by Frank Tallis
Liebermann opened his eyes. He did not wish to die a coward. He wanted to meet his end defiantly.
Olbricht was craning forward, tilting his head to one side, making a close examination of Liebermann's features. The young doctor stared into the widely spaced eyes-and noticed for the first time that they only appeared to be set so widely apart because the bridge of Olbricht's nose had sunk. The deep creases around Olbricht's mouth compressed and his lips parted. He was smiling-and in doing so he was exhibiting two rows of peculiarly stunted teeth, the ends of which were rough and uneven. Liebermann had never been this close to Olbricht before, had never had the opportunity to study the peculiarities of his physiognomy.
Think, Herr Doctor! If you do not think, all is lost.
Signor Barbasetti's injunction returned with haunting persistence.
Yes, of course!
Olbricht's irregular lineaments were not merely the result of his parental legacy-the germ plasm of his mother and father-but of some other process: a pathological process. The young doctor made his diagnosis, from which a series of bold inferences followed.
“Your mother,” Liebermann began. “You loved her, didn't you? But she never returned your love. She never had the time. Always busy entertaining gentlemen. Foreigners. Hungarians, Czechs, Croats… Jews?”
Olbricht looked startled. His eyes widened.
“And you had dreams,” Liebermann continued, gaining confidence. “Terrible dreams. Nightmares. About animals: wolves, dogs… You still get them, don't you?” The words tumbled out, hurried, frantic. “And then there was the music! You lived behind a theater-a small folk theater. When your mother was entertaining her gentleman friends, you could hear music. Operettas, popular songs. But the most unforgettable melodies, the ones that lodged in your mind and wouldn't go away, were from an opera by Mozart: The Magic Flute.”
Olbricht's expression changed. He looked bemused, almost frightened. Childlike.
“What are you?” His voice sounded hoarse, as though he had suddenly been confronted by a supernatural intelligence.
“I am a doctor-I can help you.”
But Liebermann had miscalculated. Olbricht did not want to be helped. The fearful expression on the artist's face was fading. Liebermann edged gently backward. In doing so, he created just enough space between Olbricht's blade and his chest to risk a single swift emancipating movement. He knocked Olbricht's sabre aside with the flat of his free gloved hand-and ran…
When Liebermann turned, he found himself backed up against a wall, facing an attack of demonic intensity. Blow followed blow. They rained down upon him: heavy, insistent, and deadly. Although Olbricht's attack was no longer controlled, Liebermann knew that he could hold off such a brutal assault for only a matter of seconds. His arm ached, weakened by each shocking impact.
Liebermann fell down on one knee. His weapon felt heavy and it began to slip from his hand. Drawing on some hidden vital reserve of energy, he held his sabre aloft horizontally, like a shield. The relentless pounding continued, powered by an inexhaustible fury. Liebermann was dimly aware of a loud crashing sound-and suddenly, miraculously, he was no longer alone. A sea of faces had appeared behind Olbricht, and a moment later Kanner was by Liebermann's side, deflecting Olbricht's hammer blows.
Exhausted and close to collapse, Liebermann watched the artist retreating, surrounded by a host of fresh, energetic adversaries. Olbricht wheeled around like a deadly dervish, his glinting blade creating a scintillating protective aura.
Kanner knelt beside Liebermann, placing a solicitous arm around his shoulders. “Are you all right?”
Liebermann nodded.
The crowd had closed around Olbricht, obscuring him from view, but Liebermann could still hear the chilling shriek of the artist's scything blade. Eventually the pitch of the screaming of metal through air dropped and the rhythm of more conventional engagement resumed, eventually slackening off to the rattle of intermittent, irregular contacts.
A powerful voice rose above the melee: “Brother Diethelm, I command you to drop your sword.”
The clattering stopped and an eerie silence prevailed.
“You are vastly outnumbered. I repeat: drop your sword.”
A pendulum clock sounded a hollow beat. Each percussive swing seemed to ratchet the tension up by degrees.
“Brother Diethelm?”
A thud followed by a metallic ringing was accompanied by a collective groan of relief.
Through a gap in the crowd, Liebermann briefly glimpsed the defeated artist. He was standing, arms outstretched, like Christ crucified, his head thrown back. A sob convulsed his chest.
“It is over,” Olbricht cried. “I can do no more.”
In his eyes, Liebermann recognized the light of Valhalla burning.
87
Rheinhardt pressed his knuckles against his eyes and after releasing them looked steadily at the wall clock. At first he could see nothing but a kaleidoscopic arrangement of luminous blotches. Then, slowly, his vision began to clear, and the hands came into sharp focus: a quarter past one. It had been a long, tiring day.
On returning home he had been unable to sleep. He had sat on a chair next to the telephone, dreading its fateful ring followed by the crackling connection and the voice of the Schottenring sergeant regretfully informing him of the discovery of two bodies. Rheinhardt had fallen into a fitful half sleep and when-as expected-the bell had sounded, he had lifted the receiver in a confused, fearful state. He had listened to the sergeant's report, but could not quite believe what he was hearing. He had asked the man to repeat himself. The officer politely obliged, prompting Rheinhardt to pinch his thigh to establish whether or not he was dreaming.
The long hand of the clock jumped forward and Rheinhardt lowered his gaze. Liebermann was fussing with some lint on his trousers, tutting impatiently at its obstinacy.
“So,” said Rheinhardt, “you arrive at the Schottenring station dressed in a top hat, white gloves, and tailcoat-which, if I am not mistaken, has been cut in two places by a sabre blade. In your custody-bound and gagged-is the monster, Andreas Olbricht! The duty officer requests, very reasonably, that you give an account of yourself. You choose, however, to respond in the vaguest possible terms, suggesting that you managed to find and capture him with the help of some Freemasons… Now, my dear friend, although I am accustomed to your predilection for evasive answers and your often quite taxing insistence on dramatic subterfuge, it seems to me that tonight you have excelled yourself.”
During his speech, the inspector's voice had risen in pitch and his eyes had acquired a menacing shine.
The young doctor gave up trying to remove the intransigent lint from his trousers and, chastened, straightened his back.
“I may not possess the most incisive mind,” continued the inspector, attempting to calm himself by spreading his hands out flat on the table. “But one doesn't need to be so very clever to guess how you came to deliver Olbricht earlier this evening-or, more correctly, yesterday evening.” His finger flicked up toward the wall clock. “You infiltrated a clandestine Masonic gathering, where you discovered Olbricht preparing to murder persons corresponding with the figures of Sarastro and Prince Tamino. You challenged Olbricht, fought with him, and finally, with the assistance of those present, overpowered him.”
Liebermann nodded. “Yes, broadly speaking, that is correct.”
“Now, I am bound to ask you a very obvious question: Did you not think to inform the security office?”
“Of course I thought to inform the security office-it just wasn't possible.”
Rheinhardt picked up his pen and dated the official notepaper that he had laid out on his desk.
“Oskar,” said Liebermann, “before we proceed, you must promise me something.”
“What?”
“That the security office will not investigate or hound the Masons.”
“I am very happy to leave the Masons to their own devices. But Commissioner Brugel may take a different
view.”
“Then you must persuade him otherwise.”
“Commissioner Brugel is nothing if not opinionated. I fear he will take his own view, whatever I say.”
“Come now, Oskar, a man possessed of your quite considerable eloquence and charm should-” Rheinhardt raised a cautionary finger. Liebermann acknowledged the transparency of his flattery with a wry smile and chose a different approach. “At the very beginning of this investigation you likened Olbricht to the infamous Ripper of London. Well, unlike Scotland Yard we have actually caught our ‘Ripper.’ This will no doubt raise the international standing of the Viennese security office. It is even conceivable that your superior- having presided over such a coup-might expect to receive some token of recognition from the Hofburg.” Liebermann assumed an expression of cherubic innocence. “I do not wish to interfere with your dealings with the good commissioner, but I am convinced that touching upon the subject of honors will be… expedient. Once he is preoccupied with dreams of the emperor pinning a ribbon on his chest, Brugel will be much less inclined to rake over the minor details of your report.”
Rheinhardt sighed. “We shall see.”
“Thank you, Oskar.”
“Be that as it may, I must press you for more information.” Rheinhardt underlined the date and looked up at his friend. “Commissioner Brugel will expect more than a few opaque lines-and, needless to say, I have some questions of my own.” Liebermann leaned back in his chair and gestured for Rheinhardt to continue. “First, how on earth did you manage to get yourself into a secret Masonic meeting?”
“On Saturday I was taking dinner with a trusted friend, with whom I sometimes discuss my involvement with the security office. I told him of the discovery of Olbricht's diary and of our fear that Olbricht might attempt to kill a member of the royal family and a high-ranking Mason the following day. To my great surprise my friend revealed that he was a Mason. Moreover, he informed me that Sunday the twelfth of December was, for him and his brethren, a date of great significance. A foreign prince was to be initiated at a secret location in Vienna on that very day. I was given permission to attend the ritual, providing that I gave my solemn word not to disclose anything of what I saw to anyone, and in particular”-Liebermann tapped Rheinhardt's desk twice-”a certain detective inspector with whom my name has become recently associated.”
Rheinhardt grunted dismissively and began writing. “Who was this foreign prince?”
“I am afraid I cannot say-I gave my word.”
“Very well. What is your friend's name?”
“I am afraid I cannot say.”
“All right. Did you encounter a man with a Vandyke beard?”
“I saw many men with Vandyke beards.”
“A man called Losch?”
Liebermann shrugged.
The inspector raised his head slowly, revealing a pained countenance.
“Oskar, I have already broken one promise this year,” said Liebermann gravely. “I do not intend to break another.”
The inspector gave a colossal sigh, and with exaggerated movements made a show of putting his pen down. He then opened the drawer of his desk and removed a small bottle of slivovitz and two glasses. He filled the glasses to the brim and then offered Liebermann a marzipan mouse, which the young doctor observed for a few moments before politely refusing. Rheinhardt sat back in his chair and said resignedly, “Very well. You will please proceed.”
Liebermann, looking much relieved, continued his story. “I was taken to the secret location yesterday.”
“I don't suppose there is any point in my asking-”
“No,” Liebermann interrupted. “There isn't. Not because I won't tell you, this time-but because I can't. I have no idea where it is. I was blindfolded. And on my return with Olbricht, I was blindfolded again.”
“How long did the journey take?”
Liebermann shrugged.
Rheinhardt smiled, sipped his slivovitz, and urged his friend to continue.
“I attended the initiation rite-”
“About which you can say nothing,” Rheinhardt cut in.
“And in due course I observed a gentleman whom I supposed to be Olbricht.”
“Supposed?”
“It was quite dark. The Masonic temple was large and inadequately illuminated by candles.”
“I see.”
“When Olbricht was in striking distance of both the principal Mason and the prince-”
“Sarastro and Tamino.”
“I noticed that his fingers had closed around the hilt of his sabre.”
“He was wearing a sabre?” Rheinhardt cut in again.
“I hope that I am not betraying the trust invested in me by the Masons-”
“Heaven forfend!”
“If I disclose to you that they were all wearing sabres.”
“Were they indeed,” said Rheinhardt, nodding with interest.
“At which point…”
The inspector lifted his hand.
“One moment, please! What was Olbricht doing at this secret meeting? How did he get in?”
“Isn't it obvious?”
Rheinhardt's eyebrows knitted together. “Surely not…”
Liebermann pressed his lips together and jerked his head forward.
“He is a Mason. And not only that, he is a librarian! He has been engaged for many months in the arduous task of cataloguing a vast collection of Masonic literature. Several of the books he has handled are very ancient in origin-guides to arcane rites and rituals.”
“So Miss Lydgate was right after all.”
“Of course-she is a remarkable woman.” Liebermann paused for a moment.
“Max?”
Liebermann coughed, a little embarrassed by his momentary lapse of concentration.
“I am of the opinion that Olbricht entered the craft as a kind of spy. One can imagine such an infantile act of daring, such a caper, earning him the respect of his friends at the Eddic Literary Association. As you know, nationalists despise Masons. In my ignorance I have often wondered why. I had attributed their hostility to some species of paranoia; however, the answer is very simple. At the heart of Masonry is a belief in universal fraternity and equality-a belief that stands in stark opposition to the exclusive, supremacist philosophy of Guido List. As a Mason, Olbricht was known as Brother Diethelm. Gunther Diethelm. Interesting, don't you think, that he should choose that as his nom de guerre?”
Rheinhardt looked puzzled.
“Gunther,” Liebermann continued, “means ‘warrior’ and Diethelm means ‘protector of the folk or people.’ All of which suggests to me a powerful identification with the legendary Unbesiegbare-The Invincible, or strong one from above, the Teutonic savior.”
Rheinhardt sipped his slivovitz.
“He played a perilous game. What if a Mason with whom he was acquainted had come to one of his exhibitions? His masquerade would have been discovered immediately.”
“It wasn't such a risk. First, Olbricht rarely had his work shown in galleries. He was never good enough, and without Von Rautenberg's patronage he would never have exhibited at all. Second, German nationalists and Freemasons occupy very different worlds and those worlds rarely touch. It is a peculiarity of our city that different peoples can coexist and live in close proximity but never meet.”
Rheinhardt grumbled his assent. The memory of the sewer people was all too vivid.
“I do not imagine,” Liebermann continued, “that Olbricht joined the Masons intending to murder any of their number. Rather, the possibility presented itself as his curious program for murder-and the disease process-progressed.”
“Disease process?”
“Forgive me-I am racing ahead of myself.” Liebermann tasted his slivovitz and looked mildly startled by its potency. “Where on earth did you get this from?”
“A Croatian scissors-grinder.”
“That doesn't surprise me. Now, where was I?”
“You saw Olbricht's hand on his hilt.
”
“Ah yes.” Liebermann disdainfully placed the glass back on Rheinhardt's desk and leaned back in his chair. “I challenged him, and he immediately made a dash for the door, escaped from the temple, and made his way to the library, which was situated at a lower level. I can remember feeling uneasy. Clearly, someone meaning to escape would have run up the stairs, not down; however, somewhat overexcited by the chase, I pursued Olbricht without thinking and so fell into his trap.”
“Trap?”
“He had concealed himself behind the library door and, after locking us both in, drew his sabre. From the moment our blades touched it was obvious that he was the superior swordsman. My only chance of survival was to ward him off until the Masons broke the door down and came to my rescue.”
Rheinhardt peered at the slashed material over Liebermann's heart.
“Looks like he almost killed you.”
“He almost did. He had me pinned to the wall. All he had to do was push.”
“What stopped him?”
“I surprised him-shocked him, even-by making some observations which, given his reaction, I have every reason to believe were correct: and while he was distracted, I made my escape.”
Rheinhardt leaned forward. “Observations? What observations?”
“That his mother was a prostitute who entertained men of many different nationalities, that they had a room close to a folk theater where The Magic Flute was often performed, and that Olbricht has always been-and continues to be-tormented by dreams of animals.”
Rheinhardt shook his head. “But how could you possibly…”
“Know? I didn't. I was simply making some educated guesses.”
“On what basis?”
“His appearance.”
“But you have always told me never to judge a man by his appearance.”
“That is true. And in almost all cases nothing can be deduced from the shape of someone's nose, the slope of his forehead, or the thickness of his lips!”
“So what was it about Olbricht's appearance that permitted you to make such bold and seemingly accurate assertions?”