Mortal Mischief (4 page)

'Suicide,' said Haussmann.

Rheinhardt said nothing in response. Haussmann shrugged and walked around the table to the chaise longue. 'She's very beautiful.'

'Indeed,' said Rheinhardt. 'Strikingly so.'

'Fräulein Löwenstein?'

'Very probably. I suppose we should get Rosa Sucher back up here to identify the body. Though she was so upset – perhaps that's not such a good idea.'

'It might save us some legwork, sir.'

'True. But being a good policeman isn't only about making expedient decisions, Haussman.' His assistant looked slightly hurt, forcing Rheinhardt to amend his reprimand with a conciliatory smile. 'Besides,' Rheinhardt added, 'Fräulein Löwenstein was expecting some guests tonight – perhaps there will be a gentleman among the company who may be willing to assist us.'

Although the room had at first appeared rather grand, closer inspection soon revealed that this was an illusion. The paintwork was chipped, the floorboards scuffed, and a brown stain under one of the windows suggested damp. At one end of the room was an austere marble fireplace, above which an ornate Venetian-style mirror had been hung. Rheinhardt suspected that it was a copy. Recesses on either side of the fireplace contained shelves on which an array of items had been placed: a cheap porcelain figure of a shepherdess, an empty bowl, two vases, and a ceramic hand (displaying the chief lines of the palm). The other end of the room was occupied by a large embroidered screen. The total effect of the room was somewhat depressing, moth-eaten and shabby.

'We're going to need a floor plan for the file – can you do that, Haussmann?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And an inventory of items?'

'Yes, sir.'

Rheinhardt continued to scan the room.

The rain lashed against the windows, running in streams down the casement. Outside, the shutter continued to bang against the wall. Rheinhardt unlocked the offending window, opened it, and peered out. A blast of cold air scoured his face and the curtains billowed inwards. The road had become a river in spate – a rushing, tumbling flood. Peering over the ledge, the Inspector looked downwards. It was a sheer drop.

Rheinhardt fixed the loose shutter and closed the window. He wiped the rain from his face with a handkerchief and examined his reflection, making some minor adjustments to his moustache. His satisfied exhalation fogged the glass.

'Sir?'

The young man's voice was slightly edgy – uncertain. The room trembled as the celestial cannonade continued.

'Yes?'

'You'd better take a look at this.'

Behind the screen was a large lacquered box, decorated with Japanese figures. Rheinhardt tried to lift the lid but discovered that it was locked.

'Shall we force it open?'

'That won't be necessary. You can ask Rosa Sucher where her mistress kept the key.'

'Shall I do that now, sir?'

'No. Not yet, Haussmann. Let's just think a little, eh?'

Haussmann nodded, and assumed what he hoped the Inspector would recognise as a contemplative expression.

Rheinhardt's attention was drawn again to the body. Slowly, he advanced towards the sofa and knelt to inspect the wound. As he did so, he accidentally brushed against the woman's delicate but unyielding fingers. Her frozen touch made him shudder. He instinctively wanted to apologise but managed to stop himself. Rheinhardt used the damp handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose. Close up, the smell of stale urine and the beginnings of decomposition became deeply unpleasant. There was a double flash of lightning, and the crystals of dried blood around the wound glowed like garnets.

'Impossible.' He whispered the word almost unconsciously.

'I'm sorry, sir?'

The thunder roared like a captive giant.

Rheinhardt stood up and looked around the room, unnerved by the evidence of his own senses.

'Sir?' Haussmann sounded anxious.

Rheinhardt walked over to the door and checked that the key was still in the lock. It was – a large black key. He wheeled around. Haussman was staring at him, his head tilted to one side.

'What do you think happened here?' asked Rheinhardt.

Haussman swallowed: 'The Fräulein has committed suicide, sir.'

'Very well. Reconstruct events – tell me how she did it.'

Haussmann looked confused.

'She shot herself, sir.'

'Clearly – but from the beginning.'

'The Fräulein must have come into this room last night – well, that's what I would assume, given the way she's dressed. She locked the door and then sat at this table, where she began to compose a suicide note. She was evidently in a distressed state of mind, and gave up on the task after completing only a few lines.'

'And what do you make of those lines?'

Haussmann took a step towards the table and looked down at the note before continuing: 'They're a confession of some kind. She felt that she had done something wrong and should therefore make reparation by taking her own life.'

'Go on.'

'Then, perhaps after further deliberation – who can say? – the Fräulein sat on the chaise longue, lay back, and shot herself in the heart.'

'I see,' said Rheinhardt. And waited.

Haussmann pursed his lips and walked over to the couch. He looked at the Fräulein's wound, and then followed the line of her arm and hand. Kneeling on the floor, he looked under the couch and then said: 'Sir . . .'

'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 some
thing
– that could pass through walls.

3

T
HE 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.