Mortal Mischief

by Frank Tallis

  'So, what do you make of that face, Herr Doctor? Do you see anything of interest?'

  'Oskar,' said Liebermann, adopting a pained expression, 'you are asking me to engage in pseudo-science, a form of divination no better than palm-reading.'

  'I thought you doctors accepted physiognomy?'

  'There are many who subscribe to Lombroso's doctrine that it is possible to identify a criminal by the location of his ears or the size of his jaw; however, I have very little sympathy with that school of thought.' Liebermann turned the photograph towards Rheinhardt. 'Look at him. Can you see the stamp of our animal ancestry in his face? Atavisms? I certainly can't. In fact, I would go so far as to say that his appearance suggests the very opposite. There is something rather noble about the configuration of his lineaments. He looks more like a romantic poet – a young Schiller, perhaps – than a cheat. No, Lombroso is wrong. A criminal cannot be identified by the cast of his nose and mouth. Only the nature of his mind has any significance.'

  Liebermann handed the photograph back to Rheinhardt, who glanced at it once more before shrugging and slipping it into his pocket.

  'And what about the other members of the Löwenstein circle?' asked Liebermann. 'Have you found out any more about them?'

  'Yes, I have,' said Rheinhardt. 'I started taking an interest in Bruckmüller after we saw him with the Mayor at the Philharmonic concert.'

  'Oh?'

  'I thought it rather odd, that a man who mixed with the Mayor and his friends – men concerned with the commerce and traffic of the real world – should also attend seances in Leopoldstadt.'

  Liebermann turned the brandy glass in his hand and observed how the refracted light splintered into a kaleidoscope of jagged rainbows.

  'There are many superstitious people in the world, Oskar.'

  'True. But I can remember, even as I was interviewing him, thinking This man isn't the right type. The locksmith, yes. Or Záborszky – the mad Count. But Bruckmüller? No.'

  'You also felt the same way about Hölderlin – the banker.'

  Rheinhardt started: 'Yes, I did. However did you know that?'

  'Never mind,' said Liebermann, waving his hand. 'I'm sorry, do carry on.'

  'I decided to make some inquiries,' continued Rheinhardt, looking at his friend suspiciously. 'The first thing I learned was that Bruckmüller is an active member of the Christian Social Party – so, there's the Lueger connection. And the next thing I learned was that he's betrothed to Cosima von Rath.'

  'The heiress?'

  'Indeed. Do you know much about her?'

  'Only that she is very rich and very large.'

  'She is also very strange.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'She is greatly interested in the occult, and believes herself to be the reincarnation of an Egyptian princess. It's no secret. In fact, her arrival at certain society functions has become something of a spectacle. One wit, I think it was Krauss, said that her entrance at a society gathering is more impressive than a production of Aida.'

  Liebermann laughed.

  'I should get Die Fackel more often. He's a great wit, Krauss, but he's so conservative when it comes to art . . .'

  'This von Rath woman,' continued Rheinhardt, 'is a great patron of spiritualist organisations. Apparently it was von Rath who discovered Fräulein Löwenstein, introducing her fiancé at a later stage. Bruckmüller remained loyal to Fräulein Löwenstein's group, while von Rath continued her spiritual quest elsewhere, sampling numerous other circles and psychics – as was, and still is, her wont.'

  'How do you know all this?'

  'Bruckmüller told me, when I interviewed him. But, at the time, I had no idea that Cosima von Rath was his fiancée.'

  Liebermann placed his glass on the table and turned to look at his friend.

  'I wonder if she is a devotee of Seth?'

  Rheinhardt nodded, silently savouring the implications and possibilities of such a connection.

  'Anyway,' Rheinhardt continued, 'there's more to tell. Yesterday I received a note from Cosima von Rath, urging me to abandon my futile investigation. Apparently she has been in receipt of a communication from the spirit world confirming that Fräulein Löwenstein's demise was a supernatural event.'

  'How very good of her to keep you informed. What else do you know about Bruckmüller?'

  'Not a great deal. He's very much a self-made man – and highly ambitious. He was born the son of a provincial butcher, inherited the family business, and through hard work and some very shrewd investments managed to better himself. As you know, he is the proprietor of Bruckmüller & Co, the surgical instrument suppliers, and I believe he owns two factories.'

  'And now he's marrying into one of the wealthiest families in Vienna.'

  'Which, as you can imagine, has been the subject of much gossip. When old Ferdinand dies and Cosima inherits her fortune, Bruckmüller will be in a position to wield considerable political influence.'

  Both men fell silent.

  'You mentioned the locksmith . . .' said Liebermann. 'Have you learned any more of his history?'

  'Yes, although it's all fairly inconsequential. He's a peculiar fellow, and the nature of his work inevitably arouses suspicions. But . . .'

  'You still don't think he did it.'

  Rheinhardt shook his head.

  There was a soft knock. The double doors swung open, and Ernst stepped into the room.

  'I'm sorry to trouble you, sir, but Inspector Rheinhardt's assistant is outside. He says it is a matter of some urgency.'

  'You had better show him in,' said Liebermann, rising from his seat.

  'Always something!' said Rheinhardt. 'I should never let them know where I'm going to be.' He stood up and walked to the fireplace where he rested an elbow on the mantelpiece. A few moments later Ernst reappeared, accompanied by Haussmann.

  'Herr Doctor, Inspector Rheinhardt.' The young man bowed.

  The servant discreetly excused himself and the doors closed.

  'Haussmann, what is it now?' Rheinhardt was unable to conceal his irritation.

  'My apologies for disturbing you sir, and the good doctor, but something's just happened that I thought you'd want to know about.'

  'Well, man, what is it?'

  'Otto Braun, sir. He's just presented himself at the Grosse Sperlgasse station. Gave himself up – said he'd like to help us solve the mystery.'

  Rheinhardt said nothing. He drew on his cigar and threw what remained of it into the fire.

  'I had to act on my own discretion, sir. I couldn't find a senior officer. I hope—' Liebermann raised his hand, indicating that he didn't need to justify himself.

  'Well . . .' said Rheinhardt, puffing out his cheeks, hopelessly searching for words that might express his surprise.

  39

  'EXCUSE ME, STEFAN,' said Liebermann, leaning forward and sniffing around the lapels of Kanner's jacket. Kanner's posture stiffened with embarrassment and discomfort.

  'Well?' said Kanner.

  'Not a trace.'

  'Nor should there be. This suit was collected from the cleaner's this morning and I took my shirt straight out of the airing cupboard – it hasn't been anywhere near my wardrobe.'

  'Excellent. Are you ready?'

  'Yes,' said Kanner, although the tone of his voice suggested quite the opposite.

  Liebermann slapped his hands on Kanner's shoulders and gave him a good-humoured shake.

  'You'll be fine. Trust me.'

  He opened the door for Kanner who reluctantly stepped out into the corridor. They walked its length and began to climb the austere stone staircase.

  'I asked Nurse Rupius to meet us at nine-thirty.'

  'Max, if your experiment makes me look foolish in any way – I will expect to be compensated.'

  'Dinner at the Bristol?'

  'Done.'

  'But you won't look foolish.'

  When they reached the second floor, the two men turned along a narrow passage, on either side of whi
ch were examination rooms. 'This is the one,' said Liebermann. Pausing for a moment, he looked at his wristwatch. 'We're late.' He turned the door handle and pushed the door wide open.

  Inside, Nurse Rupius and Miss Lydgate were sitting next to each other.

  The nurse stood up: 'Doctor Liebermann, Doctor Kanner.'

  Her cheeks flushed a little.

  'Good morning, Nurse Rupius,' said Liebermann. 'And Miss Lydgate – good morning.' Turning, and gesturing towards his friend, Liebermann said, 'Miss Lydgate, you will no doubt remember my colleague, Doctor Stefan Kanner.'

  The English woman looked at Kanner, her gaze limpid.

  'I do not recollect being formally introduced.'

  Kanner executed a small bow and advanced with caution, keeping his gaze trained on the patient.

  'Doctor Kanner is here today to examine your throat,' said Liebermann. 'He has much experience of treating nervous coughs and bronchial disorders, and I would very much value his opinion.'

  Liebermann took a step backwards, leaving Kanner standing on his own.

  'How are you feeling today, Miss Lydgate?' asked Kanner, very tentatively.

  Looking up, Amelia Lydgate stared into Kanner's bright blue eyes.

  'I do not believe, Doctor Kanner, that there has been any change in my condition.'

  'I see,' said Kanner, moving forward warily. As he did so, Miss Lydgate's left hand flew up and Kanner stopped dead in his tracks. The patient covered her mouth and began to cough. Kanner looked back at Liebermann who gave a single curt nod, urging his friend to proceed. Kanner took a deep breath and drew up a wooden chair.

  Sitting directly in front of his patient, Kanner smiled, and said: 'Would you open your mouth, Miss Lydgate? As wide as you can, please.'

  Lydgate opened her mouth and Kanner peered down her throat.

  'Now, if you would just turn towards the window and tilt your head back a little . . . Good. Now say Ahhh.'

  Amelia Lydgate did as she was told.

  Kanner moved his chair forward, nervously glancing down at Miss Lydgate's unpredictable right hand. He opened his medical bag and took out a small spatula.

  'This may feel a little uncomfortable.' He placed the spatula on her tongue and pressed down.

  'Would you cough, please?'

  She coughed.

  'And again – a little louder. Thank you.'

  He removed the spatula and handed it to Nurse Rupius. Reaching into his bag, he picked up a stethoscope.

  'Please lean forward.'

  Standing up, Kanner placed the chest-piece at several points on her back and asked Miss Lydgate to either cough or breathe in deeply.

  'Very good,' he said finally, removing the stethoscope. As he did so, Nurse Rupius handed him the spatula, which she had disinfected and dried by the sink. He dropped the stethoscope and spatula back into his bag and closed the hasp.

  'Thank you,' he said. Then, turning to Liebermann and picking up his bag, he added: 'The examination is complete.' He was grinning with relief.

  'Nurse Rupius,' said Liebermann, 'would you take Miss Lydgate back to the ward?'

  The nurse smiled, and pushed Miss Lydgate's wheelchair forward.

  As Liebermann opened the door, he addressed his patient: 'I'll be along in a few minutes, Miss Lydgate, after I've spoken to Doctor Kanner.'

  He closed the door.

  'Well,' said Kanner. 'Quite extraordinary. Remarkable, in fact.'

  'See? I told you it would be all right.'

  Kanner shook his head. 'So it was all because of my cologne.'

  'That's right. Minister Schelling wears the same one.'

  'Minister Schelling?'

  'Yes, Stefan – the man who tried to rape her.'

  40

  COSIMA VON RATH was struck by the change in Frau Hölderlin's appearance. She looked much younger. Her hair had been dyed red, piled up in plaits and was held in place by a large tortoiseshell comb. She was wearing an exquisitely cut dress of scarlet tulle, with light brown doeskin shoes that matched her stockings precisely. The overall effect of the transformation was marred, however, by the persistence of her nervous blinking.

  'He is a strange man,' said Cosima, 'without a doubt. However, I fear that he is also a badman.'

  Frau Hölderlin offered the heiress some more tea and guglhupf– which she politely declined.

  'It was delicious, Juno – but I cannot eat another crumb.'

  She appealed to her host by resting a hand on her bulging stomach.

  Frau Hölderlin nodded. 'I must say,' she continued, 'I've never felt entirely comfortable in the Count's company.'

  'Do you know the story?' said Cosima, nonchalantly stroking the flowered chintz of the arm of the sofa on which she sat.

  Frau Hölderlin leaned forward. 'I've heard rumours, of course. Nonsense, I'm sure. That he—' She blinked twice. 'That he killed his father to inherit the estate, and then squandered the family fortune.'

  Cosima laughed.

  'He is a bad man, but I do not think that he would have killed his own father. The old Count died of tuberculosis – he wasn't murdered.'

  'But how do you know that?'

  'My father has business interests in Hungary – some farms and a factory – and some property in the capital. He is a good friend of Count Cserteg, whose family come from the same area.'

  Cosima paused.

  'And . . .?' said Frau Hölderlin, indicating that she was anxious for her guest to continue.

  'The rumours,' said Cosima, 'contain a kernel of truth. It is almost certainly the case that Count Záborszky lived a dissolute life. Apparently, he spent little time on the estate and showed no interest in its management. He was always in Pest, enjoying the company of singers and other ne'er-do-wells. He was very fond of the theatre, so they say, though in truth it is more probable that he was only fond of actresses . . .'

  Frau Hölderlin remembered how the Count would raise Fräulein Löwenstein's hand to his lips and let his mouth linger on her thin, pale fingers.

  'Or perhaps I am doing him an injustice,' Cosima continued. 'He was sufficiently fond of the theatre to waste a good deal of his money subsidising a number of third-rate establishments which failed miserably. So I suppose it wasn't just the actresses – whose acquaintance he could have made, presumably, without making such a large investment.'

  'Men can be such fools,' said Frau Hölderlin.

  'Indeed,' said Cosima. 'Whatever his intention, as a result of his activities he incurred some very serious debts, which he then tried to reduce by gambling – with predictable results. When the old Count Záborszky fell ill his son appeared to take a more active role in the management of the estate. But in reality he was simply exploiting his father's weakness. By the time the old Count died there was virtually nothing left – a meagre inheritance that was subsequently deposited in a Viennese bank account. His mother and sisters were left to fend for themselves. If it hadn't been for the assistance of some of the local gentry, Count Cserteg among them, the women would have been destitute. Needless to say, the family seat and land had to be sold, the proceeds of which were absorbed almost entirely by the young Count's outstanding debts.'

  'Scandalous,' said Frau Hölderlin. 'I knew it. I rarely take a dislike to someone without good cause. I do not have the gift, but I have always trusted my intuition.'

  Detecting a cake crumb nestling in a fold of her scarlet dress, Frau Hölderlin removed the offending particle and discreetly returned it to her plate.

  41

  OTTO BRAUN HAD not expected to find himself lying on a divan in a featureless hospital room. Nor had he bargained for the doctor, whose watchful presence he could sense behind him.

  'We were staying at The Grand, in Baden. There were a lot of wealthy people there, as you'd expect – it's a splendid hotel. One of the guests was a medium, a woman called Frau Henneberg. She was attracting a lot of attention, particularly from those patrons who were visiting the spa because of ill health. She agreed to hold a se
ries of evening seances, and I attended one – just out of interest. It was a show, of course, nothing more, and I could see how the illusions were achieved: the rapping, the apparitions, the appearance of objects. One of the gentlemen present was undoubtedly an accomplice – I had no trouble identifying him. At the end of the seance, Frau Henneberg invited all those present to make a voluntary donation. I swear she must have made ninety florins. It was all so easy.' Braun stopped and slid both hands through his hair. 'How long do I have to stay like this?'

  'Until the interview is finished.'

  Resigning himself to the peculiarity of his circumstances, the young man sighed, releasing the tension in his shoulders.

  'That's better' said Liebermann. 'I want you to feel comfortable – close your eyes if it helps.'

  Braun did as he was instructed and crossed his arms over his chest. Liebermann was reminded of a corpse, and wondered whether the gesture represented some subtle communication from Braun's unconscious. Was he already unintentionally confessing to having committed murder?

  'When you arrived at Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment,' asked Liebermann, 'why did you choose to run away?'

  'There were police officers outside – they'd stopped Hölderlin and his wife. I thought they'd finally caught up with us. There was that business at The Danube . . . and some other business.'

  'What other business?'

  Braun frowned: 'It was my understanding, Herr Doctor, that I was brought here to discuss Fräulein Löwenstein's murder.'

  'Indeed, Herr Braun, and it was my understanding that you wished to help the police with their inquiries.'

  'All right,' said Braun, curling his upper lip. 'We met an old woman in Baden – a widow. She had some valuable jewellery, a diamond bracelet, a sapphire pendant . . .' He waved his hand in the air, suggesting that further itemisation was unnecessary. 'When the opportunity presented itself, Lotte took the lot.'

  'Were you party to this theft? Did you assist Fräulein Löwenstein?'

  Braun opened his eyes, his mouth twisting to form a sardonic smile.

  'No,' he said. His eyelids came down slowly, like those of a sated cat. 'Lotte was always taking things.'

  Liebermann noticed that Braun's hands were trembling a little. Yet the young man did not seem particularly anxious.