Mortal Mischief (16 page)

'Recently?'

'In February.'

'Had she ever asked you to buy peppermint tea before?'

And so the peculiar conversation went on, touching upon one trivial topic after another. Eventually Liebermann abandoned his exhaustive investigation into the minutiae of Charlotte Löwenstein's domestic arrangements and raised the subject of Otto Braun. Rheinhardt sighed with relief, attracting Liebermann's attention, who turned to see if anything was wrong. Rheinhardt shook his head as if to say, 'Nothing.' Liebermann continued: 'How often did Herr Braun visit your mistress?'

'Very often, sir.'

'Every day?'

'No. Not every day.'

'Two or three times a week?'

'Yes, about that. Although not always. Sometimes he would not call for several weeks.'

'Why was that? Do you think he had to go away sometimes?'

'No. Because he always attended Fräulein Löwenstein's meetings.'

'Where did Fräulein Löwenstein entertain Herr Braun?'

'In the sitting room, sir.'

'And where were you? When they were together?'

'Sometimes I was in the kitchen . . . sometimes in the drawing room . . . and sometimes—' Rosa's brow furrowed.

'Yes?' said Liebermann.

'Sometimes, Fräulein Löwenstein suggested that I should leave the apartment . . . for a few hours.'

'She wanted to be alone with Herr Braun?'

'I don't know.'

'That seems likely, don't you think?'

'I don't know.'

Rheinhardt found her loyalty touching. Even under hypnosis, she strived to protect her mistress's honour.

'Listen to me very carefully,' continued Liebermann. 'You must answer my questions honestly. I repeat: do you think your mistress wanted to be alone with Herr Braun?'

The corner of Rosa's mouth twitched.

'You must answer,' Liebermann pressed.

'Yes,' said Rosa, sighing heavily. 'Yes, I do think that.'

Liebermann glanced at Rheinhardt and then continued: 'Did they ever argue, Herr Braun and Fräulein Löwenstein?'

'Sometimes . . . sometimes I heard their voices. When I was in the kitchen. They sounded upset . . .'

'What were they saying?'

'I can't remember.'

Liebermann leaned forward.

'Rosa, imagine you are in Fräulein Löwenstein's kitchen. Picture it with your mind's eye. Every detail. The floor, the cupboards, the sink . . . The curtains hanging in the window casement. Can you picture those things?'

'Yes.'

'The picture in your mind is so clear, so vivid, that it is almost real. It feels like you are in the kitchen again. It feels like you are there. Tell me, are you seated? Or are you standing?'

'Seated. Seated at the table.'

'What are you doing?'

'Sharpening knives.'

'Now listen. Listen very carefully . . . You hear voices. It is Fräulein Löwenstein and Herr Braun. They are in the sitting room, and you can hear their voices. They sound upset . . .'

'Yes. Upset and . . .'

'What?'

'Angry.'

'Listen carefully now. What are they saying?'

'I can't hear them properly. They are too far away.'

'Try, Rosa. Concentrate. Listen to their voices. What are they saying?'

'It's nothing to do with me. It's none of my business.'

'But you cannot help yourself from hearing. They are shouting at each other. What are they saying, Rosa?'

'I can't hear them. They are too far away . . .'

Liebermann leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of Rosa's head. Applying a gentle pressure to her temples with his fingertips, he continued in a low, persuasive purr: 'Listen, Rosa. Listen to the voices. As the pressure increases, so the voices become louder. Listen to them . . . You are seated at the table, sharpening knives . . . and in the sitting room Fräulein Löwenstein and Herr Braun are shouting at each other. What are they saying, Rosa? What are they saying?'

Suddenly, Rosa gasped.

'Get out . . .' Her voice was quite different. The dead tones of the trance state had been replaced by an eerie, emotionally charged stage whisper: 'Get out of here . . . you . . . you . . . disgust me . . . I need more money . . . You always need more money . . . Get out, get out or I'll—' Rosa's voice dropped to an agitated grumble: an odd, muffled sound that arose from the back of her throat. Before long, more fragments of language surfaced from the chaotic burble of tones: 'Theo . . . Never . . . last time, I swear I'll . . . God help me, I will—'

And then there was silence again. Silence, except for the gentle sibilance of the stove.

'Feel the pressure,' said Liebermann. 'The voices are becoming clearer – what can you hear?'

'There are no voices.'

'Are you sure?'

'A carriage is passing – passing in the street below . . . and a tinker is shouting . . . shoelaces – shoelaces for sale . . . shoelaces . . .'

Liebermann removed his hands from Rosa's head and sat back in his chair. The girl's face had once again assumed the expression of a sleeping child's.

21

T
HE AFTERNOON HAD
been uneventful and the hospital ward was as peaceful as a lake in summer.

Sabina Rupius was a graduate of the prestigious Rudolfinerhaus – where only girls of 'good family' were admitted for a thorough education in nursing. The institution had a reputation for producing conscientious professionals. Yet her mind was adrift.

She was supposed to be preparing the medication trolley. But between checking the dosage of Frau Auerbach's gelatin chloral hydrate capsules and pouring Frau Bertram's mentholated linctus, she had become distracted by her own thoughts and was now fully immersed in a daydream, the subject of which was Doctor Stefan Kanner.

There was no doubting it – Doctor Kanner was an exceedingly handsome man. Sabina formed a mental picture of his face and contemplated the unnatural blueness of his eyes. Even thinking about them produced a curious sensation in the pit of her stomach and made her cheeks burn. He was so particular about his dress – so fastidious. And when he stood close, the fragrance of his cologne was intoxicating.

Nurse Rupius shook her head.

This won't do. This really won't do at all.

She forced herself to focus her attention on the pot of chloral hydrate capsules. Counting out Frau Auerbach's prescription again, she replaced the heavy lid with a sigh.

A strand of thick auburn hair fell from under Nurse Rupius's cap. She tutted, lifted it back into place, and secured it with a pin. Inspecting her reflection on the metal surface of the trolley, she admired her handiwork.

I have large eyes – and a delicate chin. I am not unattractive.

Looking up, she noticed that the English governess had walked over to Fräulein Dill's bed and the two women were engaged in polite conversation.

Nurse Rupius removed the cork from the dark green bottle of mentholated linctus and, measuring out two teaspoons, transferred the syrup into a small glass. Then, sitting down, she made a note on Frau Auerbach's and Frau Bertram's charts.

The young woman and the English governess continued to talk in subdued voices. Nurse Rupius had not yet recovered from her daydream, and the image of Doctor Kanner's face still haunted her imagination, interposing itself between her and the two patients. Through the transparent shadow of Kanner's benign visage, Rupius saw the Dill girl uncover her needlepoint.

Again, Sabina Rupius shook her head to dispel the image.

Dill held up her unfinished needlepoint for the English governess to inspect. Then she produced a small basket from which she took a ball of wool and a pair of scissors.

The English governess's smile vanished. It was a dramatic change, like the sun being swallowed by a cloud. Suddenly she looked fearful – troubled. Nurse Rupius watched as Fräulein Dill tried to comfort her, but the young woman's efforts had no effect. The governess had become completely unresponsive. Her face was locked in an attitude of terror, and her frozen stare was fixed on the wool and scissors.

'Nurse?' Fräulein Dill called out. 'Nurse, I think something's wrong.'

Nurse Rupius got up and went to Dill's bed.

'What is it, Fräulein Dill?'

'We were talking,' said the young woman. 'And all of a sudden, the English Fräulein just stopped. She started looking at me in a funny way – as though she was scared.'

Sabina Rupius bent down and rested a hand on the governess's shoulder.

'Miss Lydgate?' She shook the Englishwoman a little. 'Miss Lydgate? What is the matter?'

The English governess did not reply. It was as though she was suffering from catalepsy; yet her left hand was gripping her right arm very tightly. So tightly, in fact, that the nails had broken the papery skin and bright beads of blood had begun to seep out.

'Nurse?' Sabina Rupius looked up to see that Miss Lydgate's rictus of terror was being mirrored on the face of Fräulein Dill.

'Nurse,' repeated the girl in a tremulous voice. 'Look at her lips. I think she's trying to say something.'

Sabina Rupius pressed her ear close to the governess's mouth. Miss Lydgate
was saying
something – but not in German. Nurse Rupius's command of English was not very good, yet she was able to recognise a few of the words and she made a determined effort to remember what the woman was saying.

'I'll do it, if you won't,' said the governess. 'I'll do it. I'll do it, if you won't . . .'

22

T
HE LOCK WAS HELD
in place by two small vices. Only a single candle burned on the mantelpiece, but he did not need to see what he was doing. In his mind he held a mental picture of the mechanism, and his dexterous fingers responded to the slightest resistance as he manoeuvred the pick.

It was what he did to divert himself and he had been doing so for many years. Some might play chess or a musical instrument, or read poetry, but Karl Uberhorst picked locks. The task was so demanding that he could lose himself in the process and hence avoid thinking about those things that made his soul ache: his loneliness and regrets.

Sometimes it would take him months to work out (by trial and error) the exact sequence of the movements necessary to pick a particular lock. But for a man whose life was solitary and without any event save the routine, the duration of each project was largely irrelevant. His patience was infinite. Moreover, he felt that he had no right to claim an understanding of any lock mechanism unless he could master it.

Although a sensitive man, Uberhorst was not fanciful. Yet, on occasion, lock-picking would stir and awaken in him something close to poetic inspiration. Similes that were then transformed into colouful mental frescoes would suggest themselves. He was like a mystic, probing the mysteries of the universe; like a lover overcoming the resistance of a coy woman; like Oedipus discovering the secret of the sphinx. These similes, when they surfaced, influenced his technique. Some locks needed to be persuaded, seduced with subtle stratagems – while others needed to be stormed, requiring a kind of heroism.

The lock upon which he was working was a Chubb-style 'detector' that had recently been patented in America (a country that now seemed to be threatening the historical pre-eminence of the British). Such locks required great care, as the bolt would become trapped if any of the levers were raised too high. The lock would then have to be reset using the true key, and he would have to begin his labours afresh. Biting his lower lip, he insinuated the pick, testing each lever to establish which one secured the bolt.

In addition to recreation and analgesia, Uberhorst's singular hobby served another, less readily articulated purpose. Somewhere, in the darker recesses of his sombre mind, a germ of ambition had taken root. His comprehensive understanding of lock mechanisms would allow him, one day, to design a system that was truly invulnerable. In the moments before sleep, he was teased by a speculative vision, a hypothetical mechanism floating in the darkness: a pin-tumbler lock with a revolving cylinder . . .

Uberhorst closed his eyes and raised the lever, feeling the slight resistance.

A little more . . . a little more.

At this point, skill required the supplementary advantage of intuition. Uberhorst decided that he would take a risk.

Ever so gently . . .

But he had gone too far. He had tripped the lever past the corner of the detecting spring.

The bolt was trapped.