Mortal Mischief (8 page)

'Yes, of course. Bruckmüller's. It's the surgical-instrument shop near the university.'

'Do you know Herr Bruckmüller?'

'No. Why do you ask?'

'He was an acquaintance of Fräulein Löwenstein.'

'Really?' said the professor – although it was clear that he wasn't paying much attention. Rheinhardt placed the scalpel in the glass retort. It rang like a bell.

As Rheinhardt stood behind Mathias, he couldn't help but notice that, in spite of the old man's earlier exhortations concerning haste, he was working much faster now. He was employing different instruments, one after the other, and tutting loudly. Indeed, he was looking increasingly agitated – if not actually annoyed. Rheinhardt thought it best not to interfere and waited patiently.

After several minutes Mathias wiped the blood from a long pair of tweezers and, displaying an uncharacteristic lack of care, tossed them on to the trolley. Rheinhardt was startled. The old man then stared directly at Rheinhardt, saying nothing. His expression was far from friendly.

'Professor?' ventured Rheinhardt.

'What is the meaning of this?' asked Mathias, gesturing towards the corpse.

'I beg your pardon, Professor?'

'Was it Orlov? Or was it Humboldt? Did they put you up to this?'

Rheinhardt raised his hands.

'I'm sorry, Herr Professor, but I haven't a clue what you're talking about.'

Mathias grunted, took off his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. Rheinhardt wondered whether Mathias's eccentricity wasn't, after all, something very close to madness. The old man replaced his spectacles and undid his apron with a decisive tug. He lifted the collar over his head, rolled the apron up, and placed it on the bottom shelf of the trolley. He then began to fidget with his instruments, moving them around as though they were the pieces in a bizarre chess game.

'Professor,' said Rheinhardt. 'I would be most grateful if you would explain yourself.'

Mathias looked up from his instruments. Again, he stared at Rheinhardt, his enlarged eyes swimming behind their lenses. Rheinhardt endured the silence for as long as he could before finally losing his patience.

'Herr Professor, I have had a long and difficult day. I have not eaten since this morning, and I am tired. I would very much like to go home. Now, for the last time, I would be most grateful if you would explain yourself!'

The professor snorted, but a fog of doubt passed across his face, softening his angry pout.

'This isn't a joke?' he said in a neutral voice.

Rheinhardt shook his head.

'No, Professor, this isn't a joke.'

'Very well,' said Mathias warily. 'I will explain my findings, and if you can make any sense of them, you're a better pathologist than I am.' The old man paused before turning to face the corpse. Pointing at the gaping hole in Fräulein Löwenstein's chest, he continued: 'This woman has been shot. Here is the point where the bullet entered her body. The heart has been torn open, as one would expect.' He poked his finger into her chest and lifted a flap of skin. Rheinhardt felt a little sick. 'See here,' said the professor. 'This is where the bullet ripped through the left ventricle. Everything is consistent with a gunshot wound.'

'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'I can see that.'

'But,' said Mathias, 'there is no bullet.'

'I beg your pardon, Herr Professor?'

Mathias said again: 'There is no bullet.'

Rheinhardt nodded.

'It passed through her body?'

'No,' replied Mathias. 'The entry canal has a definite terminus. Nothing came out the other side of her body.'

'Then what are you saying?' asked Rheinhardt. 'That the bullet was . . . removed?'

'No. The bullet has not been removed.'

'You're absolutely sure?'

'Absolutely.'

'Then how can you explain . . .'

Rheinhardt's words trailed off into silence. The electric-light system began to buzz, and the lights blinked out again for a second or two.

'I can't explain this,' said Mathias, flicking the flap of skin back like the lid of a jewellery box. 'Rheinhardt, you have brought me a physical impossibility. That is why it is my belief that I – or perhaps both of us – are the victims of a tedious prank. Goodnight, Inspector.'

Mathias wiped his bloody fingers on a white towel. He then walked towards the door, his metal-tipped shoes sparking on the flagstones as he dragged his heavy heels.

8

H
EINRICH AND JUNO HöLDERLIN
were seated in the spacious breakfast room of their Hietzing villa. Two housemaids were clearing the plates – and as they did so they exchanged surreptitious, knowing glances: the master and mistress of the household were clearly not very hungry. A slab of gleaming yellow butter had been scraped no more than a few times and the breadbasket was still piled high with freshly baked rolls. The bacon and boiled eggs had hardly been touched.

Hölderlin rang the table bell to summon the steward, who swiftly materialised with the coffee. He was immaculately turned out in white gloves and a brick-red coat with a black velvet collar.

'Thank you, Klaus,' said Juno, as the decorous manservant deposited a large silver pot and tray on the table.

'Cook will be preparing suckling pig and artichokes for supper – and wanted to know whether sir would like pineapple mousse or ice cream to follow.'

Hölderlin looked briefly at his wife.

'The mousse?'

'Yes,' said Juno. 'The mousse.'

The steward bowed, clicked his heels, and marched out of the room, pursued by the heavily burdened housemaids. Hölderlin picked up his copy of the
Wiener Zeitung
and turned to the financial pages.

'What does it say?' asked Juno nervously.

The polished dome of her husband's pate rose above the newspaper's horizon like the dawn sun.

'About Fräulein Löwenstein?'

Juno nodded, eyelids flickering rapidly.

'Nothing, of course. It's too early.'

Juno poured a cup of coffee for her husband, and then for herself.

'Who would do such a thing? It's such a terrible business,' she said quietly.

'No one would disagree with you there,' said Hölderlin, turning a page.

'I couldn't sleep.'

'Nor me.'

Juno looked around the room and made an impromptu inspection of her house plants. She thought that the aspidistra was looking a little withered, and made a mental note that it should be given extra water. Next to the aspidistra was a framed picture of her beloved sister, Sieglinde.

Sieglinde had died (or, as Juno preferred to say, had 'departed') in the autumn of the previous year after a long and painful illness. The doctors had done little to ease her suffering, and it had been with mixed feelings that Juno had buried her sister in the Zentralfriedhof. Juno had known that she would feel her sister's absence like the loss of a limb – but watching Sieglinde coughing up dark clots of blood and writhing in agony had been intolerable.

Throughout the winter months, even when it had been snowing, Juno had journeyed from Hietzing to the Zentralfriedhof to lay flowers on her sister's grave. Then, one bleak December morning while leaving the cemetery, she had fallen into conversation with another mourner, a handsome young man by the name of Otto Braun. He had explained how, after the loss of his own dear mother, the desolation of his grief had been relieved by a talented medium in Leopoldstadt. Juno begged Heinrich to accompany her. The woman, Fräulein Löwenstein, held meetings every Thursday evening and Juno did not want to venture into Leopoldstadt on her own. After only one sitting, Juno was convinced that the woman was no charlatan. Heinrich had been sceptical at first – but even he was forced to change his mind when his father 'came through'.

Yes, Fräulein Löwenstein had been special
.

'Do you think the Inspector will call today?'

'I have no idea.'

'What was his name? I've forgotten it.'

'Rheinhardt – Inspector Rheinhardt.'

'He said that he would, didn't he?'

Hölderlin looked at his wife. The rate of her blinking had increased.

'He said that he would like to interview us again, yes,' said Hölderlin, 'But I don't think he said that it would be today, specifically.' He raised the newspaper. 'Well, that wasn't my impression, anyway.'

'Why does he want to ask us more questions?'

'I don't know.'

'Surely . . . surely he doesn't suspect us. Surely he doesn't think that we—'

'Of course not!' said Hölderlin, raising his voice. 'Don't be so ridiculous! Of course he knows it's got nothing to do with us!' He turned the page angrily.

Juno lifted the coffee cup to her lips but did not drink. 'I do hope so,' she said more calmly. 'He seemed a sensible man.'

'Yes,' Hölderlin replied gruffly. 'Very sensible.'

Juno took a minute sip of coffee. 'The little locksmith,' she said. 'He was so upset. Devastated.'

From behind the paper Hölderlin replied: 'Herr Uberhorst is a very sensitive fellow.'

'Yes, he is,' said Juno. 'I believe he still has one of my books. I lent him my Madame Blavatsky. Perhaps you could get it back from him, my dear – if you're passing?'

'Yes . . . yes.'

'He
is
a sensitive fellow. But there was more to it, don't you think?'

Hölderlin did not reply.

'The way he used to look at her . . .'

Hölderlin lowered his paper with evident impatience.

'What?'

'Didn't you ever notice?'

'Notice what?' Hölderlin asked irritably.

Juno blinked at her husband.

'The way Herr Uberhorst used to look at Fräulein Löwenstein. The way he would hang on her every word.'

Hölderlin shook his shiny head and continued reading.

'He was like a schoolboy,' Juno continued. 'Mind, he wasn't the only one, of course. She seemed to have, how can one put it, an influence over men. Wouldn't you say? If you ask me, the Count was besotted too – as was that young fellow Braun. There's no denying her gift, of course. She was very talented. Blessed, one might say. Strange, isn't it? That such a – would it be fair to say this, I don't know – that such a vain woman who was so very particular in matters of appearance should possess such a gift. Still, who am I to question the Lord's will? Such a gift is God-given – of that I'm sure.'

When she had finished speaking, the silence was crushing.

'Heinrich?'

Her husband said nothing.

Juno allowed her coffee cup to drop loudly into its saucer.

'Heinrich?' she said again, somewhat louder. 'You're not listening, are you?'

Behind the protective cover of his newspaper, Heinrich Hölderlin was sitting with eyes wide, staring blankly at an advert for Kalodont toothpaste:
Indispensable
. He had heard every word, and his mouth had gone wholly dry – as though packed with sawdust. Hölderlin swallowed to relieve the uncomfortable sensation, but to no effect.

9

H
ER HAIR WAS
pulled back tightly from her face and the cast of her features, set in a permanent half-frown, suggested habitual seriousness. Although young, there was nothing about her that suggested naivety or insouciance.

Beyond the confines of the examination room, Liebermann could hear a man screaming. He was accustomed to such sounds in the hospital; however, he was concerned that these anguished cries – suggesting the practice of some medieval torture – would upset his new patient.

The woman raised her left hand to stifle a repetitive cough. Her right hand remained conspicuously still – the palm and fingers curled upwards on her lap like the petals of a dying flower.

The screaming stopped.

'If I may,' said Liebermann, 'I would like to examine your arm, Miss Lydgate.'

'Of course.' Her voice was soft, but serrated with a certain huskiness: a consequence, no doubt, of her incessant coughing.

Liebermann rolled up the right sleeve of her gown. Her arm was slender, almost emaciated, and beneath the crêpe-paper transparency of her skin a network of branching veins was clearly visible.

'Could you close your eyes, please? Now, tell me if you feel anything.'

Liebermann tapped the woman's palm, wrist and forearm with his pencil, to none of which was there any response. When he reached a point close to her shoulder, she suddenly flinched, saying: 'Yes, I feel something there.' By continuous tapping in this region, Liebermann was able to establish that the woman's paralysis had begun quite suddenly. It was as though an amulet encircled her upper arm, below which the sensory apparatus was no longer functioning. Such a decisive boundary did not correspond with the underlying continuities of the nervous system. The phenomenon was a physical impossibility and a cardinal symptom of hysteria.