by F. R. Tallis
“It fell out of this pocket,” said Rheinhardt, redundantly, showing Mathias a little silk pouch.
“Might I suggest that you pick it up then, inspector?”
“Yes,” said Rheinhardt. The appearance of the letter was so unexpected he couldn’t quite believe the evidence of his eyes. “Yes. I’ll pick it up . . .” He discarded the piece of cloth and bent his knees. When he rose again he was holding the envelope and his hand was trembling slightly. He thrust the envelope into the downward beam of the mortuary table light where it immediately acquired a brilliant aura. “The stamp is Austrian, sent from Vienna to an address in Berne—Switzerland. The recipient was a gentleman named Tycho von Arx.”
“Is there a letter inside?”
“Yes.” Rheinhardt removed a sheet of paper and unfolded it.
“Well, what does it say? Don’t keep me in suspense!”
“Come and see for yourself.”
The old man sidled up to Rheinhardt. The paper was covered in minute writing, different size groupings of letters and numbers: XVT53S FG M596 FKD77LN8FMT7D9S BV6 FLP8J5C2L RQ7P22CI902 SC5 DF69H B6RL5Y14T8.
“A code?”
“I think it must be?”
“Look there—right at the bottom.” The old man pointed at a solitary letter M. “Does that mean . . . ?”
“Mephistopheles.” Rheinhardt sighed. His breath rolled across the mortuary table and collected in the dead man’s chest where it eddied and boiled away into nothingness. “The anarchist is still at large.”
SIXTY-THREE
Rheinhardt was up before sunrise. He kissed his somnolent wife, dressed, and then looked in on his two sleeping daughters. They were like fairy tale princesses and his heart inflated to accommodate a surge of sentiment and emotion. With some unwillingness, he closed the bedroom door and crept out of the apartment. He crossed the landing, descended the stairs, and discovered a dark, frozen world. Falling snow was visible around the streetlamps, but none of these tiny particles were settling on the ground. Raising his lapels, he began marching at a brisk pace to keep warm. He had to slow down almost immediately because of ice. At one point his injudicious alacrity made him glide into an advertisement column. He found his nose pressed up against a poster for a motorcar show on the Prater. He stepped back and saw an image, rendered in a rather romantic style, of a man seated high up on a metal carriage with large wheels. His face was obscured by goggles and a cap. A looping script invited the public to “experience the future with Herr Porsche: winner of the Exelberg rally and chauffeur by appointment to Archduke Prince Franz Ferdinand.” Rheinhardt tutted. The future! What an absurd suggestion. Whose future? Not the one ordained for ordinary working people. How would carpenters and tobacconists, or even doctors and lawyers for that matter, ever be able to afford motorcars? Checking the contents of his pocket, he set off again at the maximum speed permitted by the slippery paving stones.
On arrival at the Schottenring station he went straight up to the laboratory, where he sandwiched von Arx’s letter between two identical sheets of glass which he bound together with tape. He then summoned a constable who he ordered to make copies: “Best handwriting, please. They must be exact facsimiles.”
“How many do you want me to do, sir?”
“Ten.”
“Ten? I had a teacher as school who used to make me write out lines of poetry as a punishment.” Rheinhardt scowled. Recognizing at once the rashness of his complaint, the constable added meekly, “Ten, sir—exact facsimiles. Consider it done.”
Ensconced in his office, Rheinhardt glanced at the clock and telephoned Liebermann. The young doctor wasn’t happy to be woken up so early. “What? You want me to come now?” Rheinhardt informed him of the discovery of von Arx’s remains and the coded letter. “I suspect that Tycho von Arx was Mephistopheles’s bomb-maker. In which case, the letter may well contain details of the planned attack. I want you here, Max.”
“I’m a psychiatrist, Oskar. Not a code breaker.”
“Precisely, you’ll see things that others miss.”
“But I’m needed at the hospital—”
“This is too important.”
“I’ll get reprimanded.”
“No, you won’t—I’ll speak to your superiors myself. And if they voice any objection, I can assure you, the Palace will hear of it. Consider yourself relieved of all medical duties.”
Liebermann understood that he was not being issued with a request, but an order. “I’ll be with you shortly.”
“Oh, and one other thing: Miss Lydgate.”
“What about her?”
“She’s helped us with codes before and has a fine analytical mind. Can you contact her and ask her to assist?”
Liebermann looked through the open bedroom door at Amelia. She was just beginning to stir, her arms moving slowly with languid grace across the tangled sheets. “I’ll see what I can do,” said Liebermann.
Rheinhardt was loath to inform Hoover of his discovery, but his professional obligation was compounded by fearful apprehensions concerning the fate of the city and its people, among whom, of course, were the three slumbering “ladies” in his apartment. With every second that passed, the likelihood of something quite terrible happening increased. He hoped that the bomb-maker’s demise would delay Mephistopheles, but he knew that this was tantamount to wishful thinking. A creature like Mephistopheles would be at best, mildly inconvenienced.
The sky outside was beginning to absorb and disperse the light of an invisible rising sun. Overburdened with responsibilities and misgivings, Rheinhardt telephoned the intelligence bureau and spoke to a duty officer. “If you would be so kind as to relay a message to Captain Hoover?”
One hour later, a code-breaking team had been assembled in the Schottenring laboratory. It was comprised of two cryptographers from the intelligence bureau, Herr Wlassak and Lieutenant Roithinger, and two of their associates from the university: Professors Urban and Hoemes. The first of these university professors was a mathematician who had arrived carrying a rota-style calculating machine of his own devising and several volumes of numerical tables. The second was a philologist of some renown who had managed to determine the meaning of a scroll, written in an obscure Aramaic dialect, uncovered during an archeological investigation undertaken in Eastern Arabia. Amelia was the only woman present. Some preliminary words were exchanged, concerning plaintexts, cyphertexts, and decryption functions—before each member of the team took a copy of Tycho von Axl’s letter and created a personal space in which to work. There was much scribbling, muttering, and screwing up of paper. Soon the floor was covered with balls patterned with the inky signs and symbols of abandoned calculation. Liebermann sat at a bench with the original of von Axl’s letter, acutely aware—in spite of Rheinhardt’s confidence—that he was well out of his depth and in the company of intellects far better suited to the task in hand than his own. Rheinhardt and Hoover took turns, walking up and down the corridor outside, smoking—one relieving the other in a continuous interminable and anxious march. Liebermann studied the letter between the glass plates and couldn’t discern a single regularity. The atmosphere was tense—and becoming increasingly uncomfortable. It reminded him of sitting his final medical examinations: the clock ticking, time running out. . . .
At eleven o’clock a constable arrived with a tray piled with pastries.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Hoover demanded.
“I supposed that our guests might be in need of sustenance,” said Rheinhardt.
“And you ordered cakes?”
“Yes. A wide selection—there should be something to satisfy everyone’s tastes.”
“Rheinhardt . . .” Hoover made visible efforts to exercise restraint but was unsuccessful. “We don’t have time for cakes!”
Liebermann intervened. “Captain Hoover, sugar supplies vital energies to the brain. I would suggest that—under conditions of intellectual effort and duress—the consumption of pastries can only assist our aim.”
Before Hoover could reply, Professor Urban, a gentleman of ample proportions, roused from his cogitations and said, “Cake? Are there cakes?” The constable came forward and the mathematician smiled. “I’ll have a poppy seed strudel. And some coffee would be splendid.” Professor Hoemes raised his hand. “Punschkrapfen?” He reached out and helped himself to two pink cubes with chocolate piping. “Perfect!”
Hoover shook his head, hissed something incomprehensible at Rheinhardt, and left the room to smoke the last of his cigarettes.
At midday, an unprecedented event occurred. Commissioner Brügel appeared in the laboratory. He stood, stiffly, just inside the doorway, and made an announcement. “I have been in contact with the lord marshal’s office. The lord marshal desires that you be informed of his complete confidence. His Majesty trusts that you will ensure his safety, the safety of the royal and imperial family, and the safety of the good citizens of our beloved capital.” Then, the old man looked at each person present, inclined his head, and left the laboratory without saying another word.
Liebermann addressed Rheinhardt. “That was not a very comforting declaration of support, was it?”
“No,” said Rheinhardt.
“Indeed, the tone was, if anything, quite threatening?”
The inspector sighed. “Yes. I am inclined to agree.”
Later, at around two o’clock, Amelia rose and said, “Gentleman, I have discovered a key which can decrypt seven words.” The men gathered around her and she demonstrated each step of her method. The seven words were: palace, element, truth, end, socialism, arrested, and freedom. “Remarkable, Miss Lydgate,” Professor Urban laughed. “A very elegant solution, I am most impressed.”
At twenty past three, Professor Urban announced that he had a key that translated five more words: low, understanding, belief, visibility, and location. More successes followed, but there was no cumulative progress—the meaning of the letter wasn’t getting any clearer.
Hoover examined a copy with the decryptions penned between the lines. “‘Good distribution—belief—find freedom—end location’?”
“There are still many words missing,” said Roithinger.
“Indeed,” said Hoover. “But even if one tries to interpose words of one’s own in the gaps—it’s still difficult to see how these decrypted words can be linked to create proper sentences. And the simultaneous employment of several keys is rather irregular, isn’t that so? Are you quite sure that the keys so far discovered are correct?” This final question was addressed to the whole assembly.
“Yes,” replied Professor Urban. “The alternative is statistically improbable.”
“Very well,” said Hoover, tossing the adulterated copy aside. “Carry on.”
Rheinhardt looked up at the wall clock. “Would anyone like more cake?”
SIXTY-FOUR
A maid opened the tradesman’s entrance and they were escorted up several flights of stairs to a vestibule. A liveried servant, who was issuing brusque orders to his subordinates, stopped and looked across the freshly polished wooden floor. The air smelled of wax and violets. “Herr Puck,” said the maid. “Herr Curtius and his page turner.” The liveried gentleman nodded. “Welcome, gentlemen, this way please.” He turned and walked along several corridors, the final one of which entered a large, grand hall. The overall impression was one of excessive, almost hysterical opulence. Mirrors reflected glittering chandeliers and glowing globes held aloft by gold cherubs. Every surface was decorated with embossed ribs, cartouches, pendants, and swags of fruit. Caryatids stood guard by several entrances. A horseshoe of long dining tables had been arranged at one end of the hall, the open arms of which almost embraced an Ehrbar grand piano with fussily carved legs. Herr Puck bowed and rolled a limp wrist toward the keyboard. “You have plenty of time to prepare, gentlemen. We won’t be setting the table for another hour at least. When you have finished your rehearsal, please come to the kitchen and we will provide you with refreshment.” He bowed and marched out of the hall with curiously straight, yellow-stockinged legs, his buckled shoes producing a repetitive click that suggested he might not be flesh and blood but a clockwork automaton. The double doors closed and the hall was silent.
Razumovsky walked over to the piano and placed his large leather bag next to the music stand—with great care. He undid the straps and removed several books of music, uncovering the mechanism he had hurriedly constructed that morning. He quickly checked the parts: clock, connections, detonator . . .
“Open the piano stool for me—quick.”
Curtius obeyed instantly, removing some Beethoven sonatas to make space. Glancing back at the recently closed double doors, Razumovsky lifted the device from the piano and placed it in the stool. He rested the Beethoven sonatas on top of the raised clock face and closed the lid.
“Remember—try not to move the stool around. Once it’s positioned, leave it alone. Do not raise your body and let it fall back on the seat while you are performing.” Curtius was perspiring. “I hope you are not having second thoughts, my friend.” The pianist shook his head. The anarchist’s gaze was steady, his voice calm and deadly. “If you were to renege on our bargain at this very late stage, there would be consequences.”
“I am not going to renege.”
“Good,” Razumovsky replied. “So . . . let us begin.” He opened a book of C.P.E Bach sonatas and set it on the music stand. They both lifted the stool and placed it closer to the piano, allowing it to make the softest of landings on the floor.
Curtius sat down, composed himself for a few moments, and then launched into a delightful, virtuosic, A Major Sonata. Trembling oscillations between widening intervals and mercurial ripples never deviated from the headlong beat. It was uplifting, celebratory music, made expansive by the profligate acoustics of the grand hall.
The bomb-maker had been expected the previous evening. Something had obviously gone wrong. Like a great chef, a great bomb-maker would select and combine his ingredients with instinctive precision and cook up a relatively stable explosive that went off when you wanted it to—and not before. But even great chefs made mistakes . . .
Razumovsky had had to improvise his own device, using the small quantity of dynamite the bomb-maker had left behind. But bomb-making was as much an art as a science, and some people were more naturally gifted than others. Still. He had done his best, and he dearly hoped that on this particular occasion, his best would suffice. He remembered Jov’s kind, cracked voice. “If you’ve done your best, Master Peter, then there’s nothing more to be said.” He’d loved the old serf. When Jov was in his eighties, Jov had spilt hot soup on Razumovsky’s father’s lap. Razumovsky’s father, whose temper was legendary, shouted at the old serf and pushed him away. Jov had fallen, banging his head on the corner of the table. He was unconscious for three hours and then he died. “Well,” said the doctor. “The old fellow was bound to trip and fall one day. Most unfortunate.” Everyone agreed. Most unfortunate.
Razumovsky turned another page: a minor modulation, a bar of silence, and the fleet, joyful rush of notes continued. Curtius’s hands were in complete command of the keyboard. A good sign; his nerves were settling down.
An image of Vala formed in Razumovsky’s mind. He had read about her arrest and death in one of the late newspapers. With a little luck, Weeber, his cronies, and an archduke would be joining her in a few hours.
The first movement of the sonata ended in an unexpected way. A strange, churchy ending—reminiscent of an organ work—that failed to reach a satisfactory conclusion.
“Was that your best?” Rasumosvsky asked Curtius.
The pianist’s plump face contracted. “I’m sorry—what do you mean?”
“Was that the best you could do?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Then there’s nothing more to be said. I suppose you’d better play that dreadful Strauss piece now.”
“They insisted I include it in the programme.”
“So frivolou
s—so indifferent—very much like this ridiculous city.”
SIXTY-FIVE
The tall windows of the laboratory had become black mirrors reproducing the code breakers and suspending their doppelgangers in the night sky. Each pair, the physical person and his or her reflected double, seemed equally real. Rheinhardt scratched the nose of the laboratory rabbit and noted that the floor was now not only carpeted with paper balls, but that the carpet itself was layered and deep. A growling noise made Rheinhardt study the rabbit with some apprehension and alarm, before he realized that the source of the sound was his own stomach. He had only eaten pastries—and much as he loved them, he was in need of something more substantial. He began to imagine a large plate piled high with tafelspitz, minced apple, and horseradish.
Throughout the day, the atmosphere in the room had been changing. Initial excitement, occasionally revived by the discovery of a new key, had gradually subsided and metamorphosed by slow degrees into despondency. And as spirits sank, pressure mounted. It was almost physical, like the oppression created by certain meteorological conditions. The effect of this mounting pressure was plainly evident. There had been much grumbling, occasional execrations—followed by apologies to Miss Lydgate—and sighing. Everyone looked exhausted. Professor Urban’s head had rolled back and he was staring at the ceiling. He stroked his long beard as if it were a pet cat curled beneath his chin. Professor Hoemes appeared to be dozing off. He kept nodding, as though agreeing with an invisible companion, before a sudden jerking fit brought him back from the brink of oblivion. Miss Lydgate remained focused, her pen constantly moving. The vertical line that sometimes appeared on her forehead had become a permanent crease. One of the intelligence bureau code breakers had absconded—declaring that he was feeling faint and in need of fresh air. A great number of cigars and cigarettes had been smoked and the laboratory was as hazy as a beer cellar. Liebermann was massaging his eyes with the base of his palms and yawning.