by Frank Tallis
Even so, it was worth it. Only a month ago, they had been walking on the green open spaces of the Prater, watching the deer, and talking of his plans for the future – a large exhibition in the new Secession building with the likes of Gustav Klimt. He had thanked her for her assistance, calling her his 'saviour', his 'angel'. Then, without warning, he had leaned forward to plant a kiss on her cheek. It had been improper but she had not protested: the strange combination of fear and excitement had been dizzying.
Natalie raised a hand to her face, in order to feel the place where his lips had touched her skin.
Beauty isn't everything, she thought.
There is also kindness.
But again an image of Fräulein Löwenstein invaded her mind – made even more striking by her recent acquisitions: her pearl necklace, her diamond earrings, and her exquisite butterfly brooch (supposed to be the work of Peter Breithut). Thus adorned, Löwenstein's perfection had mocked the seamstress's worthy sentiment.
When Natalie arrived at his apartment building she found the main door open. It was hanging off the frame on only one hinge. Natalie eased through the gap and found herself in a dank, lightless hallway. The stale air smelled of boiled cabbage and urine. She could hear a baby crying, but no adult voices. The walls were streaked with damp and in one or two places lumps of plaster had fallen away. Natalie shivered, ran up the steep stairs, crossed the landing and gently knocked on his door.
'Otto,' she said. 'Otto, it's me. Natalie.'
There was no response.
She knocked again, this time a little harder.
'Otto' she said. 'Are you in there?'
As she pressed her ear against the door, she became dimly aware of a movement in the shadows. Before she could turn, a large gloved hand came down heavily on her shoulder.
13
IT WAS SUNDAY afternoon and Rheinhardt was sitting in the parlour, smoking an after-dinner cigar. In his lap was the first volume of the Handbook for Examining Magistrates by Professor Hans Gross, the definitive work on the subject of criminology. Rheinhardt was perusing a passage that exhorted the investigator to seek out men with specialist skills: With such men at his disposal, proclaimed the authoritative voice of Gross, much labour and trouble and many mistakes may be obviated.
Yes, thought Rheinhardt. That makes perfect sense. And congratulated himself for consulting his friend Liebermann the previous evening.
Rheinhardt raised his head and looked around the room. Seated at the table was his wife Else, sewing a silver button back onto his old tweed jacket. Fifteen years of marriage had not diminished the pleasure he experienced just looking at her. She had the kindest face, and a mouth the curve of which – even in repose – suggested a certain readiness for laughter. On the sofa sat his two daughters, Therese – who was just thirteen – and little Mitzi, aged eleven. The older girl was entertaining the younger by reading stories from a book of folk tales. Rheinhardt sighed with pleasure, and turned to another section of the Handbook. It dealt with the dangers of preconceived theories . . . As he tried to follow the professor's line of reasoning, his attention wandered back to the girls.
'Another one?'
'Yes, please.'
'Are you sure, Mitzi?'
'Yes.'
'Oh, very well then.'
Therese cleared her throat like an orator and began reading.
'High up in the Böhmerwald – the mountain range that lies between Austria, Bavaria and Bohemia, is the ancient city of Kasperske Hory. As you approach the city, you must be very careful, because nearby lives the old hag Swiza. She is not like other old women, not like your grandmother, or even your great-grandmother. If you saw her your blood would run cold. Swiza has the antlers of a deer and wears the fur of a wolf. She has lived near Kasperske Hory for longer than anyone can remember. No one knows who she is, or where she comes from, or why she is there. Some say that she is a witch. When travellers arrive at the tavern, claiming to have seen the old hag, men stop talking and the women pray. For whenever Swiza is seen, misfortune must follow . . .'
Rheinhardt looked over at his wife. She too had stopped working and was listening to the story.
'Many years ago,' continued Therese, 'a man from Zda . . . Zdan—'
'Zdanov,' Else called out.
'Oh yes, Zdanov – a man from Zdanov was riding into Kaperske Hory and met Swiza. He knew who she was and tried to escape, but the old hag ordered him to stay and worship her. The man from Zdanov was a Christian and did not wish to do so. As a punishment, Swiza turned him to stone.'
'Therese,' said Rheinhardt. 'Must you read your sister such stories? You'll frighten her.'
'I'm not frightened,' piped the younger girl.
'Well, you say that now, Mitzi, but you won't say that at bedtime.'
'I like these stories.'
Rheinhardt sighed and looked to his wife for guidance.
'I like them too,' said Else, her eyes sparkling with good humour.
Accustomed to making concessions when confronted with female solidarity, Rheinhardt grumbled: 'Then carry on . . . but if Mitzi has nightmares don't come running to me.'
He buried his nose back between the pages of Gross's tome.
'Father?'
It was Mitzi.
'Yes.' The syllable was extended and dipped a little in the middle, signalling mild irritation.
'Do you believe in witches?'
'No.' He spoke the word loudly, as if by denying the existence of witches he could deny the existence of all things supernatural.
14
'SHE WAS FOUND THERE,' said Rheinhardt, pointing at the chaise longue.
Liebermann's gaze wandered from corner to corner, and once or twice ventured up the walls to the cracked bas-relief ceiling.
'She was reclining,' Rheinhardt continued, 'with one hand behind her head, and the other at her side.'
'It struck you as odd?'
'Of course. She looked like she was relaxing. Not what you'd expect, given the circumstances.'
Liebermann crouched beside the open door and examined the lock. It was still working, and he turned the key a few times to test it. The lock worked perfectly. Liebermann allowed the thick metal bolt to slide out of its casing and press against his palm.
'So . . .' he said, thinking out loud. 'What are we supposed to believe? That Fräulein Löwenstein was expecting some form of supernatural retribution? She composed her note and, recognising that there would be no escape, lay back on the chaise longue where she patiently awaited her transport to hell. Like Faust, Fräulein Löwenstein had benefited from forbidden knowledge, the price of which was eternal damnation?'
Liebermann walked over to one of the windows and, reaching up, released the lock. He then opened the window and looked out – a blast of cold air made him wince. The apartment was high up, and there was no visible means of escape. Closing the window, he continued to think aloud.
'In due course, a spectral assassin did arrive, armed with a ghost gun, the chamber of which was loaded with an ectoplasmic bullet. Apparently, our demonic friend then promptly dispatched Fräulein Löwenstein and sailed away through a locked door – or through one of the windows, perhaps – presumably dragging the doomed soul of the unfortunate Fräulein Löwenstein behind him.'
It was clear from Liebermann's tone that he found the idea entirely ridiculous.
'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'It is absurd – but unfortunately there are no alternative explanations.'
Liebermann walked over to the shelves and picked up the ceramic hand, showing palpable disdain.
'Do you have any suspects?'
Rheinhardt threw his arms up in the air and looked despairingly around him.
'Suspects? Do impossible murders have suspects? To be honest, Max, I haven't really given the matter of suspects much consideration.'
'Which, of course,' said Liebermann, 'was the intention. The picture you paint of the crime scene is so bizarre that all of our mental resources are expended on the task of w
orking out how the murder was accomplished. We become so preoccupied with this question, we don't even think to ask the more important question: who killed Fräulein Löwenstein? Further, I imagine that even if you were to arrest a particular individual on suspicion of murder, at present there would be little prospect of a satisfactory prosecution. How can you try someone for an impossible crime! It's all very clever. The man – or woman – you are looking for is certainly very intelligent and highly imaginative.'
'So, how do you think we should proceed Max?'
'Don't be fooled by the illusion. Forget demons, visitations, and Faustian pacts. Just go about your business as usual.'
'And you're convinced it's an illusion?'
'Of course it's an illusion!' exclaimed Liebermann, evidently appalled that his friend should ask such a question. 'Illusions are the stock-in-trade of these people – these spiritualists! I mean, take a look at this table.' Liebermann rapped it with his knuckles. 'Listen.' As his fist moved across the surface the quality of the sound changed. 'Parts of it are hollow. Look at the size of the thing! Open it up and you'll find all manner of trickery inside. Fräulein Löwenstein must have had accomplices who helped her to practise her deceptions. A locked room, a disappearing bullet – it all smacks of theatre to me. Stagecraft. Smoke and mirrors! Perhaps one of her accomplices killed her. And perhaps you should be consulting a stage magician rather than a psychiatrist!'
'Well, as it happens,' said Rheinhardt, 'I visited the Volksprater this morning and spoke to one Adolphus Farber, better known to circus patrons as The Great Magnifico. He makes people vanish after locking them inside cabinets.'
'And?'
'Although Herr Farber is reputed to be the finest of illusionists, when I told him the facts of the case he was unable to help.'
'What did he conclude?'
'He said that the murder must have been the result of a supernatural visitation.'
Liebermann shook his head in despair.
'This crime is an illusion, make no mistake, and if we fail to understand how it was accomplished this will only demonstrate the intellectual and creative superiority of our adversary, nothing more.'
Rheinhardt was heartened by his friend's confidence, but the extraordinary facts of the case still made him deeply uneasy.
'If,' said Liebermann, 'this murder was perpetrated by an accomplice, then he – or she – must be a member of Fräulein Löwenstein's spiritualist circle. Do you know much about them?'
Rheinhardt took out his notebook.
'There's a locksmith called Uberhorst. Hans Bruckmüller – a businessman – makes surgical instruments. A banker and his wife – Heinrich and Juno Hölderlin. Natalie Heck – a seamstress. And Zoltán Záborszky – a Hungarian aristocrat. I say aristocrat, but from his appearance I would guess that he has fallen on hard times. These people seem to represent the nucleus of her group. Oh, and there's another one – a young man called Otto Braun. He was expected on Thursday night as usual, but he didn't arrive. He hasn't been seen since.'
'Well, that's suspicious . . .'
'Indeed. Haussmann and I undertook some preliminary interviews with the circle – so we know a few things about him. What he looks like, where he lives . . .'
'What does he do?'
'He's an artist.'
'An artist? I've never heard of him,' said Liebermann.
Rheinhardt shrugged. 'It's possible that something might be going on between Braun and the seamstress – Natalie Heck. She visited Braun's apartment yesterday, and was surprised by one of our constables.'
'What about the locksmith? Did you discuss the door with him – the lock, I mean?'
'No. We haven't disclosed the unusual nature of the murder to anyone – as yet.'
'But you will eventually?'
'Of course.'
'What about the newspapers?'
'Yes, they'll be told everything in due course.'
'Why the delay?'
'Commissioner Brügel is concerned that if the newspapers are informed then the Löwenstein murder will attract a lot of interest. You know how the people of this city love anything sensational, and if we are unable to solve this mystery . . .'
'You'll appear incompetent?'
'Well, let's say it could certainly damage public confidence in the security office.'
Liebermann touched the door frame.
'One cannot help thinking that a locksmith might have the means to accomplish such an illusion – or at least this part of it, anyway.'
'But he was devastated. On Thursday he was absolutely consumed with grief.'
'Real grief?'
'That was my impression.'
'Why, though? Could it be that their relationship went beyond that of fortune-teller and client?'
'I couldn't imagine a more ill-matched couple!'
'Even so . . .'
Rheinhardt scribbled a memorandum in his notebook.
'What about the others?' Liebermann continued.
Rheinhardt pocketed his notebook and twirled his moustache.
'The Hungarian – Záborszky – was a strange fellow. He said something odd about being able to smell evil.'
'And that unsettled you?'
'If I'm honest, it did.'
'Perhaps that tells us more about you than about him,' said Liebermann, smiling broadly.
Rheinhardt looked puzzled.
'Oskar,' said Liebermann, resting a friendly hand on the Inspector's arm, 'it was an illusion! I assure you!'
Rheinhardt shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was embarrassed. The young doctor had obviously detected in him an underlying seam of credulity – a latent willingness to accept the supernatural. The Inspector envied Liebermann's urban sensibility, his seeming immunity to the shadowy forces that every Middle European learned to respect before leaving the nursery. Somewhere in the darker recesses of Rheinhardt's troubled mind an old hag with antlers was cackling with glee – a dry, mocking laugh.
'What's in here?' It was Liebermann. He had disappeared behind the screen and was drumming on something that produced a hollow, wooden sound.
'Oh God!' said Rheinhardt under his breath.
'Oskar?'
Liebermann appeared again, carrying the Japanese box.
'I'd completely forgotten about that. Haussmann was supposed to be getting the key.'
Liebermann shook the chest a little.
'There's something in it.' He placed the box on the table, and the two men looked at each other.
'Well?' said Liebermann.
'I suppose we'd better open it,' said Rheinhardt. He walked to the door and called into the hall: 'Haussmann?'
A few moments later his assistant appeared. He entered the room and executed two small bows: 'Inspector. Herr Doctor.'
'Haussmann, did you find the key to this box?' asked Rheinhardt.
'No, sir,' replied Haussmann. 'Fräulein Sucher didn't have a key and she said she'd never seen the box opened.'
'That's probably because it contains some trickery,' said Liebermann.
Haussmann looked at Liebermann, not quite sure what to make of his statement.
Rheinhardt beckoned Haussmann to the table.
'Force it open.'
Haussmann took a penknife from his inside pocket and began to jemmy the lid. The thin lacquered wood splintered easily.
Liebermann stepped forward and opened the box. He could feel Rheinhardt and Haussman peering over his shoulders.
Inside, lying on a bed of velvet, was a small stone figure. It had a canine body, slanting eyes, square-tipped ears and a long curved snout. The most striking feature of the creature was its long forked tail.
'What on Earth is that?' asked Rheinhardt.
'I don't know,' said Liebermann. 'But it looks very old. An antiquity, I think.'
He reached in and lifted the effigy. It was quite heavy for its size. But as he did so he noticed a small key protruding from the container's edge. The creature had been locked in the box – from
the inside.
15
'BUT WHY MUST I LIE DOWN?'
'Because I want you to relax.'
Miss Lydgate was seated on an examination table. She swung her legs around and leaned back slowly. When her head touched the pillow she began rolling it from side to side. She couldn't find a comfortable position because of the way she had pulled back her hair.
'Well, I can't relax like this . . .'
Her voice was slightly tetchy. She sat up again and after removing numerous pins, ribbons and a net she released her mane. It sprung out and tumbled down her back: a flaming mass, streaked with russet and flecks of copper. Liebermann was surprised that so much bulk had been so cleverly concealed. She lay back for the second time.
'That's better.'
'You may close your eyes if you wish.'
They remained open and rolled upward, searching for the speaker.
'Miss Lydgate,' Liebermann sighed. 'It is important that you do not try to look at me. You will strain your eyes.'
Miss Lydgate stared blankly at the ceiling and dragged her right arm across her stomach with her left hand.
'I do not feel comfortable lying here like this, with you behind me.'
'You will become accustomed to the procedure in time, I assure you.'
The young woman bit her lower lip, coughed into her left hand, and finally settled; however, her toes were curled with tension.
'Miss Lydgate,' Liebermann asked. 'Do you remember the last time you were in this room?'
'Yes.'
'Tell me what happened?'
'You examined me . . . and we discussed a number of topics. I seem to recall talking, at some length, about my grandfather.'
'Indeed. And what else did we discuss?'
'The Schellings, Doctor Landsteiner . . .'
She stopped and sighed.