by Frank Tallis
'So,' he began. But before he could utter another word his mother was talking to him.
'Maxim, you'll never guess who I met the other day.'
'Who?'
'Frau Hirschfeld.'
'Really?'
'Yes. I haven't seen her for years. Apparently –' without pausing, Rebecca wiped a dribble of soup from Daniel's mouth and combed his hair with her fingers '– they've been living in Italy – the whole family – except for Martin, of course. Do you ever see Martin?'
'Very rarely.'
'He's been promoted, you know.' Rebecca passed more bread to Mendel. 'She was looking well, Frau Hirschfeld. She's put on a little weight, of course – but then, who doesn't when you get to our age.' With a swiftness that almost eluded detection, Rebecca adjusted the angle of the spoon in Leah's hand before it reached Daniel's mouth. 'Oh, and Rosamund – you remember Martin's sister Rosamund? She has two children now. She was the one who married the architect. What was his name?'
'Weisel. Hermann Weisel.'
'That's right. Herr Klein's cousin. Making a name for himself – so Frau Hischfeld says.'
'Herr Klein?'
'No, no. The architect.' Suddenly turning on her husband, she said: 'Mendel, let Josef eat. He hasn't touched his soup.'
Gesturing towards Rebecca's bowl, Mendel responded dryly: 'Neither have you, my dear.'
Rebecca shrugged and continued to fret and fidget.
'So,' said Liebermann, looking across the table at Hannah for the second time. 'What have you been up to?'
Hannah screwed up her face.
'Nothing, really.'
Liebermann shook his head.
'You must have done something, I haven't seen you for almost a month.'
'All right,' said Hannah, her adolescent moue softening to become a more adult pout, 'I've been to see Emelie. But that's all.'
'Really?'
'Yes, really.'
Liebermann felt sorry for his younger sister. Hannah was a late addition to the family, and since Leah's marriage she had had to live alone with their parents. At sixteen she had been marooned in a household that was beginning to feel frowsty and moribund.
'Then I suppose I should take you out, to cheer you up. How would you like that?'
Hannah's face brightened.
'I'd like that very much.'
'Where do you want to go?'
'I don't know.'
'Come on – you choose.'
'An exhibition?'
'Which one?'
'Any one.'
'Well, what about the Secession? Would you like to see that? It's in the new building. You know, the one that the philistines are calling the golden cabbage.'
'Will it be very . . .' She paused before adding, 'Modern?'
'Of course – but you'll love it, I promise you. Klimt has produced a massive frieze. Very controversial, apparently.'
'I'm not sure father would—'
Liebermann raised a finger to his lips. Checking to see that Mendel hadn't heard anything, he whispered: 'I'll send you a note. Sometime next week.'
The Liebermann family sustained a babble of conversation through several courses, flagging only after the arrival of dessert – a fragrant pool of plum compote in a wide silver dish. The cook brought it to the table personally, and was welcomed with a chorus of compliments.
When everyone had finished eating Liebermann stood up.
'Could I have your attention, please.'
The room fell silent.
'I'm glad you're all here – because I have an important announcement to make.'
'Announcement?' said Rebecca, more anxious than curious. 'What announcement?'
Mendel rested a pacifying hand on Rebecca's arm.
'I'm about to tell you, Mother,' said Liebermann.
He looked around the table. All of his family were viewing him with questioning eyes. Only Mendel seemed fully composed.
'Last Thursday,' Liebermann began, 'I proposed to Clara Weiss.' He paused, prolonging the suspense. 'And . . . I am delighted to report that she accepted my proposal. We are engaged to be married.'
A heartbeat of silence preceded an eruption of cries and applause. Rebecca rose from her chair and, rushing to her son, threw her arms around his neck. Leah and Hannah followed – and a few moments later Liebermann found himself in the middle of an affectionate, tearful scrum, being squeezed, kissed and congratulated. The frenzy was so sudden, and so loud, that it frightened little Daniel – who subsequently added to the hubbub by bawling. When Liebermann was finally released, he found that his father had risen too and was now standing directly in front of him. The old man opened his arms.
'Congratulations, my boy.'
'Thank you, Father.'
They embraced – for the first time in more years than Liebermann could remember.
24
THE INTERROGATION ROOM was sparsely furnished: a table and some simple wooden chairs. The Spartan emptiness was softened a little by a photographic portrait of the ubiquitous Franz Josef. The old Emperor looked down, radiating benevolence. From his elevated, almost godlike vantage point, he appeared content to wait aeons for a confession. The same, however, could not be said of Rheinhardt.
Once again, the Inspector found himself feeling somewhat irritated and bemused by his friend's roundabout questioning. Even Natalie Heck was showing signs of bewilderment. She had clearly been expecting a more demanding interview, perhaps anticipating being tricked by the 'doctor' into revealing more than she intended. Instead, Liebermann had spent an inordinate amount of time discussing the craft of dressmaking and now seemed wholly fixated on the seamstress's knowledge of Fräulein Löwenstein's wardrobe. Rheinhardt had watched Fräulein Heck's expression pass from fear through relief to something that looked very much like confusion.
'There were three silk dresses?'
'Yes,' replied Natalie Heck, 'as far as I know. A red one – she bought it from Taubenrauch and Cie, the shop on Mariahilferstrasse – a green one, and a blue one – designed by Bertha Fürst. She would sometimes wear a wonderful butterfly brooch with the blue one.' 'And they were well made? Of good quality?' 'Of course. The silk was very expensive – Chinese, I think. And they were beautifully cut – particularly the Fürst – although not to everyone's taste.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Some would say they were immodest.'
'And what would you say?'
'I . . .' Natalie faltered before raising her chin and proudly declaring, 'I would not have been comfortable wearing such a dress.'
Rheinhardt stifled a yawn and consulted his pocket watch.
'So,' continued Liebermann, 'it was Fräulein Löwenstein's habit to wear one of these dresses every Thursday evening.'
'Yes.'
'She never wore any of the other dresses?'
'There was a black velvet ball gown – and an old satin one . . . but she stopped wearing them. Some time ago, in fact.'
'They were of inferior quality?'
'Yes. The cuff of the ball gown had frayed.'
'Tell me, did Fräulein Löwenstein exhibit an equal fondness for each of her silk dresses? Or did she like one more than the others?'
'She wore the blue one most – but that's because it was more comfortable.'
'And how do you know that?'
'Why,' said Natalie Heck, smiling, 'because she asked me to let it out. She said that it had always been too tight.'
Liebermann paused for a moment. He picked a hair off his trousers and disposed of it at arm's length. Then, returning his attention to Fräulein Heck, he asked: 'Didn't that strike you as odd?'
Natalie Heck did not understand the question. She pressed her lips together and stared blankly, her large dark eyes opened wide – two pools of Indian ink. 'Remarkable, don't you think?' continued Liebermann. 'That such a well-made dress should be too tight? Would someone like Frau Fürst – someone with such a fine reputation – make such an elementary mistake?'
Natalie Heck shr
ugged.
'These things happen. You can measure someone one day, and the next . . .' She held her hands out in front of her body and moved them apart.
Liebermann fell silent. He removed his spectacles and began cleaning the lenses with his handkerchief. When he had finished, he placed the handkerchief back in his pocket and inspected the lenses against the light. As he was doing this, he said, in the careless manner of an incidental observation or afterthought: 'Fräulein Heck, why were you visiting Herr Braun's apartment?'
Natalie Heck looked surprised as the interview veered – quite suddenly – into less comfortable territory. Rheinhardt stopped grooming his moustache and sat up straight.
'Herr Braun,' said Fräulein Heck, 'is my friend.'
Liebermann replaced his spectacles, and looked directly into the young woman's eyes. She looked away, and her cheeks flushed a little.
'Do you often visit Herr Braun's apartment?' After the smallest of pauses, he added: 'Alone?'
Natalie Heck shook her head: 'No, no. Herr Braun is my friend. We aren't . . .'
'Please,' Liebermann interrupted. 'Forgive me. It wasn't my intention to suggest any impropriety on your part.' Then, carefully selecting his words, he added: 'Any immodesty.'
Natalie Heck turned bright red. Flustered, she launched into a garbled defence.
'I've only been to Herr Braun's apartment a few times. He isn't a strong man – he's often sickly. On Saturday, when the constable stopped me – I was worried – I wanted to see if he was all right.'
'Do you have any idea where he is now?'
'Of course not.' She looked angrily towards Rheinhardt. 'Inspector, I told you the truth last week. There's nothing more to tell.'
'Indeed, Fräulein,' said Rheinhardt, 'and we are very grateful for your assistance.'
Natalie Heck turned to face Liebermann again. He continued as if the previous exchange hadn't happened.
'Do you think, Fräulein, that your friend Herr Braun was attracted to Fräulein Löwenstein?'
'I . . .' She struggled to regain her composure. 'I think he probably was. She was a very beautiful woman.'
'Did he ever talk about her?'
'No.'
'Then why do you think he was attracted to her?'
'Sometimes . . .' She tightened her richly coloured shawl around her shoulders as though a cold wind had passed through the room. 'Sometimes he would look at her in a certain way.'
Just as Rheinhardt thought that his friend had scented blood and was preparing his prey for the delivery of a fatal question, Liebermann simply smiled, leaned back in his chair, and said: 'Thank you, Fräulein Heck. You have been most helpful.' Then, turning to Rheinhardt, he added: 'I have no further questions, Inspector.'
'Are you sure, Herr Doctor?' said Rheinhardt.
'Yes, Inspector. Quite sure.'
Rheinhardt stood, somewhat reluctantly, wondering whether Liebermann was playing a psychological game and was craftily creating in Natalie Heck a false sense of security. But the young doctor showed no signs of further engagement.
'In which case,' said Rheinhardt, 'you are free to leave, Fräulein Heck.'
The seamstress rose from her chair and, frostily giving Liebermann a wide berth, left the room. Rheinhardt followed and Liebermann heard his friend instructing an officer to escort Fräulein Heck back to her home near the Prater.
When Rheinhardt returned, he sat in the chair previously occupied by the seamstress. For a moment the two men shared an uneasy silence. Finally Rheinhardt shook his head: 'That was a curious interview, Max.'
'Was it?'
'Yes. Why did you bring it to such a peremptory close? Just – or so it seemed to me – when things were starting to get interesting.'
'Fräulein Heck has told us all that she knows.'
'Then this hasn't been a very productive morning.'
'Well, I wouldn't say that.'
Rheinhardt frowned.
'All right: do we know anything now that we didn't know yesterday?'
'Yes – quite a lot, I think. We know that Natalie Heck was besotted with Otto Braun: her denial spoke volumes. We also have more evidence to suggest that Fräulein Löwenstein and Braun were lovers. Heck's despair was palpable. But more importantly, we now have confirmation of an earlier hypothesis.'
'We do?'
'Oh yes. You will recall that I speculated about the presence of a third person when Charlotte Löwenstein was murdered?'
'Indeed, but—'
Interrupting, Liebermann continued: 'We now know the identity of that third person.'
Liebermann paused and Rheinhardt, unable to restrain himself, stood up again. His movement was so abrupt his chair rocked back and almost toppled over.
'What?'
'The third person,' said Liebermann softly, 'was Fräulein Löwenstein's unborn child. At the time of her murder, she was approximately three months pregnant.'
'But how on earth have you deduced that?' cried Rheinhardt. The door opened, and a junior officer poked his head in.
'Everything all right, sir?'
'Yes, yes,' said Rheinhardt impatiently, waving his hands in the air. The officer bowed apologetically, and closed the door.
'I'll explain in due course,' said Liebermann. 'I must get back to the hospital. But for the moment, Oskar, I would strongly urge you to compose a polite note to Professor Mathias, requesting the completion of Fräulein Löwenstein's interrupted autopsy – as soon as possible.'
'Of course.'
'Oh, and Oskar?'
'Yes.'
'I would like to attend as well – if I may?'
25
ZOLTÁN ZÁBORSZKY was sitting at his usual table in the garden of Csarda, a restaurant on the Prater. A cimbalom player and two violinists were performing 'Rákóczi's Lament', a folk song that Záborszky's nurse would sing to him when he had been a very small child. He closed his eyes, and for a moment it seemed to him that he could hear again the Tisza flowing through the park of the long-lost family estate. In his mind, he could see the imposing house with its battlements and round towers, perched on its steep, rocky bluff: those cavernous rooms, which in the summer had filled with a soft, slow light that rolled through the windows like honey. Who, he wondered, would now be availing himself of that well-stocked cellar, which, under blankets of spiders' silk, had contained bottles brought from the finest wine merchants in Paris?
Záborszky took a sip of his lifeless burgundy and winced, as though suffering from a toothache.
Had his father, the old Count, survived the final onslaught of tuberculosis he would very probably have risen from his bed with only one intention – to plant a bullet in his errant son's brain. Záborszky contemplated this imaginary scenario with some regularity, and more often than not regretted that it had not come to pass.
When the music stopped, he beckoned to the cimbalom player who immediately rested his mallets on the strings and came over to Záborszky's table.
'Yes, my dear Count?'
The musician could not suppress his reaction to Záborszky's appearance. He had acquired a sumptuous black eye. Swollen flesh had almost closed the socket, making the whites and the iris barely visible.
Záborszky noticed the musician flinching.
'An accident,' he said flatly.
'You must take better care of yourself, Count.'
'Indeed,' Záborszky folded a serviette before continuing. 'Tamás, please . . . no more of the old tunes.'
'Ahh, I understand,' the musician smiled sympathetically. 'The melancholy, is it?'
Záborszky nodded, his single visible eye becoming moist.
The musician bowed and marched back to his companions. When they started to play again, the air filled with a spare but spirited arrangement of Strauss's Kaiser Waltz.
Záborszky picked up his copy of the Wiener Zeitung and read the news – most of which did not interest him. Occasionally the text was interrupted by otherwise blank spaces bearing the single word 'Confiscated'. Copies of every p
aper were submitted each morning for approval by the censor – who was inclined to judge numerous articles unfit for public consumption. Záborszky was about to put the Zeitung down again, when his attention was drawn by a headline: Leopoldstadt Murder Baffles Police.
So: they had finally decided to publish the details. Záborszky wondered whether the delay was anything to do with the censor.
In his eagerness to read the article he skipped whole sentences.
Locked room . . . no bullet . . . a statuette of an ancient god . . .
Clever illusion . . . stagecraft.
A thin smile appeared on Záborszky's face.
Looking for a young man called Otto Braun.
Tamás, assuming that the Count was enjoying the Strauss, beat the strings of his cimbalom with greater vigour and encouraged his companions to play faster.
'That bumbling clown of an Inspector,' muttered Záborszky to himself. 'Completely out of his depth.'
Záborszky could picture them all: the constables with their ridiculous spiked helmets and sabres guarding the entrance, the Inspector's team floundering around her apartment, tapping the walls, looking for trapdoors and levers. They would discover nothing.
The Count closed his good eye again, and a distant memory floated to the surface of his already troubled mind: winter. Ravens, like tattered rags, caught on the branches of bare trees.
He had been hunting in the immense wood that covered the uplands of the estate: pools of fog churning in the hollows, clods of frozen earth kicked up by the horse.
The animal had been frightened. It sensed danger. An old crone was standing by the bridleway. She seemed to come from nowhere. The horse neighed and nervously swung its head. Záborszky did not know who she was – but he knew what she was.
The witch had spoken a taboo word. She had mentioned the szépasszony – The Fair Lady, the beautiful woman with long blonde hair who preyed on young men. The demonic seductress who emerged in storms and showers of hail . . .