by Frank Tallis
When he had finished the cake, Rheinhardt asked to see the head waiter. The man who arrived was not unlike himself. A portly gentleman with a well-waxed moustache.
His name was Herr Heregger.
‘I trust the Dobostorte was to your satisfaction, sir?’
‘It was excellent. The consistency of the chocolate cream was particularly good.’
Rheinhardt showed the waiter his identification.
‘Security office?’ asked Herr Heregger, surprised.
‘Yes — please take a seat.’ The waiter lowered his large haunches onto a spindly chair, and Rheinhardt opened Bathild Babel’s address book. ‘I’m looking for a man called Griesser. He gave Cafe Museum as his address. Do you know him?’
‘Yes, I do. He’s a customer.’
‘How long has he been coming here?’
‘Actually, he’s only been a few times.’
‘Recently?’
‘Yes, last week and the week before. He told me that he’d just moved to Vienna and was living in temporary accommodation. He asked if it would be possible for us to collect his mail, as it was his intention to breakfast at Cafe Museum when he was settled. I said that I had no objection.’
‘Did any letters arrive?’
‘Just one.’
‘And did he collect it?’
‘On his second visit.’
‘And he’s had no more since?’
‘No.’
Rheinhardt offered Herr Heregger a cigar, but the man refused.
‘Did Herr Griesser tell you what his profession was?’
‘No.’
‘What do you think he did for a living?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Can you describe him to me?’
The head waiter scratched his chin.
‘Tallish. Black hair.’ His tone was cautious — as though he lacked confidence in the accuracy of his memory.
‘Eye colour?’ Rheinhardt prompted.
‘Oh, I can’t remember that, inspector.’
‘Age?’
‘Quite young.’
‘What? Early twenties? Mid-twenties?’
‘Yes. Mid- to late twenties, I should think.’
‘Educated?’
‘He spoke well.’
‘Anything else you remember?’ The head waiter looked across the floor towards the two billiard tables. His vacant expression changed suddenly, a glimmer of light appearing in his eyes. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, now that you mention it …’
‘What?’
‘I can remember something else about him.’ Heregger smiled and a second chin appeared beneath the first. ‘His smell.’
‘His cologne?’
‘No. It was something else. A sweet, tarry smell. Like carbolic.’
22
Liebermann looked at his supine patient. For once, though, Erstweiler was not agitated. Liebermann made no assumptions about his mental state. Sometimes the apparent calm of anxious patients was actually exhaustion, and as soon as they had recovered their strength the agitation returned.
After a prolonged silence, Liebermann inquired: ‘Did you sleep well?’
Erstweiler rolled his head from side to side.
‘No. I woke up several times … one of the other patients on the ward became distressed. He was shouting something about the Hungarians coming. I managed to get to sleep after he was removed, but woke again from a bad dream.’
‘Oh?’
‘I say bad, but that’s only how it felt at the time. Now that I think about it, the dream was really rather silly.’
‘Were you frightened by the dream?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was it about?’
Erstweiler sighed.
‘When I was very young, my parents had an English friend, Frau Middleton, who used to tell my brother and me fairy stories. Some of them were already familiar to us, but others were unfamiliar. I suppose these latter stories must have been of English origin. One of them concerned a boy without any money and some magic beans — have you come across it?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Well, the dream I had was very much like this English fairy story — except I was the boy. The dream was quite confused, though, especially the beginning.’
Liebermann remained silent, hoping that this would be sufficient to make Erstweiler continue. The strategy was unsuccessful. Erstweiler reverted to his earlier concern. ‘What was wrong with that patient? The one who was taken off the ward? What did he mean by “the Hungarians are coming”?’
‘Your dream, Herr Erstweiler? What happened in your dream?’ Liebermann urged.
Erstweiler rotated his hand in the air for a few moments and then let it drop onto his chest.
‘There were trams and large buildings and a man with a cow, who I spoke to — he might have sold me the beans — and suddenly I was the boy in the story and the beans had grown into a huge beanstalk which rose up into the sky. I climbed the beanstalk and found myself on a cloud, and on the cloud was a huge castle. I entered the castle but was frightened by the sound of an ogre, stomping around and crying out that he could smell the blood of an intruder — my blood. In one of the rooms I discovered mountains of treasure and a goose laying golden eggs. Not eggs the colour of gold, you understand, but eggs made from gold. I picked the goose up and ran from the castle, pursued by the ogre. I slid down the beanstalk and the ogre followed, but he wasn’t as quick as me. When I got to the bottom I chopped the beanstalk down with an axe-’ Erstweiler suddenly broke off, his forehead glistening with perspiration.
‘Yes?’ Liebermann prompted.
‘And the ogre tumbled to the ground.’
‘Did he die?’
‘Yes, he …’ Erstweiler paused before completing his sentence with a stutter ‘… d-d-died.’
‘You escaped, then,’ said Liebermann. ‘And with the goose.’
Erstweiler showed no signs of relief.
‘Herr doctor, why are we talking about a ridiculous childish dream? Surely there are more important things to discuss. I had hoped you would be applying yourself to the task of convincing me that the appearance of my doppelganger was nothing more than a hallucination. At least then I might allow myself a glimmer of hope, the prospect of peace.’
‘The two may be connected — the dream and the hallucination.’
‘Impossible!’ Erstweiler cried.
The anger invested in this explosive denial was sufficient to convince Liebermann that he was correct. After an extended hiatus Liebermann said: ‘I went to see Herr Polster, at The Chimney Sweep.’
‘Did you?’
Erstweiler twisted awkwardly on the rest bed in order to make eye contact with Liebermann.
‘Yes,’ said the young doctor. ‘He remembered the conversation you referred to. But he didn’t think he had spoken to your doppelganger. He was confident that he had spoken to you.’
‘That’s hardly surprising, is it?’ said Erstweiler, sighing. ‘What did you think he would say?’
23
Rheinhardt was shown into the accountant’s office by a middle-aged woman wearing a high-collared blouse.
‘Herr Frece,’ she said: ‘Inspector Rheinhardt to see you.’
‘Ah, thank you, Anselma,’ said the accountant. He was balding, red-faced, and possessed a large stomach that pressed against his waistcoat. ‘Please, do sit down, inspector.’ Rheinhardt caught sight of a framed photograph on Frece’s desk, showing a matronly woman and two children. ‘Would you like some tea?’ Rheinhardt shook his head. ‘That will be all, Anselma.’ When the secretary had gone, Frece smiled and added: ‘How can I be of assistance?’
‘Herr Frece, I understand that you are acquainted with a young lady called Bathild Babel. Is that correct?’
Frece pursed his lips.
‘Fraulein Babel … Fraulein Babel …’ He muttered. ‘No. I’m afraid that name isn’t familiar to me.’
Rheinhardt sighed.
�
�You are mentioned in her address book.’
‘Bathild?’ said Frece, cupping his ear and feigning deafness. ‘Did you say Bathild Babel?’ He stressed the syllables of ‘Bathild’ in a peculiar way.
‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Bathild Babel.’
The accountant shifted in his chair.
‘Yes, yes … I do know someone of that name. I’m sorry, my hearing isn’t very good.’
‘And what is the nature of your relationship?’
‘She is a client.’
‘I see. Could I see her documents, please?’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible …’
‘Why not?’
‘Because …’ Frece searched the ceiling for a convincing answer, but the cornicing failed to supply one.
‘Herr Frece,’ said Rheinhardt firmly. ‘If you continue to be uncooperative, I am afraid we will have to continue this interview at the Schottenring station.’
‘Please — no,’ said the accountant. ‘I’m sorry. That won’t be necessary.’ He opened a cigarette box with trembling fingers and struck a match. After lighting the cigarette, he drew on its gold filter. His exhalation dissipated the cloud of smoke that hung in front of his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, inspector … a man in my position. It was a mistake … I never should have …’ His voice trailed off.
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘With respect, inspector, why should my peccadilloes be of interest to the police? I don’t understand.’
Rheinhardt glared at the accountant.
‘Where did you meet her?’ he repeated.
‘In Frau Schuschnig’s hat shop, behind the Town Hall. I was buying a hat for my wife. Bathild was very forward.’ Rheinhardt listened as Frece spoke of his illicit meetings with Bathild Babel, in private dining rooms and cheap hotels. At its conclusion, Frece pleaded: ‘Inspector, if my wife were to find out she would be mortified. She hasn’t any idea. My marriage would be over.’ The accountant reached out and turned the family photograph towards Rheinhardt. ‘I have two children. Richarda and Friedo. I beg you to be discreet — if not for my sake, then for theirs.’
Rheinhardt chewed the end of his pencil.
‘Did she ever speak of her other …’ Rheinhardt thought clients was too strong a word and chose a less offensive substitute ‘… admirers?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Her other gentleman friends,’ said Rheinhardt.
The accountant looked indignant.
‘I was her only …’ Frece was unable to finish his sentence, given Rheinhardt’s world-weary expression. He might as well have said out loud: You can’t possibly be that naive! Frece’s shoulders fell. ‘No,’ the accountant continued. ‘She didn’t mention anyone else.’
Rheinhardt made a few notes and when he looked up again Frece was staring into space.
‘What is it?’ Rheinhardt asked.
‘I remember, I went to the hat shop a few weeks ago, and Bathild was talking to a man. They seemed very familiar. After he had left, I asked her who he was. She was evasive and tried to make a joke of her flirtation. She said she flirted with all the men who came into the shop — it was good for business, according to Frau Schuschnig.’ Frece scratched his nose. ‘He was educated and wearing an expensive frock coat.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Quite tall — dark hair.’
‘How old?’
‘Twenty-nine, thirty — perhaps.’
‘What colour were his eyes?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Think, Herr Frece. What colour were his eyes?’
‘Blue … or grey … I can’t be sure. A light colour anyway. He was buying a hat pin. And he smelt rather strange. A sort of hospital smell.’
‘Could he have been a doctor?’
‘Possibly.’ Frece observed the tightening of Rheinhardt’s facial muscles, the sudden intensifying of his expression. ‘Inspector, why are you asking me all of these questions?’
‘She’s dead,’ said Rheinhardt bluntly. ‘Murdered — on Saturday.’
The accountant said something inaudible, and the colour drained from his ruddy cheeks. His hands shook so much that when he tried to light a second cigarette Rheinhardt was obliged to give him some assistance.
24
Professor Freud tapped the ash from his cigar and consulted the pages of a manuscript. The writing was his own: regular and leaning forward, showing, perhaps, a certain impatience to proceed, ideas arriving more swiftly than his hand could comfortably transcribe. He opened his mouth, releasing a cloud of smoke that tarried in the air before losing definition in the already opaque atmosphere.
They had been discussing the professor’s unpublished and unfinished work on sexuality, and Liebermann had — by means of subtle questioning — moved the conversation from more general considerations to the specific problem of deviance.
‘The sexual instinct is, I believe, infinitely pliable with respect to its aims,’ said Freud. ‘Indeed, I am of the belief that all human beings are born with what might be described as a polymorphously perverse disposition: that is to say, a disposition that can be diverted into all possible kinds of sexual irregularity.’ He was in full spate, glancing down at the text to remind himself of his conclusions. ‘If one defines healthy sexual behaviour as that which is necessary for human reproduction, namely, heterosexual congress, it follows that all other forms of arousal-seeking behaviour are surplus, and therefore, in a literal sense, perverse. Their introduction into marital relations does little to further the primary reproductive purpose of the union between man and woman. Yet …’ Freud sucked on his cigar. ‘The human sexual instinct is so plastic that we find evidence of its Protean character everywhere — even in the most ordinary couplings. Take, for example, fetishism. The point of contact with the normal is provided by the psychologically essential overvaluation of the sexual object, which invariably extends to everything that is associated with it. A certain degree of fetishism is thus usually present in normal love, especially in those stages of it in which the normal sexual aim seems unattainable or its fulfilment prevented. May I remind you of Goethe’s Faust, Part One, Scene Seven.’ He looked at Liebermann expectantly.
The young doctor shook his head, indicating that he could not recall so precise a reference.
‘Get me a kerchief from her breast,’ Freud intoned. ‘A garter that her knee has pressed.’
The professor nodded, impressed by his own apposite example.
‘When, then,’ asked Liebermann, ‘does the situation become pathological?’
‘When the longing for the fetish passes beyond the point of being merely a necessary condition attached to the sexual object and actually takes the place of the normal aim, and, further, when the fetish becomes detached from a particular individual and becomes the sole sexual object.’
‘Do you believe the polymorphous disposition has limits? Or do you believe that anything can become sexually arousing?’
‘If you harbour any doubts,’ said Freud, pushing the cigar box towards his guest, ‘then you need look no further than the pages of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis.’ Freud stubbed out his own cigar, lit Liebermanns, and then took another for himself. ‘Moreover,’ he continued, touching the end of his cigar to the flame and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I am not so sure that Krafft-Ebing’s cases — however disturbing — exhibit behaviours that are qualitatively different from those which might be observed also in the bedroom of a respectable household.’ Freud glanced again at his manuscript: ‘The most common and the most significant of all perversions — the desire to inflict pain upon the sexual object and its reverse — received from Krafft-Ebing the names sadism and masochism. As regards to sadism, the roots are easy to detect in the normal. The sexuality of most male human beings contains an element of aggressiveness — a desire to subjugate; the biological significance of it seems to lie in the need for overcoming the resistance of the sexual object by mean
s other than the process of wooing. Thus, sadism would correspond to an aggressive component of the sexual instinct which has become independent and exaggerated and, by displacement, has usurped the leading position.’
‘What you suggest implies that — given the right constellation of influences — any of us might have become one of Krafft-Ebing’s monsters.’
‘Indeed.’ Freud toyed with one of the statuettes that stood next to the cigar box — a vulture with a worn, featureless head, perched on a pedestal. ‘Binet was the first to maintain that the choice of a fetish is an after-effect of some sexual impression, received as a rule in early childhood …’ He spoke these words dreamily, and Liebermann sensed they were more like a private afterthought than a conclusion. The tone of Freud’s voice conveyed two rather contradictory meanings. On the one hand, he seemed glad that he was not the only person to entertain such ideas, but on the other, he appeared slightly resentful of the fact that he must concede intellectual priority to another theorist.
A silence prevailed, during which time the smoke haze intensified to such an extent that everything in the room acquired the flat colour-tones of a sepia photograph.
Liebermann had learned enough to give him confidence in his speculative diagnosis of thanatophilia. Freud’s new ideas on deviance seemed to legitimise all possibilities. With respect to the erotic instinct, anything was possible. Wishing to make the most of his time with the great man, Liebermann resolved to test his views on another topic.
‘I have an interesting patient,’ the young doctor ventured, changing position to disturb Freud’s reverie.
The professor looked up: ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I have an interesting patient,’ Liebermann repeated. ‘At the hospital: a gentleman who thinks he’s seen his doppelganger — and now must die.’