by Frank Tallis
The claqueur ground his cigar stub into a metal ashtray.
‘You must have heard me struggling, last night? It seemed like an eternity before the audience followed my example. They are taking longer and longer to rouse. And a lone admirer is very visible.’ Vranitzky took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps I flatter myself, but I have reason to believe that you value my judgement. Therefore, I say to you — more as your friend than your humble servant — that perhaps the time has come for you to reconsider your position. You have done all that can be done, and …’
‘I’m sorry?’
Vranitzky reached across the table and placed his palm on the singer’s hand. He was like a doctor or a priest and when he spoke he did so in soft, consoling tones.
‘The Viennese no longer appreciate your gift.’
Amsel pulled her hand back, shaking her head.
‘But Rosenkrantz hasn’t even been buried yet! Give them a little more time. They’ll soon transfer their affections back to me.’
Vranitzky was silent. His expression collapsed into compassionate folds and creases, tacitly sustaining the pressure of his unwelcome sympathy.
‘What is it?’ said Amsel, a hint of despair finding weaknesses in her voice. ‘Is it more money you want?’
Vranitzky appeared hurt.
‘I am a man of honour.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just …’ Amsel’s voice rose in frustration. ‘This isn’t like you. To be so faint-hearted!’
The claqueur refilled the singer’s glass and then his own.
‘I have heard a rumour. This demon Mahler …’ Vranitzky swirled the wine and took a sip. ‘They say he is hiring private detectives now. He intends to root us out. All of us.’
‘Oh, he is quite mad.’
‘Mad but determined. You will appreciate, I hope, that the future of the claque is my responsibility. I have willingly taken risks for you in the past but, at present, to expose myself or my troops would be foolhardy in the extreme. The entire institution of the claque is in jeopardy.’
‘Come now,’ said Amsel. ‘It’s only a rumour. Who told you this?’
‘A reliable source. One of the electricians. He overheard the director talking to someone about it on the telephone.’
‘I’m sure the director says all sorts of things. Come now, old friend,’ said Amsel, smiling through eyes that had begun to glaze with tears. ‘We have come so far together. Don’t desert me now.’
She revoked her earlier rejection and gave her hand back to Vranitzky. He accepted it, raising her fingers to his moistened lips.
‘My dear lady … please don’t cry.’
The plea was genuine. He hated to see this tall, proud woman humiliated.
‘Just until Christmas,’ Amsel sobbed. ‘Support me until Christmas. Please, that’s not much to ask. Rosenkrantz is dead! Things will change for the better. I know they will.’
21
Commissioner Manfred Brugel was studying Rheinhardt’s report. His brow furrowed and his lower jaw jutted out. There was something about the simian perplexity of his expression that reminded Rheinhardt of an orang-utan he had once seen at the zoo. Brugel lifted his large head and began to shake it from side to side.
‘No,’ he growled. ‘No, no, no!’ Rheinhardt did not know how he should respond to four consecutive negatives delivered without preamble and with such devastating relish. ‘A vagrant,’ Brugel continued with sardonic glee, ‘walking through fog thicker than potato soup …’
‘Herr Geisler is a gardener, sir,’ Rheinhardt interjected. ‘Not a vagrant.’
Brugel swatted the air and pressed on. ‘Claims to have seen the mayor visiting Ida Rosenkrantz the night before her apparent suicide, and you expect me to take his word as gospel?’
‘It would have been remiss of me not to draw the incident-’
‘Alleged incident!’
‘-To your attention, sir.’
‘Indeed it would.’ Brugel snorted like a farm animal. ‘However, you have done so now and that is where we shall let the matter rest.’
‘But, sir,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘With respect, I think we should at least-’
‘The answer is no, Rheinhardt! Think, inspector.’ The commissioner jabbed his own temple with a rigid finger. ‘Show some judgement. Did you really expect me to endorse your proposal? Good God, man! Have you taken leave of your senses?’
‘If Lueger wasn’t the mayor of Vienna we would almost certainly question him.’
‘But, Rheinardt, he is the mayor of Vienna. That is the rather obvious and substantial fact you seem peculiarly unwilling to appreciate.’
‘I am perfectly aware-’
Before Rheinhardt could finish his sentence Brugel exploded again. ‘You think you can just stroll into the town hall and implicate the mayor in a murder inquiry, on the basis of this?’ The commissioner flicked Rheinhardt’s report with disdain, tearing the paper. ‘The testimony of a ne’er-do-well who rents a pallet bed and dines in a soup kitchen?’
‘He is not a ne’er-do-well,’ said Rheinhardt patiently. ‘He has never been in trouble with the police and has simply fallen on hard times. I don’t think we can simply ignore his statement.’
‘Ah, but we can, Rheinhardt. And very easily.’
Rheinhardt glanced up at the portrait of the emperor. It hung on the wall behind Brugel’s desk. Franz-Josef, the old soldier, dressed in his white general’s uniform and red sash — on the table beside him, a field marshal’s hat sprouting green feathers. Brugel sported the very same oversized mutton-chop whiskers. It was common knowledge that the commissioner was an ardent royalist.
‘The mayor and Ida Rosenkrantz were acquainted,’ said Rheinhardt.
Brugel tensed. ‘What?’
‘Rosenkrantz’s dresser, Herr Schneider, said that the diva was invited by the mayor to sing at his birthday celebrations.’
‘Many others have had that honour.’
‘Yes, sir, but the mayor also went out of his way to greet Rosenkrantz when he saw her in the Imperial.’
The commissioner rolled his eyes.
‘Lueger likes being seen in public with popular people — singers, actors, the rich and famous. He’s a politician.’ Brugel leaned forward, ‘Listen to me, Rheinhardt, and listen well. They don’t call him the Lord God of Vienna for nothing. There would be consequences, grave consequences, for all of us.’
‘He is not above the law.’
The commissioner produced a lopsided smile. ‘Isn’t he?’
‘Sir, I know that there are certain constitutional obstacles-’
Brugel cut in vehemently. ‘He would have to be removed from office before a case could proceed against him.’
Rheinhardt looked up at the emperor’s portrait. ‘It is not for me to comment on matters of government and state. But if the mayor was removed from office before the election, there are many elevated persons who would welcome such a development.’
The inspector kept his gaze high.
After a long silence, during which Brugel once again assumed a distinctly ape-like mien, the commissioner clapped his hands together and made a gravelly sound that might have been chuckling.
‘A very good try Rheinhardt — you’re getting quite slippery these days. But no, you cannot interview the mayor. However …’ The commissioner lowered his voice. ‘You raise an interesting issue, a perspective on these matters which I must agree does merit further consideration. Therefore I don’t want you to feel discouraged.’ The commissioner’s grin widened. ‘I am not, in principle, opposed to you taking the investigation in the direction you suggest. We just need something more substantial, a little more meat on the bone, eh? Now, if you should come across any further evidence linking Mayor Lueger with Ida Rosenkrantz …’
Brugel rubbed his hands together.
‘You’ll be the first to know, sir,’ said Rheinhardt.
‘Excellent,’ barked the commissioner, glancing over his shoulder at the emperor’s portrait.
22
Liebermann placed Klassiker Des deutschen Liedes on the music stand and said to his friend: ‘“Hope”, by David Freimark. Do you know it?’
‘Yes,’ Rheinhardt answered. ‘I do, although I haven’t sung the song for many years.’
Liebermann played the introduction. When Rheinhardt’s warm baritone came in it reminded the young doctor of chocolate sauce, a dark, delectable, sensuous flowing. Although the melody was simple, beneath its unhurried arc sharp discords imbued the words with depth and tender poignancy.
As they tackled the final stanza, the piano accompaniment became restive and throbbing chords signalled an imminent emotional climax.
Est ist kein leerer, kein schmeichelnder Wahn,
Erzeugt im Gehirne des Toren …
Hope is no vain, flattering illusion,
Begotten in the foolish mind,
Loud it proclaims in the hearts of men:
We are born for better things!
A two-beat rest preceded a hymn-like coda over which the closing lines were plainly delivered.
And what the inner voice declares
Does not deceive the hopeful soul.
Liebermann lifted his hands from the keyboard and released the sustaining pedal.
‘Beautiful,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘I’d quite forgotten those ingenious harmonies. Quite extraordinary.’
Liebermann consulted the contents page. The composers included in the collection were listed with their dates in parentheses. Liebermann ran his finger down the column of names: Robert Franz, Peter Cornelius, Johannes Brahms, Adolf Jensen.
‘David Freimark. Eighteen thirty-seven to eighteen sixty-three.’
‘He died young.’
‘When he was only twenty-six. An accident on the Schneeberg. It happened while he was staying with his teacher, Johann Christian Brosius, and Brosius’s wife Angelika. Today, Freimark is remembered only for this one work, “Hope”.’
‘Always the way. The good and the gifted have a habit of dying young.’
Liebermann rose and took Brosius’s Three Fantasy Pieces out of the piano stool. He held up the cover for Rheinhardt to read.
‘Ah, you’ve found something by the teacher. Is it any good? I must admit, I’ve never heard of him.’
‘I want to play you some of his melodies.’
Rheinhardt shrugged.
‘As you wish.’
Liebermann searched through the score until he came to the second of the Three Fantasy Pieces and started to play the right-hand part. Picking out a vague, tonally ambiguous thread of sound, he called out: ‘D-A-D-F-E-A.’ He then wrote David Freimark at the bottom of the page and underlined the same letters, demonstrating that they occurred within the name.
‘You see? How the tune is produced?’ Rheinhardt rested a hand on Liebermann’s shoulder and stooped to examine the music more closely. The young doctor repeated the melody. ‘Let us call this the pupil’s theme.’ Turning back a page, Liebermann played another melody, again identifying the notes as he struck the keys: ‘B-A-C-B-A-B flat.’ Glancing up at Rheinhardt, he continued, ‘H — of course — is B natural in our German nomenclature. Thus what we have here is a melody derived from the name: Johann Christian Brosius. Let us call it the husband’s theme.’
‘How very interesting,’ said Rheinhardt.
Liebermann then showed his friend that a third melody, consisting of the notes A-G-E-A and B flat, had been constructed from the serviceable letters contained within the name Angelika Brosius.
‘The wife’s theme. This is how Brosius treats his material.’ Liebermann began to play. ‘Listen — the husband’s theme… then the wife’s theme. Now you hear them played together — interlinked — united.’ He stopped and, resuming at a section marked nicht zu langsam, he continued: ‘Here we have the pupil’s theme, which at first appears on its own. The wife’s theme returns, and we hear both, simultaneously. Note, the husband’s theme is absent. It is as though the pupil has taken the husband’s place. There then follows this rather strange mysterioso passage.’ Shadowy sonorities in the lower reaches of the Bosendorfer growled beneath softly ringing octaves. ‘It sounds like a tolling bell, does it not?’ Liebermann turned the page. ‘After that eerie central section, husband and wife are reunited but now the pupil’s theme is absent — and it does not appear again.’
Rheinhardt smiled.
‘You have discovered a programme?’
‘I believe the music tells the story of a marital crisis and its resolution. Conjugal bliss, an episode of infidelity and, finally, reconciliation.’ Rheinhardt twisted the horns of his moustache. He made a deep humming sound which found sympathetic support from the strings within the piano. He sensed that Liebermann had not finished. ‘The accident on the Schneeberg wasn’t an accident. Brosius murdered his protege to save his marriage.’
Rheinhardt straightened up and, after a brief pause, produced a hearty laugh.
‘Come now, Max!’ He shook his friend’s shoulder. ‘You are getting carried away.’
The young doctor returned to the misterioso passage, with its rumbling bass notes and tolling octaves.
‘You can’t hear what’s happening down there very clearly.’ He nodded towards the lower extremity of the keyboard. ‘The sound is quite muddy. But if I release the sustaining pedal and play a little faster you’ll recognise what’s buried in the gloom.’
He played a familiar mournful dirge.
‘The dies irae?’
‘Precisely. From the requiem Mass. The tolling bell declares that the hour of reckoning has arrived. Angelika was Brosius’s muse. Not only was she young and beautiful, she was also, so Brosius came to believe, the source of his inspiration. When she transferred her affection to his protege, Freimark began to produce work like “Hope”, a masterpiece. Brosius must have been desperate.’
‘How do you know so much about these people? Brosius and his wife aren’t exactly Robert and Clara Schumann.’
‘I happened to meet an elderly lady called Frau Zollinger who was personally acquainted with Brosius and his circle.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘At a wind-band concert. The ensemble performed a Serenade by Brosius. And I’ve also been doing a little research of my own in the newspaper archive.’
Rheinhardt pulled at his chin.
‘Let me get this clear: you are suggesting that Brosius murdered his pupil and wrote this piece as — what? — a kind of confession?’
‘No, Oskar, I am suggesting something far more interesting. David Freimark died in eighteen sixty-three. The Three Fantasy Pieces were published a year earlier, in eighteen sixty-two. Creative works originate in the unconscious — the realm of dreams — and Professor Freud informs us that dreams conceal forbidden wishes. This piece,’ Liebermann tapped the score, ‘expresses a forbidden wish. A wish that was eventually realised.’
‘Brosius might have employed the dies irae for symbolic purposes. He was alluding, perhaps, to the death of his marriage or the death of love. Not wishing his protege dead. Besides, it seems unlikely to me that Brosius would have risked detection by leaving such an obvious clue.’
‘The programme isn’t that obvious,’ said Liebermann, somewhat peeved. ‘Moreover, Brosius was probably unaware of what he was doing. A hysteric has no idea that a useless arm has been paralysed because of a repressed urge to strike out. Similarly, Brosius might have had no idea that his composition was being shaped by a repressed desire to murder Freimark.’
‘I find that difficult to accept.’
‘Why?’
‘Extracting musical themes from people’s names requires intellectual engagement. Conscious thought.’
‘Mediums have written great works of philosophy while in a trance, supposedly guided by spirits. Of course, such writings are not really the accomplishment of a discarnate author but the product of the medium’s own unconscious mind. The unconscious is equal to the conscious mind in every respect, and is in some ways its superior.’ Lieb
ermann dismissed Rheinhardt’s objection with a gesture. ‘The exact mechanism by which Brosius came to encrypt his composition is rather academic. Whether the process was conscious or unconscious, unintentional or intentional, the fact remains that the themes he employed are meant to represent people and what he did with those themes suggests foul play.’
‘I take it that Brosius is deceased.’
‘He is.’
‘And his wife?’
‘Yes, she too is deceased.’ Liebermann’s hand strayed again to the keyboard and he played the pupil’s theme. ‘Since making these discoveries I have been overcome by a curious need to know whether my speculations are correct.’
‘There are some intriguing possibilities here, certainly, and it would be most interesting to establish the facts. But the murder, if there was a murder, was committed some forty years ago. All of the principals are dead. How do you propose to conduct an investigation?’
‘I could speak to Frau Zollinger again. She might know more.’
Rheinhardt smiled. ‘Forgive me for so saying, but there are other cases more deserving of your attention. More recent cases.’
‘There have been some developments?’
‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt, with ironic understatement. ‘There have been some developments.’
In the smoking room, Liebermann and Rheinhardt took their customary seats. After the brandy had been poured and cigars lit, Rheinhardt recounted what he had learned from Doctor Engelberg. He then spoke of his interview with Herr Geisler. As his narrative approached the point where the identity of Ida Rosenkrantz’s visitor was about to be revealed, his friend became quite impatient and made rapid circular movements in the air with his cigar.
‘Well?’ A flake of tobacco fell, incandescing briefly before landing on the tabletop as a smut of black ash. ‘Who was it?’
Rheinhardt delayed the delivery of his answer, savouring Liebermann’s irritation, before saying: ‘Herr Geisler told us that the visitor was Mayor Lueger.’
Liebermann’s reaction was predictable. Shock, followed by disbelief.