Mortal Mischief lp-1

by Frank Tallis

  'Please continue.'

  'There is nothing wrong with my memory.'

  'Of course. I am interested in your impressions of our last meeting.'

  'I don't understand what you want me to say, Doctor Liebermann? Do you want me to repeat everything, word for word?'

  'No. I just want you to tell me what happened.'

  'Very well. I was escorted here by a nurse. You examined my arm. We then discussed how I acquired my position working for the Schelling family. I told you of my intention to study medicine, and I explained why I wanted to study here rather than in London. I told you about my grandfather's journal and something of his life. You then asked me about my family and our home. Shortly after, there was a knock on the door and one of your colleagues came in.'

  'Doctor Kanner.'

  'Is that his name?'

  Liebermann nodded: 'And what happened then?'

  'You talked together – for some time, I believe.'

  'How long?'

  'It must have been . . . it's difficult to say.'

  'Five minutes, ten minutes? How long?'

  'Long enough for me to fall asleep.'

  'You can't remember anything else?'

  'No. I assume that you thought it was in my best interests not to be disturbed and subsequently had me removed to the ward.'

  Liebermann said nothing.

  'Did—' Miss Lydgate was hesitant and her voice quivered slightly with anxiety. 'Did something happen, Doctor Liebermann? Something that I cannot remember?'

  'Yes. Something did happen.'

  'What?' Miss Lydgate shifted uncomfortably and squeezed her dead right hand with her left. 'Please tell me.'

  'You became very agitated. It was a little like a seizure.'

  'And I did something?'

  'You really don't remember?'

  'No!' Her voice rose in pitch, and she began to cough.

  'You were extremely distressed and Doctor Kanner came to your assistance. You were going to be sick, so he placed a pail in front of your chair.'

  'This cannot be true.'

  'He tried to comfort you by resting a hand on your back. It was then that you threatened to kill him – before hitting him in the stomach with—' Liebermann broke off. The room was absolutely silent. Even Miss Lydgate's cough was subdued. Liebermann continued: 'With your right fist.'

  Liebermann observed Miss Lydgate's chest, rising and falling as her breathing accelerated. She rocked her head from side to side, and her habitual half-frown melted into an expression of total disbelief.

  16

  UBERHORST STOOD IN the middle of his small workshop. He was wearing a white apron smeared with oil; however, his hands were meticulously clean.

  'You were very distressed, the evening her body was discovered?'

  'Yes, Inspector – I still can't believe it happened. She was a dear friend.'

  Uberhorst was clearly still struggling to manage his emotions.

  'How well did you know her?'

  'In some ways I didn't know her at all. If you were to ask me where she was born, who her parents were, or where she went to school, I couldn't answer. But I do know other things . . .'

  Uberhorst could not maintain eye contact. He looked away and then all around the workshop, his abrupt birdlike movements suggesting anxiety.

  'What things?' asked Rheinhardt.

  'That she was a kind person – and brave.'

  'Did you ever meet with Fräulein Löwenstein privately? On your own?'

  'Yes. For readings.'

  Uberhorst held up his palm and traced a crease with the forefinger of his left hand.

  'She made predictions?'

  'No, she never spoke of the future.'

  'Then what was the point of the consultation?'

  'She told me about . . . myself.'

  'Was she accurate?'

  'Very. It made me feel . . . understood. Less . . .' The little man's voice trailed off, and he looked up at an effigy of Christ on the cross that hung above a small bookcase. His lower lip trembled.

  'Less what?' Rheinhardt pressed.

  'Alone,' said Uberhorst. His eyes filled with tears.

  'How much did Fräulein Löwenstein charge for these readings, Herr Uberhorst?'

  'Nothing, but I was happy to make a voluntary contribution.'

  'Which was how much?'

  'Two krone.'

  'You could have gone to the Court Opera for less.'

  'But then I would never have benefited from her extraordinary powers.'

  Uberhorst wiped his forearm across his cheek, attempting to conceal his tears. It was a pathetic gesture, like the pitiful attempt of a hurt child to maintain its dignity.

  'Why did you say she was kind? And brave?'

  'She had a difficult life, Inspector. Only a courageous soul could overcome such terrible adversity.'

  'Oh? In what way was her life difficult?'

  'Her mother and father died when she was very young – she was about ten or eleven, I think. She was sent to live with her uncle, her father's brother. He lived alone and Lotte had to cook and care for him. She did her best, but he was never satisfied. He would often beat her . . . and when she was older – when she was turning into a woman – he . . . He was a cruel man and . . .'

  Uberhorst shuddered.

  'What, Herr Uberhorst?'

  'I believe he may have . . .'

  'Taken advantage of her?'

  Uberhorst nodded and adjusted his pince-nez, mutely confirming the Inspector's speculation.

  'Why do you think Fräulein Löwenstein told you these things? They are very personal, are they not?'

  'Perhaps she was lonely too.'

  Rheinhardt considered this statement. Was it possible? That the beautiful Löwenstein and the diminutive Uberhorst were equally alienated? That an intimate friendship had developed between them? Rheinhardt pencilled the words 'loneliness' and 'disclosure' in his notebook, followed by three question marks.

  'What happened then? After she went to live with her uncle?'

  'She ran away . . .'

  'To where?'

  'I don't know.'

  'And how did she live?'

  'She found menial jobs – cleaning, running errands – and then I think she may have worked in the theatre. Inspector?'

  'Yes?'

  'What I just said – about her uncle? She told me these things in confidence.'

  'Obviously.'

  'The others – Bruckmüller, Záborszky, the Hölderlins – I would be grateful if you did not discuss these matters with them.'

  'You have my word. Herr Uberhorst, when did Fräulein Löwenstein become a medium?'

  'She was always sensitive – she always saw things.'

  'Spirits?'

  'Yes.'

  'All right – when, then, did she become a professional medium?'

  'I don't know. But she accepted her vocation after a vision.'

  'What kind of vision?'

  'She said that it could not be described – how can one describe communion with the infinite?'

  'You think that she was instructed by a higher power?'

  'Certainly.'

  'I see.' Without pause or preparation Rheinhardt added: 'Do you remember what you were doing on Wednesday evening, Herr Uberhorst?'

  'Yes.' There was a slight wavering in Uberhorst's voice.

  'Where were you?'

  'Please, I don't wish to be discourteous, Inspector, but I did tell your assistant who . . .'

  Rheinhardt's brow furrowed, prompting Uberhorst to answer the question without further hesitation.

  'I was here. I live upstairs.'

  'And is there anyone who can confirm your story?'

  'It isn't a story, Inspector. I was here – and no, I have no alibi. I rarely have visitors.'

  Rheinhardt walked to the lathe, his shoes crunching on a carpet of metal shavings. Above it hung a framed mezzotint. It appeared to have little artistic merit, being only a diagrammatic representation of
a mechanism, the parts of which were labelled with the letters of the alphabet.

  'What is this?' asked Rheinhardt.

  'It is a drawing of the detector lock designed by Jeremiah Chubb. It was patented in 1818. A masterpiece, I believe.'

  Rheinhardt took a few steps and examined the titles that filled the bookcase. They were mostly bound journals and technical histories.

  'You seem to be something of a connoisseur,' he said.

  'I enjoy my work.'

  Uberhorst joined Rheinhardt and pulled a volume from the top shelf. The spine was embossed in English, but Uberhorst translated:

  'On the Construction of Locks and Keys – by Jeremiah Chubb. It is a first edition.' He caressed the cover and produced a weak, nervous smile.

  Rheinhardt tried to look impressed and pointed to another volume.

  'Locks of the Ancient World? I didn't realise they had them . . .'

  'Oh yes,' said Uberhorst, his eyes now shining with the special light generated by fanatical interest. 'The very earliest were made of wood, but metal examples – of a similar design – can be found dating back to the time of the Caesars. Roman keys are still being found today . . . I have one in my possession, in fact. It was found when they were building the new Karlsplatz station.'

  Uberhorst slid Jeremiah Chubb's treatise back into its vacant slot.

  'Herr Uberhorst, are you familiar with the locks in Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment?'

  'I didn't give them any special attention. But I imagine, given the age of the building, they are all some form of lever tumbler.'

  'When we found her body,' Rheinhardt said casually, 'there was no weapon in the room, and the door had been locked from the inside. Do you have any idea how Fräulein Löwenstein's murderer accomplished this?'

  'He must have locked the door and climbed out of the window.'

  'I don't think so. The windows were locked too, and as you know the drop is quite considerable.'

  Uberhorst thought for a moment.

  'Then you must be mistaken, Inspector.'

  'Why?'

  'It's impossible.'

  'Really? Even for a master locksmith?'

  The little man touched his lower lip with his forefinger. His lip was no longer trembling, but his finger very clearly was.

  17

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON but the chandeliers of the Café Schwarzenberg were blazing. Outside, a thin, persistent rain had subdued the light. Looking out of the window and on to Scharzenberg Platz, Liebermann could see the large equestrian statue of Prince Karl von Schwarzenberg, a pallid, ghostly rider, emerging slowly from the fine mist. Beyond the spectral prince, just visible, was the spout of a fountain.

  'I don't understand,' said Clara. 'If there's nothing wrong with her arm, why can't she move it?'

  They were sitting in a cosy wood-panelled alcove. Even though the café's vaulted interior was almost full their seating felt private. They were also isolated by the peculiarly potent, almost tangible intimacy of lovers.

  'The arm is paralysed,' said Liebermann.

  'All right, if it's paralysed how is it that she was able to hit Doctor Kanner? Can't you see? She's just pretending, Maxim!'

  Having offered her very definite opinion, Clara began to dissect her apfelstrudel. She broke the sugar-coated pastry case: large pieces of cooked apple and several raisins spilled across her plate. The sweet bouquet of cinnamon and cloves mingled with the aroma of coffee and cigar smoke. Fixing her fiancé with an ambiguous expression that vacillated between impertinence and amusement, Clara scooped a cube of aromatic apple into her mouth.

  'In a way . . . you're right,' said Liebermann. His words were almost lost in the din of cutlery, conversation and piano music. 'She is pretending. But not to us. She's pretending to herself.'

  Swallowing quickly, Clara retorted: 'Maxim, how can you pretend to yourself – you'd know you were pretending!'

  'Well, that depends on how you think about the mind,' Liebermann replied. 'What if the mind is not one thing – but two? What if the mind has a conscious region and an unconscious region? Then it might be possible for memories in the unconscious to influence the body without the conscious mind knowing anything about those memories. If this is how the mind works, then when she says she can't move her arm, she's telling the truth. She really can't.'

  'But she can move her arm!' said Clara again, a hint of genuine frustration entering her voice.

  'No,' said Liebermann firmly, 'she can't. There is a part of her mind – the unconscious part – which can move her arm. But that is not the part of her mind that corresponds with her daily thoughts, emotions, and perceptions.'

  'Oh, it all sounds so . . . so . . .' Clara waved a chunk of apple on the end of her pastry fork.

  'Complicated?' said Liebermann.

  'Yes.'

  'Well, I suppose it is.'

  Clara smirked and offered Liebermann the piece of impaled apple. Glancing around to ensure that no one was looking, he thrust his head forward and took the glistening fruit into his mouth. His indecorous behaviour seemed to make Clara absurdly happy. She beamed like a naughty child who had just escaped punishment.

  'And how is Doctor Kanner now?'

  'Oh, Stefan is in excellent health.'

  'Is he still pursuing that singer – what's her name?'

  'Cora. No.'

  Clara lowered her head and looked up with doleful supplicatory eyes.

  'She was very pretty . . .'

  Liebermann knew that a diplomatic response was required, and suppressing the urge to laugh replied in an offhand manner: 'I did not find her especially attractive.'

  His words had the desired effect. Clara's face beamed again and she promptly offered him another chunk of apple. This time he declined.

  The rain continued to patter against the window with patient determination. A tram rattled by, arcing around the phantom horseman.

  'She's English, you say?'

  'Who?'

  'This patient of yours.'

  'Yes.'

  'They're rather odd, don't you think, the English?'

  'In what way?'

  'Lacking in warmth.'

  'Sometimes . . . but when you get to know them they're much the same as us. I made some very good friends while I was staying in London.'

  'Frau Frischmuth employed an English nursemaid last year . . .'

  'And?'

  'They didn't get on at all.'

  Liebermann shrugged.

  At the far end of an adjacent road, the ornate green dome of the Karlskirche shimmered in the distance like a fairy-tale palace. The pianist, who had previously been playing some unsophisticated waltzes, began a rendition of Schumann's Träumerei. It was delightful: innocent, wistful, almost veering into sadness but somehow resisting at the last moment as each inventive chord melted into the next. The music floated in the air like incense, wafting and lulling the mind into an opiate languor. Liebermann's fingers automatically shadowed the melody on the marble table top.

  Surfacing from his reverie, Liebermann became aware that Clara was pressing her knee against his. He looked at her, and for a moment her confidence stalled. She blushed and looked away, but then, recovering her sense of purpose, allowed his leg to slip between hers. They maintained contact for a few seconds, and then simultaneously disengaged.

  'Do you know what this is?' asked Liebermann, smiling.

  'Yes,' said Clara. 'It's the piece about dreaming . . . by Robert Schumann.'

  'And what are you dreaming of?'

  'Can't you guess, Maxim?'

  The look she gave him was little short of indecent.

  18

  'So,'

  SAID PROFESSOR FREUD. 'Two Jews meet outside the bathhouse.

  Have you taken a bath already? asks one.

  How come? says the other.

  Is one missing?'

  Liebermann laughed, although more at Professor Freud's delivery than at the joke itself. Freud had adopted a pronounced Yiddisher accent a
nd had chosen to end the joke with a fixed gesture, hands raised, a grotesque parody of the mannerisms of Eastern Jewry.

  'Let me tell you another,' said Freud. 'A young man goes to the matchmaker, and the matchmaker asks: What kind of bride do you want?

  The young man replies: She must be beautiful, she must be rich, and she must be clever.

  Fine, says the matchmaker. But I make that three wives.'

  Freud stubbed out his cigar, and was unsuccessful in his attempt to stop a reticent smile from turning into a wheezy chuckle that continued for some time. He was looking very well, Liebermann thought. Indeed, Freud had been much happier since February – when, finally, after many years of unjustified delay he had been distinguished with the all-important title of Professor Extraordinarius. It was odd that a man whose advancement had been obstructed because of anti-Semitism should be so fond of Jewish jokes, many of which portrayed Jews in a less than flattering light. But then, Professor Freud was a complex man, and Liebermann was disinclined to analyse the father of psychoanalysis. There was only one individual equipped to embark on such a daunting enterprise, and that was Freud himself.

  As Freud's chuckling petered out, he raised a finger.

  'One more. Then I'll stop.'

  'As you wish,' replied Liebermann.

  'How do we know that Jesus was Jewish?' asked Freud.

  'I don't know,' said Liebermann. 'How do we know that Jesus was Jewish?'

  'He lived at home until he was thirty, he went into his father's business, and his mother thought he was God!'

  This time Liebermann burst out into genuine laughter. 'Why have you started collecting jokes?' he asked.

  'I haven't started. I've been collecting them for years. I'm thinking of writing a book about them.'

  'Jokes?'

  'Yes. Jokes. It is my belief that jokes, like dreams and slips of the tongue, reveal the operation of the unconscious.'

  The professor lit another cigar. It was his third since Liebermann had arrived, and the study was thick with smoke. Some hung like a dense fog around the feet of the ancient figurines on Freud's desk. From Liebermann's point of view, Freud's collection looked like a mythic army emerging from a primal swamp.

  'Are you sure I can't interest you in another?' asked Freud, pushing the box of cigars across the desktop. 'They're very good, you know. Cuban.'