Mortal Mischief lp-1 Page 3

  'Quite,' said Rheinhardt. 'There's no weapon.'

  'But there must be.'

  Haussmann got up and opened a drawer in the table.

  'What are you doing?' asked Rheinhardt.

  'Looking for the gun.'

  'Haussmann,' said Rheinhardt patiently. 'The Fräulein has been shot through the heart. Do you really think that after sustaining such an injury she would have had sufficient time, firstly, to conceal a weapon, and secondly, to recover her position on the chaise longue?'

  'She might have fallen back, perhaps?'

  Rheinhardt shook his head: 'I don't think so.'

  'But the door,' said Haussmann, almost petulantly, pointing to the broken frame. 'It was locked from the inside. The gun must be here somewhere!'

  Rheinhardt pulled the remaining curtains aside.

  'All of the windows were locked. And anyway, who in their right mind would choose to make an escape from up here?'

  Through the streaming rainwater, Rheinhardt saw the blurred image of a solitary cab struggling up the road, its driver hunched up beneath a waterproof cape.

  'In which case . . .' Haussmann started enthusiastically, but then smiled sheepishly and let his sentence trail off.

  'Yes? What were you going to say?'

  His assistant shook his head: 'Nothing, sir, it's ridiculous.'

  Rheinhardt frowned at his young companion.

  'Very well, sir,' said Haussmann, 'But it's only a thought, you understand?'

  'Of course.'

  'Fräulein Löwenstein. Her note . . .'

  'What about it?'

  'Forbidden knowledge?'

  Rheinhardt shook his head: 'Haussmann, are you suggesting some kind of supernatural explanation?'

  His assistant raised his hands: 'I did say it was only a thought.'

  Rheinhardt gave an involuntary shiver. He picked up Fräulein Löwenstein's note.

  He will take me to hell – and there is no hope of redemption.

  Although Rheinhardt was still tutting and shaking his head, try as he might he could not think of a single alternative to Haussmann's suggestion. As far as Rheinhardt could see, Fräulein Löwenstein had indeed been murdered by someone – or something – that could pass through walls.

  3

  THE DOOR OPENED

  and the hospital porter wheeled in the subject of Professor Wolfgang Gruner's demonstration. She was dressed in a plain white hospital gown and wore no shoes. Her head was bowed, and her long dark hair had fallen in front of her face. The doctors – numbering over fifty and assembled on tiered benches around Professor Gruner – began to murmur.

  Liebermann sighed loudly, slouched, and folded his arms.

  'Max?'

  He looked up at his friend and colleague, Doctor Stefan Kanner.

  'What?'

  Kanner pulled the cuffs of his shirt down to expose his gold cuff links and then adjusted his bow tie. He was wearing a particularly sweet cologne.

  'Don't start, Max.'

  'Stefan, I don't think I can watch another one of these.'

  He began to rise, but Kanner grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down again.

  'Maxim!'

  Liebermann shook his head and under his breath declared: 'This is a circus.' The man occupying the bench directly in front of Liebermann glanced back over his shoulder and rebuked him with a scolding stare.

  'Enough,' Kanner hissed, digging a pointed elbow into Liebermann's ribs. 'He's probably one of Gruner's friends!'

  'Gruner is already acquainted with my views.'

  'Indeed, so well acquainted is he that your position here becomes more uncertain day by day.'

  The porter parked the rickety wheelchair close to Professor Gruner. Together, they lifted the woman up onto the modest stage where she was carried the short distance to a large wooden throne-like chair. There she was seated and her limbs arranged. The professor then slid a metal plate under the woman's feet. As he was doing this, the porter removed the wheelchair and assumed the stance of a guard by the door.

  'Gentlemen,' declared the professor, his resonant voice filling the large room. The thrum of background conversation stopped dead. Outside, the storm had abated and the ferocious drumming of the rain had been replaced by a gentle pitter-patter.

  Gruner was a tall, imposing figure, with a long brindled beard and an unruly mass of receding grizzled hair. The expression that he habitually wore was one of mild but constant disgruntlement, to the extent that a permanent vertical crease divided the professor's high forehead.

  'Gentlemen,' the professor repeated. 'May I introduce Signora Locatelli?'

  The woman stirred, and brushed the hair from her face. Liebermann judged her to be in her mid-twenties, and if she was not beautiful she was certainly striking. Her eyes were dark, and deeply set above sharp features. She surveyed the audience, and then looked towards Gruner, who inclined his head and smiled – but for no more than a fraction of a second.

  'The signora,' continued Gruner, 'is the wife of an Italian diplomat. Some three to four months ago, she began to develop symptoms suggestive of a hysterical illness and was subsequently diagnosed by a local physician. She became increasingly infirm, anorexic, and now suffers from an apparent and seemingly total paralysis of both legs. On examination, we find no evidence of traumatic injury or disease.'

  Turning towards his subject, Gruner addressed her directly.

  'Signora. You cannot walk, is that correct?'

  The woman nodded.

  'I beg your pardon?' said Gruner. 'I am afraid I did not hear your reply.'

  The woman swallowed, and in slightly accented German responded: 'No. I cannot walk.'

  'Do you ever experience pain in your legs?'

  'I experience nothing. They are . . .' Her face twisted in anguish. 'Dead.'

  Gruner addressed the audience again.

  'Sadly, at this time, and in Vienna especially, there is a pernicious trend in our profession towards psychological explanations of hysteria.' Gruner's head turned slowly until he was looking directly at Liebermann, who sat perfectly still. Liebermann knew that he was expected to shift uncomfortably and cower. Instead, he proudly held the professor's minatory gaze, and even dared to let the ghost of a smile animate his features. Gruner continued: 'Gentlemen, I would urge you most strongly to question the legitimacy of this approach, and the judgement of all those who endorse it. Hysteria is a medical condition, caused by a constitutional weakness of the nerves. A weakness that can be easily and swiftly corrected by electrotherapy.' Gruner gestured towards the apparatus that stood on the table next to Signora Locatelli.

  'Today I will be demonstrating an instrument from the United States of America. My initial impression is that it is superior to those of local manufacture.'

  Liebermann was familiar with Gruner's 'instruments', all of which were very similar in appearance. This one, however, was notable on account of its size – being much bigger than the others he had seen to date. Gruner moved to the table and caressed the polished surface of a large teak box. He released two brass hasps and gently lifted the lid, the underside of which was lined with red leather that was embossed in gold lettering:

  The Galvanic and Faradic Battery Company of Chicago, Ill. USA.

  Inside the box was an arrangement of knobs, rollers and dials. Gruner removed two bright metal rods with wooden handles, which were attached to the assembly by long leads.

  'For those interested in the technical specifications of this instrument, it is of standard design. It is powered by six-volt dry batteries which are both safe and easy to maintain. The output voltage can be varied by adjusting a simple metal cylinder that slides over the core of the induction coil.'

  Gruner flicked a switch and the room immediately filled with a loud buzzing. He then invited one of the assembly to assist. A middle-aged man rose from his seat.

  'Thank you, Herr Doctor,' said Gruner. 'If you would position yourself on the other side of the patient?' The man walked across the b
are wooden floor boards, stepped up on to the stage, and stood to attention beside the diplomat's wife.

  'Signora Locatelli,' continued Gruner. 'Could I prevail upon you to raise your gown?'

  The woman gathered up the material of the skirt of her gown in her hands and, as she did so, the hem began to lift, revealing her slim ankles and calves.

  'Signora,' continued Gruner, 'it will be necessary to raise your gown to a level above the knee.' The woman blushed and, gripping more material in her hands, exposed her legs completely. Liebermann turned away and looked disdainfully at his colleagues, most of whom had leaned forward. Sensing his friend's movement, Kanner delivered another elbow jab and nodded towards the demonstration.

  Gruner stepped forward and passed the metal rods over Signora Locatelli's legs.

  'Do you feel anything?'

  'No.'

  'Nothing – not even a tickling sensation?'

  'No.'

  Gruner addressed the audience. 'I will now increase the charge.'

  He took both rods in one hand and reached into the box, adjusting the dials and cylinders. The pitch of the buzzing ascended an octave. Gruner then returned to his patient and passed the metal rods over her legs a second time. She did not move, and her gaze remained fixed on some elevated point at the back of the room. Liebermann saw that she was staring at the bust of some long-forgotten medical luminary.

  'Signora,' said Gruner. 'You must feel something now. Perhaps pins and needles?'

  Without moving her head to make eye contact, the diplomat's wife simply continued staring.

  'Signora?' Gruner said tetchily. 'What do you feel?'

  'I feel . . .' The woman paused before saying: 'That there is no hope.'

  Gruner shook his head: 'Signora, please refrain from obtuse answers. Do you feel any sensations in your legs?'

  Still without moving, she said softly: 'No. I feel nothing . . .' And then, after another pause, she added: 'In my legs.'

  'Very well,' said Gruner. He passed both rods to his assistant and then plunged his hands into the electrical apparatus. The buzzing became louder: a horrible glissando ascending to a pitch that made Liebermann's ears ache. Gruner then took back the rods.

  It was clear that Gruner had increased the charge considerably and the room was tense with expectation. Even Liebermann found himself attending more closely, drawn into the drama by the woman's declaration that there was no hope – a statement that he felt resonated with many meanings.

  Gruner extended his arms and then, after the briefest of hesitations, prodded Signora Locatelli's legs. She opened her mouth and let out a cry, not of pain but of anguish. It was not particularly loud, yet it was deeply disturbing to Liebermann. It reminded him of an operatic sob, full of despair and melancholy. At the same time, the woman's right leg moved forward.

  'Good,' said Gruner. He applied the rods again.

  The woman's legs began to shake.

  'Stand up, Signora.'

  The shaking became more pronounced.

  'Stand up!' Gruner commanded.

  Grimacing, Signora Locatelli pressed her hands down hard on the arms of the wooden throne and a moment later she was standing up, her whole body trembling. Gruner stepped back so that every member of the audience could see and appreciate his achievement. He held the metal rods up like trophies.

  'Observe, gentlemen. See how the subject stands. If hysteria were a psychological illness, then what you are now witnessing would not be possible.'

  To Liebermann, Signora Locatelli's balance looked precarious. Her arms were extended outwards, a little like an acrobat standing on a high wire. She did not appear to be pleased or surprised by her accomplishment. Instead, her features seemed to be contorted by fear and confusion.

  'Signora,' said Gruner. 'Perhaps you would care to venture a step or two?'

  Her upper body swayed and wobbled above legs that refused to respond. It was as though the patient's feet were fixed to the floor.

  'Come now, Signora. Just one step.'

  Using all her strength, the diplomat's wife cried out as she forced her left leg forward. But as she did so she finally lost her balance and fell. The assisting doctor caught Signora Locatelli under the arms and lowered her gently onto the chair, where she lay back, breathing heavily, her forehead beaded with sweat.

  Gruner placed the rods in the box and switched off his machine. The buzzing stopped, creating a strangely solid silence that was broken only by Signora Locatelli's loud exhalations.

  A smattering of applause, which then became more vigorous as others joined in, passed through the audience. The man sitting in front of Liebermann suddenly stood up and cried out: 'Bravo, Herr Professor.'

  Liebermann turned towards Kanner, raising his voice above the applause.

  'I'm never going to sit through one of these absurd, barbaric and humiliating demonstrations again.'

  Kanner leaned towards his friend and spoke directly into his ear.

  'You'll be dismissed.'

  'So be it.'

  Kanner shrugged: 'Well, don't say I didn't warn you.'

  4

  THE CENTRAL PATHWAY

  was flanked by eight muses and ascended to the lower cascade: a giant stone shell, supported by a team of tritons and sea nymphs. The balustrades lining the steps on either side of the fountain were populated by chubby putti, and beyond was the first of the Belvedere's celebrated sphinxes.

  'Did the storm frighten you?'

  'Max, I'm not a child. Of course it didn't frighten me.'

  The ground was still wet, and Liebermann had to guide Clara through an archipelago of puddles. He couldn't help noticing her boots – so small and elegant.

  'Although Rachel made a fuss.'

  'Did she?'

  'Oh yes, she knocked on my door and insisted that I let her in.'

  'And did you?'

  'Of course I did. I told her that there was nothing to be frightened of – and that the storm would pass. But it didn't seem to do much good. She simply crawled into my bed and pulled the covers over her head.'

  'How long did she stay like that?'

  'Until it stopped.'

  Once they had negotiated the puddles, Liebermann offered Clara his arm, which she took without hesitation. 'What was Rachel frightened of? What did she think was going to happen?'

  'I don't know. Perhaps you should analyse her – although it wouldn't do any good. Rachel wouldn't listen to anything you said.'

  Liebermann had explained to Clara that psychoanalysis was more about listening than 'telling', but resisted the urge to correct her. 'True. But neither do you!'

  Clara broke away, laughing. She turned and, facing Liebermann, started walking backwards.

  'Be careful,' said Liebermann. 'You might stumble.'

  'No, I won't. It's better this way – I'm enjoying the view.'

  Clara was wearing a long coat with a fur collar and a Cossack-style hat. The ensemble emphasised the delicacy of her features. Her little face, peering out from its bed of sable, appeared curiously feral.

  Was this the right moment?

  Since meeting with Mendel in The Imperial, Liebermann had thought of nothing else but this walk. He had been looking forward to it with fervid impatience. Every intervening second had passed slowly – particularly those spent at Gruner's demonstration – stretching the minutes into refractory hours. For much of the afternoon the storm had threatened to scupper his plan, but now nothing stood in his way. He cleared his throat, ready to speak.

  'Do you know what my father said this morning?' asked Clara.

  The opportunity vanished as swiftly as it had appeared.

  'No. What did he say?'

  'He said that we're going to Meran in the summer.'

  'Really? For how long?'

  'A month or two . . . He thinks it will help Rachel's asthma.'

  'I'm sure it will. The Tyrol air is very good for bronchial problems.'

  Clara stopped, turned again, and extended her arm, allow
ing Liebermann to take it as he advanced.

  'Have you ever been there, Max?'

  'Yes,' Liebermann replied. 'I worked in Meran when I was a student. Let me offer you a piece of very useful advice. Avoid anything that's supposed to have medicinal properties – particularly the whey cure.'

  'What's that?'

  'A local remedy, much favoured by the good people of Meran. It consists of coagulated milk with white wine, strained from the curd and sweetened with sugar.'

  Clara screwed up her face.

  'Oh, that sounds utterly disgusting.'

  'It is – but the locals swear by it. However, if you're going in the summer you might be all right. I think it's a seasonal delight, served mostly in the spring.'

  A cold gust of wind blew in from the east, and they instinctively drew closer together.

  'Will I get bored, do you think?'

  'A little, perhaps. But there are fairs and market days. And there are so many Viennese there – you're bound to bump into someone you know . . .'

  Ahead of them the detail of the baroque palace was becoming clearer. It was an enormous building of white stucco that extended between two octagonal domed pavilions; however, it looked as though a garrison of Turks had pitched a line of green tents on the roof. This was, of course, an architectural conceit, intended to remind onlookers of the great siege.

  Clara squeezed Liebermann's arm in the crook of her elbow.

  Again, Liebermann wondered whether the moment had arrived. Whether he should stop walking, take Clara in his arms, and ask her to be his wife.

  'Herr Donner came today.'

  The sound of her voice brought him out of his reverie.

  'I'm sorry?'

  'Herr Donner, my piano teacher.'

  'Of course . . . and what did he teach you?'

  'We played a duet by Brahms. A waltz.'

  'Which one?'

  'I don't know. I've forgotten.'

  'Then how does it go?'

  Clara attempted to sing the melody, but quickly lost her way in a succession of chaotic key changes. 'No,' she said. 'It didn't go like that at all.' She tried again, this time managing to hum a lilting tune that sounded more like a lullaby.

  'I know that. It's one of the Opus 39 waltzes. Number fifteen, I think. Perhaps we should try it when we get back?'