasted his slivovitz and looked mildly startled by its potency. “Where on earth did you get this from?”

“A Croatian scissors-grinder.”

“That doesn't surprise me. Now, where was I?”

“You saw Olbricht's hand on his hilt.”

“Ah yes.” Liebermann disdainfully placed the glass back on Rheinhardt's desk and leaned back in his chair. “I challenged him, and he immediately made a dash for the door, escaped from the temple, and made his way to the library, which was situated at a lower level. I can remember feeling uneasy. Clearly, someone meaning to escape would have run up the stairs, not down; however, somewhat overexcited by the chase, I pursued Olbricht without thinking and so fell into his trap.”

“Trap?”

“He had concealed himself behind the library door and, after locking us both in, drew his sabre. From the moment our blades touched it was obvious that he was the superior swordsman. My only chance of survival was to ward him off until the Masons broke the door down and came to my rescue.”

Rheinhardt peered at the slashed material over Liebermann's heart.

“Looks like he almost killed you.”

“He almost did. He had me pinned to the wall. All he had to do was push.”

“What stopped him?”

“I surprised him-shocked him, even-by making some observations which, given his reaction, I have every reason to believe were correct: and while he was distracted, I made my escape.”

Rheinhardt leaned forward. “Observations? What observations?”

“That his mother was a prostitute who entertained men of many different nationalities, that they had a room close to a folk theater where The Magic Flute was often performed, and that Olbricht has always been-and continues to be-tormented by dreams of animals.”

Rheinhardt shook his head. “But how could you possibly…”

“Know? I didn't. I was simply making some educated guesses.”

“On what basis?”

“His appearance.”

“But you have always told me never to judge a man by his appearance.”

“That is true. And in almost all cases nothing can be deduced from the shape of someone's nose, the slope of his forehead, or the thickness of his lips!”

“So what was it about Olbricht's appearance that permitted you to make such bold and seemingly accurate assertions?”

Liebermann placed his long fingers together.

“His face, his distinctive features. They are a form of stigmata… but stigmata that have nothing whatsoever to do with Lombroso's speculations about the relationship between physiognomy and criminality.”

Rheinhardt was beginning to lose patience again. “Max, I haven't a clue what you're talking about. Please speak plainly.”

“The sunken bridge of his nose, the creases around his mouth, his odd teeth. It was only when I was up close that I realized their significance. They are all symptoms. Herr Olbricht has congenital syphilis.”

Liebermann paused, allowing Rheinhardt to absorb his revelation.

“What? He was born… syphilitic?”

“Indeed, and once I had established this fact, I immediately grasped the nature of his history. What kind of mother might have syphilis? A prostitute! Why might Olbricht despise other nationalities so much? Because these were her clientele: down-at-heel Hungarians, Poles, Czechs, and Jews, newly arrived in Vienna. These were the men who took her away from him. Why had The Magic Flute acquired such special significance for Olbricht? He had heard it being sung incessantly as a child-how could anyone forget those glorious melodies? And how might the son of a prostitute get to hear opera? His mother must have rented a room next to a folk theater. The German nationalist doctrine of race hate provided the adult Olbricht with a rationale for many of his attacks, but his real motivation was much deeper. An angry, jealous child was still raging silently in the darkest recesses of his psyche.”

Rheinhardt twirled his mustache. “All of this suggests that he loved his mother. Yet he chose to attack women who suffered the same fate, those poor Galician girls.”

“Ambivalence, Oskar! Professor Freud has taught us that the roots of motivation are profoundly deep and hopelessly tangled. In the unconscious, love and hate coexist, as comfortably as sewer people and archdukes in our beloved city! Olbricht loved his mother-but hated her at the same time. Hated her for being a prostitute, hated her for neglecting him… and most of all, I suspect, hated her for not being Aryan. It would not surprise me in the least if in due course we discovered that Olbricht's mother was Galician herself! Maybe even a Galician Jew.”

Rheinhardt puffed out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly.

“Congenital syphilis,” Liebermann continued, “also explains Olbricht's ghastly predilection for genital mutilation. In a way, he was attacking the very source of his infantile anguish.”

“And his dreams? How did you know he was tormented by dreams of animals?”

“The infant Olbricht must have occasionally awoken to see his mother practicing the…” Liebermann hesitated before selecting a euphemism. “Requirements of her profession. Clearly, this would have been a highly disturbing experience. I have good reason to believe that such traumatic memories are transformed in dreams. Defensive mechanisms come into play, turning people into animals. In particular, dogs and wolves.”

Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows. “I have dreamed of dogs on many occasions, and I am certain that I-”

Liebermann shook his head. “I wasn't suggesting that all dreams featuring dogs disguise a traumatic memory of this kind! Sometimes a dog is just a dog!”

“I am much relieved to hear that,” said Rheinhardt, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Please continue.”

“Congenital syphilis can remain latent for decades but typically, at some point, it will attack the central nervous system. The brain tissue softens, causing either progressive paralysis, insanity, or both. Grandiosity and irrational rage are very typical of syphilitic insanity. As Olbricht gradually lost touch with reality-and learned more from List's writings-the delusional belief that he was the Teutonic Messiah may have become more established.” Liebermann picked up his glass of slivovitz and turned it in his hand. “Moreover, as his inner world became more and more chaotic, The Magic Flute would have acquired increasing significance as an organizing principle for the expression of his violent emotions, which had become directed-again under List's influence-toward anything un-Germanic. I am also of the opinion that after his execrable exhibition attracted the critical scorn it deserved-”

“You know,” Rheinhardt interrupted, “I really didn't think some of his paintings were all that bad.”

Liebermann ignored his friend's comment and continued. “His creative urge became-as it were-redirected. The opportunistic murder of Sarastro and Tamino would have completed a kind of grim masterwork. Among Nationalists, his name would have passed into legend.”

Liebermann sipped his slivovitz and his face clouded with dissatisfaction. “What troubles me, however, is that I cannot explain why he chose to initiate his campaign when he did. Something must have acted as a trigger, but I cannot say what. I strongly suspect that the answer may be connected with the location of the Eddic Literary Association: Mozartgasse. One day, I hope, the answer will present itself, and we shall be able to add a little footnote of explanation to this most interesting case.”

The two men shared a moment of silence before Rheinhardt said, “You have yet to finish your story.”

“There is little more to tell. I managed to hold off Olbricht's final attack until the door was broken down and I was saved by my friend and his Masonic brothers. Had my rescue been delayed a moment longer…” Liebermann smiled. “Well, perhaps it is best not to dwell on such things.”

Rheinhardt shook his head and the rings under his eyes seemed deeper, darker, and heavier. The simple gesture communicated much: reprimand, disapproval, admiration, and concern. There was something distinctly parental about Rheinhardt's mien. The sad resignation of fathers who-motivated by love-must admonish their foolish, headstrong, exuberant sons, and who know, at the very same time, that their words are wasted, having been young once themselves.

“I trust that you now have enough for your report,” said Liebermann.

Rheinhardt looked mournfully at his blank sheet of paper.

“I daresay that I shall be able to produce something by the time Commissioner Brugel arrives.”

“And I sincerely hope you will respect my wishes concerning my promise to the Masons.”

Rheinhardt nodded.

Looking up at the clock, Liebermann added, “I am expected at the hospital at eight o'clock and would very much like to go home. I must change out of these ridiculous clothes and get a few hours’ sleep.”

“You are free to leave, Herr Doctor.”

Liebermann placed his unfinished glass of slivovitz on Rheinhardt's desk, stood up, and walked to the door.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” he said as he took his top hat from the stand. “Some time ago I ordered several volumes of Russian songs from a publisher in Moscow. They never came, and to tell the truth, I'd quite forgotten about it. Well, that is, until last week, when they actually arrived.”

“My Russian isn't very good.”

“Nonsense. When we performed those Tchaikovsky romances, I thought that Fyodor Chaliapin himself had stolen into the room! Perhaps your dear wife would be willing to forgo your company tomorrow evening?”

“With respect to tolerating my absences, she is nothing less than a saint.”

“Good. Tuesday, then.”

Before Liebermann could close the door, Rheinhardt called out, “Oh, and Max.” Liebermann halted, expecting the inevitable debt of gratitude. “If you ever act on your own like this again, so help me God, I'll…” The inspector mimed the violent strangulation of a young doctor, his jowls wobbling as he throttled the column of air beneath his desk lamp, creating a whirlpool of starry motes.

Liebermann feigned indignation and, placing the top hat on his head at a decidedly impudent angle, made a swift exit.