by F. R. Tallis
The tall man stepped forward. “Captain Birk Hoover. Intelligence bureau.” He did not introduce his companions.
“I am Detective Inspector Rheinhardt and this is my medical advisor, Herr Doctor Liebermann.” Indicating Feist he added, “We were conducting an interview.”
“This woman is Vala Feist?”
Rheinhardt drew back, surprised. “Yes. Is she known to the Intelligence bureau?”
“I have read all of your reports. A comrade of Eduard Autenburg, implicated in the murder of Angelo Callari. Have you elicited a confession?”
“No—I’m afraid not.”
“What else can you tell us?”
“Nothing . . .”
“Nothing?”
“She is refusing to speak.”
“Please leave us with the prisoner. We would like to conduct our own interview.”
“With respect, Captain Hoover, I am responsible for the management of this case.”
“Kindly leave us with the prisoner. I am confident that we will be able to extract a full confession. It is imperative that you allow us to proceed.”
Hoover stepped forward but Rheinhardt showed the advancing officer his palm.
“One moment, please. I have heard about your methods at the bureau and I am not sure that I can offer you my support.”
“Your objection has been noted. Now, I must insist that you leave us alone with the prisoner.”
Rheinhardt paused and after a painfully long hiatus he said, “This woman is only here today because of the ongoing work of the security office. I arrested her this morning and was very nearly killed in the process.” He touched the dressing on his forehead to stress the point. “My assistant is now lying in a hospital bed and he is critically ill. Under such circumstances, it should come as no great surprise to you to learn that I am not minded to absent myself from the investigation. Even more so, given your . . . attitude?”
Hoover stiffened. “I order you to leave.”
“Where are your papers?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Rheinhardt!”
The portly inspector turned and pointed to the portrait of Franz Josef. “Every morning, the emperor rises at four and he is at his desk at five. Why? So that he can attend to his paperwork. It is his second duty of the day—second only to his prayers and communion with God.”
Hoover extended his arm and opened his hand without looking at his companions. “Papers.”
Nothing appeared. He turned and his blazing eyes demanded a response. His companions cringed and one of them said, “We didn’t anticipate obstruction, sir.”
Hoover swore under his breath. “Inspector, this is completely unacceptable.”
“Yes, I agree. The situation is regrettable; however, I am obliged to follow correct procedure.”
“These are exceptional circumstances.”
“So we must ensure that the usual protocols have been respected and everything is in order.”
Hoover recognized that there was nothing else he could do. “We will return with the requisite documentation. Needless to say, I will be registering a formal complaint.”
The three men exited and the door slammed shut.
“Well,” said Liebermann. “I am delighted to see that the security office and the intelligence bureau enjoy such warm and cordial relations.” He turned to face Feist. “It’s enough to make one consider the merits of a radical alternative!”
Rheinhardt sat down heavily in his chair. The sagging skin beneath his eyes became jaundiced beneath the yellow bulb. “Fräulein Feist, I would urge you most strongly to start talking. When Captain Hoover returns I will not have the authority to send him away a second time.”
“Thank you, inspector,” said Feist. Her voice sounded dusty and dry. “You have integrity. It saddens me that a man with your qualities should choose to serve a tyrant and live like a lapdog. You only oppose us because you do not understand. One day, I hope you will understand. That is all I have to say.” Her lips became a horizontal seal and she closed her eyes.
FIFTY-FOUR
Several members of the audience stood to applaud. The pianist, Julius Epstein, was bowing and crossing his hands over his heart. He was a distinguished figure, whose muttonchop whiskers were more copious than the emperor’s, and for a man in his seventies, Epstein was still spry. His face was elongated, almost to the point of deformity, and the cast of his features expressed such a surfeit of pathos he resembled a satirical cartoon.
Liebermann raised his voice. “Did you enjoy it?”
Hannah stood on her toes and shouted directly into Liebermann’s ear. “Wonderful.”
“I believe he is going to perform an encore,” said Amelia.
The Bösendorfer-Saal fell silent again as Epstein sat on his stool and made a few adjustments to its height. When he was satisfied, he composed himself for a few seconds before attacking the keys with demonic energy. He had chosen the first of Franz Liszt’s “Mephisto Waltzes” as his encore. The opening bars were electrifying: raw, galloping fifths that accumulated and stuttered toward a grotesque, angular ballet. Everything about the music was wild and sinister—a corybantic delirium. Notes sparkled, glittered, exploded like fireworks, and a strident glissando made some members of the audience gasp.
Liebermann turned to look at Hannah, who was sitting on the edge of her seat, hyperventilating, with eyes bulging out of their sockets. He then turned to look at Amelia whose rigid pout and frown suggested something very close to skepticism—wariness, perhaps even mistrust?
The pianist’s hands were a blur. A few moments of uneasy calm presaged a final assault of such unremitting ferocity that the expectation of broken keys flying from the keyboard was not unreasonable. The last bars were quite terrifying.
Liebermann, Hannah, and Amelia, collected their coats from the cloakroom and hurried along the busy thoroughfare of Herrengasse to Café Central. All of the tables in the Arkadenhof—a pretty, elegant courtyard—were occupied, so they accepted a banquette in the coffeehouse close to where the chess players gathered. A pianist was improvising a gentle, innocuous ländler. Two lustrous women glided by. They were wearing ballgowns and tiaras. It was unclear whether they had been to a ball or their evening was only just beginning. “The count is a fool and one day he will pay dearly for his indiscretion,” said one to the other, affecting the nasal delivery that typified speech in the Habsburg court.
A waiter delivered Liebermann’s order of kaiserschmarrn (lumps of pancake sprinkled with icing sugar) in a wide pan accompanied by a tureen of plum compote. Liebermann divided the pancake into three portions and poured compote over each irregular mound. The potent fragrance promised hidden depths, like a vintage port.
“The first few bars sounded like a violin being tuned up,” said Hannah.
“Here’s your schmarrn,” said Liebermann. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
It was very noisy and the syrupy ländler had reached a sentimental climax.
“The opening of Epstein’s encore—it sounded like a violin.”
“Well, yes. That’s exactly what it’s supposed to be. It describes an episode from Faust.”
“Oh, I see. ‘Mephisto Waltz’ . . .”
Liebermann rotated a lump of pancake with his fork to ensure that it was coated with compote and then raised it to his mouth. “Very good,” he said, enjoying the succession of sweet flavors before continuing to address his sister. “A wedding feast is taking place at a village inn and Mephistopheles persuades Faust to enter. Mephistopheles snatches a violin from a fiddler and performs a waltz that makes the guests dance without inhibition.” Turning to Amelia, he added, “I’m not convinced that you liked it very much.”
“It was fascinating to hear all of the sonorities of the piano exploited within a single work,” Amelia replied. “And I found the rhythmic passages exhilarating. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a piano played so loudly. But . . .”
“Yes?”
“I did not find the music quit
e so affecting as Bach.”
“Well, Bach is superior to Liszt, of course,” said Liebermann. “But Liszt offers a different order of pleasure; sensuality, excitement—spectacle.”
“But Bach is exciting,” Amelia objected. “I find Bach very exciting. The way every line is balanced, the way his complex structures teeter on the edge of chaos but always remain within the ambit of his discipline—it is like watching the moving parts of a great engine.”
Liebermann gave his sister a sideways glance and she responded with a discreet, invisible kick.
“Do you play an instrument, Hannah?” Amelia asked.
“The piano,” Hannah replied. “Quite badly. Isn’t that right, Maxim?”
“You don’t practice enough,” said Liebermann.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be a very competent musician.”
“Perhaps not, but you have other talents.” Liebermann spoke to Amelia. “Hannah loves art—particularly modern art. She’s never happier than when she’s walking around a gallery. And she has—I believe—a rare instinct for identifying work of substance and value.”
“Do you want to be an artist?” Amelia continued.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Hannah replied. “To want to be an artist seems too grand an ambition for someone like me. But I’d like to learn more about the history of art.”
“You might consider applying to the university. There are many courses you could take.”
“I’m not sure that would be possible.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m not sure my parents want me to be educated. Well, not to that standard.”
“What about you?” Amelia’s eyes collected the lamp light and shone with cool brilliance. “What do you want?”
Hannah rocked her head from side to side. “I love reading about art, especially the criticism. And I think I would enjoy studying the great schools. So much modern art is rooted in the past. I like discovering how ideas develop—how ideas are connected.”
“Then you really must attend the university.”
“My parents want me to get married.”
“And you will be married. If that is what you want. You can find a husband while you are studying at the university. It is my experience that a young lady—surrounded by so many eligible gentlemen—is never wanting for attention.” Her pewter eyes flashed in Liebermann’s direction. “The realization of personal ambition and marriage are not mutually exclusive.”
One of the chess players appeared next to their banquette. He was a shabby-looking man with a long beard and when he spoke he did so with an unusual accent. “Forgive me, ladies, for this interruption, but might I ask the good doctor for a game. I have just humiliated Professor Bogenschutz and prior to that, I destroyed Professor Szôlôssi. Please, I am in great need of a worthy opponent.”
Liebermann smiled. “I’m afraid I must disappoint you this evening, Herr Karmazyn.”
“Why?” the shabby man responded. “The ladies will not object. Will you, dear ladies?”
“Honestly, Karmazyn,” Liebermann continued, “I’m not in the right state of mind. And you’ll complain. You’ll say that I’m not concentrating.”
Karmazyn sighed and feigned despair.
“I would be happy to play you,” said Amelia.
Karmazyn’s ironic smile revealed tobacco-stained teeth. “That is very kind of you but . . .” He made a gesture, the meaning of which was quite unequivocal: You are a woman!
“I insist,” said Amelia. “The game may not last very long, but it will surely serve to pass the time until a worthier opponent can be found.” Before Karmazyn could object Amelia was on her feet. Kamazyn looked at Liebermann who offered him only the weightless consolation of a mouthed apology.
Amelia and Karmazyn sat at an adjacent table and Hannah and Liebermann took the opportunity to discuss family matters: coming birthdays, their father’s health, and the much mooted threat of a visit from their rakish Uncle Alexander. As they talked, both became aware of Karmazyn’s agitation. He was muttering and pulling faces. Occasionally he cried “God!” or uttered a phrase in Latin. After no more than fifteen minutes Amelia said, “Checkmate,” and returned to the banquette. Karmazyn was scratching his head and making odd movements over the chessboard with his hands, revisiting the sequence of moves that had led to his premature demise.
“He was very accomplished,” said Amelia. “But somewhat overconfident.”
“I’ve never beaten him,” said Liebermann. “Few have.”
Amelia did not respond. Her expression remained fixed and neutral. “Is something the matter?” She looked from Hannah to Liebermann.
Brother and sister shook their heads—but Hannah’s shoulders were shaking a little. “Come on,” said Liebermann to his sister. “It’s getting late. I promised Mother and Father that I’d put you in a cab.”
Liebermann and Hannah negotiated a winding course between the tables—all of them now occupied—and exited the coffeehouse. A cloud of cigar smoke followed them onto the street and rotated in the back draft of the closing door. They waited on the pavement, watching the carriages clatter past.
“Do you think I should go to university?” Hannah asked.
“I just want you to be happy,” Liebermann replied.
“I think going to university would make me happy. But Mother and Father . . . they’re always talking about finding me a good husband. Did you hear about Herr Lenkiewicz’s son?”
“Baruch.”
“He was quite . . . handsome, I suppose. But I found him very difficult to talk to. He didn’t have any interests. Well, apart from his work, that is.”
“If you want to go to the university, I’ll talk to Mother and Father. When you’re ready, just say.”
“Thank you, Maxim.” Hannah threw her arms around his neck and pulled him close.
Liebermann saw a cab and raised his arm. He instructed the driver to take Hannah to Concordiaplatz and handed the man a few coins. “Keep the change.” The gratuity was excessive. Touching his hat with the handle of his whip, the driver declared, “A true gentleman!”
Hannah climbed into the cab but before closing the door she leaned out and said: “Amelia. She’s . . . well—quite extraordinary.”
“Yes,” said Liebermann. “Full of surprises.”
Hannah retreated into the darkness of the cab and Liebermann slammed the door. The driver shook his reins and the wheels began to turn. As the cab moved forward a Bosnian street hawker wearing his fez at an oblique angle asked Liebermann if he needed any matches. “All right,” Liebermann replied. He handed over another coin and said, once again, “Keep the change.” The Bosnian gave him a box of Vestas, smiled, and replied, “Peace be upon you.” It was said with touching sincerity.
Liebermann stepped back into the coffeehouse. Even through dense smoke, Amelia’s red hair was bright and striking. He noticed two cavalry officers close by, clearly commenting on her appearance and debating whether to make an approach. Liebermann hurried over and reclaimed his place by her side.
“You look a little tired,” said Amelia.
“Yes,” Liebermann replied. “I’ve had a busy day.” He told her about the arrest of Vala Feist and the appearance of Captain Hoover at the Schottenring station. “The man was deeply unpleasant and clearly intended to extract a confession by force. The intelligence bureau can justify their iniquitous methods by making an appeal that finds easy popular support. It is their duty to protect all of us. They must do whatever it takes to ensure that none of the emperor’s subjects are harmed. But frankly, I have no desire to be protected if the preservation of my safety necessitates tacit endorsement of medieval brutality. We become more monstrous than those who we deign to call monsters.” Liebermann lit a cigar using the matches he’d purchased from the street hawker. “Feist is a fanatic and she will not betray her comrades. In previous centuries she would have been a martyr and she would have willingly burned at the stake rather than renounce he
r faith or favored heresy. She will almost certainly suffer protracted ill treatment at the hands of Hoover and his thugs—and she will confess nothing.”
“Well, that rather depends,” said Amelia. “Do you recall our conversation about de Cyon? The visiting professor from St. Petesburg?”
“Yes—the cardiograph man.”
“He said that the cardiograph can be used to detect lies.” Amelia pressed her fingers together and tapped them against her lips. “Even if Fräulein Feist refuses to utter a single word, one might still be able to determine the nature of her thoughts by observing changes in her heart rate. For example, if you were to ask Fräulein Feist a sensitive question, such as—Is there a plan afoot to explode a bomb in Vienna?—and there is such a plan, one would expect to see a strong response. Much stronger, for example, than the response provoked by an innocuous question such as: Do you like kaiserschmarrn? By asking carefully worded questions, and comparing cardiograph readings, it should be possible to draw very definite and helpful conclusions. This would seem to me to be a more profitable course of action than torture—which is not merely unseemly, crude, and barbarous, but likely to either fail entirely or elicit half-truths and falsehoods.”
Liebermann flicked some ash from the end of his cigar. “How many cardiographs are there at the university?”
“Several,” said Amelia. “I’m sure Professor Föhrenholz would be willing to loan one to the security office.”
“Do you know how to operate them?”
“Yes, even the new machine that Professor de Cyon delivered. I attended all of his demonstrations.”
Liebermann stole a quick kiss. “You really are quite fabulous.”
Amelia blinked and looked a little puzzled. “A problem was presented and I suggested a solution.”