Mortal Mischief (19 page)

Liebermann replied with some hesitancy: 'I do not think it appropriate for me to comment on—'

'Come now – I am asking you a perfectly reasonable question!' Mathias snapped. 'What is your opinion of Professor Gruner?'

'I cannot claim any special knowledge of Professor Gruner as a man; however, as a doctor . . .'

'Yes?'

Liebermann took a deep breath: 'I disagree with his methods profoundly.'

'And why?'

'They are inhumane.'

Mathias grunted his assent.

'Precisely. The man's an idiot. Slowest student in my anatomy class – only got where he is today through nepotism and patronage!' Liebermann heard Rheinhardt releasing a little whistle of relief. 'Well, Herr Doctor,' continued Mathias, 'Perhaps you are not such a bad judge after all. Even though,' he added under his breath, 'you have decided to specialise in the most disreputable branch of medicine.'

Liebermann smiled politely and trapped his tongue between his teeth.

The old professor dragged his trolley closer to the table and began to arrange his collection of instruments. He moved a mallet a fraction of an inch to the left, but then nudged it back again. He then started lining up knives, only to give up halfway through in order to restart the operation from the very beginning. Liebermann was quick to recognise a very obvious case of obsessional neurosis.

Rheinhardt was growing impatient. Not only was he anxious for the professor to proceed but he was also finding the smell of the morgue intolerable. Fräulein Löwenstein's body was exuding fetid vapours that made his gorge rise. The air was thick with formaldehyde fumes and the stench of putrefaction. Rheinhardt took out a handkerchief and held it over his face, attracting the attention of Professor Mathias.

'Do you know,' the old man said, 'I can hardly smell a thing. I'm so used to it.' He placed a serrated blade next to a chisel and added: 'Might I suggest some cigars, gentlemen? Smoking makes the effluvium more tolerable – so I'm told.'

'Thank you, Herr Professor,' said Rheinhardt.

With quick, desperate movements the Inspector undid the top button of his jacket and pulled out a flat box of panatellas. He immediately lit a cigar and drew on it until his head almost disappeared in a cloud of pungent smoke. Rheinhardt's tense lineaments softened with pleasure as the fragrant tobacco neutralised the stench.

'Forgive me. Herr Doctor?' He offered his friend the box.

Liebermann felt that as a medical man he should be able to cope without smoking; however, he had not attended an autopsy for a long time and the rising miasma was making him feel quite sick.

'Thank you,' he said, taking the box.

Professor Mathias completed his preparatory ritual and proclaimed: 'If we do not find anything pleasant, at least we shall find something new.'

He then looked at his two companions, an expectant expression on his face.

'No? Very well, it was from
Candide
.' He then gently turned back the lower covers, revealing Fräulein Löwenstein's abdomen. Her stomach was bloated, the skin stretched taut by the gases in her gut. The sides of her back, pressed against the grey slab of the table, were marbled with streaks of maroon and violet. Mathias fussed with the canvas, ensuring that the dead woman's pudenda were properly covered.

'Herr Professor,' said Liebermann. 'Before you begin, may I see the bullet wound?' Mathias flashed a disapproving look in Liebermann's direction. 'Please,' Liebermann added hopefully.

Mathias lifted the upper sheet and dropped it again, offering Liebermann the briefest of glances.

'And you have no explanation?' Liebermann asked.

'None,' replied Mathias. The response was cool and dismissive.

The old man selected a small blade and began to make a series of incisions in Fräulein Löwenstein's abdomen. He peeled back the flesh, creating a large opening though which one could see the rounded, pink surface of the bladder. Behind it was the slightly darker mass of the uterus. Rheinhardt looked away.

'Well, well . . .' said Professor Mathias. He had become a little breathless and was wheezing slightly.

'What is it?' said Rheinhardt.

'The womb is engorged.'

Smoke from Rheinhardt's cigar rolled across Fräulein Löwenstein's body and collected inside the abdominal cavity. Mathias emitted a grunt of disapproval.

'Does that mean—'

'Patience, Inspector. How many times do I have to tell you!'

'
Festina lente
?'

'Of course.
Festina lente
.'

The old man wiped the gore from his blade, and then selected a large pair of scissors. He reached into Fräulein Löwenstein's body, made some cuts, and scooped the dead woman's bladder out of her abdomen with both hands. He deposited the limp sack into a jar of formaldehyde and paused to watch it sink. The organ descended, leaving stringy trails of brown viscosity in its wake. Mathias seemed deep in thought.

'Very interesting . . .' he said softly.

'What is?' asked Rheinhardt.

Mathias ignored the question. Instead, he briefly addressed Fräulein Löwenstein's head: 'Excuse me.' He then plunged his hands back into her body and pressed his palms against the straining balloon of her uterus.

'Yes,' he repeated. 'Very interesting indeed.'

After wiping a foul transparent residue from his fingers, Professor Mathias selected another knife and made two swift incisions. Liebermann had seen waiters in The Imperial make similar movements when preparing fruit. Mathias crouched over Fräulein Löwenstein's body and accompanied by the melodic inventions of his tired lungs, turned back the quarters of the segmented uterus with tender care.

When he had finished the operation he remained perfectly still. Neither Rheinhardt nor Liebermann could see what the old man had discovered. Mathias was bent over the corpse, his bloody hands still buried among Fräulein Löwenstein's innards.

Rheinhardt cleared his throat, hoping to attract the pathologist's attention.

There was no response.

'Herr Professor?

Mathias shook his head and whispered something inaudible.

Liebermann looked at Rheinhardt questioningly.

'Professor?' Rheinhardt repeated.

The old man took a step backwards and, gesturing towards Fräulein Löwenstein's exposed abdomen, said: 'Gentlemen . . .'

The Inspector and the doctor moved forwards.

Liebermann had considered himself beyond surprise. He was certain that Fräulein Löwenstein was pregnant and had already formed a mental image of what he was about to see.

But he was mistaken.

Suddenly all of his expectations were invalidated.

'Dear God,' said Rheinhardt.

In the raw and exposed shell of Fräulein Lowenstein's womb were two small bodies, each no bigger than a man's thumb but complete in every human detail. The tiny fingers and toes were fully formed, and the faces – with closed eyes – were a picture of serenity. A tangle of umbilical cord lay between them, like a serpent guardian. They looked snug in their rank puddle of amniotic fluid.

As the initial shock subsided, Liebermann was visited by a terrible sadness. He was moved to say a prayer, but in the absence of any religious instinct was forced to seek solace in the surrogate balm of poetry: 'Sleep is good, death is better; but of course, the best thing would be never to have been born at all.'

'Heinrich Heine,' said Professor Mathias, demonstrating again his peculiar fondness for quotations and their identification.
'Morphine
. I commend you on two counts, Herr Doctor: your powers of deduction and your choice of epitaph. We live in a wicked world. They will never be touched by evil or pain. Their innocent slumber will be eternal.'

Saying this, the professor anointed each tiny skull with the tip of his forefinger. Liebermann had never seen such a bizarre or macabre benediction.

Mathias wiped his fingers on his apron, leaving ruddy mucous trails. Looking at Rheinhardt, he added: 'Well, Inspector, it seems you are now investigating a triple murder.'

27

T
HE ROOM WAS
quite small but decorated like a sultan's palace. The curtains were dark blue, almost black, and embellished with a braided motif of gold. A pile of cushions decorated with silver thread and studded with tiny mirrors and pearls had tumbled off the divan and lay scattered across the floor. Three large candles, each as thick as a child's arm, burned in holders that were encrusted with gemstones: sardonyx, opal, sapphire and chrysoprase; and the air was dense with the heavy perfume of frankincense, a small heap of which was smouldering in a massive dish of polished granite.

Seated at a baize-covered card table was a substantial woman whose ample curves had been compressed between the solid arms of a large wooden throne. It possessed the primitive dignity of a medieval artefact – the high back-panel was festooned with crudely carved rosettes and serpentine creepers, among which were an odd company of raging gargoyles and winged seraphim.

Fräulein Löwenstein had been found dead in a locked room
.

She had been shot through the heart – yet there was no bullet
.

In the
Zeitung
they had tried to suggest that nothing strange had happened, that Braun might be responsible, that it was all an illusion – an elaborate stage trick. But what did
they
know?

Cosima von Rath cast her mind back to a strange meeting that had occurred two years earlier. She had travelled to New York with her father. At a society gathering hosted by the Decker family at which she and Ferdinand had been totally ignored by the Rothschilds (the snub still smarted), she had been introduced to a young English magus – Lord Boleskine, a handsome fellow – who had curiously ardent eyes. Boleskine was in New York trying to raise money for his own magical order, The Lamp of the Invisible Light. So persuasive was Boleskine that she had agreed to make a donation there and then, and had subsequently made several more in response to his letters. In return, Boleskine had sent her some volumes of poetry, which he had written himself under the unassuming name of Aleister Crowley. The most recent,
The Soul of Osiris,
lay on the table in front of her.

On the occasion of their first meeting Boleskine had rested a hand on Cosima von Rath's arm and leaning close – too close, perhaps – had whispered
: I know who you are. Forgive these fools.
Sweeping his hand around the room in an extravagant gesture, he had added:
They know nothing
.

Ushering her on to the balcony, from where they could see the Statue of Liberty in the distance, Boleskine had taken her into his confidence. He explained how he had been experimenting with a ritual that could make the celebrant invisible. A magus of Boleskine's stature – or someone even more skilled in the black arts – might enter a room, commit a murder, and simply wait for the locked door to be broken down, whereupon he could slip away unnoticed – right under the noses of the dim-witted investigators.

Reflecting on her hypothesis, Cosima congratulated herself, but she was troubled by its implications. Would Fräulein Löwenstein really have had the opportunity to mix in such exalted circles? She had been a talented medium, without doubt, but not someone versed in arcane law, that much was obvious. Hers had been a natural gift – raw and untutored. She had known virtually nothing of the Egyptian deities. When Cosima had mentioned Horus, Isis, and Hoor-Paar-Kraat (better known to the uninitiated as Seth), Charlotte Löwenstein had simply changed the subject, showing the unmistakable signs of embarrassment.

Cosima wriggled uncomfortably. The chair arms were pressing into the flesh that hung in loose folds around her stomach and hips. She picked up her well-worn set of tarot cards and flicked through the minor trumps, removing the four queens.

Which, she wondered, would best serve the purpose of representing Charlotte Löwenstein?

She touched each of the four suits and after some deliberation returned her stubby forefinger to the Queen of Cups, which she pushed out of the regal parade and towards a sphere of glass that rested in an ivory cradle on the card table.

Of course, there was still another possibility. Fräulein Löwenstein might have meddled with powers that she was ultimately unable to control. Lord Boleskine had spoken of 'The Operation of Abramelin' and other such rites: calling forth the four Great Princes of the world's evil – and their eight sub-princes . . . Charlotte Löwenstein's uncomplicated personality may have been a ruse, an expedient disguise, concealing a proud heart and more ambition than Cosima had at first suspected. If the silly girl had attempted to bargain with forces that she did not understand they would have exacted a terrible and unspeakable revenge.

Cosima stroked the diamond-encrusted ankh that hung from her neck, and stared into the crystal ball. An inverted world hung in its watery bubble, supporting no life except a deformed homunculus with bulging eyes. Cosima had sat like this for many hours, on many occasions, staring at her own distorted reflection, and not once had the ball become milky, not once had its interior clouded with prescient visions.