by Frank Tallis
Rheinhardt groaned.
‘Max, we’ve got more important things to worry about than the fate of David Freimark!’
‘A murder is a murder.’
‘Indeed. All human lives are of equal value. Be that as it may, a diva of the court opera has been murdered, Karl Lueger, the Lord God of Vienna, is our prime suspect, and the late empress’s physician has just given us good reason to doubt his integrity. It is not the time to be chasing around cemeteries digging up dead composers of thwarted promise!’
‘He was murdered. I’m sure he was.’
‘Let this Freimark business go, Max. It’s becoming a morbid pre-occupation. There are more pressing matters.’
Liebermann shook his head and repeated stubbornly, ‘A murder is a murder.’
42
Liebermann entered his apartment clutching the day’s mail. He sorted through the letters looking impatiently for one that had been addressed in Amelia’s distinctive hand, but was disappointed. Overwhelmed by tiredness, he dropped the unopened envelopes into his writing bureau and found himself drawn towards the featureless cabinet in which he kept his spirits. He angled his head to study the contents: slivovitz, becherovka, vodka, and a quarter-full bottle of absinthe. He picked up the absinthe, held it up to the light and, after a moment of perilous indecision, sensibly decided against the idea. Instead, he poured himself a glass of slivovitz and sat down at the piano.
Brosius’s Three Fantasy Pieces stood on the music stand. He played through the second of these, before essaying a few of Zemlinsky’s Rustic Dances. He then felt a strong urge to hear some Chopin and lifted the Opus Nine Nocturnes out of the piano stool. After a satisfactory rendition of the B flat minor, he rewarded himself with a warming swig of alcohol and positioned his hands in readiness for the opening bars of the E flat major. His mental preparations were interrupted by the sound of someone knocking at the front door. His first thought was that it must be one of Rheinhardt’s emissaries. However, he immediately dismissed the idea, having only recently bid the inspector goodbye at the Schottenring station.
Liebermann rose from his seat and went to investigate. He was amazed to find his erstwhile fiancee leaning nonchalantly against the door jamb.
‘Clara?’
‘You look surprised to see me.’
‘Well … I am.’
‘Didn’t you get my letter?’
‘Your letter?’
‘I sent you one this morning. Didn’t you get it?’
Liebermann remembered the unopened correspondence in the bureau. ‘I might have.’
‘What do you mean, you might have?’
‘I’ve only just returned from Hietzing. I haven’t had time to open my letters yet.’
‘No time? You were playing the piano. I could hear you.’
‘Yes.’ Liebermann extended the word until its thinness aroused suspicion.
‘I see.’ Clara took a step backwards. ‘This isn’t quite the welcome I was expecting. I will write to you again and-’
‘No. Don’t go!’ He had not forgotten the gratitude he had felt when she had generously forgiven him, the sweet relief, the heady release from oppressive guilt. The last thing he wanted now was to offend her. ‘I’m so sorry, Clara. Whatever will you think of me? Please, do come in.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
Liebermann took her hat and coat. As she turned he was enveloped by her perfume, a heavy scent that recalled the overlarge exotic blooms and humid heat of a greenhouse. Clara was wearing an impressive gown of blue silk, trimmed with silver. The neckline was low but a crescent of diaphanous gauzy material covered the swell of her breasts. Liebermann’s expression must have betrayed his appreciation. She looked up at him with dark eyes that communicated quiet amusement and satisfaction.
Liebermann ushered Clara into the music room.
‘So …’ he said, as she lowered herself onto the sofa. ‘It is good to see you again.’
Clara pointed towards the cigarette box.
‘May I?’
Liebermann came forward — performing a little leap — eager to be hospitable. He flicked open the box’s lid. Clara took a cigarette and allowed him to light it for her. She then looked meaningfully at the bottle.
‘Slivovitz?’ said Liebermann.
‘Please.’ He collected a second glass from the cabinet and poured his guest a generous measure. ‘Thank you. What were you playing? Chopin?’
‘One of the nocturnes. Do you still play?’
‘I stopped for a while but I’ve started again. The easy preludes and one or two of the mazurkas. Herr Donner thinks I’m making very good progress.’ She narrowed her eyes suddenly. ‘What were you doing in Hietzing?’
‘I was with Inspector Rheinhardt.’
Clara nodded and proceeded to talk about a concert that her piano teacher had recommended. When she paused, she drew on her cigarette and looked at Liebermann with searching intensity. He was reminded of how much she had changed. He found this more worldly, mature incarnation of Clara somewhat disconcerting. She spoke fluently and easily — as she always did — gliding from one subject to the next, but beneath her monologue ran an elusive undercurrent, another level of communication that resisted interpretation.
Liebermann was distracted by the brightness of her lips — and by the poppy-red stain that had appeared on her cigarette.
Even after their chance meeting, the likelihood of ever again seeing Clara in his apartment had seemed so very remote that he had not given the possibility any prior consideration. Mentally unprepared, he found himself struggling to accept the reality of her presence: a problem which was compounded by injudicious nervous drinking.
As Clara continued talking, the reason for her visit did not become any clearer. Liebermann was tempted to ask outright, What are you doing here? But he was far too polite. It even crossed his mind that he might excuse himself and read her letter, but Clara could see the bureau from where she was sitting and such a manoeuvre would almost certainly invite comment. Time passed, and their conversation remained in a curious state of unresolved suspension. The dialogue had circled through a number of topics, none of them very consequential, and had arrived back at the starting place: music.
‘Let’s play a duet!’ said Clara. Her words were slurred. Since she had not imbibed enough slivovitz to get inebriated in his company, Liebermann concluded that she must have been drinking prior to her arrival. The excessive use of perfume had perhaps been a ploy to disguise the smell of alcohol.
‘I don’t know …’ he responded warily.
‘Oh, come now, Max! It’ll be fun.’ Her exclamation was strained as she forced gaiety into each word.
‘I’m not even sure I have any duets.’
It was a weak lie. ‘At least take a look,’ Clara pleaded.
Liebermann found an edition of the Opus 39 Waltzes by Brahms and held it up. ‘Could you manage these?’
‘Yes, of course.’
They sat at the Bosendorfer and Liebermann set the tempo by counting aloud. Clara attempted a bar or two of the B major and then abruptly stopped playing. ‘No, not this one, something a little slower.’ She turned some pages. ‘Number three. Let’s play number three.’
The G sharp minor was short and poignant, typically Viennese in its blending of emotions, happiness and sadness brought together by the magic of a musical truce. The bitter-sweet melody, full of delicious regret, kept a wistful smile on Liebermann’s face until the final bars resolved all ambiguities in favour of undiluted melancholy. They played a few more of the slower waltzes, and Liebermann became acutely aware of the warmth of Clara’s body, the heat generated by their thighs touching. Her proximity, her heavy perfume, the slivovitz and the music were beginning to have an effect.
Liebermann listened to the whisper of Clara’s skirts as she changed position. She said nothing, but there was a tacit command in the protracted silence, a demand for attention. He turned slowly. Clara’s hai
r was slightly dishevelled and the gauze that covered her breasts was damp with perspiration.
‘Max …’
She said his name and brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers.
Liebermann remembered seeing Clara with her cavalry lieutenant outside the Imperial. He remembered the way the man had touched her and the proprietorial feelings the sight of their intimacy had aroused. He still found her very attractive. Clara tilted her chin, offering her parted lips. For a moment Liebermann experienced a kind of metaphysical torture as his emotional instincts were pulled in opposite directions. Then, quite suddenly, something snapped in his mind and he found himself clumsily rising from the stool.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Liebermann, not quite sure how he should behave. ‘I think we should stop there.’ He moved to the table and automatically filled his glass. ‘Would you like another?’
Clara shook her head.
‘Oh, Max. Please don’t go through some silly act, pretending that nothing’s happened. What are you trying to do? Spare my feelings?’
‘I can’t …’ he said, vainly hoping that another swig of slivovitz might help.
Clara crossed the floor and stood in front of him. ‘I know you want to. We were stupid … we denied ourselves for no good reason.’
‘I can’t,’ he repeated again. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’
There was something in his tone that gave away more than he had intended.
‘My God — you’re not … you’re not involved with someone, are you?’ Liebermann did not deny it, but the hesitation was enough. Clara made a gesture in the air, a kind of pushing away. ‘I know where my coat is,’ she added with unnatural self-control.
When she got to the door Liebermann called out: ‘Clara … I’m sorry.’
She repeated the same distancing hand gesture and said, ‘Mazel tov.’ He couldn’t tell what she meant by this. Her voice was still neutral.
On the landing outside his apartment Liebermann leaned over the hand rail and watched her running down the the stairs. Her blue skirt flickered in the gaslight and suddenly vanished.
Liebermann leaned back against the landing wall and, addressing the ceiling, said: ‘That went well …’
43
‘Frau Kluge?’
‘Yes?’
‘Inspector Rheinhardt.’
‘Oh yes, do come in.’ She was a frail woman in her seventies, with wild hair and half-moon spectacles that sat behind the terminal bulb of an elongated nose. ‘Did you catch the train?’
‘No.’
‘Very wise. They built the Hofpavillion for the emperor — but he never uses it. There must be a reason, eh?’
‘Possibly.’
‘One can never be too careful.’
Rheinhardt wondered whether Frau Kluge, as well as her husband, might not have benefitted from Professor Saminsky’s help. The old woman showed him into a book-lined room which was redolent with the stale odours of decrepitude, ammonia, mould and rotting leather. In the centre of the room sat a gentleman with a long white beard who was wearing a quilted jacket and a traditional Chinese hat. The silk dome was decorated with luminous dragons and chrysanthemums. He was reading intently.
‘Inspector Rheinhardt,’ said Frau Kluge, drawing her husband’s attention to their visitor. Kluge put his book aside and squinted at his guest.
‘Inspector Rheinhardt, you say?’
‘Yes,’ said Frau Kluge. ‘He wants to talk to you about Professor Saminsky.’
‘Does he?’
‘That’s what the note said.’
The old man rose by pushing down on the chair arms. He stood, rather shakily, for a second or two during which he excecuted a bow and declared himself to be ‘Herr Udalbert Kluge.’ He then fell back into the chair.
Rheinhardt clicked his heels.
‘Thank you so much for agreeing to see me, sir.’
Frau Kluge sat next to her husband and took his hand.
‘Udalbert has not been well.’
‘Indeed. I was informed of this by Professor Saminsky. Would you object to me sitting down?’
‘No.’
‘That is most generous.’
Rheinhardt found himself a stool and drew it up in front of the couple.
‘What is the nature of your illness, Herr Kluge?’
The old man grumbled. ‘They say that I observe things in the world that have no material reality.’
Frau Kluge stroked her husband’s sleeve. ‘Don’t fret, my dear.’
‘Good Christians believe in the existence of angels and demons — and no one says that they are mad.’
‘No one has said you are mad, my dear.’
‘But that is what they think: that is what Saminsky thinks.’
‘He says that you have weak nerves.’
‘I’ve had enough of his electrical therapy. It’s unpleasant. He said it would just tingle — but the rods are hot. They burn. And those pills of his, they make me all confused.’
Rheinhardt coughed to attract their attention.
‘I understand that Professor Saminsky came to see you on the evening of September the seventh.’ Kluge’s moist eyes were unresponsive. Rheinhardt turned to address the wife. ‘Is that correct, Frau Kluge? Your husband was very unwell and you called Professor Saminsky?’
‘The professor has had to come on several occasions,’ Frau Kluge answered. But I can’t remember exactly when. He came in August … and early September. It could have been the seventh.’
‘You keep no records?’
‘No.’
‘On those occasions when he came, can you remember what time Professor Saminksy arrived?’
‘It was quite late, I think.’
‘How is it that you can remember the time, but not the date?’
‘When Herr Kluge has a turn it is usually after dinner. We eat at half past eight.’
Herr Kluge raised a wrinkled finger: ‘The point is this, Inspector. We live in a Christian country.’ His voice had become querulous. ‘Belief in non-material entities is Church doctrine. Did not Jesus cast out demons, and did He not transfer them into the herd of Gadarene swine? One cannot question the word of God. Given the choice between Saminsky and God, who would you believe? The old man paused, bit his lip and added, ‘They say he’s Jewish.’
‘God?’ Rheinhardt replied. ‘He may very well be.’
44
Rheinhardt rang the doorbell. It was was answered by the maid, who looked even wearier than she had on the occasion of his first visit with Liebermann.
‘I would like to see Professor Saminsky.’
‘I’m afraid he is not in.’
‘Do you know when he’s expected back?’
‘I will have to ask the mistress.’
‘Frau Professor is at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then perhaps I could speak to her?’
Rheinhardt was shown into the drawing room where he was once again at liberty to contemplate the opulent decor and trappings of Saminsky’s success. His gaze lingered on the Ehrbar piano before it climbed to the family portrait — the professor, his dowdy wife and two daughters. Rheinhardt crossed to the window and looked out onto a lawn aggrandised with classical statuary. From the serpent that coiled around his hefty staff, Rheinhardt recognised Asclepius, the god of medicine and healing. The deity had so far favoured and protected the Saminsky household, but Greek gods were notoriously fickle.
The double doors opened and Frau Saminsky entered, followed by the maid.
‘Inspector Rheinhardt?’
‘Frau Professor.’
Rheinhardt was surprised to discover that Frau Saminsky had aged rather well. She had lost some weight and her appearance was no longer dowdy, quite the opposite. She wore a red and purple striped blouse with a yellow dress which was as vivid as dandelions — clashing colours that announced her arrival like a cymbal crash. The dull matronly expression of the portrait had been replaced by the wide professional smile of a woman a
ccustomed to hosting dinner parties.
‘I am so sorry, but my husband isn’t at home.’
‘Then perhaps you could help me?’
Frau Saminsky delivered a sympathetically modulated reply: ‘But I’m not sure that I can.’ Rheinhardt’s unyielding expression made her add, ‘Of course, I’ll try to help … Would you like some tea?’
‘No, thank you.’
Without making eye contact with the maid, Frau Saminsky raised a finger and made a flicking movement. It was all that was required to communicate the maid’s redundancy. A general sagging of the young woman’s body sufficed as a curtsey before she departed from the room.
‘Please sit down, Inspector.’
As Frau Saminsky lowered herself onto the seat she fanned out her dress. A glimmering in the fabric suggested that a metallic thread had been woven into the silk.
‘Where is Professor Saminsky?’
‘He cancelled his clinic.’
‘An emergency?’
‘Not a medical emergency — no — but, nevertheless, a matter of some importance. You are still investigating the death of Ida Rosenkrantz?’
‘Yes.’
‘So sad …’ said Frau Saminsky. ‘She was such delightful company.’
‘Did you know her?’
‘She came to dine with us on many occasions.’ Rheinhardt did not show his surprise. ‘Professor Saminsky thought it would be good for her. She had no family of her own. Not here in Vienna. I think her mother went to live in Italy.’
‘What was she like?’
‘The girls adored her.’ Frau Saminsky looked over at the family portrait. ‘They were devastated when they heard what had happened.’
‘Frau Professor? Your husband — where can I find him?’
Frau Saminsky straightened her back and raised her bosom. Adopting an attitude of haughty pretension she replied, ‘The palace.’ The effect she had worked so hard to achieve, however, was immediately ruined when her powdered face broke into a self-satisfied smile.
‘The palace,’ Rheinhardt repeated.