by F. R. Tallis
“What do you want?” said Seeliger, his voice was without emotion, like a mechanical device grinding out the parts of language.
“Isn’t it obvious?” said Kelbling. “You are reputed to be one of the most intelligent men in Vienna. Surely I don’t need to spell it out.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Gloriettegasse was an elegant, respectable street, dignified by its proximity to the Schönbrunn gardens. Like many other buildings in the locality, number 9 was painted a shade of yellow in respectful imitation of the adjacent palace. Sulphur and primrose, lemon and dandelion, the front elevations of Gloriettegasse were almost monochromatic. The occupant of number 9—Katharina Schratt—being a woman of the theatre, retired late most nights, nevertheless, she was expected to be ready to receive His Royal Highness for breakfast at seven thirty, precisely. Franz Josef’s daily schedule was prescribed—minute by minute—although he was also punctual by nature.
Katharina was obliged to rise when it was still dark, attend to her toilet, apply makeup, and then oversee the laying out of the breakfast things—the smooth white napery, the kipferls, and the extra fine coffee for which she was renowned—and when Franz Josef appeared, her obligation extended to the assumption of a fixed, friendly smile. After breakfast, Katharina and Franz Josef would leave the villa, cross Maxingasse, and enter the Schönbrunn gardens through an inconspicuous doorway. It was rumored among society gossips that entertaining the emperor was beginning to put a strain on the actress’s nerves.
Throughout the duration of Franz Josef’s visit, his conveyance would be parked around the corner from number 9. This was an entirely empty piece of etiquette, a mere show of discretion, because the royal coach and coachman were easily recognized and usually people stopped and waited to see if they could catch a glimpse of the returning emperor. On this particular morning, standing near the front of the small gathering, was a young man whose good looks were mitigated by a dueling scar.
Diamant was thinking about Della, the intensity of her kisses and the ease with which she could make him mad with desire. He was not supposed to want her like this, not in a possessive, jealous way—it was contrary to the principles of the movement—but he could not master his emotions; he wanted her all to himself, he wanted to own her, like property, like chattels.
What did she see in Autenburg? She claimed that he was a great intellect. Well, that might have been true once, perhaps—but not anymore. Autenburg could be ridiculous. That nonsense about Hartmann and the jam—what on earth was he talking about? The People’s Will had triumphed in the end. They had assassinated Alexander II.
“Not long now,” said a woman to her younger female companion. “God bless him.”
Diamant recreated the regicide in his imagination with eidetic clarity: the first blinding detonation, the imperial sleigh swishing to a halt and throwing up plumes of ice; the tzar, jumping down and surveying the carnage, soldiers clutching shrapnel wounds, some already dead; Grinevitsky, throwing the bomb, another bright flash, and then the tzar, crawling on his hands and knees, leaving a bright red trail in the snow, his innards dropping out of the gaping hole in his abdomen. Diamant’s heart had started to beat faster and he was feeling excited.
A collective gasp returned Diamant to the present.
Franz Josef—Emperor of Austria, Apostolic King of Hungary, King of Bohemia, Dalmatia, Croatia, Slavonia, Galicia, Lodemeria, Ilyria, et cetera, et cetera—was walking down the street. He was wearing a peaked cap and a plain blue military uniform and he looked more like a retired private on his way to a regimental reunion than a demi-god.
Margrave of Upper and Lower Lusatia, in Istria, Count of Hohenems, Feldkirch, Bregenz, Sonneberg, et cetera, et cetera.
Everything was held together by this unimpressive man, the product of a thousand years of in-breeding. And he was so obviously mortal. Without his sashes and medals and symbols of power, he was just an old fool besotted with an actress, without his “inalienable heirlooms”—the Habsburg unicorn horn and the agate bowl believed to be the Holy Grail—he was nothing. Diamant had once read that the emperor wrote his telegrams on old scraps of paper to save money. What a miser, what a miserable old skinflint!
Grand Prince of Transylvania, Lord of Trieste, Kotor, and the Wendish March. Grand Voivode of the Voivodship of Serbia, et cetera, et cetera.
A policeman came forward, holding up his hand—indicating that the people who had assembled near the coach should not come forward. “Disperse,” he called out. “Disperse at once.” Franz Josef was suddenly standing next to the officer and Diamant could actually hear the emperor’s stern reprimand. “There is no reason why these good people should not greet their sovereign.” The policeman seemed to shrink and he stuttered an apology before bowing so low he was in danger of toppling over.
It would be so easy—a bomb, like Grinevitsky—that would do it! No, not even a bomb—a dagger—the emperor could be reached with a single lunge! Franz Josef smiled at his subjects and waved like a clockwork automaton before climbing into the carriage.
Leaning against a tree, looking on, was a gentleman with a pointed beard. His broad-brimmed hat was tilted low over his eyes and he was holding a cane against his chest. By the time the coach had rolled away and the people had finished cheering, the gentleman had melted away. Even if he had chosen to remain by the tree, Diamant wouldn’t have noticed him. The young man was far too busy making plans.
TWENTY-SIX
Commissioner Brügel’s adjutant handed Rheinhardt a sealed envelope and barked, “Read it now, inspector.” Rheinhardt reached for his paper knife and slit the flap. Inside was a summons, written in a distinctive Gothic hand, the ornateness of which contradicted the blunt simplicity of the message: Favoriten. My office—to discuss report. Half past two. Brügel. Rheinhardt addressed the self-important adjutant: “I would be most grateful if you would inform the commissioner that I will be present at the specified time.” The adjutant sneered, jerked his head in lieu of a bow, and made a hasty departure—slamming the door.
Haussmann stopped writing and looked up. “Sir, why do you always treat him with such civility?”
“Because,” Rheinhardt replied in the tone of a weary sage, “it costs me nothing to be civil and those who are quick to anger often find themselves in an early grave.”
“The commissioner appears to be in excellent health—”
“There are always exceptions, Haussmann.”
The detective ate some zimtsterne biscuits—cinnamon stars—instead of going out for lunch and he found himself glancing at his watch with increasing frequency as the hour and minute hands approached half past two.
Commissioner Manfred Brügel sat behind his desk beneath a portrait of Franz Josef dressed in full regalia. The commissioner and the emperor were not dissimilar in appearance on account of a common preference for muttonchop whiskers, and, if Rheinhardt squinted, he could reproduce an effect that resembled double vision. Much of Brügel’s desktop was covered in photographs of the Favoriten murder scene: the three chairs, the disfigured body, a long view of the piano factory floor. Brügel consulted Rheinhardt’s report and said, “Angelo Callari?”
“Yes, sir.”
Brügel picked up an image of the dead man’s melted face. “How can you be sure?”
“We can’t be sure—not absolutely—he didn’t have any papers. Nevertheless, I’m confident that the man we found in the factory was the same one who arrived in Vienna a few months ago and called himself Tab.”
The commissioner grimaced as if he’d suddenly developed a painful zygomatic tic. “Webbed feet—the word of a prostitute . . .”
“The crop marks on his body, the crop itself, and Herr Kruckel’s interview . . .”
Brügel nodded, grudgingly. “What about the landlord?”
“The landlord is represented by an agent—a Slovenian gentleman who is proving difficult to trace.”
“Have you contacted our colleagues in Rome?”
“I have se
nt three telegrams to the Italian security office.”
“And?”
“We are still awaiting an acknowledgment. The Italians are never in danger of appearing overzealous.”
Brügel’s overcast expression was interrupted by a brief show of complicit recognition. The storm clouds quickly gathered again behind his eyes and he grumbled, “This Kruckel character . . .”
“I believe he was once an influential political columnist.”
“The name is familiar.” Brügel picked up the Fraternitas pamphlet and studied the image of the laborer climbing toward the beacon. He read the caption: “Nothing to lose—everything to gain.” Then he flicked through the pages. “Seditious drivel. Yes, Kruckel. I remember reading articles by Clement Kruckel. He was a young firebrand when I was still a police cadet. I haven’t come across any of his provocative denunciations in a long time now.”
“Indeed, sir. None of the mainstream newspapers publish him anymore. His views are considered to be too extreme—even by those who share his socialist sympathies.”
The commissioner tossed the pamphlet aside with disdain and craned forward to take a closer look at the photograph of the three empty chairs. “You have indicated in your report that a jury of honor may have convened at the Gallus and Sons factory.”
“Actually, sir—it was Herr Doctor Liebermann who made that suggestion.”
Brügel produced a low growling sound. “You still feel the need to consult him?”
“He is remarkably perceptive and—”
“Has provided the security office with invaluable assistance on many occasions, I know, I know—so you keep telling me.” The commissioner fell silent and his index finger tapped out a solid, heavy rhythm. He was clearly ruminating. His pendant, dissatisfied expression was becoming increasingly baleful. Eventually, he muttered, “This won’t do, Rheinhardt.”
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“This really won’t do.” The commissioner’s finger stopped tapping. “Three weeks. You’ve been working on this case for three weeks and—as far as I can see—you’ve achieved nothing.”
“We’ve identified the body, sir.”
“No, you haven’t, detective inspector.” Brügel slapped his palm down on Rheinhardt’s report. “You know what the dead man called himself—Angelo Callari—but you still don’t know who he was, or what he was doing in Vienna. Where are your suspects? Why was there so much money under Callari’s mattress? Who gave it to him? If Callari was a political agitator, then we cannot afford to be complacent!” Brügel’s cheeks had become mottled and his breathing was clearly audible. He slapped the report again for good measure, pushed his chair back, and gestured toward Franz Josef. “Rheinhardt! Consider the terrible fate of our beloved empress!” The commissioner picked up the photograph of Callari’s ruined face and held it out. “What kind of person might have a large quantity of acid conveniently at hand?”
“A scientist?” Rheinhardt spoke tentatively. “Someone who works in a laboratory?”
“Think again, man!”
“A chemist of some description?”
“What do you need to make explosives?”
Rheinhardt whispered his reply. “Acids . . .”
The commissioner exchanged Callari’s photograph for Rheinhardt’s report. “I’m going to have to pass this on to the intelligence services.”
Rheinhardt felt profoundly uncomfortable. The commissioner was intemperate, cantankerous, and critical, but in this instance, his harsh words were excusable.
Yes, thought Rheinehardt. He’s right. I’ve been complacent.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The cab jounced along an uneven stretch of road. Liebermann sighed and said, “I really didn’t want to put you through this.”
“I’m being introduced to your family,” Amelia replied. “Not having a tooth extracted.” She smiled and Liebermann was relieved to see that she’d intended the quip to be amusing.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Liebermann pulled the curtain aside and looked out of the window. The streetlamps flashed past—then doorways, caryatids, pediments; a man carrying a double bass on his back. “We’re almost there.”
“Actually,” said Amelia. “I’ve been looking forward to this evening.”
“Have you?”
“Yes. I’m rather curious. It will be interesting to meet your parents—to see which of your traits has been transmitted by their germ plasm.”
Liebermann turned and rested a hand on Amelia’s sleeve. “Perhaps you should try to avoid saying things like that at the dinner table.”
They arrived at their destination, a large apartment building on Concordiaplatz with tall, oblong windows. Liebermann and Amelia stepped down onto the cobbles and Liebermann paid the driver, adding a very generous tip. He felt like a condemned man; the value of money had become an irrelevance. Doffing his cap, the driver wished Liebermann luck and shook the reins. The horse trotted away and its clopping hooves produced a loud, ringing echo.
Liebermann and Amelia entered the building and climbed a wide stone staircase that glittered with silica crystals. The first floor landing was tiled like a chessboard and they advanced toward a pair of carved oak doors. Liebermann pressed an ivory button, a bell sounded, and they were admitted into a long hallway by a Czech servant who greeted “Herr Doctor Maxim” warmly and took their coats and Amelia’s hat. Another servant was opening a door to their right. Voices could be heard—but they fell silent almost immediately. Liebermann whispered, “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course.” Amelia replied. For the first time he saw apprehension in her eyes.
“Come . . .”
Liebermann squeezed Amelia’s hand and led her into a spacious reception room. All of Liebermann’s family—with the exception of Daniel, his little nephew—had gathered for the occasion. A circle of expectant faces: Mendel, his father; Rebecca, his mother; his older sister, Leah; her husband, Josef; and Liebermann’s younger sister, Hannah. Liebermann couldn’t help noticing that his family looked somewhat frozen, arrested, speechless, perhaps even shocked, and when he turned to introduce Amelia he understood why. He had been so distracted and so full of dread that he hadn’t registered her appearance. Her clothes were, as usual, very simple, but she was standing beneath a glittering chandelier and her hair, which she had not pinned up, was a blazing cascade, flame red and coruscating with glints of copper and gold. The illusion of movement commanded attention and everything in the room seemed to dim by contrast. Hannah’s mouth had dropped open. Liebermann was obliged to break the spell: “Good evening.” He rotated his hand in the air, an absurd, nervous flourish that he instantly regretted. “This is Amelia. Amelia Lydgate.” Josef raised an eyebrow.
“Miss Lydgate,” said Mendel, stepping forward. “I am Maxim’s father, you are most welcome.” He bowed, kissed Amelia’s hand and continued. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Rebecca, our two daughters—Leah and Hannah—and my son-in-law, Josef.” Although he was smiling, Mendel appeared rather awkward and Liebermann’s mother and sisters bobbed up and down, improvising a genteel greeting the likes of which Liebermann had never seen before. He supposed that this was on account of Amelia being English.
When everyone was seated, Mendel addressed his guest: “Maxim tells me you’re from London.”
“Yes,” Amelia replied. “One of the villages just north of the capital.”
“London,” Mendel repeated. “A very fine city. I’ve been to London many times on business. I used to bring Maxim along, when he was younger, when I thought I could interest him in textiles. But it wasn’t to be. What is the name of your village?”
“Highgate,” Amelia replied.
“I’m afraid the name is unfamiliar.”
“It is situated on an eminence and on a clear day the views over London are very pleasing. One can see as far as the Thames. There are many inns and the air is considered good for the constitution. Our great poet, Coleridge, is buried in the local church. My father is of the opinio
n that his philosophical works are much underestimated.”
Mendel wasn’t sure how to respond. The only poetry he’d ever read for pleasure was Goethe. “Your father—he is your English parent?”
“Indeed—Samuel Lydgate—a science master at a school of some distinction.”
“And your mother?”
“Greta—is German.”
“Which explains your fluency.”
“An accent is still detectable, I believe.”
“Hardly.”
That went well, thought Liebermann. The small talk continued and Liebermann was distracted by an enormous, antique menorah—the Jewish ceremonial candle holder—standing proudly on the sideboard. He hadn’t seen this particular menorah before and guessed that Mendel must have purchased it only recently. Whether his father’s prominent positioning of the menorah had been consciously or unconsciously motivated didn’t really matter. The old man was prepared to be civil, but he didn’t like making compromises—and the marriage of his son to a gentile would be the most painful and difficult of all compromises.
Leah was asking Amelia a question. “You are studying medicine?”
“It is something of a family tradition.”
“Ah yes,” said Mendel. “Maxim told me about your grandfather. He attended royalty, didn’t he?”
“He was invited to Great Britain by the prince consort and he was subsequently appointed physician-in-ordinary to Queen Victoria.” The members of the Liebermann family looked across the room at each other and nodded their approval. “I have his diaries in my possession. They are extremely interesting, particularly his speculative writings on diseases of the blood.”