by Frank Tallis
This repeated exhortation created an insistent beat which he willed his legs to keep time with. It was like self-hypnosis. Liebermann became less aware of his surroundings and the world shrank, becoming nothing but the rhythm of his running, the pain in his gut, and Sprenger’s receding shirtsleeves.
They spilled out onto the busy thoroughfare of Franz-Josefs-Kai: people, carriages — the general hubbub of the Ring — the sound of a barrel organ and the smell of sausages on a brazier. Across the canal Liebermann could see the public baths. He persevered, pushing himself to the limits of endurance. Sprenger was eclipsed by some pedestrians and then appeared again, running in the road with the traffic. Liebermann’s spirits plummeted when he saw Sprenger getting on a tram. A bell sounded over the din, and Liebermann watched in despair as the vehicle moved away. He clenched his fist and shook it at the sky. Then he noticed something that made him start. There was a tram parked next to him, an ‘L’. Liebermann looked at Sprenger’s tram — also an ‘L’. He jumped on board and addressed the driver: ‘My name is Liebermann. I am an honorary agent of the security office. There is a dangerous and wanted man travelling on the tram ahead and by the authority invested in me by His Majesty the Emperor I command you to follow it.’
The driver was not convinced of Liebermann’s authenticity and, having previously observed him venting his frustration and anger at the clouds, said flatly: ‘Are you mad?’
‘Quite the contrary — I’m a psychiatrist.’ Liebermann removed one of his visiting cards from his coat pocket and flashed it in the driver’s face. ‘There! You see? Doctor Max Liebermann. Now, if you do not proceed this instant you must expect to find yourself before a magistrate tomorrow, explaining why you chose to obstruct the course of justice!’
Liebermann’s florid (and disingenuous) threat had the desired effect. The anxious-looking man rang the bell and the tram rolled forward.
‘Thank you,’ said Liebermann. There were now at least three carriages between Sprenger’s tram and his own. ‘Can’t you go any faster?’
‘I can, but-’
‘Then do it!’
The tram shuddered and began to accelerate. Liebermann glanced at the seated passengers, who were watching him with wide eyes and amazed expressions. He bowed — not wishing to seem discourteous as well as insane — and returned his attention to the road. Once again the driver rang the bell. The carriages dispersed and they gathered momentum.
‘Excellent!’
Liebermann felt someone tapping his shoulder.
He turned to discover the conductor, his right arm stretched out and his palm open.
‘Your fare, sir?’
Liebermann looked into the man’s dead eyes and saw the end of Austria-Hungary. An empire that produced so many bureaucrats and petty officials would never survive the new century. Here was a man who had been instructed to take fares and that was what he intended to do, whatever the circumstance. Liebermann sensed all the others behind him, a great army of automata with grand titles and flamboyant uniforms, operating in every stratum of society — and was too exhausted to argue. He gave the conductor a coin and accepted his ticket.
Sprenger’s tram turned off Franz-Josefs-Kai and began its transit across the Danube canal. Liebermann grabbed a support to stop himself from falling as they careered around the same section of track. Through the window Liebermann noticed a steamboat, eructating smoke from a long funnel and tugging two barges. It was heading east, churning the grey-green water and leaving a frothy trail. The slow, almost imperceptible, passage of the flotilla was oddly calming.
On the other side of the bridge Sprenger’s tram came to a halt. As the people waiting at the stop converged around the open platforms, Liebermann caught sight of Sprenger’s shirtsleeves in the throng. The undertaker made no attempt to run and was threading his way in an unhurried manner through the crowd.
Liebermann jumped off before his tram stopped and walked briskly around the press of bodies. He emerged on the other side to see Sprenger no more than ten metres away. Unfortunately, it was also at that precise moment that Sprenger chose to check if he was being followed. On recognising Liebermann, the undertaker immediately took off again.
The brief respite on the tram had done Liebermann a great deal of good. He had recovered his breath and the pain in his stomach was no longer quite so distracting. Indeed, he seemed to be catching up with Sprenger.
The undertaker disappeared around a corner and Liebermann followed, skidding on the pavement which was slippery with squashed fruit. A number of barrows were parked at the kerb and costermongers were shouting the prices of apples and apricots. Just ahead, some Hassidic Jews were descending the steps of a synagogue.
Liebermann shouted: ‘Stop that man!’
The Hassidim froze but did nothing.
‘Stop him!’ Liebermann tried again. None of them were prepared to stand in the undertaker’s way.
Sprenger dashed past the synagogue and entered one of the buildings on the same side of the road. Liebermann was so close by now that he could almost touch him. Inside was an empty, lightless vestibule, with a broad staircase curving upwards. Liebermann chased Sprenger up the stairs, across a landing, and down a hallway. At the end of the hallway Sprenger tried one of the doors, violently shaking the handle. It was locked. Behind him was a window. There was no escape. He stood, his hands by his side, looking at Liebermann.
The sound of their breathing was loud and ragged. Liebermann drew the back of his hand across his forehead to wipe off the perspiration. He considered shouting for help but knew that he couldn’t count on anybody’s assistance. The tenants would probably be as reluctant to get involved as the Hassidim had been. Liebermann was aware of voices but they did not seem to be coming from anywhere inside the building, which was eerily quiet.
‘You must come with me to the Grosse Sperlgasse police station,’ said Liebermann.
Sprenger shook his head.
‘I don’t think so, Herr doctor.’ His blue eyes caught the soft light and flashed brightly. ‘You’re not armed — are you?’ Liebermann did not answer. ‘No. It was the inspector who had the gun.’
‘You can’t get away, Herr Sprenger.’
‘Perhaps not …’
A faint smile.
‘If you accompany me to Grosse Sperlgasse …’
‘Spare me!’ The smile vanished. ‘Spare me the horse-trading and the empty bargaining! I will hang, Herr doctor. Whether I am docile and come with you like a lamb — or whether I skin you alive with my penknife.’
Liebermann was not confident that he could better Sprenger if he was forced to defend himself. His courage deserted him: his racing heart felt swollen in his chest, his mouth, dry.
‘I was right — wasn’t I?’ His voice sounded thin. ‘Death is significant to you.’
‘Death is significant to everyone, Herr doctor. You should appreciate that more than most, by virtue of your profession. Death cures all diseases!’
‘No. I mean personally significant.’ Sprenger’s gaze was steady. ‘Death excites you?’
The undertaker tilted his head and, ignoring Liebermann’s question, asked one of his own.
‘What did you see in my mouth?’
‘A possible defence.’
‘What?’
‘A legal defence. Something that might save you from the gallows: you must have noticed it yourself?’
‘Speak plainly, Herr doctor.’
‘The bluish line that runs along your gums. It is a sign.’
‘Of what?’
‘Lead poisoning. You dye your hair with lead oxide — it has damaged your brain. You are not responsible for your actions. A judge would have to take such evidence into consideration before passing sentence.’
Sprenger laughed.
‘I can assure you that I am completely responsible for my actions. I know exactly what I have done.’
‘You may think that, Herr Sprenger.’
‘I believe I have made my position
quite clear with respect to bargains.’
‘Then you will hang.’
‘Perhaps …’ Sprenger took a step forward. Liebermann’s muscles tensed. ‘I would rather face an executioner than spend the rest of my life in a prison cell or — even worse — an asylum for the criminally insane.’
Sprenger took another step.
‘Stay where you are.’
‘Are you frightened of me, Herr doctor?’
Liebermann considered his response carefully.
‘Yes. I am frightened of you.’
Sprenger sighed.
‘“Night is the other half of life, and the better half.”’ It was a quotation from Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship.
‘Are you fond of Goethe?’ Liebermann asked. The question sounded weak — a transparent attempt to engage Sprenger and stall his advance.
The undertaker did not reply. His eyes were fixed on Liebermann. His expression was intense and focused.
Voices — laughter — the sound of cutlery.
Where is it coming from?
Sprenger came forward again. Liebermann raised his hands and took a step backwards.
‘Herr Sprenger. I really must insist that you stay where you are.’
‘“Night is the other half of life, and the better half,”’ Sprenger repeated. His voice was a whisper. Liebermann saw the undertaker’s lips moving, but he produced no sound. He was repeating the sentence to himself, again and again.
Suddenly, Sprenger turned on his heels — and ran for the window.
Liebermann cried out: ‘No!’
Sprenger’s body shattered the glass and dropped from view. When the tinkling had subsided, there was a piercing scream. Liebermann rushed down the hallway. Immediately below the window, hanging from the exterior of the building, was a striped awning. A man dressed in a white shirt and black tails — a waiter — was kneeling beside Sprenger’s body.
Liebermann hurried down the stairs and out into the street. He sprinted towards the coffee house. The people who had been sitting at the tables outside were standing up and looking at Sprenger, aghast. A woman with a large floral hat was sobbing against the shoulder of a male companion.
‘I’m a doctor,’ said Liebermann, dropping to his knees and clutching Sprenger’s wrist. At first he thought he was imagining it, the sluggish, feeble beat. But it was definitely there. Sprenger had survived the fall.
49
Rheinhardt was sitting in Liebermann’s office at the General Hospital feeling tired and extremely hungry. He took the Luger pistol from his pocket and studied its construction: the long barrel, the crescent trigger and elegant handgrip.
A perfect example of the gun manufacturer’s craft.
Yet even with such a finely balanced weapon he had missed Sprenger — twice.
Rheinhardt did not feel shame when he reflected on his inadequate marksmanship but rather a sense of relief, for he knew that if he had hit his mark he would — at that moment — be feeling quite different. He would not be looking forward to his bed, the warmth of his wife’s body, and a swift descent into untroubled, restorative sleep. Instead, he would be contemplating the night ahead with trepidation: a long night, sitting in the darkness, smoking and ruminating — wrestling with his conscience. Liebermann often spoke of unconscious motivation. Had some hidden part of his mind interfered with his aim? He was too weary to tackle such an esoteric question. His stomach was gurgling and for Rheinhardt hunger precluded thought. The feeling of emptiness, the nagging hollow at the very centre of his being, was too distracting. He put the Luger back into his pocket and wondered if he would be able to get to Cafe Eiles before it closed.
Rheinhardt opened one of Liebermann’s drawers and examined the contents: a formulary, a pen and a stethoscope.
But no biscuits …
The door opened and Liebermann entered.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Looking for something to eat.’
‘Well, you won’t find anything in there. This may come as a surprise to you, Oskar, but not everyone keeps a store of Linzer biscotten among their work things.’
Rheinhardt closed the drawer and leaned back in his chair.
‘Well?’
‘His condition is stable.’
‘Will he live?’
‘Professor Bieler is very optimistic.’
‘I suppose that qualifies as good news.’ Rheinhardt folded his arms across his stomach. ‘The people of Vienna would have felt cheated if Sprenger had succeeded in his bid to evade justice.’
‘They might still be denied.’
‘You are thinking of the lead oxide …’
‘It is something the court must consider.’
‘Surely, Max, you cannot believe that Sprenger was driven to perform his atrocities by his hair dye! Not every individual unfortunate enough to suffer from lead poisoning then takes it upon himself to kill for sexual gratification!’
‘The brain is complex — and poisons may have effects that vary from individual to individual. It is not inconceivable.’
‘Are there any other cases similar to Sprenger’s that you know of?’
‘No. However, there are some historians who have posited a theory that the Roman Empire fell not because of the incursion of the barbarian hordes but because of a generalised insanity resulting from the widespread use of lead pipes and kitchenware. I suspect that the foundations of Sprenger’s thanatophilia were laid in his childhood and that the lead poisoning exacerbated his existing psychopathology.If so, then the poisoning might represent a mitigating factor. I would be more than happy to prepare a medical report.’
Rheinhardt narrowed his eyes.
‘I think you’re pleased to have him here.’
‘I wouldn’t say pleased, exactly.’
‘What, then? You are not displeased.’
‘I am grateful that I have been afforded an opportunity to satisfy my professional curiosity.’
‘Psychiatrists,’ said Rheinhardt, shaking his head. ‘At what point do you baulk at the study of perversity and madness? Do you never think that some things are so dreadful — so appalling — that they should simply be left alone?’
‘It is always better to understand than not.’
The inspector had heard Liebermann’s pithy dictum many times before.
‘Are you so sure?’ Rheinhardt looked troubled. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether some minds are so deranged that nothing useful can come out of their study. Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis has sold in thousands of copies and because it is a scientific work respectable gentlemen read it without scruple. Yet do they really read those cases — page after page of horror, sickness, and moral degeneracy — to improve their understanding of mental illness? I think not. They read the Psychopathia Sexualis because it is sensational and it arouses in them a dubious prurient excitement.’
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Rheinhardt ventured an appeasing smile. He realised that he might have gone too far.
‘I’m sorry, Max: I am tired and hungry. You are a peculiar breed — you psychiatrists — but invaluable, nevertheless.’ Liebermann inclined his head.
‘What do you want to do about Erstweiler?’
The sentence was delivered with a certain frosty reserve.
‘Good heavens! Erstweiler! Our trip out to Simmering feels like ancient history!’
‘I’ll be seeing him again tomorrow morning. Perhaps you should be here.’
‘Ten-thirty? Would that be convenient?’
‘It would indeed.’
Rheinhardt stood up and slapped a heavy hand on Liebermann’s shoulder.
‘Well done, Max. You’re a courageous fellow.’ The young doctor shrugged. ‘Could I interest you in a late dinner at Cafe Eiles?’
Liebermann returned Rheinhardt’s smile.
‘I was about to suggest something very similar myself.’
50
Kristina was sitting at her dressing table, inspecting her
face in the mirror. A thin line had appeared which she had never noticed before, a hairline crack curving around her mouth. When her expression was neutral the mark was insignificant, as subtle as the craquelure in varnish. Indeed, she had to tilt her head in the light to see it. But if she smiled the line deepened.
Perhaps she had been laughing too much lately? Perhaps this was the cost of happiness? When she was younger, there had been very little to laugh about and her skin had been taut and smooth. She had been wrong — and more than a little naive — to assume that success and contentment would come without complications.
The house was silent. Her husband Heinz had not yet returned. The old general was dying, and the good doctor was doing all that he could to make the war hero’s last hours as comfortable as possible. Heinz was a good man. She did not like keeping things from him, but in this particular instance there really was no alternative.
I’ll do it now, she thought. Get it over with.
Kristina rose from her dressing table and crossed to the wall on which Czeschka’s Ashputtel lithographs were hanging.
Her mind went back to the day when the detective from the security office had come to question her. She remembered the young doctor who had accompanied him. What was it he had said? Something about the lithographs being very fitting, given her occupation. He had made her quite anxious by standing so close.
Kristina followed the wall, pausing to consider each tableau. It was like participating in the fairy-tale equivalent of the Via Crucis: the stepsisters, Ashputtel by the wishing tree, the handsome Prince. The final lithograph was a portrait of Ashputtel with a white dove perched on her shoulder. An inscription below the image read ‘For she is the true one’. Kristina pulled the bottom of the frame away from the wall and caught two sheets of paper as they fell from their place of concealment.
The first was a drawing of a naked girl lying on a divan. Her legs were parted, exposing her sex. She was wearing black stockings which were too large and had slipped down her skinny thighs. The collapsed silk had been executed with exquisite precision. A small but distinctive oval mole below the girl’s belly button had not escaped the artist’s meticulous eye.