Vienna Blood lp-2

by Frank Tallis

  His muse was heartless, but he had a duty to obey her.

  Whatever was demanded, he must find the strength.

  42

  “I WOULD LIKE TO see Inspector Rheinhardt,” said Amelia Lydgate.

  “Is he expecting you?” asked the duty officer.

  Amelia handed him the letter. It read: Dear Miss Lydgate, Because of the intemperate weather our technical staff at the Schottenring laboratory have been laid low with various forms of winter infirmity. It was subsequently suggested by our mutual friend Herr Doctor Liebermann that you might be invited-once again-to assist us with our work. I understand that your academic commitments are considerable, and I therefore respect your proper right to refuse us. However, if, dear lady, you are disposed to make us the gift of yet one more hour of your valuable time, the Viennese security office will be most grateful. With kindest regards, Sincerely, Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt

  The officer smiled at Amelia and escorted her to the laboratory, where she found Rheinhardt and Liebermann waiting.

  The two men bowed as she entered.

  “Inspector Rheinhardt, Doctor Liebermann.”

  She looked at each man in turn as she said their names: her detached delivery made the greeting sound more like an act of identification.

  “Miss Lydgate,” said Rheinhardt, “thank you so much for coming.” “It is my pleasure, Inspector,” said the Englishwoman. Then, obviating any opportunities for small talk, she added, “How can I assist?”

  “Indeed!” said Rheinhardt, as if some unreasonable third party had been attempting to stop them. “On Friday evening there was a murder in the fourth district. A gentleman of African origin, in the employ of an archaeologist of some renown-Professor Hayek. Outside the house we found this scarf.” The inspector picked up a paper bag, removed the seal, and showed Miss Lydgate the contents. “It is one of a batch sold at a gentlemen's outfitters situated just behind the Opera House. The shop assistants have been unable to help us with our inquiries. Many scarves have been purchased since the cold spell began and they simply cannot remember anything useful concerning specific customers. Now, it may be that this item of clothing was lost by someone who had nothing at all to do with the murder. However, if it did belong to the villain, then a microscopic analysis might yield some clues to his identity.”

  “You have established that it does not belong to the professor.” “We have indeed.” Then, changing the tone of his voice, Rheinhardt added, “The only member of our technical staff to have been spared a debilitating cold seems to be your old acquaintance in the cage over there.” Rheinhardt gestured toward the brown rabbit, whose twitching nose was pressed between the bars. Rheinhardt had expected the Englishwoman to show some small sign of pleasure but she merely glanced at the animal, nodded curtly (as if to suggest that things were in order), and returned her attention to Rheinhardt. The inspector felt somewhat foolish, coughed into his hand, and continued, “We at the security office have benefited from your forensic skills in the past. Would you be prepared to undertake a microscopic examination of our evidence and write a short report?”

  Without hesitation the Englishwoman responded, “With pleasure, Inspector.”

  She turned to hang her hat on the stand and began to shrug off her coat. Liebermann stepped forward to assist.

  “Thank you, Doctor Liebermann.”

  Leaning closer, Liebermann said in a somewhat confidential tone, “Are you well, Miss Lydgate?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  Their hands touched as her arm came out of the sleeve.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Liebermann. But she didn't seem to have noticed and threw him a fleeting, puzzled look. Before he could respond, she was walking toward the very large microscope that occupied one of the benches. She examined the equipment at her disposal and then turned toward Rheinhardt.

  “Inspector,” she said, addressing him. “Would you be so kind as to seal the bag?” He did as he was told. “Now shake the bag and beat the sides.”

  Rheinhardt gave the bag a vigorous shake, his jowls wobbling with the effort. He then struck the side of the bag several times with his open palm.

  “No,” said Amelia. “That is not sufficient. I would like you to continue beating the bag for some time-and with greater violence.”

  Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows. “How much violence, exactly?”

  “Considerable violence.”

  “As you wish,” said Rheinhardt. He drew his big hand back and repeatedly slapped the bag. The noise was loud and precluded conversation. While Rheinhardt was thus occupied, Amelia washed her hands and began to lay out several rows of glass slides. She found a bottle marked gum arabic and spread the contents lightly on each glass oblong.

  After a significant amount of time had passed, Rheinhardt's brow began to bead with sweat. He stopped to catch his breath and during the pause Liebermann stepped forward.

  “Oskar, I am perfectly happy to relieve you if-”

  “That won't be necessary, Doctor Liebermann,” interrupted Miss Lydgate. “I am confident that a good quantity of dust has been dislodged from the fibers.”

  Amelia took the bag from Rheinhardt, removed the seal, and carefully lifted the scarf, shaking it a little before she extracted it completely. She then tipped the bag over her slides and gently tapped its base. Nothing appeared to fall out. Discarding the bag, Amelia selected another bottle and a pipette, sniffed the bottle's contents, and placed a small droplet on each slide. When this operation was completed, she opened a box of square cover slips and carefully placed one on each of her specimens.

  Amelia lifted the first slide, inserted it into the microscope's stage, and leaned over the eyepiece. She then changed the objective lenses. She worked silently and swiftly, examining each slide at different levels of magnification. Some of the slides she placed to the right, others to the left. When she had finished, she raised her head from the microscope and faced Liebermann and Rheinhardt.

  “Very interesting,” she said. A vertical crease had appeared on her forehead.

  “Miss Lydgate?” asked Rheinhardt tentatively.

  “The scarf held mostly paper fibers,” she said.

  “From Inspector Rheinhardt's bag?” asked Liebermann.

  “Well, yes, Doctor Liebermann; however, the slides show numerous types of fiber-indicating different methods of production, and different ages.”

  “Which suggests?” Liebermann prompted.

  Amelia raised a finger to her bottom lip and appeared to be lost in thought.

  “Miss Lydgate,” Rheinhardt tried again.

  “Oh yes… forgive me.” The Englishwoman roused from her reverie. “There were also traces of cloth, tiny crystals of a substance that I suspect is glue, and minute particles of leather. Some of the latter were very old indeed.”

  “I see,” said Rheinhardt. “Most, erm, puzzling.”

  He twisted one tip of his mustache.

  “Not that puzzling, Inspector!”

  “I don't understand,” Rheinhardt said. “Are you saying, Miss Lydgate, that these particular substances are significant?”

  “If the scarf belonged to the murderer-then yes.”

  “In what way?” said Rheinhardt, feigning nonchalance.

  “They reveal his profession.”

  “They do?”

  “Yes. He is the proprietor of an antiquarian bookshop-or he is a librarian.”

  43

  THERE WERE SEVEN OF them in the carriage.

  Liebermann, Jacob Weiss, and his wife, Esther, were on one side; Clara, Konrad, Bettina, and Rachel on the other.

  The carriage's interior was sumptuously appointed: ornate moldings, deep carpet, pleated-satin headrests, two carved mirrors, fawn trimmings (with matching silk lace), French door handles, andmost unusually-an electric bell to capture the driver's attention. The exterior was even more impressive: olive-green panels, thick rubber tires, wide fenders, and two massive silver-plated headlamps.

&nb
sp; “This is such a beautiful carriage,” said Clara, stroking the shiny green leather. “Now, wasn't it the right thing to do-wasn't I right, Father? We couldn't have arrived in our old trap, we just couldn't have.”

  Jacob Weiss looked over his spectacles at his daughter.

  “Yes, my dear,” he said indulgently. “You were right. And this is a splendid carriage. An electric bell! Who would have thought it? I am sorely tempted to press it again.”

  “No,” said Esther. “You've already troubled the driver twice for no good reason-a third time will be inexcusable.”

  Jacob Weiss shrugged, and patted his wife's hand.

  “Will the emperor be there?” asked Rachel.

  “No,” said Clara.

  “You don't know. He might be,” said Weiss.

  Clara ignored her father and continued to instruct her younger sister. “There will, however, be many other important people: politicians, diplomats, the Rothschilds, the Wittgensteins-”

  “The Lembergs,” added Bettina.

  “I don't think so, not this evening,” said Clara.

  “Why?” Bettina asked.

  “Haven't you heard?” Clara said. “They say that young Lemberg was killed in a shooting accident last week. But everyone knows that it was really a duel.”

  “How terrible,” said Bettina.

  “I don't know what's wrong with young men these days,” said Jacob. “What possesses them? Such a waste, such a pointless waste.”

  “Anyway,” continued Clara, “there will be many important people at the opera-which is why we must look our very best.” Then, turning toward Liebermann, she added, “Oh, I almost forgot-I saw Frau Trenker yesterday, and she is still suffering from very bad headaches. Her doctor said she should wrap her head in a cold wet towel for an hour a day, but it isn't doing very much. I said I would ask you for some advice.”

  “Tell her to take aspirin,” said Liebermann.

  “Aspirin?” repeated Jacob Weiss. “It works?”

  “Yes,” said Liebermann.

  The carriage began to slow down, and joined a short line just outside the Opera House. Eventually, the vehicle passed through the archway under the grand balcony and came to a halt. The driver knocked the handle of his whip, discreetly, on his box.

  “Well, we're here!” said Jacob.

  An attendant approached the carriage, pulled down the folding step, and opened the door. One by one the Weiss family emerged, enjoying the attention of a small crowd of well-dressed onlookers.

  Liebermann paused beneath a tree of gaslights. He had been to the

  Opera House many times before, but he had never noticed-before that moment-that the lamp's feet were cast in the form of four winged Sphinxes.

  For some inexplicable reason he was transfixed.

  Secrets, secrets, secrets…

  “Come on, Max,” said Clara. “What are you staring at?”

  “Oh, it's nothing.”

  He took her arm and they entered the building.

  After visiting the cloakroom and purchasing their programs, the Weiss family assembled at the foot of the grand marble staircase. Liebermann looked up into the vastness-the wide-open dizzying expanse above his head. It was so immense: the chandeliers and wall lights seemed like whole worlds, suns, planets, softly glowing in the void. Massive round arches surrounded the central space and, through these, other arches could be glimpsed. On tall square pillars stood seven statues representing personifications of architecture, sculpture, poetry, dance, art, music, and drama. They were like custodial gods, marshaling the glowing worlds through the infinite. And beyond the guardians, columns, and balustrades was an artificial sky of transverse vaulting, enlivened by the colors of shadowy frescoes-white, blue, and vermilion.

  Clara was leaning toward Rachel and whispering something behind a fan.

  “What is it?” Liebermann asked.

  Her stare darted to the left, where a portly man was standing with two women wearing thick fur stoles.

  “Hammerstein,” she whispered.

  “Who?”

  Clara's eyes rolled upward. “The cigar manufacturer. They say he's as rich as an archduke.”

  Liebermann was not a great lover of the opera. He did not like the fact that most people-including Clara-attended not for the music but to participate in a social event. Also, the music itself was usually not to his taste. He found it too rich, too excessive, too melodramatic. He much preferred the simplicity of lieder, the intimacy of a string quartet, or the abstract purity of a symphonic work. Even so, he was eager to hear The Magic Flute again. The reviews had been exceptionally positive. Even the critic Theodor Helm-in the traditionally anti-Semitic Deutsche Zeitung-had praised Director Mahler's new production. The director had reduced the size of the orchestra and encouraged them to play in the style of a chamber group. Liebermann was convinced that he would find this treatment of the work particularly rewarding.

  The family ascended the grand staircase.

  Clara drew Liebermann closer to her. For the first time all evening, their gaze met in privacy. Liebermann found the moment troubling. She was so very pretty. Whenever he saw her face turned up toward his, he wanted to smother it with kisses. But was this enough? Was the sweetness of her breath and the softness of her pale cheeks sufficient to sustain a union supposed to last forever?

  “Are you happy, Max?”

  It was an innocent question but it resonated so deeply with concerns and doubts that he could barely acknowledge-let alone face up to-that his collar tightened and the words he tried to speak came out sounding half-strangled.

  “I haven't seen The Magic Flute in years,” he uttered costively, trying to smile. “I'm sure it will be a delightful evening.”

  Now he understood why he had been transfixed by the quartet of Sphinxes. He too was the keeper of a terrible secret. The engagement ring on Clara's finger weighed heavily on his conscience-as if each diamond was a millstone hanging around his neck.

  Jacob Weiss led the group to their box, where two bottles of champagne awaited them in a bucket of ice. Champagne flutes were arranged on a small folding table, next to a tray of white chocolate truffles. While Konrad poured the champagne and Rachel offered around the chocolates, Liebermann gazed out into the auditorium.

  A massive chandelier, like a girdle of stars, hung from the center of a fabulously decorated ceiling. Below the emperor's box-a cave of tantalizing shadow-was an area reserved for individuals who had lined up for cheap tickets. This “standing enclosure” was divided by a bronze pole. One half was reserved for civilians, the other half for soldiers. These two divisions had started to fill with roughly equal numbers of men.

  The orchestra, mostly string players and a few woodwind, had begun to appear in the pit.

  Rachel arrived with the tray of truffles and circled it under Liebermann's nose-as if to waft the enticing fragrances. The sound of a clarinet, doodling in the low registers, produced a pleasant, liquid accompaniment.

  The young doctor smiled.

  “Have you spotted anyone famous?” asked Rachel.

  “To be honest, I wasn't looking.” He took a chocolate and bit it in half.

  “Yes, you were-you were trying to see if there was anyone in the emperor's box.”

  Esther overheard the challenge and cried out, “Rachel! Don't be impolite!”

  The girl's cheeks burned.

  Liebermann glanced at Esther, and waved his hand as if to say It was nothing. He then returned his attention to Rachel. “In fact, I was looking at the standing area.” Rachel's blush subsided. “You see? Where the soldiers are gathered?”

  Rachel peered over the edge of the box.

  “Where do the women stand?” she asked.

  “They don't-women aren't allowed in there.”

  “Why not?” she persisted.

  “I'm not sure,” said Liebermann, electing to give an uncomplicated answer. “Perhaps their dresses take up too much room.”

  He popped the remains o
f the chocolate into his mouth and took his seat. Clara passed him a champagne flute, and settled next to him. She produced a pair of opera glasses and began to systematically scan the five rows of boxes on the opposite side of the auditorium. Occasionally she would whisper a society name. “Baroness von Ehrenstein… Hofrat Nicolai.” Then, more animatedly, “Countess Staray!”

  Strings-the tinkling of a glockenspiel-the hollow, soft thunder of the kettledrum.

  Although Liebermann found this incessant naming mildly irritating, he could not deny that the presence of so many luminaries was certainly contributing to the atmosphere. The volume of conversation grew steadily louder, until eventually he could no longer hear what Clara was saying.

  The musicians were tuning up. Liebermann took his spectacles out of his top pocket and curled the wire arms around his ears-he wanted to examine the scene more closely. The stalls were now full-a veritable crowd had gathered in the standing area-and clusters of white oval faces hovered like ghosts above the rim of every balcony. The lights began to dim. There was movement in the pit, and suddenly Director Mahler's wiry frame materialized on the podium. The audience applauded and some of the officers at the back rattled their sabres. Liebermann felt a sense of relief. He was eager to lose himself in the evening's music.

  Mahler turned, raised both hands above his shoulders, and thrust his baton at the orchestra. The sound that emerged from the pit had a wonderful organic quality: a divine progression of chords, each swelling and opening up, as if the music were actually blooming like a flower. This sublime unfolding was followed by passages of extraordinary delicacy. The scoring was pellucid, suffused with a quality of exquisite airy lightness.

  The curtain rose to reveal a desert landscape of wild rocks and isolated trees. Huge mountains loomed on either side of a round temple.

  Clara clutched Liebermann's hand. The audience gasped. A giant serpent was emerging from the backstage shadows. It was huge, like a Chinese dragon. The musical accompaniment became agitated and stormy as the creature reared up above a tiny human figure.