Mortal Mischief

by Frank Tallis

  Rheinhardt did not always share his friend's liberal sympathies but this analysis prompted him to consider the future world that his daughters might inhabit. He thawed a little. On reflection, he hoped that Therese and Mitzi would not have to accept an unhappy destiny through want of opportunity. Rheinhardt finished his brandy and prised his watch from the fob pocket of his waistcoat.

  'Good heavens, Max, it's almost eleven. I must be getting home.'

  As he was leaving, Rheinhardt stopped for a moment and looked at his friend. His eyes expressed a great deal: pleasure, amiability and even, perhaps, amusement.

  'Well done, Max,' he said softly. Liebermann did not reply, but simply increased the pressure of his handshake.

  87

  MISS LYDGATE PICKED up the card and read aloud: 'To Miss Amelia Lydgate, with heartfelt gratitude for services rendered to the security office of Vienna. Please accept this small token of our esteem. Sincerely, Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt.'

  Liebermann was seated at the gateleg table and tapped the large mahogany box.

  'For me?' she said, her voice uncertain.

  'Yes,' said Liebermann.

  Miss Lydgate released the hasps and opened the lid. As she did so, the metal object inside lit her face with a reflected warm, golden light. She did not gasp or smile. The only visible response was a slight creasing of her brow; however, Liebermann was not offended. He understood that the young Englishwoman's impassive exterior belied the depth and authenticity of her appreciation.

  'Thank you,' she whispered.

  Inside the box, among folds of blue velvet, was a large brass microscope.

  'It was made by Eduard Messter of Frerichstrasse, Berlin. The case is signed by the maker – see here.' Liebermann pointed to the manufacturer's signature. 'I believe this instrument is more powerful than the one you currently employ – and the lenses are ground more finely. You will experience less distortion at higher levels of magnification.'

  Amelia Lydgate lifted the microscope from the box with a gentleness that was almost maternal. It was obviously too heavy for her to manipulate with ease, yet she held it aloft and admired it from every angle. The brass gleamed triumphantly.

  'You will be so kind as to thank Inspector Rheinhardt – it is a gift I do not deserve,' the young woman said in a level voice.

  'Oh, but you do deserve it, Miss Lydgate!' Liebermann exclaimed. 'The Löwenstein murder would not have been solved without your help.'

  Amelia Lydgate lowered the microscope carefully to the table's surface. Then, sitting down, she said: 'I would like you to tell me more of what transpired, Doctor Liebermann. I read in the Zeitung that the "Leopoldstadt demon" had been caught, but the article contained very little detail.'

  'Very well,' said Liebermann, and he proceeded to give a full account of the investigation, from Rheinhardt's presentation of Fräulein Löwenstein's note to his own almost fatal encounter with Bruckmüller on the Riesenrad. As he was describing the point at which he was forced out of the gondola and his grip was failing, Miss Lydgate reached across the table and touched his sleeve. The moment of contact was so brief, so inconsequential, that it could easily have been missed. Yet this simple sign of concern had a profound effect on Liebermann. He felt as though his thoughts had become like dewdrops trembling on a cobweb. He felt insubstantial – weightless and airy.

  'You were very brave, Doctor Liebermann,' said Miss Lydgate. Her gesture had been apparently unconscious. She showed no sign of embarrassment or self-awareness.

  Liebermann cleared his throat and, after managing to utter some self-deprecatory remarks, gradually recovered a sufficient degree of composure to complete his story.

  'It is strange, Doctor Liebermann, that the two murders were so different. One meticulous and clever – the other crude and brutal.'

  'It is of course possible,' said Liebermann, 'that this was part of Herr Bruckmüller's plan. Perhaps he intended that the police should think that there had been two different murderers, in the hope that they would also conclude that the killings were unrelated. But I do not think this was the case. Fear is a very fundamental emotion. It strips away our sophisticated veneer and reduces the person to his or her core elements. Bruckmüller feared discovery, and in a state of panic his true, savage self found expression all too easily.'

  Miss Lydgate seemed extremely interested in the workings of Bruckmüller's mind, and prompted Liebermann to speculate about the man's personal psychology.

  'He wanted to be Mayor of Vienna, almost certainly – but I suspect that his ambition was even more far-reaching. When he was dissociating, he began talking about the Empire unravelling, the need for leadership. I believe that he may have seen himself as some kind of Messiah. The German people have a highly evolved mythology in which a semi-mystical hero figure almost always appears to usher in a new dawn. When Herr Bruckmüller's house was searched by the police, a horoscope was found with an attached commentary suggesting that his birth was in some way auspicious. It was both Fräulein Löwenstein and Herr Uberhorst's misfortune to threaten his appointment with destiny.'

  'And it was almost your misfortune too,' said Miss Lydgate pointedly.

  Liebermann smiled.

  'Yes,' he replied. 'I am lucky to be alive.'

  When Liebermann glanced at his wristwatch he realised that he had stayed for several hours longer than he had originally intended. Evening had given way to night, and it was no longer proper for him to be alone with Miss Lydgate. He stood to leave. Amelia Lydgate requested again that he should thank Inspector Rheinhardt for her gift, and escorted him to the door. They descended the dark stairs, and the sound of her skirts rustling behind him made a sensuous music – teasing and haunting.

  Liebermann did not attempt to hail a cab. He felt like walking. In due course he passed the Josephinum, where he paused in order to admire the statue of Hygieia. Elevated and unattainable, eternally feeding the great serpent that coiled around her arm, the goddess looked down at him with regal indifference.

  Bracing himself against the chill night air, Liebermann marched through Alsergrund and down Berggasse to the Danube Canal. There he stared into the dark water and enjoyed a cigar in solitude.

  When he returned to his apartment he still felt restless, and contemplated playing some Bach – something undemanding, like the two- and three-part inventions – but remembered the time. Such was the level of music-making in Vienna that there was a general edict banning the playing of musical instruments after eleven o'clock. He needed something to occupy his mind.

  Liebermann drifted from the piano to his writing bureau where he switched on the electric lamp. He collected some loose papers from the bottom drawer, sat down, filled his fountain pen with ink, and began writing:

  It was the day of the great storm. I remember it well because my father – Mendel Liebermann – had suggested we meet for coffee at The Imperial. I had a strong suspicion that something was on his mind . . .

  Acknowledgements

  I WOULD LIKE to thank my agent, Clare Alexander, for taking me out to lunch in September 2002 and suggesting that I might want to think about a detective series; Hannah Black and Oliver Johnson for providing indispensable editorial guidance, Steve Matthews for his finely honed critical faculty, Sarah Liebrecht for translating various documents from German to English, David Coffer for alerting me to the existence of the inestimable Raymond Coffer (a walking encyclopedia of early twentieth-century Viennese lore), Eva Menassa in Berlin for yet more help translating correspondence, Sonja Busch and Fabrizio Scarpa for being splendid hosts in Vienna, Wolfgang Sporrer for recommending some very useful books, and Toni Nagel and Anna Maxted for advising on Jewish observances. I would also like to thank Maria Käfer of the Austrian Embassy in London, Bruno Splichal and Herr Winter of the Bundespolizeidirektion Wien, Harald Seyrl of the Wiener Kriminal Museum, and Dr Ulrike Spring of the Historisches Museum der Stadt Wien. Finally, I would like to thank Nicola Fox, yet again, for helping in ways that really are too numerous t
o mention.

  Frank Tallis

  London, 2004

  Read on for an exclusive extract from

  Vienna Blood,

  the next book in the Liebermann series,

  coming soon to Century.

  Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt followed a path which led upwards through wooded parkland. He glanced over his left shoulder and saw part of the Schönbrunn palace through the trees. It was a bright, cold morning and the rotting leaves were crisp with ice. They made a satisfying crunch beneath his boots.

  He had not been to the zoo in years. As he progressed, he was reminded of the time when his daughters were very little – a time when he had been a frequent visitor. He remembered Mitzi's eyes widening at the approach of a lion, Therese, laughing at the chattering monkeys. The memories flooded back, happy memories, as bright and colourful as a picture book. Rheinhardt smiled inwardly, but his recollections were shadowed with guilt and regret. Being a detective inspector was encroaching more and more on his life. If he wasn't investigating, there was the paper work – the endless form filling and report writing. How could he possibly find time to take his daughters to the zoo?

  A cast iron gate appeared ahead. As he approached, he recognized the spindly, wide spaced gold lettering that curved over the archway: Tiergarten. Beneath, stood a stout man in a long winter coat. He was smoking, pacing, and occasionally stamping his feet. When he caught sight of Rheinhardt he stopped and waved. A somewhat redundant signal, as Rheinhardt was in no danger of missing him.

  'Thank God you've come,' the man called out, stepping forward and taking a few steps down the slope.

  Rheinhardt smiled and felt obliged to quicken his pace.

  'Herr Pfundtner?' The man nodded. 'Inspector Rheinhardt'

  They shook hands.

  'Thank you for coming so quickly,' said the zoo director. 'Please, this way . . .' He set off at a brisk pace and immediately started talking.

  'I've never seen anything like it. I can't think who would have done such a thing. It's appalling. So utterly senseless, I can hardly believe it's happened.' He threw his hands up and shook his head. 'What am I to do? We'll never be able to replace Hildegard. We'll never find such a fine example of Eunectes murinus again! She was a favourite of the Emperor, you know. He'll be devastated, I'm sure.'

  The two men marched past the tiger enclosure. One of the beasts lumbered towards them, pressing its nose up against the bars.

  'What time did it happen?'Asked Rheinhardt.

  'Seven o' clock,' said Pfundtner.

  'Exactly?'

  'Yes, it was feeding time.'

  'A keeper was present?'

  'Yes, Herr Arnoldt. Cornelius Arnoldt. He was knocked unconscious.'

  'While feeding the animal?'

  'No, while preparing the food in an adjoining room.'

  The tiger's throat rattled. A deep, gurgling sound, like water pouring down a drain.

  'Do you know Herr Anroldt well?'

  'Yes, of course, I'm familiar with all of my keepers. He's an excellent fellow.'

  'So the intruder struck Herr Arnoldt and took the keys?'

  'Yes.'

  'He then let himself into the pit?'

  'Quite so,' said the director.

  The Tiergarten was arranged like a bicycle wheel, with pathways emanating as if spokes from a central hub. All of the buildings were painted mustard yellow, just like the adjacent palace, a consistency that commemorated the zoo's earlier existence as the Royal menagerie. They were heading in the direction of the central octagon, an elegant structure decorated with ornamental urns and braided bas relief.

  'What time do you open?'Asked Rheinhardt.

  'I'm not sure we should. Not today. My staff are too . . . distraught.'

  'It would be a shame to disappoint your visitors.'

  'Quite so, Inspector, quite so. Like you, we too have a duty to perform.'

  'And a very important one. My family and I have spent countless happy afternoons here in the company of the animals.' He continued: 'I have two young daughters.' Rheinhardt's addendum hung in the air, unresolved.

  The director turned to look at his companion and producing a faint smile, said: 'We do our best, Inspector.'

  'Quite so,' Rheinhardt replied, mischievously appropriating the director's verbal tic. Somewhere, in a distant corner of the zoo, an unidentified creature, most probably an exotic bird, cawed loudly. Beyond the central octagon, the two men veered to the right, finally approaching their destination.

  They entered the reptile house through a door at the rear of the building. The atmosphere was warm and humid, in sharp contrast to the icy air outside. A tall zoo keeper was standing in the narrow hallway next to an open door.

  'This way please,' said Pfundtner. The keeper pressed his back against the wall, allowing the director and Rheinhardt to pass. The door opened out from a small room, the occupants of which formed an odd tableau. A second keeper, with a bandage around his head, sat on a wooden chair; next to him, stood a sober looking gentleman in a dark suit (clearly the doctor responsible for the dressing), and to their left, was a white slab on which several animal carcasses were laid out. Rheinhardt was dimly aware of an arrangement of pelts – one of them lying in a circular pool of blood.

  'How is he?' asked the director, nodding towards the injured keeper.

  'Much better,' said the doctor, resting a hand on his patient's shoulder. 'A little concussion – but that's to be expected. A few days bed rest and he'll be in fine fettle.'

  Rheinhardt stepped into the room: 'May I ask Herr Arnoldt some questions?'

  'Of course,' replied the doctor. 'But I'm not sure he'll be able to tell you very much. He's suffering from retrograde amnesia.'

  'Which means?'

  'Memory loss,' continued the doctor. 'Most people lose some memory after a head injury – usually memory for events leading up to the point where they lost consciousness.'

  'But how much?'

  'It varies, but Herr Arnoldt can't remember a great deal more than getting up this morning and eating his breakfast.'

  'Is that so?' said Rheinhardt, directing his question at the keeper.

  Herr Arnoldt attempted to stand.

  'No, Herr Arnoldt,' said the doctor, applying a gentle pressure to the keeper's shoulder. 'Please remain seated.'

  Herr Arnoldt dropped back into the chair and looked up at Rheinhardt.

  'I can remember getting up this morning . . . eating some eggs and pickled cucumber.'

  'And anything else?' asked Rheinhardt.

  'No . . . the next thing I remember is waking up here . . . on the floor. And Walter . . . Walter helping me'

  'Walter?'

  'That's me,' said the keeper outside. 'Walter Gundlach. I was on my way to the hyena enclosure, when I noticed the door at the back had been left open. It's usually locked, so I stuck my head in to take a look. Herr Arnoldt was lying on the floor.'

  'Where?'

  'Half his body was where you're standing, the other half sticking out in the hallway.'

  'There's no blood on the floor,' said Rheinhardt. 'Has someone cleaned it up?'

  'There was no blood,' said the doctor. There were no lacerations. It seems that Herr Arnoldt was struck on the back of the head with considerable force – but not with a weapon.'

  'Then with what?'

  'A clenched fist . . . the forearm perhaps. The doctor pointed at his patient's neck. 'The cervical area is tender and badly bruised.'

  'You didn't notice anything else?' said Rheinhardt to Gundlach. 'Anything unusual?'

  The keeper shook his head.

  'No— . . . I made sure Herr Arnoldt was comfortable and called the director.'

  Rheinhardt turned to face the doctor again.

  'Is Herr Arnoldt's memory loss permanent?'

  'It's difficult to say. Some people recover their memories – others don't. We'll just have to wait and see.'

  'But what is the likelihood?' asked Rheinhardt, insistently.
/>   The doctor looked down at Herr Arnoldt, narrowed his eyes, and pressed his lips together.

  'There is a fair chance,' said the doctor.

  Like most medical men, he seemed reluctant to give a definite answer.

  Rheinhardt surveyed the circle of faces surrounding him: the doctor, the director, the unfortunate Herr Arnoldt, and his gangly colleague looking in from the corridor. They all seemed to be expecting him to say something important. Feeling slightly uncomfortable Rheinhardt said: 'Where is the . . .' he found himself unable to articulate the word 'body' and hesitated as he searched for a more appropriate alternative. 'Herr Pfundtner, where are the remains?' It seemed a reasonable compromise, being neither too anthropomorphic nor too disrespectful.

  The director gestured towards a second door, immediately next to the heap of furry carcasses.

  Rheinhardt turned the handle and pushed it open. The air that escaped was laden with a strange, pungent odour. He stepped over the threshold, and examined his surroundings. He had stumbled into a primeval world. The pit was comprised of a large bowl of earth, scattered with rocks and tropical vegetation. A single, stunted tree leaned its crooked trunk over the depression, which was filled with dark, stagnant water. Colonies of algae floated on the surface, creating an emerald archipelago. On the other side of the pit was a featureless wall, over which members of the public might make their observations.

  Rheinhardt could hear the director standing behind him, breathing heavily.

  'Who has been in here this morning?' Asked Rheinhardt.

  'Myself,' said Pfundtner, 'and Herr Gundlach.'

  'What about you doctor?' Rheinhardt called back. 'Have you taken a look in here.'

  'No Inspector,' said the doctor. 'I've been rather preoccupied with the health of my patient.' His sounded slightly irritated.

  Rheinhardt looked back at the director: 'Where do we go?'

  'Over there,' said the director, pointing.

  'Please follow me very closely, Herr Pfundtner. Try to tread on the rocks rather than the soil.'