Mortal Mischief (42 page)

'Good afternoon, sir,' said the proprietor, clicking his heels. 'My name is Herr Reitlinger, Adolph Reitlinger – how can I help you?'

'I'm trying to trace an Egyptian figure – a small effigy of the god Seth. I was wondering if you had sold it . . .' Liebermann's sentence trailed off.

Herr Reitlinger paused for a moment. 'Seth, you say?'

'The god of storms, boy – the god of chaos,' the old man called out.

'That's enough, father!' said Herr Reitlinger.

'Pretty things,' said the bird.

'No,' continued Herr Reitlinger. 'I don't think that was one of our acquisitions. But let me show you this . . .' Herr Reitlinger reached up to a shelf and offered Liebermann a small bronze figure of a walking man. 'Amon-Re – in human form. Late period – possibly 700 BC.I think you'll agree that it's a charming piece. Notice the detail.'

Liebermann turned the figure in his hands and whispered to Reitlinger.

'What was your father talking about – the mountains, the gorge . . .?'

'He travelled a great deal when he was younger.' Reitlinger made a stirring motion next to his ear. 'It all gets mixed up now.'

Liebermann handed the bronze back to Reitlinger.

'It is certainly a charming piece, but not really what I'm looking for. Good afternoon.'

The old man, his son and the bird watched in silence as Liebermann left.

68

T
HE HEAVY EMBOSSED
wallpaper, thick red curtains and polished ebony floorboards of the Schelling parlour combined to create an oppressive atmosphere. Even the engraved silver plates, suspended on either side of an aureate Biedermeier mirror, seemed dull and patinated: large grey-green discs that absorbed rather than reflected the weak sunlight.

Beatrice Schelling was seated by a lamp stand and was embroidering Adele's name on to a quilt. Although the task should have been restful the speed with which she executed her needlework suggested urgency. Her lips were pressed together and her brow was deeply furrowed. She had been there for some time, and the fronded pattern she was working on was almost complete.

Marie – her younger sister – had taken Edward and Adele to Demel's (the imperial and royal confectioners) for a treat. She had urged Marie to keep a close eye on how much chocolate the children were consuming. The last time they had all visited Demel's, Edward had returned with a stomach-ache and had eventually been sick. He had eaten four praline busts of the Emperor.

Beatrice's mind emptied on hearing the slow, ponderous step of her husband in the hallway. The doors opened and Schelling entered. He was wearing a gold smoking jacket and a bright blue cravat. In one hand was the stub of a cigar and in the other a sheet of paper.

'Beatrice, I have received a letter from Amelia.'

'Is she well?'

'She has left the hospital.'

'She has escaped?' There was a note of shrill alarm in Beatrice's voice.

'No. She was discharged with her doctor's approval.'

'Then where is she? Are we to collect her?'

'She is not coming back.'

Beatrice's face became animated by a series of contradictory expressions – oscillating between hope and anxiety.

'She says that she's found another post,' Schelling added. He advanced slowly and, looking down, absent-mindedly observed: 'You're doing your embroidery again.'

'Yes . . .' said Beatrice. 'Where has she gone?'

'I don't know. It's an address in Alsergrund.'

'But how could she . . .?'

'I have no idea.'

'Such ingratitude.'

'Dreadful. Perfectly dreadful.'

Schelling reached for the lamp switch.

'You must have the light on, my dear. Otherwise you will strain your eyes and get a headache.'

Then, walking to the fireplace, he drew on his cigar and threw what remained of the stub on to the unlit coals.

'She has asked for her books to be sent on – and requests that special care be taken with respect to her microscope. She does not even mention her clothes.'

'I will get Vilma and Alfred to pack them.'

'Yes, of course.'

Beatrice picked nervously at her embroidery. Without looking up she said: 'What did Amelia say . . . about . . .' Her voice cracked. 'What were her reasons?'

Schelling took a step forward and offered his wife the letter. Beatrice shook her head with excessive vigour. It was as though he had offered her poison.

'She does not give any reasons,' Schelling replied. Then, folding the letter and slipping it into his jacket pocket, he added: 'I must write to her mother.'

'Yes,' said Beatrice, becoming agitated. 'This evening, otherwise she might—'

'My dear,' Schelling interrupted. 'You have overexerted yourself with the children. You are tired, do not fret.'

Beatrice had begun to breathe faster and her cheeks were glowing.

'The girl was very unwell,' continued Schelling, smoothly. 'Right from the beginning. Whatever poor Amelia says will immediately be recognised as fantasy. Delusion. It will be so distressing for Greta and Samuel . . . I pity them. I'm sure the doctors have tried their best – but inevitably . . .' Shaking his head, he began walking towards the door. 'There is only so much that they can do.'

Suddenly Beatice reached out and caught her husband's arm. It was an unexpected movement and Schelling's practised composure was momentarily disturbed. A nervous tic appeared under his right eye – the heavy rubicund flesh suddenly galvanised into life. Even though his wife's hand was shaking, her grip was surprisingly firm.

'No more now,' she said, grasping his sleeve tighter and speaking with a breathless intensity. 'This must be the last time. I cannot . . . it is . . . we must—'

Slowly, Schelling pulled his arm away. His wife's hand lingered but finally released the smoking jacket's sleeve.

'Do carry on with your embroidery,' he said softly. 'It looks very pretty. How clever you are.'

He continued on his way.

Beatrice heard the doors to the hallway opening and closing. Biting her lower lip, she returned to her needlework, her fingers working with furious dexterity.

69

T
HE SHOP WINDOW
contained a terraced display of family portraits: husbands and wives, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. Newly wedded lovers stared into each other's eyes, and children – in lederhosen and rustic aprons – posed against a painted canvas of rolling hills and distant mountains. The upper terrace, however, was bedecked with famous singers, a Valhalla of warrior princes and Valkyries, spear-shaking tenors and busty sopranos, who gazed beyond the limits of the picture frame at feasting gods and apocalyptic fire. And amid this heroic company was a large picture of the mayor, a dapper man wearing a white Homburg and leaning on a cane, surrounded by a coterie of admirers.

Von Bulow read the poster pinned on the door. The Camera Club was exhibiting the landscapes of Herr Heinrich Kühn (under whose name ran the informative legend 'Inventor of multiple rubber-plate printing').

'An exhibition of photographs,' said von Bulow. 'Whatever next?'

Haussmann thought it best not to express an opinion.

Von Bulow pushed the door and a bell rang.

The shop was a forest of tripods. Most were empty, but several supported cameras: large wooden boxes with extended leather concertinas. A low glass case was packed with cylindrical lenses, each labelled with mathematical figures and a price tag. The air was filled with an unpleasant odour that von Bulow found impossible to identify. It was like a blend of floor polish and cheese.

A curtain behind the counter parted and a small man in shirtsleeves emerged, drying his hands on a towel. His hair had been plastered down and his well-trimmed beard and moustache made him look like a Parisian.

'Good morning, gentlemen.' He waved the towel in the air to clear the dense cloud of smoke that had followed him. 'I do apologise – I've been experimenting with a new recipe for flash powder.'

'Herr Joly?' von Bulow asked.

'Yes.'

'Fritz Joly?'

'Yes.'

'My name is von Bulow – Inspector von Bulow – and this is my colleague, Haussmann.'

Herr Joly looked from one policeman to the other and the gap between his eyebrows narrowed.

'How can I help?'

Von Bulow placed the parcel on the counter and unfolded the paper wrapping.

'Do you recognise these?'

Joly opened the box and on seeing the first image started. Then, raising his head, he looked quizzically at his questioner. He found no comfort in von Bulow's expressionless, colourless eyes.

'Yes,' he replied tentatively.

'Your card was inside,' continued von Bulow. 'Do you know who she is – this woman?'

'Yes. Her name is Löwenstein . . .' Joly lifted the photographs out of the box and flicked through the images. A wistful smile softened his anxious expression. 'Not a face you'd forget, Inspector.'

'You took them?'

'A month ago – maybe more. Is there a problem? Has she done something wrong?'

Herr Joly placed the photographs back in the box and searched von Bulow's eyes again for a clue. The Inspector said nothing. Disconcerted by the silence, Joly added: 'She paid me in advance but never came back to collect them. My assistant cycled them over to her apartment: a Leopoldstadt address, I think.'

'They are somewhat unusual,' said von Bulow. 'Unlike the portraits in the window.'

'Indeed. I believe the gentleman is Fräulein Löwenstein's fiancé. Apparently he hates having his photograph taken. She wanted a portrait – of both of them, together – but insisted that the photograph should be taken without his knowledge. Candid, as it were.'

Von Bulow turned the box and stared at the first image. 'How could you have taken these without his knowledge? Surely he would have seen you erecting the tripod?'

Herr Joly smiled.

'Oh no, I didn't use one of those.' He pointed to one of the large wooden boxes. 'I used one of these.'

He opened a drawer under the counter and produced a small rectangular object covered in black leather.

'What is it?'

'A camera,' said Joly, his voice brightening with amusement.

Von Bulow and Haussmann were obviously not convinced.

'It's called a
Pocket Kozy
.'

'English?'

'No. American. They're getting remarkably good at making things – the Americans. It opens like a book – see?'

Herr Joly pulled the covers apart and, where von Bulow might have expected to see pages, red leather bellows appeared.

'Here's the meniscus lens, and the single-speed shutter is located here on the spine.' Herr Joly pointed to a small aperture. 'It's very fast, though, more or less instantaneous. This one's a few years old now, but I think they're developing even smaller models. The Kozy can take eighteen exposures on roll film, which produce three-and-a-half-inch photographs. It performs better under conditions where—'

'Yes, yes,' von Bulow interrupted loudly. 'That's all very interesting, Herr Joly. Where were they taken?'

'Outside a small café on the Prater,' Joly said, his voice now neutral. 'I forget which one. Fräulein Löwenstein told me when she and her fiancé were meeting – and I sat down at the next table after he'd arrived. You see, it looks like I'm simply reading a book . . .'

Herr Joly lifted the camera and looked into the open bellows. Then, raising his eyes, he peered over the leather covers.

'Can you remember how they greeted each other?' asked von Bulow.

Joly closed the camera and placed it on the counter with great care.

'How do you mean?'

'Did they kiss?'

'Umm – no, I don't think they did. But I can't be sure as it was some time ago now. Why is this important? Why are the police involved?'

Von Bulow fixed the birdlike photographer with a contemptuous stare.

'Do you read the papers, Herr Joly?'

'Yes. The
Tagblatt
, the
Zeitung
. . . Why?'

'Then perhaps you don't read them very thoroughly.'

The little man shrugged.

'Herr Joly, Fräulein Löwenstein did not collect these photographs in person for the simple reason that she is dead. Murdered, I imagine, by our friend here.'

Von Bulow allowed his finger to drop on the small stack of photographs. Pressing down on the gentleman's image, his lips parted to form a wide, predatory smile.