Mephisto Waltz

by F. R. Tallis

  Rheinhardt swallowed his final mouthful of cake and dabbed his mouth with a serviette. “Very good—the texture especially—substantial but not heavy.” He then checked the points of his moustache and said, “And what of Mephistopheles?”

  Feist glared at him as though he were mad. “Is this some kind of prank, inspector?”

  “Mephistopheles,” he repeated. “Have you ever encountered a gentleman who uses this moniker as an alias?”

  Feist laughed. It was a surprisingly pleasant and unexpected sound to be issuing from the mouth of such a desiccated person. “Really, inspector, Mephistopheles! The only Mephistopheles I know is the one who appears in fairy tales and Faust. I do not associate with ne’er-do-wells and I most certainly do not consort with the devil. Can I interest you in a second slice of walnut cake?”

  “No thank you, one slice is quite enough.” He patted his stomach before rising. “I am afraid I must trespass further upon your hospitality, Fräulein Feist. I must search your house.”

  “Really?” Feist appeared amazed. “Whatever are you looking for? If you told me, I could perhaps offer you some assistance. My bedroom is upstairs and I also have a little room where I write and keep my books. There’s not much to see as I have very few possessions. Go up, by all means. I’ll tidy these things away.” She began to load the tray. “The stairs are by the door.”

  Rheinhardt indicated that Haussmann should remain in his chair. He then crossed the floor and climbed a single flight of bare wooden steps to the top floor. Feist’s bedroom contained a single bed—beneath which he discovered a chamber pot decorated with a floral glaze—a wardrobe, and a sink. He opened the wardrobe door and studied the clothes: a coat, a few old-fashioned blouses, and several brown and gray skirts made from practical and hard-wearing fabrics. Since his arrival, he had become accustomed to the tainted air of the locality. In fact, the smell hardly registered, but on opening the wardrobe door he became aware of a new miasma that reminded him of sewage. Sniffing the air like a bloodhound he determined that the source of the odor was Feist’s coat. He closed the wardrobe door, thoroughly perplexed. The absence of a dressing table was not surprising. He exited the bedroom and entered a small library. Pushed against one of the walls was a slim table on which paper and pens were lined up. Rheinhardt studied some of the book spines and was impressed by the broadness of Feist’s reading. There were classics—Homer, Aristotle—some works of modern philosophy, textbooks on chemistry and geology, political memoirs, French authors such as Hugo and Zola, and several popular novels. Rheinhardt descended the stairs and returned to the parlor.

  “Where is Fräulein Feist?”

  Haussmann stood. “She’s in the cellar.”

  “Why?”

  “She said she needed some wood for the stove . . .”

  The two men approached an open door. They gazed down concrete steps that descended into a flickering twilight. There wasn’t a sound. Haussmann moved forward but Rheinhardt stopped him from going any farther by grabbing his sleeve. Haussmann looked at his superior quizzically.

  Rheinhardt called out, “Fräulein Feist?”

  She responded after a short pause. “Just a moment, inspector.”

  The assistant smiled: There . . . nothing to worry about.

  Footsteps preceded Feist’s appearance at the bottom of the stairs. The white oval of her face seemed to be floating in a sea of shadow and then it seemed to Rheinhardt that he was observing the prolonged, drawn out agonies of a nightmare. Feist’s straight right arm reversed and arced over her shoulder. Her fingers opened and something was released. Rheinhardt was conscious of a blurred trajectory and Feist’s sudden disappearance. “Haussmann!” Rheinhardt shouted, pushing his assistant away from the door and turning on his heels. He had only managed a step or two before the canister hit the uppermost stair and the subsequent blast lifted him off his feet.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Black—a high-pitched ringing.

  Rheinhardt opened his eyes. He was lying face down on a hard surface. Pieces of broken glass formed patterns on the floorboards.

  Where am I?

  He turned his head and the ringing became louder. The table and chairs had been overturned and the air had become a fog of floating dust motes.

  Memories crystallized and a narrative became clearer.

  Feist—the grenade—Haussmann!

  Rheinhardt rolled over and sat up. The door to the cellar had been blown off its hinges and parts of the wall were missing. A curtain was burning. Haussmann’s body was a heap on the floor amid rubble and bricks. The scene reddened as blood trickled into Rheinhardt’s eyes. He crawled over to his assistant: “Haussmann, are you all right? Haussmann—speak to me.” The young man didn’t respond. Rheinhardt lowered his head and positioned his ear close to Haussmann’s mouth—but all that he could hear was ringing. He plucked a mirror from his pocket and placed it beneath Haussmann’s nostrils. “Dear God, do not take him. He is too young.” The glass misted and Rheinhardt looked up to the heavens. “Thank you. Thank you.” A gust of wind made the front door creak. It had been left open. Haussmann groaned. “I’m sorry, my friend,” said Rheinhardt. “But I must leave you for a while.” With considerable difficulty, Rheinhardt managed to stand. He ripped the burning curtain from the window and stamped on the flames, then stumbled through the doorway and out onto the street, where he saw, in the distance, a woman running. She was heading away from the gas works and toward the canal.

  Rheinhardt began his pursuit but found that he was very unsteady. His portly frame and the aftereffects of the blast were significant handicaps. Yet he persevered, encouraged by the fact that Feist wasn’t moving very fast either. She had handicaps of her own—a long skirt, beneath which drawers and petticoats were no doubt restricting her leg movements. He saw her glance over her shoulder. She stopped, turned, raised a pistol, shot twice, and continued running. Fortunately, her aim had been wide and Rheinhardt supposed that these shots were merely cautionary. A question arose in his mind: Should I stop now? He was out of breath, his ribs were on fire, and the world was undulating like the mock reality of a painted theatrical backdrop. He thought of Haussmann, alone and injured; Else, puttering around at home; his two daughters sitting at their desks at school. Was it wise to continue pursuing Feist? It would be easy to justify giving up the chase at this point. He thought of mohnstrudel served with clotted cream, türkische coffee, mellow cigars, and Schubert songs. Life was good. Yet, in spite of these considerations, the figure of the woman running ahead of him, and the diminishing distance that separated them, drew him on.

  Feist ran onto a girder bridge that spanned the canal. She raised her pistol again and when she pulled the trigger Rheinhardt sensed the proximity of the projectile. He took cover behind an empty cart and watched as Feist continued her bid to escape. Blood was still filming his eyes and tinting his vision. He stepped out from behind the cart and launched himself after Feist. His legs were feeling leaden and it took a gargantuan effort to achieve his prior speed. His throat was dry and his much abused lungs—he was a prodigious smoker—began to rattle.

  Rheinhardt crossed the bridge and followed Feist onto the Prater. The surrounding greenery was wild and uncultivated. They were a considerable distance from the Rotunda and the amusement park, but quite close to the Freudenau racecourse. Ahead, there was no obvious path, and Feist was having difficulty negotiating long weeds and dead brambles. The field that they were in was completely desolate.

  Feist halted and aimed her pistol. “That’s far enough, inspector.”

  “Lower your weapon,” said Rheinhardt. His ears were still ringing and he could only just hear what Feist was saying.

  “You are in no position to issue orders,” Feist responded, taking a step closer to reduce her range.

  Rheinhardt studied the pistol. It was small and he judged that it might only fire four rounds. Feist had already used three. “Lower your weapon,” he repeated.

  “Don’t be foolish, inspec
tor.” Feist jabbed the barrel. “Do you think I’ll miss from here? Turn around and walk away.”

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”

  “You have a choice, inspector, a very clear choice. Come any nearer and I will shoot you. Alternatively, you can walk away. Be reasonable. Do not die without good cause. That would be such a needless waste. You have acquitted yourself well and no one will accuse you of dereliction of duty. Now, go back and help your assistant.”

  “Who is Mephistopheles?” Rheinhardt spoke evenly. “What is his real name?”

  “Don’t be stubborn, inspector. How does this day end for you? Does it end with you tucked up in a warm bed with your wife? Or does it end with your frozen body laid out in a mortuary?” Rheinhardt shivered and blinked the blood from his eyes. “It is your choice, inspector. Choose wisely.”

  Rheinhardt leapt forward and Feist squeezed the trigger. There was no report. The gun had run out of bullets. She threw her weapon aside and once again started running. After only a few steps she tripped and fell. Rheinhardt skidded to a halt on the dewy weeds and allowed his knees to come down on her back. His weight winded her and she cried out in pain. She tried to squirm out from beneath him but Rheinhardt was too heavy. Her arms flailed and her legs kicked, ineffectually. Rheinhardt closed a metal bracelet around her wrist and turned the key.

  “Please, Fräulein Feist,” he said with calm resolve. “Be still. We are handcuffed together and you cannot escape. I do not wish to break your back, but if you force me to continue this method of restraint I fear that may be a likely outcome. How does this day end for you? Does it end with you locked up in a cell with the use of your legs? Or does it end with you locked in a cell as a cripple? Choose wisely.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  Captain Birk Hoover lived in a small hotel in the heart of the eighth district. His rooms were somewhat Spartan because he was a man for whom the comforts and luxuries of life were dispensable. He disliked clutter, personal mementoes, and surfaces covered with family portraits. Even so, he did keep a small framed photograph of his mother. It showed a rather glamorous widow whose smile could only be described as flirtatious. Although he had traveled a great deal, he did not possess a single souvenir.

  On waking, Hoover got out of bed and shaved. His servant had prepared a bowl of steaming, scented water, and Hoover scraped the stubble off his face with the minimum number of efficient strokes. His cut-throat razor was manipulated with such a steady, sure hand, that his skin was never nicked. He combed his blond moustache and made a careful inspection of his fingernails. It was necessary to trim the nail of his index finger. When he had finished his ablutions, Hoover wrapped himself in a silk robe and went downstairs to have his breakfast and read the newspapers. Any articles on international relations, science, military matters, or crime, he read with careful, professional interest. He then returned to his bedroom where his uniform had been laid out. Standing in front of a full-length mirror, he dressed and made sure that no stray hairs or lint had become attached to the fabric. He buckled his sword belt and then put on his suede gloves. Finally, he fitted his garrison hat on his head. He always put his gloves on before his hat, to ensure that the patent-leather visor was not sullied by fingerprints. When he was satisfied with his appearance, he left his suite, trotted down the stairs, and exited the hotel. The street cleaners had recently been at work and the pavement was damp and the air fresh.

  Hoover set off at his customary brisk pace. It did not take him long to reach the glorious architectural extravaganza of the town hall. He dodged a tram, marched past the Court Theatre and entered the second courtyard of the Hofburg Palace. It was almost half past eight so he quickened his step. A sentry saluted. He crossed the open space to the Ministry of War building, where he returned the salute of another sentry. Hoover ascended four flights of stairs and—returning one more salute as he walked past the final sentry—entered the Intelligence Bureau of the General Staff.

  At eight thirty precisely Hoover was seated at his desk. He smoked a cigarette and then removed some papers from his safe. He had not yet finished his report on Professor Seeliger and the dead man who he believed must be Agent 58. He had been rather physical while interrogating Seeliger, but he would omit mention of such details and no one would ask any difficult questions. It was necessary to be confident that the old fool was telling not just the truth, but the whole truth. A second document concerned the development of a new cable balloon that might give troops a tactical advantage during battle.

  There was a knock on the door. An adjutant entered, saluted, and handed Hoover an envelope. “For your immediate attention, sir.”

  Hoover opened the envelope and found that it contained a brief note from his superior. “Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt has arrested a woman as yet unknown to us. Her name is Vala Feist. A bomb-making factory was discovered in her basement. Evidence suggests she is an associate of Mephistopheles.” Hoover looked up at the adjutant. “Thank you. That will be all.” The messenger saluted and withdrew.

  Striking a match, Hoover held the flame against his superior’s note. The paper burned, blackened, and curled. He dropped the note into his metal ashtray and watched as it disintegrated and became ashes.

  It was time to make himself known.

  PART FOUR

  Martyrdom

  FIFTY-THREE

  Her bun had unraveled and her hair fell in lank strands to her shoulders. Sitting beneath the bare, yellow bulb, her hollow cheeks had filled with shadow and her eyes were empty. She hadn’t said a single word since her undignified capture.

  For two hours, Rheinhardt had questioned Vala Feist: Who is Mephistopheles? Is he still in Vienna? Are members of your cell still at large? Where do you intend to bomb? Who are your targets? Are you acquainted with Axl Diamant? Can you name the men and women you have sheltered in the basement of your house? Were they fugitives? Where had they traveled from? Who supplied you with fuses, potash, glycerine, nitric acid?

  Feist had remained completely silent, her thin lips pressed together.

  Rheinhardt had hoped that Liebermann would employ some clever psychological technique to loosen Feist’s tongue, but the young doctor had said nothing. Liebermann fidgeted, he crossed and uncrossed his legs, and then became occupied with how the hem of his trousers could be best positioned to cover the laces of his shoes. Irritated by Liebermann’s failure to engage, Rheinhardt had had no choice but to continue repeating his questions. In due course, he also fell silent. He gazed at the emperor’s mildewed portrait and the more he contemplated the young Franz Josef’s expression the more he thought he could detect disapproval. Anarchists in Vienna! Explosions, innocent victims, blood flowing between the cobbles of the Graben. Rheinhardt was so caught up in these grim imaginings that it took him a few moments to fully register that Liebermann had finally started talking.

  “You are motivated by compassion. So how is it that a person of such tender conscience can condone propaganda by deed? I suspect you would answer that terror serves the purpose of achieving a greater good. But that is a shallow answer.” Liebermann leaned back, placed his elbow on the chair arm, and rested his head on his right hand. His index finger uncurled and tapped against his temple. “There are many in this world who would call you a monster. I am not one of them. In reality, we are all monsters—composed mostly of primitive appetites and animal instincts obscured by the thin, brittle veneer of cultivation. You are not so different from the bourgeois housewife, whose matronly exterior conceals a powerful desire to advance her children at any cost, to facilitate her husband’s ascent to prominence, to become the most prosperous family in her apartment building. If her repressions were lifted for a single moment the extent of her fierce ambitions would be translated into acts of violence. She would eliminate competition to facilitate the satisfaction of her desires. No—you are not uniquely monstrous. The critical difference between you and a respectable housewife is not what you are—for in essence you very similar. The critical d
ifference lies in the conditions that have led to the disintegration of certain repressions.”

  Vala Feist tilted her head and her expression showed interest. She clasped her knees, concealing the two green stains on her skirt.

  Liebermann continued: “Le Bon has suggested that large groups, crowds, especially, are characterized by extremities of action. The usual prohibitions of civilized life cease to have effect and violence can easily erupt. When you pledged allegiance to your cause, you became part of a crowd. Repressions were lifted and your judgement was compromised. The unconscious mind rarely chooses sophisticated solutions. Thus, you have chosen violence.” Liebermann was evidently pleased with himself. “We have an answer then, a mechanism that can explain how a person of tender conscious can embrace terror. I believe that if you were given an opportunity to explore this thesis, by engaging in a course of therapeutic conversation, you would gain insights that might result in your willingness to cooperate with the security office. But overcoming resistances take time, and I suspect that we do not have that luxury.” The young doctor lifted his head from his hand and sat up straight. “What do you dream?” His voice was soft and reflective. “It would be fascinating to discuss the content of your dreams. Professor Freud—whom I admire greatly—has developed a system for the interpretation of dreams. If you told me your dreams, what would we discover, I wonder?”

  There was a knock on the door. It opened and a constable entered followed by three men in military uniform. The constable clicked his heels. “Some gentlemen to see you from the war ministry, sir.”

  Rheinhardt stood and said, “Then take them to my office. I told you, admit no one.” He was particularly annoyed because he felt that Liebermann was getting somewhere and Feist was about to speak. Rheinhardt took a deep breath and addressed the tallest of the men from the ministry. “I am sorry, Herr Captain. But if you would kindly allow Constable Prock to escort you to my office, I will be with you very shortly.”