by Frank Tallis
“I can’t say I do.”
“No, I didn’t think you would.” Farkas took the revolver from his coat pocket and aimed it at Hauke’s head. “Anyway, this is for her. For Margit. A bullet in the brain is far too kind for a contemptible devil like you, but it will have to suffice.” Farkas pulled the trigger, and a crimson mist filled the cell. Before the attendant could react to the deafening report, Farkas had cocked the hammer and the smoking muzzle was in his own mouth.
16
Rheinhardt handed Danko another cigarette. The youth had forgotten to smoke the first. Between his motionless fingers, it had gradually turned into a wilting cylinder of ash. In due course, Danko stirred and looked into the inspector’s eyes.
“The cavalry officers were billeted close by—just across the border, but they would drink at the village tavern and mixed freely with the locals. Herr Farkas had known Margit all his life. She was sixteen, much younger than him, but I think he loved her. I suppose he was waiting for the right time—to propose, I mean. He didn’t tell me that, but …” Danko drew on the cigarette and released the smoke through his nostrils. “Hauke took advantage of her and she got pregnant. The regiment moved on, and Hauke was never seen again. Margit died during childbirth.”
“What happened to the baby?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
Somewhere in the Schottenring station, a clock was striking nine o’clock.
“Why did you agree to help him?”
“He was good to me,” Danko replied with a pathetically grateful smile. “I had a bad time of it, the winter before last. I even spent a month living in the sewers. He found me begging, just outside the hotel. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t try to chase me away, not like all the others. We talked about the old country, and he gave me a job. I started off as a bellboy, and when Bodor’s last assistant was taken ill, I took his place.”
Rheinhardt made some notes. When he looked up again, Danko was staring at him with moist, luminous eyes. “The poison. It was identified by … a pathologist?”
“Yes,” Rheinhardt replied.
“Herr Farkas told me that wasn’t possible.”
“Well, he was mistaken.”
17
Liebermann lowered his hands onto the keyboard and began the final song of the evening. It was the Schubert setting of Friedrich von Matthisson’s “Voice of Love.” Rheinhardt’s lyric baritone was euphonious, tender, and achingly expressive:
Clouds of dusk floating fast
Along the purple skies
Hesperus looks with loving glances
Through the flourishing grove of limes.
The melody was sweet and innocent. How easy it was, thought Liebermann, for this emotion—universally celebrated in poetry by affectionate glances, nightingales, and starry skies—to become something dark and dangerous. He remembered his patient, the woman who believed herself to be a varcolac. Obsessive love was a comparable madness.
When the final chord had faded, Liebermann closed the lid of the Bösendorfer, and the two men retired to the smoking room. They sat in their customary places, Liebermann on the left, Rheinhardt on the right. Brandy was decanted and cigars lit with ceremonial efficiency. A fire had already been prepared by Liebermann’s serving man.
Rheinhardt leaned toward his friend. “The question I’ve been asking myself is this: How much did Farkas really know about the effects of strychnine?”
“He knew everything,” Liebermann replied.
“In which case, if the dinner plates had not been exchanged, and Farkas had succeeded in poisoning Hauke …”
“The investigation would have progressed quite differently.”
“Indeed. Farkas could never have got away with it!”
“I very much doubt that evading detection was ever his priority. He was beyond caring and did not fear punishment. He had become a monomaniac and wanted one thing and one thing only. A horrible death for Hauke.”
“And he was even prepared to sacrifice Robi Danko?”
“For a man in whose heart the fires of first love still burned fiercely, for a man who had waited more than a decade to exact retribution, Danko’s ultimate fate was of little consequence.”
Rheinhardt nodded and sipped his brandy. “It’s looking more and more likely that Hauke did murder his first wife. We’ve been following up some of the leads given to us by Frau Albert. I am inclined to believe—without compelling evidence, I grant you—that Hauke also murdered his second wife and would have, in the fullness of time, murdered the third.”
“Poor Danko.”
“Yes, I agree. It isn’t a very satisfactory outcome. I know that he was the one who actually did the poisoning, but he is also a simple and vulnerable boy who was clearly manipulated.” Rheinhardt sighed. “Now, if I hadn’t let you interview Hauke, we would never have found out about the exchanged dinner plates. Hauke would have been tried and very likely hanged. I don’t think he would have won much sympathy in court. In a way, one could argue that that would have been a more just result.”
“Well, yes. But …”
“I know. Civilization requires that we have due process rather than revenge. Still, I can’t help feeling sorry for the poor fellow. Danko isn’t evil. He’s just stupid and loyal. Whereas Hauke …”
Liebermann lifted his glass and rotated it to create a lattice of rainbows. “We are imperfect animals, Oskar. We cannot hope, given such unpromising and primitive material, to expect human affairs to resolve in an aesthetically pleasing manner. For that, I’m afraid, you must turn to fiction.”
They both fell silent and stared at the glowing embers, deep in thought.
About the Author
FRANK TALLIS is a clinical psychologist and writer. He is the author of A Death in Vienna, Vienna Blood, Fatal Lies, Vienna Secrets, Vienna Twilight, and Death and the Maiden, as well as seven nonfiction books on psychology and two previous novels, Killing Time and Sensing Others. Fatal Lies was a finalist for an International Thriller Award, and Vienna Secrets and Vienna Twilight were both nominated for an Edgar Award. A Death in Vienna was short-listed for the 2005 Crime Writers’ Association Historical Dagger Award. Tallis lives in London.
Read on for an excerpt from Frank Tallis’s
Death and the Maiden
I
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR OSKAR RHEINHARDT—a portly gentleman with a turned-up mustache and world-weary expression—was standing on the sidewalk of a wide tree-lined road. The fog of the previous evening had persisted, and the buildings on both sides were only faintly visible as shadowy cubes, spaced apart at regular intervals. It had been a slow and perilous journey by horse-drawn cab, visibility deteriorating as they’d gained altitude. Indeed, they had only narrowly escaped involvement in a serious collision next to the Kaiser Pavilion.
Rheinhardt turned to address his assistant.
“Search the grounds, Haussmann. See if you can find anything.”
“But, sir …”
“Yes, I know that conditions are far from ideal,” said Rheinhardt. “Nevertheless …” The inspector removed a flashlight from his pocket and handed it to his disgruntled junior. Haussmann aimed the weak yellow beam at the cobblestones, revealing nothing but a slowly undulating blanket of fog. “Oh, very well,” said Rheinhardt, persuaded to reconsider the wisdom of his order. “You can accompany me. Perhaps it’ll lift later.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Haussmann, much relieved.
A figure emerged from the mist. “Who’s there?”
“Detective Inspector Rheinhardt and my assistant, Haussmann.”
“Good morning, sir. Constable Drasche.”
The young man clicked his heels. He was wearing a long blue coat and a spiked hat, and a sabre hung from his waist.
“How long have you been here, Drasche?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Three hours or thereabouts.”
“I’m sorry for the delay. The driver could barely see the road ahead of him. Who’s inside?”
“Frau Marcus, the housekeeper, and Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s doctor—Engelberg. Frau Marcus called him as soon as she found the body. He was here before I arrived. He’s not in a very good mood, sir.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“He didn’t want to be detained. Said he had patients to see.”
The horse was restive, and the driver jumped down from his box to give it some sugar.
“The dead woman,” said Rheinhardt. “Fräulein Rosenkrantz …”
Drasche anticipated the inspector’s question. “Yes, it’s her, sir. The singer.”
Haussmann’s sharp features showed perplexity.
“Have you not heard of Ida Rosenkrantz, Haussmann?”
“No, sir. She’s never sung at Ronacher’s.”
Rheinhardt shook his head. “Haussmann, she’s not that kind of singer! She’s an opera singer, a celebrated soprano. You’ll recognize her when you see her. Her image is in every shop window along Kärntnerstrasse.”
“Even my tailor has a signed photograph of Fräulein Rosenkrantz,” said Drasche. “He saw her in The Flying Dutchman and was smitten. I can remember teasing him about it.”
The restive horse—still nervous and unsettled—whinnied and stamped on the cobbles.
Rheinhardt pulled at his chin and emitted a low, pensive growl.
“Court Opera singers are only appointed after they have been approved by the palace. I strongly suspect that protocol demands that the emperor—or at least the lord chamberlain, Prince Liechtenstein—must now be informed of Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s demise.”
“You intend to go to the palace, sir?” asked Haussmann, his eyes widening with alarm.
“No, of course not, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, a trace of testiness disturbing the otherwise pleasing fluidity of his baritone. “We must contact Commissioner Brügel, and it is he who will inform the lord chamberlain’s office. Come, Drasche, you had better show us the way.”
They passed along a perimeter fence of railings (each of which was topped by a fleur-de-lis) and entered a small garden, where a paved pathway led between two beech trees to the double doors of a white stucco villa. Some of the windows were separated by gilded panels, and a stylized statue of an eagle with angular outstretched wings perched above the entrance. All the ground-floor windows were illuminated.
Drasche opened one of the double doors and ushered Rheinhardt and Haussmann into the hallway. It was a bright space, with yellow wallpaper and floor tiles the color of eggshells. Directly ahead, a carpeted staircase rose up before dividing into two smaller staircases, each reaching the second floor on opposite sides of the building. The air was fragrant with a smell similar to that of blooming hyacinths.
“Ah, there you are, Constable,” said a man as he stepped over the threshold of an adjacent room. He was in his late fifties and wore a frock coat. “I really must protest.”
Before he could continue, Drasche indicated his companions and said, “Herr Doctor Engelberg, this is Detective Inspector Rheinhardt, from the security office.”
“Ah,” said the doctor, frowning. “You’ve finally arrived.”
“Progress was slow on account of the weather.”
“You will forgive me for neglecting to observe the customary civilities, Inspector, but I am obliged to make an immediate request. I have been here all morning, and many of my patients are expecting domiciliary visits. If I am delayed for very much longer, it will be impossible for me to see them all. Would you please take their needs into consideration?”
“You wish to leave as soon as possible,” said Rheinhardt. “Of course, that is perfectly understandable. I will endeavor to conduct our business swiftly. Where is Frau Marcus?”
“In the kitchen. I was just attending to her. She is very distressed.”
“Should she be left alone?”
“Perhaps not.”
“Drasche,” said Rheinhardt. “Would you be so kind as to sit with Frau Marcus?”
The constable took off his helmet and scratched his head. “I’m not very good at that sort of thing, sir—comforting women in distress.”
Rheinhardt sighed. “You don’t have to do anything, Drasche. Just sit with her. Allow her to communicate her feelings if she wishes. But if she is silent, respect that silence and do not speak merely for the sake of it.” Rheinhardt paused before adding, “And be sure to make her a cup of tea.”
“But what if she doesn’t want a cup of tea, sir?”
“Make her one, anyway. I can assure you that she will drink it.”
“Very good, sir.”
Drasche replaced his helmet, bowed, and departed with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.
When Rheinhardt turned to address Engelberg, the doctor’s hostility had been replaced by surprise and mild-mannered amusement.
“Excellent advice, Inspector.”
Rheinhardt acknowledged the compliment with a slight tilt of his head. “And the body, Herr Doctor?”
“Upstairs.”
They began their ascent.
“What time was it when you received Frau Marcus’s telephone call, Herr Doctor?”
“Around seven-thirty.”
“And what time did you get here?”
“No later than quarter to eight.” Rheinhardt’s expression was skeptical. “I rise very early, you see. I was already dressed, and I live only a short distance away.”
When they reached the landing, Engelberg opened the first of several doors. “She’s in here.”
They entered a richly appointed bedroom where gas jets flickered within globes of smoked glass. A four-poster bed occupied a commanding central position, its heavy curtains tied back with gold cords so as to reveal a counterpane embroidered with a medieval scene: against a backdrop of peacocks and roses stood a noblewoman who was holding a standard displaying three crescent moons. At her feet sat a docile unicorn and a good-humored lion that seemed content to entertain a small white rabbit in the gap between its paws. Two purple stockings had been discarded on the pillows. The wallpaper was striped, burgundy columns alternating with green, with a repeated violin and laurel-wreath motif in raised silver.
Next to the window was a dressing table with a hinged oval mirror, on which several bottles, an amber-colored decanter, and numerous small mother-of-pearl boxes had been casually laid out. Scattered among these items was a tortoisehell comb, several brooches, and a curious totemic object made of hair and beads. Rheinhardt inhaled. The smell of hyacinths had intensified. He looked around and identified its source as a large egg-shaped pomander of fretted ivory; however, the inspector was also conscious of an acrid undertow. In the far corner he saw a wardrobe and beside it a washstand. Instead of the usual porcelain, the bowl and jug were made from a semitransparent turquoise glass, encrusted with jasper.
The overall effect of the room suggested luxury and abundance. Yet there was something distinctly dissolute about the décor. The gemstones and sumptuous colors tested the limits of aesthetic tolerance and awakened prejudices. Rheinhardt found himself thinking that he had entered not the bedroom of an operatic diva but a seraglio.
Engelberg crossed to the other side of the room and made a sweeping gesture. Rheinhardt and Haussmann followed, and as they rounded the bed, Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s lifeless form came into view. The dead woman was lying on her back, positioned within the rectangle of a Persian rug. It was a pleasing effect, possessing the compositional virtues of a painting. She was wearing a pink silk dress overlaid with a lacy décolleté trim. Her complexion was pale, and her plenteous auburn curls complemented a youthful face of exceptional delicacy. Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s eyes were closed, and the almost perfect ovals of her fingernails were tinged with a bluish hue. She was not wearing any shoes, and her bare feet projected out from a sufficiency of petticoats. On the floor, next to the rug, was a vial. Its stopper had rolled beneath a bedside table on which more empty bottles stood.
“Herr Doctor?” said Rheinhardt. “Did you move Fräulein Rosenkrantz when y
ou examined her?”
“No. She remains exactly as found.”
“What about Frau Marcus? Did she move Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s body?”
“I don’t think so. As far as I know she made no attempt to revive or resuscitate her.”
Rheinhardt stepped closer. “How did Fräulein Rosenkrantz die?”
“It would appear that she imbibed an excessive quantity of laudanum.”
“Intentionally?”
“That is certainly a possibility …”
“However?”
“I can think of no reason why she should have chosen to end her life. I take it you are aware of Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s reputation? She was at the height of her powers. There are few who can claim to have conquered the hearts of the music-loving public so decisively. We have been robbed of a singular talent, make no mistake.”
“When was the last time Fräulein Rosenkrantz had cause to request a consultation?”
“Only two weeks ago.”
“With respect to …?”
“A touch of neuralgia, but otherwise she was in excellent spirits. I can remember her talking excitedly about roles she expected to take next season.”
“So what are we to conclude, Herr Doctor? That her death was accidental?”
“That would be my opinion …” Engelberg’s sentence trailed off into silence. He sighed and began again: “That would be my opinion, were it not for the fact that Fräulein Rosenkrantz once needed the services of a psychiatrist. In the spring I arranged for her to see Professor Daniel Saminsky.” Engelberg paused before adding, “A colleague of some distinction. He once had the honor of attending the late empress, and has since been awarded the Order of Elizabeth.”
Rheinhardt twisted the horns of his mustache.
“What was the reason for the referral?”
“Globus hystericus,” Engelberg replied.
“Would you care to explain?”
“A hysterical phenomenon—typically the patient reports the presence of a lump in the throat that produces difficulty when swallowing. Physical investigations reveal no obvious obstruction, and the lump, or rather the perceived lump, is subsequently ascribed to psychological causes. Globus hystericus is not a diagnosis that we doctors commonly associate with suicide. And to the best of my knowledge Professor Saminsky’s treatment was effective.”