Mephisto Waltz

by F. R. Tallis

  The urge was so strong he had to hurry forward.

  I am going to alter the course of history!

  Diamant encountered fewer people on the streets of Mariahilf, and, very soon, he found himself walking alone. He stepped into a doorway and removed a dagger from his coat pocket. After unsheathing the blade, he tested its sharpness with his forefinger. The reflection of his face moved across the narrow mirror: a young man with a dueling scar, an ordinary face, really, but a face that would soon be reproduced in newspapers on every continent. The thought of achieving global notoriety was accompanied by a quasi-erotic thrill. Diamant chose not to consider the significance of this sporadic and mildly perplexing phenomenon. He slid the dagger back into its sheath and continued his journey westward.

  Was he ready to die for the cause? He fully accepted that this was the most likely eventuality. Nevertheless, he still harbored hopes of escape. After stabbing the empress, Luchini had managed to flee from the scene of his triumph, and if he hadn’t been apprehended by two cab drivers and a sailor, he might still be alive and safely ensconced in an Alpine hideaway. Diamant supposed that if none of the people who gathered by the royal carriage chased after him, he could—with a little luck—evade capture and make his way to the woods.

  Diamant arrived outside number 9 Gloriettegasse in the early hours of the morning. He imagined Katharina Schratt, tucked up in her bed—fast asleep—inhabiting some dream of greasepaint and limelight. Then he imagined her receiving the news of the emperor’s assassination, her operatic anguish, her collapse, her hand clutching a white tablecloth—the breakfast things tumbling to the floor, the crash of the silverware, the china coffee cups shattering on the parquet. She would act her part as if she were performing in front of a full house at the Court Theatre. In reality, she’d be quietly grateful that she was at last free of her onerous obligation to amuse the old man.

  Consulting his pocket watch, Diamant wondered why he had set off for Gloriettegasse the instant he’d been asked to leave the beer cellar. He suspected that his decision had been influenced by the bottle of horilka. It would be many hours before the royal carriage appeared, so he decided to walk into Meidling. He wandered around backstreets, smoking and occasionally stopping to look in a shop window. A dishevelled prostitute, who seemed quite lost, offered to lift her skirts for him behind a tannery for “just one krone.” Naturally, he declined. A little while later, as he strolled down a shadowy street illuminated by a single gas lamp, he thought he could hear footsteps following. He turned, ready to berate the stubborn whore for her tenacity, but all he could see were paving slabs and cobbles. The same thing happened again shortly after, but when he turned a second time he was surprised to discover a gentleman standing only a few paces behind him: a well-dressed man carrying a cane. Where had he come from? There was something familiar about him.

  “Do I know you?” Diamant asked.

  “No,” the gentleman shook his head. “We’ve never been introduced; however, perhaps you recognize me? You’ve seen me before—quite a few times.”

  “Yes . . .”

  “It’ll come, I’m sure.” The gentleman stepped closer and removed his hat. “Does that help?”

  “Yes . . . I’ve seen you at The Golden Bears.”

  The stranger smiled. “There, I told you it would come.” He was much faster than the balalaika player. His hand sliced beneath Diamant’s chin and the would-be assassin was choking on his own blood before a single thought formed in his mind: I won’t be altering the course of history after all.

  PART THREE

  The Beatrix

  THIRTY-FIVE

  She’s a bit odd if you ask me,” said the constable. His body didn’t fill his uniform and his spiked helmet was also perhaps a size too large. “There might even be something wrong with her.” He pointed at the woman standing beneath the solitary gas lamp. Her blank expression, shabby clothes, and general limpness made her look like an oversize rag doll.

  “Wrong?”

  “When she talks she doesn’t always make sense.”

  “Do you think she has an infirmity of the mind?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir. Her name’s Uhe. Geralyn Uhe.”

  “Thank you, constable. That will be all.”

  The young man bowed and clicked his heels.

  Rheinhardt walked over to the prostitute. Her coat was unbuttoned and the hem of her skirt fell short of her boots. A wide gap revealed torn yellow stockings. Her face had been plastered with a cosmetic paste in order to conceal the spots around her mouth and a small oval scab hovered above her right eyebrow. She wore no hat and her tawny hair was piled so high it resembled the crown of a pineapple.

  “Good morning, Fräulein Uhe,” said Rheinhardt, producing a notebook and pencil. “Thank you for waiting. I am Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt of the security office, and, if I may, I would like to ask you a few questions.” The woman nodded. “Where do you live?”

  “Wilhelminen Strasse 119.”

  “Ottakring?”

  “Yes, a little boardinghouse.” Her delivery was slow and effortful, as if pronouncing each syllable was intolerably tiresome. “I’ll be staying there for the next week or so . . . or longer. I’m not sure yet.”

  Although it was cold the woman was perspiring and drops of sweat had striped her makeup. She scratched the back of her left hand with long fingernails: a short burst of activity, like a dog attacking a flea. When she had finished scratching, the skin was inflamed.

  “What business did you have in Meidling?”

  The woman shrugged. “The usual business. But I didn’t make any money.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, all things considered. Why did you choose to spend the night here, of all places?”

  “I’m not sure . . . it wasn’t something I’d planned.” She made a languid gesture and blinked. “I walked for a while and just found myself in the streets behind the tannery.”

  “And at what time did you discover the body?”

  “I don’t know. I had to sell my watch.” She scratched the back of her hand again. “Of course—I didn’t know he was dead. I thought he’d fallen over and banged his head. But when I got close and saw the blood. So much of it . . .”

  “That must have been very frightening.”

  Fräulein Uhe looked a little embarrassed. “Not really.”

  The constable was right, she was distinctly odd.

  Rheinhardt scribbled a few notes. “You didn’t touch the body, did you?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Forgive me,” Rheinhardt smiled. “But would you be so kind as to show me the contents of your pockets?” The woman pulled out the grubby linings and left them hanging, before opening her coat wide to demonstrate that there were no other places of concealment. A scent came off her clothes, a sickly sweet smell that wasn’t perfume. “So,” Rheinhardt continued, “what was the next thing you did?”

  The woman stuffed the linings back. “I went around to the police station on Hufelandgasse. They didn’t believe me at first.” She paused, coughed, and added, “I’d seen him earlier.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The dead man, I’d seen him by the tannery.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “He wasn’t interested. He didn’t want to talk.”

  “What did he say, exactly?”

  “‘Go away’ . . . and he used some very bad language.”

  “I see. And did you encounter anyone else by the tannery?” Fräulein Uhe sucked her lower lip and her brow creased. She was obviously engaged in some form of inward deliberation. “What is it?”

  “Well, I thought I saw . . .” The sentence remained incomplete.

  “Yes?” Rheinhardt prompted.

  “No—it was nothing—a shadow—sometimes I see things that aren’t really there. It’s an eye problem. Can I go now? I’m very tired.”

  “Are you sure it was just a shadow?”

  Fräulein Uhe’s answer bor
e no relation to the question. “They didn’t thank me, the Hufelandgasse constables. I did my best to help.”

  Rheinhardt found some coins in his pocket and showed them to Fräulein Uhe. Her eyes widened. “Now,” he said, “if I were to offer you this small token of appreciation, would you consider spending it on a hearty breakfast—rather than opium?”

  She looked from side to side, like a naughty child avoiding the censorious gaze of a parent. “I am hungry . . .”

  “I guessed you might be.” Rheinhardt wrote down the name and address of a women’s hostel, tore the page from his notebook, and handed it to Fräulein Uhe. “After breakfast, might I suggest you repair immediately to this establishment, where you will be given a bed, medical attention, and good counsel.”

  Fräulein Uhe scraped the coins from Rheinhardt’s palm and hurried away, worried, perhaps, that he might suddenly change his mind. Rheinhardt signaled to one of the constables that Fräulein Uhe should be allowed to pass and he watched her until she disappeared around a corner. Would she find a coffeehouse and enjoy a hearty breakfast—as he had suggested? Eggs and käsekrainer sausages, a kaffee crème, warm bread, croissants, and plum conserve? Rheinhardt’s stomach rumbled at the thought. Or would she go straight back to a life so sordid and chaotic that not even a brothel could make use of her? Sadly, the latter was far more likely than the former.

  Rheinhardt walked toward the police photographer who was already at work with his assistant. Magnesium flashes illuminated the body and smoke hung in the air. A carriage overtook Rheinhardt and when it stopped the door flew open and Haussmann jumped out with considerable athleticism. He landed perfectly and stood to attention. “Good morning, sir.” Rheinhardt took out his watch and tapped the glass. “Problem with the first cab, sir—broken wheel—could have been nasty.”

  “Are you familiar with the word ‘hyperbole,’ Haussmann?”

  “Yes, sir. Exaggeration used for effect.”

  “Quite. I hope that isn’t a smile, Haussmann.”

  “No, sir—perish the thought.”

  They both looked down at the body. A wide gash showed where a razor or some other sharp instrument had been drawn across the man’s throat at the level of the laryngeal prominence. It was deep enough to reveal the open pipe of the trachea. He had lost an enormous amount of blood, most of which had congealed on the pavement.

  “Finished,” said the photographer, coming out from under his cover. “Poor chap . . . and so very young.” After collecting their things together, the photographer and his assistant climbed into a waiting carriage. The driver cracked his whip and the photographer waved out of the window. When the rattling had diminished and it was possible to speak again, Rheinhardt said, “Well, Haussmann?”

  “Young—dueling scar—a student, most probably.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  Rheinhardt squatted and tugged at the man’s scarf. It was caked with dried blood and did not come away easily. Turning the material over revealed a label. Although stained, it was just about legible. “Ha! Boegal! The outfitters near the university.” Rheinhardt felt inside the man’s coat and found a book. “Das Wesen des Christentums.” The Essence of Christianity.

  “A theology student?”

  Rheinhardt read: “‘God is man—man is God.’ Perhaps not.” He turned the book over and examined the spine. “Ludwig Feuerbach. I think it may be a critique of Christianity.” He read out another sentence: “‘Religion is the dream of the human mind.’ I strongly suspect that our friend Dr. Liebermann would agree with that. ‘Christ was no miracle worker, nor, in general, that which he is represented to be in the Bible.’” Rheinhardt handed the book to Haussmann who placed it in an envelope. “What have we here . . .” Rheinhardt withdrew a dagger and held it up.

  “Looks like he was expecting trouble, sir.”

  “I’m inclined to agree.”

  “Sir.” Haussmann crouched down next to Rheinhardt and looked very closely at the victim’s face.

  “What on earth are you doing, Haussmann?”

  “Sir, I think I’ve seen him before.”

  “Where?”

  “He was one of the people who I followed—you know—one of the people who drank at The Golden Bears.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I can’t remember, there were so many of them. But I can remember where he lived. Obere Weissgärberstrasse—the third district, near the canal. His name will be in the records.”

  The sound of horses’ hooves made them look up. The mortuary van had arrived.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Herr Düsterbehn’s eyebrows sprouted owlish curlicues and his beard was in dire need of barbering. He was a small, crabbed man, whose manner was gruff and discourteous. It was possible that he was simply having a bad day, but it seemed far more likely to Rheinhardt that Herr Düsterbehn was habitually out of humor.

  Rheinhardt showed Herr Düsterbehn the photograph.

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “How long has Herr Diamant been lodging with you?”

  “Since October.”

  “A student.”

  “Yes.”

  “A philosophy student?”

  “How should I know?” Düsterbehn snapped. Rheinhardt noticed that Haussmann was smirking. As Rheinhardt slipped the photograph back into its cardboard sleeve, he took the opportunity to glare at his assistant.

  “Herr Diamant had a duelling scar . . . ,” Rheinhardt ventured.

  “He was always getting into scrapes.” Düsterbehn thumped his chest and snarled, “Now what am I going to do?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s inconvenient. I’ll have to find another lodger—and then there’s all his things to get rid of, his books and his clothes.” A new thought diluted the landlord’s rancor: “Might be worth a couple of kronen.”

  “With respect, Herr Düsterbehn, you must not touch Herr Diamant’s property.”

  “It’s my house—I’ll do whatever I like.”

  “Disturb his belongings and you’ll be charged with obstructing the course of justice.”

  Düsterbehn treated Rheinhardt’s threat with disdain. “You won’t find what you’re looking for under Diamant’s bed or in his laundry basket, inspector!”

  “And what do you suppose we’re looking for?”

  The splenetic landlord muttered a profanity and pointed out of the window. “You’ve come to the wrong address.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Talk to Autenburg and his wife.”

  “Who?”

  “Autenburg.”

  Düsterbehn’s mouth twisted and it looked for a moment as if he were suffering from toothache. After a few seconds he produced a sound and Rheinhardt realized that actually, the landlord was chuckling. “And why should we do that?” Rheinhardt asked. Düsterbehn got up from his armchair and poured himself a glass of schnapps. “Well?”

  “People are very stupid, inspector. Genius has its limitations but stupidity is boundless.” Düsterbehn threw his head back and downed his liquor. “My doctor says it’s good for the constitution. The air’s not good here—near the canal . . .” He shuffled back to his armchair.

  A cuckoo clock chimed and each strike was accompanied by the compression of miniature bellows and the appearance of a crudely carved bird through an aperture with flapping doors. Unexpectedly, Düsterbehn looked up and his face showed something approximating innocent pleasure. When the clock fell silent, Rheinhardt was direct and firm. “Tell us about Autenburg.”

  “The boy was always running across the road. And sometimes he didn’t come back.”

  “He stayed there all night?”

  “Yes, all night. You wouldn’t believe what they got up to.”

  “Who?”

  “The boy and Autenburg’s wife. The curtains were never drawn. They didn’t care.”

  Rheinhardt twisted one of the upturned horns of his moustache. “Was Herr Autenburg aware of what was going on?”<
br />
  “Of course he was. They all slept under the same roof.”

  “And Herr Autenburg didn’t object?”

  “Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps it all built up.”

  “What built up?”

  “Resentment, anger—there’s only so much provocation a man can take. The night before last, I saw them outside, arguing.”

  “Autenburg and his wife?”

  “No. Autenburg and Diamant. Autenburg ended up trying to throttle the boy. He didn’t get very far, he’s not strong enough—but he tried all the same.”

  “They didn’t see you?”

  “No. I didn’t have the lamp lit and they were too busy arguing.”

  “Could you hear what was being said?”

  Düsterbehn shook his head. Rheinhardt removed a form from his inside pocket. “You are absolutely sure that the altercation you observed was between Autenburg and Diamant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I must ask you to make an official statement.”

  “What, now?”

  “Yes, now!”

  Düsterbehn mumbled execrations into his chest and said, “I’ll need some more schnapps.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Liebermann was confident that Herr Globocnik would be easily hypnotized. The man was highly suggestible—he had to be. After all, what was his illness, if it wasn’t an extreme case of auto-suggestion, a self-induced distortion of reality? Globocnik was lying on the gurney and Liebermann was sitting behind him, just out of view.

  “Are you ready?” Liebermann asked.

  “Yes, I’m ready,” Globocnik sniffed. “But I’m not sure what you hope to achieve.”

  “Just relax.”

  “I am relaxed.”

  Liebermann leaned back and looked up. “Do you see that small circular stain on the ceiling?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I want you to empty your mind and concentrate on it.”

  “As you wish . . .” Globocnik’s eyebrows drew closer together.

  “Focus on the stain,” Liebermann continued. “Keep focusing and very soon you will find that your eyelids are feeling heavier.” Liebermann modulated his voice, slowing down his rate of delivery and allowing the pitch to drop. “Heavier and heavier . . .” Globocnik began to blink with increasing frequency. “Feel the weight of your limbs—your arms feel heavy, your legs feel heavy—every time you breath out, you get a little closer to sleep.” Liebermann continued in this manner, repeating sedative phrases, observing the small signs that presaged success. Globocnik was going to make an excellent hypnotic subject. The clerk’s eyelids were fluttering and he seemed to be engaged in a struggle to stay awake. “Let go,” Liebermann whispered. “Let go. When I count to three you will sink into a deep, dreamless sleep. But you will be able to hear my voice and answer my questions. One, two . . .” Globocnick’s eyes were glimmering slits. “Three.”