Mortal Mischief (22 page)

'I heard him stumble in the hallway. Then there was some cursing. Then he started to climb the stairs: slow, heavy footsteps. I was expecting him to stop on the landing below but he continued his ascent. I felt sick, and was overcome with a terrible sense of foreboding. I could hear him approaching my room. As he came nearer, I was aware that he was trying to tread with greater care, but the floorboards were old and they creaked. There was a knock on the door. I did not answer. Then I heard the sound of the handle turning. I had, of course, locked the door. I had deposited the key safely in the lower drawer of my bedside cabinet. Herr Schelling persisted, turning the handle and then shaking it quite loudly. He called out my name.
Amelia, Amelia.
My heart was thumping in my ears and chest – I gripped the bed sheets and hoped that Frau Schelling would wake.
Amelia, Amelia. Let me in. I need to tell you something.
I wanted to shout out,
Go away, go away. Please leave me alone
, but I couldn't. The words caught in my throat. Instead, I just lay there in the darkness, consumed with terror. After some time – possibly only minutes, but it seemed like an eternity – Herr Schelling abandoned his efforts to gain entry into my room, and I heard him walk away. However, he did not go downstairs as I had assumed he would. He went up to the third floor.

'There was no point in trying to sleep – I was too distressed. I sat up, and stared at the window. The curtains were not fully drawn, and I was able to calm my mind by counting the seconds between lightning flashes. Eventually my nervous agitation subsided, and I was able to consider my predicament with greater self-possession. After much deliberation, I concluded that my position in the Schelling household was untenable. I decided that I would leave Vienna at the earliest opportunity.'

The trance state had rendered Amelia Lydgate's expression largely impassive – yet occasionally the ghost of an emotion would surface before evaporating. Now her features became troubled by a more tenacious melancholy.

'This realisation – that I must leave Vienna – filled me with a terrible sadness that was more like despair. I would have to relinquish all my dreams – of working with Doctor Landsteiner, of acquiring sufficient knowledge to edit my grandfather's journals. All my plans, all my aspirations would come to nothing. I wept bitterly. Although I was wholly absorbed in my own misery, the shock of hearing Herr Schelling descending the stairs again brought me quickly to my senses. He came directly to my room. There was no knocking, no calling. I heard the sound of a key in the lock and the bolt turning. The door quickly opened and closed – and he was in.

'I was stunned. I could barely believe what had happened. Yet I had to believe it for I could hear his breathing – a horrible, ragged sound. There was a flash of lightning, and the impression of his presence was confirmed. I saw him standing close, like some terrible visitation in a nightmare. The mattress tilted as he crawled onto the bed.
Amelia
, he whispered.
Amelia
. I was paralysed, unable to move. I felt the weight of his body on mine, and his lips on my face. His moustache was rough and scratched my cheeks. Then his lips pressed up against mine. I could not breathe . . . I could not breathe . . . I was choking, and started to—'

Miss Lydgate's chest heaved. She raised her left arm. It was a sluggish, lymphatic movement, like that of weeds caught in a languid stream. She stifled a cough – and tried to continue.

'It was . . .' She coughed again. 'It was . . .'

Suddenly her eyes flicked open – like those of a doll. They were unnaturally wide and staring. Her pewter irises moved from left to right, examining the ceiling, before dipping to examine what lay beyond her toes. Then, with unexpected fluidity, Amelia Lydgate slid her legs off the side of the bed and sat up – supporting herself with both arms. Liebermann noticed that the fingers of her right hand were gripping the bedstead as tightly as were those of her left. The hospital gown had slipped from her shoulder, revealing an area of pale flesh and the nascent curve of a small breast. There was something wholly different about her attitude – something casual, almost slovenly in her appearance. A curtain of hair fell across her face. She made no effort to brush it away. Yet Liebermann could still see Miss Lydgate's eyes, glowing behind the russet strands with a dull metallic light. She was staring at him – a fixed, forensic stare.

Liebermann had not instructed her to wake, and even if he had it was customary for hypnotic subjects simply to open their eyes and remain still. Amelia Lydgate had acted spontaneously, opening her eyes and sitting up in the absence of a command. Liebermann wasn't altogether sure what was happening. Before he could make a decision, she spoke: 'Who are you?'

Her voice was less hesitant than usual. Moreover, she had asked the question in English.

'I am your doctor,' he replied – in German.

Liebermann could see that she didn't understand him.

'I said – who are you?' She articulated each syllable with deliberate emphasis, as though talking to a stupid child.

Liebermann edged his seat back and responded again, this time in English.

'My name is Doctor Liebermann. Who are you?'

'Me?' Amelia Lydgate looked down at her feet and swung them backwards and forwards. Then, looking up, she brushed the hair from her face with her right hand, revealing a manic grin. 'My name is Katherine.'

32

T
HE OPEN-AIR CONCERT
platform was situated near the Prohaska restaurant. Karl Uberhorst was seated a few rows from the front, enjoying a programme of popular pieces performed by the Ladies' String Orchestra of Vienna – a small ensemble of only nine players. Uberhorst was not a great music lover. He recognised the famous works by Strauss and Lanner but little else. He was not there for the music but for the leader of the orchestra, Fräulein Zöchling.

She was not as attractive as Fräulein Löwenstein, but nevertheless, there was something about her that Uberhorst found beguiling: her proud, almost defiant posturing – the way her torso swung backwards and forwards as she bounced the bow on the violin strings.

He had chanced upon the Ladies' String Orchestra while walking in the Prater a few days earlier and had felt compelled to return. It was like being granted a preview of heaven. The women, in high necked white dresses and gold sashes, looked like angels. At one point, Fräulein Zöchling had glanced directly into his eyes. The intensity of her gaze had been too much, and he had looked away – confused and ashamed.

The orchestra came to the end of
Fruhlingsstimmen
and the air crackled with applause. Fräulein Zöchling bowed and encouraged her colleagues to stand. Uberhorst noticed that all of the women wore their hair up, tied back with an identical yellow bow.

Their beauty tormented him – as
hers
had.

Why had Fräulein Löwenstein chosen to trust him with her secret?

Why not any of the others?

It was his duty to protect her honour – but at the same time, the information in his possession might be of considerable interest to the police. In addition, being truthful with them might free him from suspicion. Yet even contemplating this course of action felt like a terrible betrayal. Perhaps he would discover what to do at the seance? On the other hand, perhaps he should continue to experiment with the locks . . .

Fräulein Zöchling's orchestra sat down again as the applause gradually died away. Immediately, Fräulein Zöchling herself raised her violin, glanced at her fellow musicians and launched into a hectic polka.

Uberhorst found that he could no longer enjoy the concert. His lungs laboured to fill his ribcage and a patina of sweat coated his forehead. He felt dizzy with anxiety.

'Excuse me,' he whispered.

Fortunately he was only three seats from the end of the row and was able to leave without causing any disruption. He rushed away, gasping for air in the lilac-scented breeze.

When he was away from the crowds he stopped and looked back. The heavenly orchestra was still playing beneath the proscenium arch and, beyond, the Riesenrad was a black silhouette against the white sky.

33

T
HE FACTORY YARD
was an expanse of damp gravel, strewn with empty crates and abandoned pushcarts. Above Haussmann and Rheinhardt's heads, the moribund sky, a canopy of charcoal and pepper clouds, was made even more oppressive by a plume of black smoke streaming from a tall chimney. The factory itself was long, low, and built of dirty yellow bricks. A single line of small, blind windows perforated an otherwise featureless block; however, at the nearest end of the building, two large wooden doors had been left open. Through them came the relentless clang and clatter of heavy machinery.

'There he is,' said Haussmann.

Leaning up against the wall and smoking a cigarette was a scrawny man in overalls. He was talking to two similarly dressed companions who – on seeing the two policemen – hurried into the building.

'How did we find him?' asked Rheinhardt.

'Through Tibor Király.'

'Who?'

'One of those magicians we consulted at the Volksprater.'

'The Great Magnifico?'

'No – that was Adolphus Farber. Király was Chan the Inscrutable.'

The scrawny man threw his cigarette on to the ground and stubbed it out with his boot. Then he wiped his hands on his overalls and stood up straight. There was something unexpected about his attitude – the way he pushed out his chest and straightened his back. Rheinhardt thought he looked rather haughty. This impression only strengthened as they drew closer.

'Good morning, Herr Roche,' said Haussmann.

'Good morning, my dear fellow,' said the man in a dry, refined accent.

'Detective Inspector Rheinhardt,' said Haussmann, gesturing deferentially towards his chief.

Rheinhardt bowed.

'Thank you so much for helping us, Herr Roche.'

Roche wiped his hands on his overalls again before giving them a cursory inspection.

'I am afraid that we shall have to forgo the usual courtesies,' said Roche, displaying his grubby palms.

'Is there perhaps somewhere we could sit, Herr Roche? It's rather loud here,' said Rheinhardt.

'It's a lot worse inside. I would recommend that we use some of those boxes over there.' Roche pointed across the yard. 'Not very comfortable, but they will serve our purpose.'

The three men walked over to a collection of crates by the main entrance, where they improvised some seating. Rheinhardt noticed that the ground was littered with spent rifle shells.

Before Rheinhardt could ask his first question, Roche said: 'You know, she had it coming to her. She deserved to die.'

Rheinhardt looked into Roche's eyes, and was shocked to see his crows-feet wrinkling with pleasure. Ignoring the man's curious opening gambit, Rheinhardt said, 'Herr Roche, could you explain how you came to know Fräulein Löwenstein?'

'She was my assistant,' replied Roche. Then, recognising that Rheinhardt was waiting for him to elaborate, he added: 'I didn't always work in that hell-hole, you know.' He thumbed over his shoulder in the direction of the factory. 'I used to be in the theatre. The

Blue Danube – do you remember it?'

Rheinhardt shook his head.

'Small place on Dampfschiffstrasse?' Roche persisted hopefully.

'I'm sorry,' said Rheinhardt, shaking his head again.

'Well, I used to manage it,' Roche sighed. 'And I'd still be managing it today, if it wasn't for . . .' He paused for a moment before adding, '
That
woman' – each syllable was costive and contemptuous. 'Of course, she was never an official employee – there was no contract. Nevertheless, she performed all of the duties expected of an assistant manager.'

'Why wasn't her appointment official?'

'Unfortunately,' said Roche, 'I permitted her to become involved without notifying the proprietor.'

'Any reason?'

Roche took a small tin from his overalls and opened the lid. Inside, were three thinly rolled cigarettes. He half-heartedly offered them to Rheinhardt and Haussmann, but showed palpable signs of relief when they refused.

'Please, allow me.' Rheinhardt struck a match and lit Roche's cigarette.

'The proprietor would have objected,' said Roche. 'She had no experience of management – she was an actress.'

'Then why did you appoint her?'

'We were lovers,' said Roche, 'and I trusted her.' He drew on his cigarette and blew twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. 'In retrospect, I was foolish. But I really thought she could be trusted.'

'How did you meet?'

'She was with a provincial touring company – not a very good one, I might add – who had decided to try their luck in the capital. As you can imagine, the reviews were terrible, although Schnabel said some complimentary things about
her
in particular. Something like:
What she lacks in talent is amply compensated for by her stage presence and her beauty
. I forget exactly what now, but something to that effect. After the terrible reviews there was a lot of bad feeling – accusations and counter-accusations. The upshot of which was that the company finished their execrable run at The Danube and then immediately disbanded. She – Charlotte – came crying to my door and . . . Well, you know how it is, Inspector, you're a man of the world – things happen.'