by Frank Tallis
Liebermann flicked some ash into the fire. ‘Obviously, when the mayor entered Rosenkrantz’s villa there were emotional scenes. But he used his famous powers of persuasion to calm her. Soon he was satisfied that the situation was under control and felt confident enough to leave. But Rosenkrantz was still deeply distressed. She felt alone, abandoned. She burned the mayor’s love letters and telephoned Saminsky. When Saminsky arrived she was probably beside herself. She told him that the mayor had recently departed and complained about her lot: she was sick of being the pretty plaything of older men. All she had ever wanted was their love, but all she had ever received were empty promises and shabby treatment. Her condition worried Saminsky. She was out of control. The last thing he wanted was a scandal.’
A burning piece of wood cracked and a shower of sparks illuminated the hearth. ‘Saminsky was doubly motivated,’ Liebermann continued. ‘He realised that in one fell swoop he might rid himself of Rosenkrantz and perform a great service to the crown. If the mayor was implicated as a suspect in a murder investigation, just before an election, it might bring about his downfall. The man responsible for accomplishing such a coup could expect the shadowy powers that operate in the Hofburg to show their gratitude with a generous dispersal of honours and rewards: a carriage with a coat of arms on the door, a Schloss overlooking the Danube.’ Liebermann threw his cigar stub into the flames. ‘Saminsky must have delivered a performance the likes of which we rarely see outside the court theatre. Yes, he had been weak. Yes, he had been a fool, an insensitive coward, and if only dearest Ida could find it in her heart to forgive him he would make amends. He would leave his wife — whom he had never really loved — and take Rosenkrantz away to a better place. The vulnerable singer succumbed to his kisses and caresses, his gentle ministrations, and finally complied when he suggested that she should take a little laudanum to calm her nerves and help her sleep. Only minutes later he encouraged her to take a few drops more … and then a few drops more.’
Liebermann rested his elbow on the mantelpiece and continued: ‘When Rosenkrantz lost consciousness, Saminsky set her down on the floor and sat on her chest. Her lungs could not expand and she quickly suffocated. Saminsky then bounced on her chest until he heard one of her ribs snap. I am not sure whether he placed Rosenkrantz’s body in the middle of the rug to arouse suspicion, or whether that was merely the result of his obsessiveness. He was fastidious in dress and was a collector. Individuals of this personality type have a distinct tendency to line up objects, often automatically and without thought. Whatever the case, he informed the lord marshal’s office of his actions and was probably praised for showing initiative. Rewards would follow.
‘When we first interviewed Saminsky, he misdirected us concerning his whereabouts on the night of the murder — claiming to have recently returned from Salzburg — and led us to believe that the mayor was responsible for Rosenkrantz’s pregnancy. He must have felt quite pleased with himself; however, when we reappeared, challenging the accuracy of his testimony and accusing him of unprofessional conduct, the experience understandably unnerved him. Saminsky was an opportunist, not a hardened criminal. He panicked and immediately went to the lord marshal for assistance. Unfortunately, Saminsky’s discomposure did not impress the lord marshal, who began to doubt whether the psychiatrist had the stomach to carry through the undertaking he had embarked upon. What would happen, he wondered, if Saminsky went to pieces during questioning? The consequences, so soon after the Crown Prince’s demise at Mayerling, were unthinkable. The lord marshal’s agents were dispatched, and the following day Saminsky was no longer a problem. The same, however, could not be said of Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt. Even though your superior gave you a clear indication that the Saminsky case was best left alone — you continued to investigate. You were put under surveillance, and the resulting intelligence was not good. Had you not dealt with the lord marshal’s agent so deftly, I very much doubt you would be sitting here now, drinking brandy and enjoying my excellent cigars.’
Liebermann crossed the floor and returned to his seat.
‘The commissioner was, of course, quick to endorse the most expedient account of Saminsky’s death.’ Liebermann’s voice became laboured: ‘Rosenkrantz had insisted that Saminsky leave his wife. She had started to issue threats. To avoid a scandal Saminsky killed her, taking care to make it look as if she had committed suicide. Unfortunately, he accidentally broke one of her ribs, thus drawing attention to his crime. When Saminsky realised we were catching up with him, he took his own life.’ Liebermann returned to his professorial mode of address. ‘Commissioner Brugel made sure that Saminsky’s file was in order, removing and presumably destroying the supplementary autopsy report by Professor Mathais. Within a few weeks, the palace had discovered evidence,’ Liebermann raised his eyebrows, ‘that Saminsky was an embezzler, giving the public reason to contemplate the effect that the prospect of imminent exposure might have had on a man who already had a murder on his conscience. The commissioner was rewarded for his cooperation with the Order of the Iron Cross, and you, my friend, have been offered promotion and future honours as a reward for demonstrating good judgement and discretion.’
Rheinhardt poured himself a brandy, threw his head back, and drank it down like a shot of schnapps.
‘God in heaven,’ he sighed. ‘What will become of us!’
Liebermann produced a sardonic smile. ‘I dare say we’ll carry on. There will be the usual festivities at Christmas, dances, and then more balls in the new year. We will give each other bunches of violets next March, and then there will be concerts and operas and the Corpus Christi Day procession.’
‘But it can’t go on for ever,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Not with so much corruption. Protektion is one thing, but this …’
‘I have always been sanguine about the future,’ said Liebermann. ‘But I am not so sure now.’
‘The mayor, the palace!’ Rheinhardt shook his head violently. ‘And if that wasn’t enough, now there’s Serbia to worry about.’
‘Serbia?’
‘The assassinations! My colleague Hohenwart thinks there will be a war.’
‘Oh, that’s impossible. Serbia isn’t important enough. A few skirmishes, perhaps.’
Rheinhardt shrugged his shoulders. ‘One might start over again, I suppose, but I can’t think where. Vienna is our home.’
Liebermann sipped his brandy and his expression lightened.
‘How about London?’
‘London? Why London?’
‘There’s a place to the north of the city called Highgate, which I understand is a little like Grinzing. The pastries, music and weather could be better, but still, the people are of a similar type. I always think of the English as polite Germans. Yes, London wouldn’t be so bad.’
64
The Town Hall rose up above the Christmas market in all its Gothic splendour and its soaring spires, patinated with early evening frost, sparkled beneath a crescent moon. Liebermann pulled Amelia closer to him, and when she turned her head he kissed her quickly on the lips. She was wearing a long green coat, embroidered with elevated black curlicues, and a hat, artfully worn so as to display waves of luxurious red hair.
They laughed at their own audacity.
There had been a Christmas market held in Vienna for over six hundred years, and the Viennese were old hands at transforming seasonal commerce into a fine art. The little park in front of the town hall was filled with people, the crowd constantly fed by an endless stream of humanity pouring in off the Ringstrasse. Above the stalls and traders, paper lanterns swung beneath the branches of tall trees, and the air was suffused with fragrances: roasted chestnuts, mulled wine, exotic spices, frankincense, chocolate, Arabian teas, sugared fruit, almonds, pumpernickel, scented soaps, cologne, mustard, and scorched sausages. The olfactory melee was overwhelming.
The couple passed by a vendor selling spirits from a miniature alpine cabin, its interior crammed with multicoloured bottles. Liebermann’
s gaze travelled across the alcoholic spectrum, slowing for a moment as it passed over the eldritch glow of the absinthes.
In a tiny enclosure, small children were riding ponies around a circular track.
Squeezing through the throng, they came upon a group of musicians playing Schrammelmusik. The small band, consisting of a zither player, accordionist and two violins, were giving a lively account of a popular drinking song. A group of noisy revellers had gathered around the musicians and were attempting the yodelling chorus, which required a dropped beat to be supplied by the collision of steins — a requirement that was causing much spillage and merriment.
‘Come,’ said Liebermann. ‘Let’s move on.’
Eventually they arrived at the arched entrance of the town hall, where an enormous Christmas tree had been erected. It was bedecked with ribbons and candles and exuded a fresh resiny smell. A small choir of six gentlemen — wrapped up in woollen scarves, red-cheeked, and with bright, fervid eyes — were standing next to the tree, fully exploiting a portamento which climbed to the very highest note of Stille Nacht.
‘Liebermann?’
The young doctor turned and almost reeled back when he discovered who had spoken his name.
‘Director Mahler.’
‘My dear fellow,’ said the director, smiling warmly and shaking Liebermann’s hand. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
Before Liebermann could reciprocate, the director was gesturing at the woman standing next to him. ‘Allow me to introduce my wife.’
Alma Mahler was reputed to be one of the most beautiful women in Vienna. Liebermann was rather surpised by her appearance. Although very pretty, she was not as striking as he had supposed. She had rather soft rounded features, and a winning if rather cautious smile. Groomed eyebrows traced delicate arcs above her large inquiring eyes, and, like Amelia, she too wore her hat at a precipitous angle to show off her hair to best advantage.
Alma raised her arm, allowing her gloved hand to fall at an angle from the wrist.
Liebermann bowed and brushed the fawn leather with his lips.
‘Frau Director.’ Then urging his companion to come forward, he said: ‘My fiancee, Miss Amelia Lydgate.’
Amelia inclined her head.
‘You are English?’ asked the director.
‘Yes.’
‘And where are you from, exactly?’
‘London.’
‘Ah, London,’ said the director. ‘I travelled there once to conduct a German season at Covent Garden. I learned a little of your language — not a great deal, I’m afraid — and gave your countrymen a second opportunity to hear Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen.’
‘Was it well received?’ asked Amelia.
‘Yes, the audiences were very enthusiastic. I left exhausted, but also convinced of a deep affinity between the English and German peoples.’ The director addressed his wife. ‘This is Herr Doctor Liebermann, my dear. Do you remember me mentioning him back in the autumn? The fellow who managed to get Schmedes back on stage when there was that awful business going on with the Hermann-Bundler: the one who helped to weed out Treffen.’
Alma’s face brightened with recognition.
‘Ah yes, the psychiatrist, of course. You are a man possessed of remarkable talents, Herr Doctor.’
Liebermann was embarrassed by the compliment and made a humorous self-deprecatory remark.
‘So,’ said the director. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Nowhere in particular,’ Liebermann replied. ‘We just came to see the market.’
‘Well, why don’t you join us? We were on our way to meet some friends at Cafe Landtmann.’
‘Yes, do join us,’ said the director’s wife, stepping forward and clutching Liebermann’s arm.
Liebermann looked to Amelia to see what she thought. She was nodding her head.
Extricating himself from Alma’s eager grip, he reached out and took Amelia’s hand.
‘Thank you, Herr Director. We would be delighted to join you.’
The two couples made their way down the wide boulevard that led to the Ringstrasse. As was often the case, Liebermann thought that he might be dreaming. He was going to the Cafe Landtmann, with Amelia Lydgate on his arm, in the company of Director Mahler and his wife.
Sometimes the city in which he lived seemed to be a place of boundless possibilities.
He glanced back at the town hall, and wondered if the newly re-elected demagogue was ensconced in the clock tower, gazing down from behind one of those many black windows on his domain.
There might be difficult times ahead …
But he wasn’t prepared to ruin the evening thinking about them now.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-155aff-91c0-c947-4786-e0af-bc2d-1c5349
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 03.05.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.24, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Frank Tallis
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