Mortal Mischief (36 page)

'Herr Hölderlin, you must sit down!' shouted Záborszky. 'Madame de Rougemont is still in contact with the spirit world! You are placing her in great danger.'

'No, I will
not
sit down!' shouted Hölderlin. 'We have no right to be doing this. It is sacrilege. Blasphemy. Fräulein Löwenstein meddled with things beyond her understanding – and look what happened! Enough is enough! I will not be party to this any more!'

Without warning, Yvette de Rougemont's eyes suddenly opened. For a few moments, her expression was vacant. Then the contours of her face shifted to produce a fixed mask of fear. Her lips began to tremble. Opening her mouth wide, she released a chilling, sustained wail. Its rapid rise in pitch and volume was followed by a prolonged and steady descent – which left her clutching at her throat. Choking sounds were followed by a liquid rattle. Then she slumped forwards onto the table, flinging her arms out, knocking over the candle – and plunging the room into total darkness.

55

L
IEBERMANN AND
R
HEINHARDT
entered the dim ante-room of the Café Central and passed through a narrow corridor smelling of coffee – and of ammonia from the urinals. Climbing a small flight of stairs they entered the arcade court: a pillared vaultlike arena that hummed with conversation and clicked with the brittle collision of billiard balls. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke provided a low canopy beneath which a milling crowd seemed to have gathered. The tables were well spaced, but most were surrounded by audiences of onlookers, openly criticising the moves in a chess game or praising a taroc player for increasing his stake.

The two men squeezed past the press of bodies and found somewhere to sit at the back.

Rheinhardt touched the arm of a passing waiter.

'A
türkische
for me and a
schwarzer
for my friend.'

The waiter bowed.

'Oh – and some
Dobostorte
. Max?'

'Nothing for me, thank you.'

The waiter vanished behind the nearest pillar.

'Well,' said Rheinhardt, puffing out his cheeks. 'Quite extraordinary, don't you think?'

'She is a fraud.'

'Come now, Max, you're being churlish. I thought you said you'd be coming with an open mind.'

'I did – and she's a fraud. That absurd fainting fit at the end – I've seen more convincing swoons at the opera. Her pulse was perfectly normal.'

'If you say so . . .' said Rheinhardt. 'But I can't help feeling that there was something more to those messages. More than trickery, I mean. Did you see Braun's face? He looked utterly flabbergasted when she mentioned the Danube, Baden, and the widow. He clearly wasn't expecting that . . . And what about Fräulein Heck? How on Earth did Madame de Rougemont know about a specific brooch that Heck coveted? And Heck's white summer dress! How could she know?'

'Every woman I've ever known owns a white summer dress, Oskar.'

'All right, but what about the brooch?'

Liebermann sighed.

'I don't know – I don't know how she managed to get
that
right. But I imagine she found out all she needed to know by talking to the members of Löwenstein's circle before our arrival. She is clearly a very skilled observer, able to read even the most minute reactions. In fact, she must possess skills very similar to those of a psychoanalyst. Professor Freud says that human beings are incapable of keeping secrets – we are always confessing something or other with fidgeting fingers and slips of the tongue. He once told me that betrayal forces itself through every pore. Madame de Rougemont is simply a consummate observer of human behaviour.'

Rheinhardt still looked troubled.

'That voice, though – Morax. It was unnerving.'

'Oskar, I've seen similar phenomena in the clinic. Morax was a kind of sub-personality, something created and cultivated by repeated use of self-hypnosis.' The waiter arrived with the coffee and Rheinhardt's cake. 'Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?' asked Rheinhardt.

'Quite sure.'

Liebermann scooped the froth off his coffee with a teaspoon, while Rheinhardt plunged his fork through several layers of sponge and chocolate cream.

'Mmm . . .' Rheinhardt closed his eyes. 'Delicious.'

Liebermann reached into his pocket and took out a crumpled letter and a pen.

'Here . . .' he said.

'What? You want me to read it?'

'No, I want you to draw something on it. Something simple. But don't let me see.'

Liebermann looked away, while Rheinhardt, puzzled, produced a small sketch.

'Have you finished?'

'Yes.'

'Turn the paper over so that your drawing is underneath.'

'I've done that.'

'Good.'

Liebermann then turned around and said: 'Hand me the letter.'

Rheinhardt handed the letter back to his friend, who promptly popped it into his pocket without attempting to look at the underside.

'You drew the Habsburg coat of arms – the double-headed eagle,' said Liebermann.

'God in heaven!' exclaimed Rheinhardt. 'How on Earth did you do that?'

'I read your mind, of course,' said Liebermann coldly.

Rheinhardt burst out laughing.

'All right, all right . . . you've made your point. Now tell me how you did it.'

'I glanced into my coffee cup as I took the letter. I could see your drawing reflected on the surface of my
schwarzer
.'

'Very good,' said Rheinhardt, impressed. 'I'll try that one on Else – she'll be mystified.' He picked up his fork again and continued to attack the
Dobostorte
. 'So what did you make of Hölderlin's outburst?'

'He was clearly very uncomfortable—'

Rheinhardt leaned forward, raising a hand to his ear.

'Speak up, Max, I can't hear you.'

The clattering cups, the babble of conversation and the sound of laughter had combined to create a sudden swell of sound.

'He was clearly very uncomfortable,' Liebermann repeated, 'and wanted to bring the seance to a swift end. He was obviously concerned – worried that something incriminating was about to be revealed. And did you notice how he looked at his wife?'

'No.'

'He seemed excessively attentive.'

'Which makes you think what?'

Liebermann gazed into his coffee: 'Löwenstein was pregnant. And I must admit, I'm inclined to believe Braun when he says he wasn't the father.'

'But Hölderlin! Really, Max . . .'

'He's middle-aged, respectable, a man with responsibilities. Trusted. Just the kind of man I'd expect to become embroiled with a young woman.' Rheinhardt shook his head and laughed. 'His sanctimonious speech had precious little to do with genuine spiritual conviction. I found it very unconvincing.'

'And what about that . . . that woman!' said Rheinhardt. 'What a character! It is not for me to speculate on medical matters, Herr Doctor, but surely . . .' Rheinhardt rotated a finger close to his temple.

'Indeed,' said Liebermann, picking up his coffee and taking a small sip. 'The rumours about Bruckmüller's political ambitions must be true: why else would he want to marry Cosima von Rath? And there was something about his behaviour, too . . .' Liebermann sank into a silent reverie.

'What?'

'He was so controlled. He didn't startle or jump at any point – just stared at the candle. He was overcompensating. People who have something to hide often present a conspicuously opaque exterior to the world.'

'Could he have done it, do you think?'

'The murder?' Liebermann shrugged.

Through wreaths of cigarette smoke they both watched a man removing the piano cover and propping up its lid.

'You've never identified the Count as a suspect,' said Liebermann bluntly. 'Why's that?'

'Well,' Rheinhardt replied, 'on the night of Charlotte Löwenstein's murder he was playing backgammon in his club. He stayed there until morning.'

'And you have witnesses?'

'Yes.'

'Reliable witnesses?'

'I think so,' said Rheinhardt, heaping sugar into his
türkische
coffee.

'Could he have bribed them?'

'Some of them, I suppose, but not all. There were simply too many people there.'

'As far as you know . . .'

The man at the piano sat down in readiness to play. But before he could begin, another man leaped up from a nearby card table and engaged him in conversation. A few people started to cheer and clap.

The pianist stood and took a volume of music out of the piano stool. One of the card-players brought a chair over to the piano, and the two men – evidently both musicians – sat down and cracked their knuckles.

'I think that's Epstein, the concert pianist,' said Liebermann.

A moment later the air was alive with sound – a musical detonation like the starburst of a firework. The hubbub subsided as the pianists ripped through a very fast four-hand arrangement of a gypsy dance tune.

'That's rather wonderful,' said Rheinhardt, leaning towards his friend and raising his voice. 'What is it?'

A ravishing melody in the lower register was immediately answered by a shower of descending notes – a crystalline flurry.

'Brahms,' replied Liebermann. 'One of his Hungarian dances.'

Before long Liebermann was leaning forward, on the edge of his seat, totally absorbed by Epstein's virtuosity. When the first piece ended and the applause began, he turned to face Rheinhardt. He could barely believe what he saw – and jumped as though in the presence of an apparition. There, standing next to his friend, was Madame de Rougemont.

'Max,' said Rheinhardt, grinning broadly. 'May I introduce Isolde Sedlmair? A very talented actress, I'm sure you'll agree.'

'I can see you are a great admirer of Brahms, Doctor Liebermann,' said the woman in black, her German perfect and unaccented.

56

H
EINRICH
H
ÖLDERLIN
, wrapped in a large Turkish dressing gown, had been sitting in his study, smoking, for the entire evening. It was a medium-sized room, soberly decorated and illuminated by two electric lamps. On his desk a pile of papers, letters and forms awaited his attention.

Hölderlin stubbed out his fourth cigar and stared vacantly at the green-striped wallpaper. Resting his elbows on the ink blotter, he supported his chin on clenched fists.

What a fool!

The self-accusation reverberated in his head like a Russian bell. Its relentless tolling had given him a pulsing headache.

Hölderlin picked up a bundle of correspondence. He should have replied earlier in the day, while at work, but he had been unable to concentrate.

Dear Herr Hölderlin – further to my recent enquiry . . .

The first few lines made sense, but then each sentence became increasingly incomprehensible, eventually fragmenting into a string of meaningless words and phrases.

She was genuine, Madame de Rougemont. Her spirit guide was undoubtedly conversing with Charlotte Löwenstein. Those messages – particularly the one given to the seamstress . . .

Hölderlin tried to focus his attention on the letter.

. . . Business account . . . intend to arrive in Pest next week . . . securing interests . . . Herr Balázs . . . at your earliest convenience.

Hölderlin groaned, pushed the letter away, and rubbed his chin. It was rough with stubble. He usually shaved before the evening meal, but as he'd had no intention of joining his wife for dinner his toilette had been neglected.

What else could I have done? She had to be stopped . . . there was no other way – the risk was too great . . .

A faint knock roused him from his malaise. A timid, muted double heartbeat.

Hölderlin did not respond.

'Heinrich?'

It was his wife.

'Heinrich?'

The door opened, and she entered.

'Why didn't you answer? What are you doing, Heinrich?'

'My correspondence.'

He could see that his wife was not fooled.

'Heinrich, I want to talk to you about what happened last night.'

'I have nothing more to say, Juno.'

'But . . .' She closed the door and walked up to the desk. 'I still don't understand why.'

'Juno,' Hölderlin cut in. 'I acted on principle.'