Vienna Blood lp-2 Read online

“Why? You are a policeman. Not a Mozart scholar.”

  The waiter arrived with the coffees. The inspector lifted his head, tasted his turkische, and dropped two pieces of crystallized sugar into the cup. His melancholy sagging eyes looked close to tears.

  “It begins with a snake, doesn't it?”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Liebermann, somewhat confused.

  “The Magic Flute: it begins with the slaying of a snake.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, so did this series of murders.”

  Liebermann slid the remains of his Mozart torte across the table toward the dejected inspector. On numerous occasions he had witnessed Rheinhardt's spirits rallying after a few mouthfuls of pastry. Almost unconsciously, Rheinhardt plunged the fork through the invitingly pliant sponge.

  “Before the Spittelberg atrocity,” said Rheinhardt, “a giant anaconda was killed at the zoo.”

  “Hildegard.”

  “That's right-did you read about it?”

  “Yes. I recall that the animal was supposed to be a favorite of the emperor's.”

  “Indeed. I investigated the incident myself. It was a highly irregular crime, but in the light of subsequent events, it paled into insignificance. The Spittelberg murders occurred the following day… and I simply forgot about the emperor's prize snake. Even the life of the most exalted royal animal should not be valued above the life of a human being-however wretched-and with that thought in mind I transferred all my attention from one case to the other. But now, of course, I can see the error of my ways. How stupid of me!”

  Rheinhardt mechanically deposited a corner of Mozart torte into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and continued: “The anaconda was cleanly sliced into three sections with a large weapon-most probably a sabre. The perpetrator entered the snake-pit and made his exit without leaving a single mark in the soil. Madam Borek and two of her girls were also killed with a sabre… and even though the brothel had been flooded with blood, the perpetrator escaped without leaving a single footprint on the floorboards. It was clearly the same man.”

  Rheinhardt examined the remnants of sponge on his plate. “Mozart torte? Is this your idea of a joke, Max?”

  “It seemed appropriate but I discovered that I wasn't very hungry.”

  Rheinhardt took another mouthful and for the first time exhibited his usual appreciative response.

  “Very good-are you sure that you don't want some?” Liebermann shook his head. The inspector sampled a pistachio square and continued speaking. “Now that you have discovered his method, Max, what does this tell us about him? Is he a devotee of Mozart, do you think? A fanatical student of his operas?”

  “Oskar, no one who appreciates Mozart could possibly commit such atrocities.” The young doctor straightened his back. “Mozart is an entirely civilizing influence.”

  “Yet the perpetrator is certainly very familiar with Mozart.”

  “Yes, but I find it difficult to believe that an individual truly fond of Mozart's singspiel could divine within its plot and characters a program for murder. Indeed, I suspect that the very opposite is true. The perpetrator is no friend of Mozart and very probably despises The Magic Flute.”

  Rheinhardt scraped some chocolate curlicues from the outer circle of his plate. “Yet I can't think of a less offensive opera.”

  “It is, without doubt, a work of incomparable charm. But in the perpetrator's mind The Magic Flute has become shadowed by the darkest of emotions: hate, fear, envy.” Liebermann pressed his hands together. “It would not surprise me to discover that something very bad happened to him in early childhood-perhaps while listening to Mozart's music.”

  “But would such an experience-however unpleasant-have predetermined that this unfortunate child should in due course become a monster?”

  “No, not at all. Professor Freud insists that psychopathology arises when the mental apparatus draws power from a primal source, or origin. I would suppose that The Magic Flute acquired terrible significance during the perpetrator's infancy; however, it has since become a means of organizing and directing his current violent impulses. To understand them we would have to have knowledge of his history-and the contents of his unconscious.”

  A waiter passed the table and discreetly removed Rheinhardt's empty plate.

  “There's a legend, isn't there?” said Rheinhardt. “Connected with an Italian composer accused of murdering Mozart. What was his name?”

  “Salieri,” Liebermann replied. “Although some say that Mozart was murdered by his Masonic brothers for revealing their secrets in The Magic Flute.”

  “A suitable sobriquet for our perpetrator-don't you think? Salieri?”

  “Salieri.” Liebermann savored the exotic combination of vowels and consonants. “Yes, very apposite.”

  “Salieri it is, then!” said Rheinhardt.

  As if in response, the inebriated woman clapped her hands together and squealed with pleasure. One of her companions had handed her a small box. She opened it up and removed a piece of cheap jewelry.

  “There are two further questions that must be raised concerning The Magic Flute,” said Liebermann. “First, can we learn anything more of Salieri's objectives by making a study of the opera? And second, to what extent does the opera cast new light on evidence already in our possession?”

  Rheinhardt tugged at his lower lip.

  “I am no expert on Mozart operas, but The Magic Flute must surely be counted the least coherent.”

  “That is because nothing in The Magic Flute is what it appears to be. It is full of arcane Masonic symbols.” Liebermann suddenly remembered that he was still carrying the Court Opera program. He pulled it out of his pocket and flicked through the pages until he found some biographical notes on the composer. “Here we are… Mozart… initiated into the degree of apprentice in the Loge zur Wohltatigkeit on 14 December 1784… and in 1785 initiated into the degree of fellow and that of master one month later… libretto by Schikaneder-who has been described as a Lodge brother…” Liebermann flicked over the page. “Baron Ignaz von Born… Grand Secretary of the Vienna Loge zur wahren Eintracht… The outline of the opera was discussed at the bedside of Born, a master of Masonic symbolism and an authority venerated by all Viennese Masons.”

  “Does it say anything about what these symbols are supposed to represent?”

  “No. For that you will probably have to consult a Freemason.”

  “I very much doubt whether they will agree to help.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Relations between the security office and the Freemasons are not good.” Liebermann tilted his head questioningly. “Oh, it's all very complicated.” Rheinhardt fussed with his napkin.

  “Go on.”

  “The Freemasons have not been allowed to perform their rituals in Austria for more than thirty years. The law permits them to meet under the aegis of friendly societies-but nothing more.”

  “Freemasonry is illegal?”

  “Well, not exactly. Many years ago it was decided that something should be done about the proliferation of subversive societies. People were more worried about dissent in those days, which is understandable: the revolution of 1848 was still a recent memory. So the Law on Associations was passed. This established state control of all associations.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Very simply, if you wish to form a society-philosophical, artistic, political, or otherwise-you must apply for a license that is granted at the discretion of a specially appointed commissioner. Now, the outcome of this process was-for the Freemasons-quite unsatisfactory. It is not illegal to be a Freemason. Nor is it illegal for Freemasons to meet. However, it is illegal for Freemasons to gather for the purpose of conducting a ‘secret’ ritual. So the security office has been obliged to monitor the Freemasons quite closely, which has been the cause of considerable bad feeling. If we are to discover more about the symbolism of The Magic Flute, then I suspect this will be best achieved by long hours spent p
oring over books in a library. Fortunately, I have Haussmann at my disposal.”

  “I wonder whether…” Liebermann's voice trailed off as his brow furrowed with concentration.

  “You wonder what?”

  Liebermann looked at Rheinhardt. “I wonder if the swastika features in their arcana.”

  “Very possibly. I believe that the Masons make use of many ancient emblems. Alchemical signs, the all-seeing eye, the sevenfold flame…” Rheinhardt stopped listing enigmatic symbols. “Max?”

  The young doctor had already detected the expression of deep concern on the inspector's face.

  “Yes, Oskar. Salieri has murdered the Queen of the Night, her three ladies, Papageno, and Monostatos. But the cast of The Magic Flute contains so many more characters: Tamino, Pamina, Sarastro.”

  “And children! Isn't there some sort of chorus-composed of three boys?”

  “Yes,” said Liebermann, turning the page of the program and staring ruefully at the long list of singers. “If he means to eliminate all of them, his work has hardly begun.”

  46

  IT WAS LATE IN THE afternoon. The gas lamps had been lit, and most of the exhibition halls in the Natural History Museum were deserted.

  Earlier in the day Liebermann had written a note to Clara and her family, apologizing for his rude and precipitate departure the previous evening. He had requested their forgiveness and promised a full explanation. In truth, however, he was still unsure what he was going to say.

  Clara had sent a prompt reply to the hospital, coolly informing her fiance that the Weiss family would be expecting him for dinner at half past seven. The communication did not end with her customary list of gushing endearments. Liebermann folded the note into quarters, slipped it into his top pocket, and spent the rest of the afternoon concentrating on his patients: Fraulein Allers, who suffered from hysterical abdominal pains; Herr Fogel, who wept bitterly for no apparent reason; Frau Huhle, who could not stop washing her hands; and finally Herr Beiber, the monomaniac who had fallen in love with the Archduchess Marie-Valerie. As soon as Liebermann had finished his case notes, he remembered Clara's letter and felt a certain heaviness around his heart. This physical sensation was accompanied by a general sense of despondency.

  On leaving the hospital, Liebermann decided that he might benefit from a brief sojourn in the Natural History Museum. Even if it failed to improve his mood, it would at least give him an opportunity to collect his thoughts.

  Liebermann climbed up the great staircase and wandered unhurriedly through the main galleries. He peered into the glass cabinets and examined the exhibits: brightly colored birds; a rangy fox; a pride of lions; tarantulas, bigger than a man's hand; magisterial tigers and butterflies with crepe-paper wings of turquoise and yellow; a massive crab given as a gift by the emperor of Japan to Emperor Franz Josef; the fossilized remains of great lizards; the freestanding skeleton of a whale; and, finally, a prehistoric man and woman, huddled together in the dusty bed of their burial pit.

  Here was an enduring marriage.

  Liebermann tried to imagine his bones and Clara's, intermingled forever beneath the soil. But he could not do so. The proscenium of his imagination remained stubbornly dark.

  A custodian was closing the large wooden door ahead. Behind it, a life-size lacquered papier-mache model of a stegosaur fell into shadow.

  Liebermann turned, and retraced his steps.

  The gas lamps in the Geological Hall had been dimmed, but the gemstones and geodes still played with the meager light. The effect was quite magical. As Liebermann strolled down the central aisle, he was accompanied by waves of coruscation. Rocks flared and glinted as though an invisible retainer were scattering stardust in his path.

  Ensconced in a window seat on the far side of the gallery was a woman. Her flaming hair and straight back instantly announced her identity: it was Miss Lydgate. The Englishwoman's nose was buried between the covers of a book. With a quick, mercurial movement she turned the page. She seemed to be devouring the text at an alarming speed.

  Liebermann approached, allowing his footsteps to sound more loudly. As he drew closer, her concentration broke and she looked up from the volume.

  “Doctor Liebermann-what a pleasant surprise.” The words were spoken softly, dreamily, as if she were waking from a deep sleep. She was about to stand, but Liebermann gestured for her to remain seated.

  “Miss Lydgate.” Liebermann bowed.

  The gas lamps hissed and the unusual stillness was disturbed only by the distant groan of creaking hinges and the soft jangling of keys. The galleries were being closed off one by one.

  “I came to see the meteorites,” said Amelia.

  “Indeed,” said Liebermann, not altogether sure how to continue the conversation after such an unusual declaration. Fortunately, Amelia rescued them both from a potentially embarrassing hiatus with a polite inquiry. “How is Inspector Rheinhardt?”

  “Very well.”

  “And the investigation?”

  “Progressing.” Liebermann felt disinclined to provide a more comprehensive answer. He did not want to spoil this unexpected rendezvous with talk of Salieri, blood, and mutilated corpses. “What are you reading?” he asked, willing their talk toward a more pleasant topic of conversation.

  The familiar vertical crease appeared on her forehead and deepened.

  “An indulgence. I would be better served by a textbook of anatomy; however, today I received some parcels from London, one of which contained this work of fiction.” She held up the slim publication. “A gift from my father.”

  Liebermann translated the title and was somewhat puzzled. An indulgence? He did not think that a story about a timepiece sounded so terribly indulgent.

  “The Time Machine,” he read out loud in English, “by H. G. Wells.”

  “Yes, my father is a great admirer of the author, who-unlike his peers-is unusually conversant with scientific ideas.”

  “It is a story about a clock?”

  “No, the term time machine refers to something far more interesting. It is a device that can actually travel through time-which is itself ingeniously represented as a fourth dimension, supplementing the more familiar Euclidian measures of length, breadth, and thickness.”

  Miss Lydgate handed the volume to Liebermann, who inspected the spine. The novel was published by a company called Heinemann. Liebermann wondered why Mr. Wells was published by a German firm.

  “The narrator travels to the distant future,” Amelia continued, “where he discovers that humanity has degenerated into two separate species. The Morlocks, an apelike race who live below the surface of the Earth, and the Eloi, a helpless, feeble folk with childlike qualities. Although The Time Machine is only a…” The vertical crease on Amelia's forehead deepened as she searched for a precise term. “A scientific romance, I cannot help but feel that it was Mr. Wells's intention to provoke more than just excitement in his readers. Indeed, I am of the opinion that this story is also meant to serve as a kind of prophecy-or warning.”

  Once again, Liebermann found himself entranced by this remarkable woman: her pedantic speech, her steady gaze, the power of her intellect.

  “Warning?” he repeated her last word, hoping this modest prompt would provoke a lengthy exposition.

  “In our modern world,” Amelia began, “there is an increasing rift arising between the rich and the poor. Moreover, there is a tendency for those who are born into the laboring classes to live-and workunderground. In London, for example, it is customary for household servants such as maids, cooks, and launderers to spend the greater part of their existence in basements and cellars. Indeed, it is not uncommon for serving people to use the terms upstairs and downstairs as appellations to distinguish the gentlefolk from their own kind. There are many more dramatic examples of the same phenomenon. Think of coal miners, whose terrible fate it is to descend into the very bowels of the earth. Think of train drivers, many of whom must now work underground- some never see the light of
day. In fact, think of any great modern city: London, Vienna, New York. All are now built on a subterranean honeycomb of boiler rooms, tunnels, and workstations.”

  The Englishwoman's eyes brightened.

  “Mr. Wells seems to be suggesting that if the trend continues, the human race will eventually divide along the fault lines of social stratification. There will be fewer and fewer opportunities for intermarriage, resulting in subspeciation. We are destined to become Morlocks and Eloi.”

  Liebermann handed the book back to her.

  “It is an extremely interesting hypothesis, Miss Lydgate. However

  …” He smiled kindly, not wishing to extinguish her enthusiasm with harsh criticism. “I find it somewhat implausible. Humanity has made its home in the snowy wastes of the Arctic, the sere deserts of Arabia, and the jungles of darkest Africa. Yet the basic human form has remained constant.”

  “With respect,” said Amelia, clutching the book to her breast. “I would beg to differ. The human form is very pliable. Does the Eskimo look like the Bedouin? The Bantu exactly like his Nordic cousin?”

  “No-but, to my knowledge, this has not resulted in any biological prohibition on procreation between races. In spite of our propensity to explore and inhabit different environments-which has inevitably resulted in some superficial variegated adaptations-we remain a single humanity.”

  “But eventually, Doctor Liebermann, if such differences were to be exaggerated over millennia-over periods of time of the order required to turn, let us say, a carboniferous forest into coal-then surely-”

  A custodian appeared at one end of the gallery. He clicked his heels and announced in an officious, haughty tone, “The museum is about to close.”

  Amelia stood up and a faint smile flickered across her face.

  “I would very much like to continue this conversation, Doctor Liebermann, but I am afraid that I must now collect my coat and hat from the cloakroom.”

  Liebermann glanced at his wristwatch. He knew that what he was about to say was improper-and that if Miss Lydgate answered him in the affirmative, then he would almost certainly arrive late for dinner at the Weiss household. Even so, he heard himself saying, in a disembodied, airy voice, “But we can continue this conversation if you wish. There is a coffeehouse on Museumstrasse…” His invitation trailed off.