Vienna Blood (29 page)

“He had to be civil,” said Clara. “He accepted your apology because he doesn't want to cause any arguments. Especially now.”

“Is he angry with me, then?

“Max,
I
am angry with you.”

Liebermann sighed, and looked down at his shoes. “It was important, Clara. Extremely important.”

“I'm sure it was. … But so was going to the opera with my family. You ruined the evening. For all of us.”

Liebermann raised his hands in the air, as if beseeching the Sphinx to support him. “
The Magic Flute
is the key. I had to let Inspector Rheinhardt know immediately.”

“Did you? It couldn't have waited for an hour or two?”

“No. I have seen what this madman does. People's lives are at risk.”

“Has he struck again, then, this madman of yours?”

“No, he hasn't. But—”

Clara cut in, “Then it could have waited!” She managed to contain her anger for a few moments before it boiled over again.

“And why were you late for dinner yesterday?”

“I had a fencing lesson.”

The lie came all too easily.

“I thought your lessons were in the morning?”

“Signore Barbasetti was indisposed last week.” Liebermann spoke in an even voice, all the time staring into the Sphinx's face. Her expression seemed to change from wounded pride to disapproval. “We had rescheduled the lesson for yesterday evening. Unfortunately, I got rather overinvolved … and forgot the time.”

Clara shook her head. “And what does that tell us about your … your attitude?”

Liebermann was somewhat taken aback by this curious question. “I'm sorry?”

He turned to face Clara, whose dark eyes now seemed unusually penetrating.

“I remember,” she began slowly, as if the act of remembering were hard. “I remember you once said that
everything
means something— everything we do, however small: slips of the tongue, minor accidents, not being able to find things. … So what does forgetting our dinner engagement mean?”

Liebermann felt as if the earth had shifted. He had underestimated her. She was more than just pretty, amusing Clara—a young woman from the right kind of family, with the right kind of background, his fiancée, a future wife. She had depths, some of which neither he— nor anybody, perhaps—would ever know, and a basic, inalienable right to be happy on her own terms. She had many faults, but at least
she was honest, which was more than he could say of himself at that moment.

“Well?” Clara insisted.

Liebermann knew what he must do—and the mere thought of it brought him close to the edge of an inner precipice. Darkness and despair were aching to swallow him.

50

H
ERR
B
EIBER SHOWED NO
signs of anxiety or discomfort. He seemed perfectly content to be lying on a hospital divan, following the young doctor's injunction to say—without censorship—anything that might come into his head. Indeed, it seemed to Liebermann that the accountant was enjoying himself.

“I can remember, one morning—about a month or so ago, just before the snow started falling—I was standing outside the Schönbrunn Palace.” Beiber raised his hand and let it fall onto his stomach, making a loud slapping sound. “It was very early. The mist had only just lifted, and I knew—I just knew—that she was still asleep. I imagined her, slumbering in a gilded four-poster bed, her sweet nose pressed into soft, downy pillows. Now, at that moment I saw this fellow making his way toward me—a musician, carrying a cello on his back. And it struck me, all at once, that it would be a truly wonderful gesture to arrange a little concert—so that she might wake to the strains of some beautiful love song. There's a famous, oft-quoted line, by an English author:
If music be the food of love, play on …
”

“Shakespeare,” said Liebermann.

“Is it?

“Yes.
Twelfth Night.
”

“Perhaps I saw it at the Court Theater. To be honest, I can't remember. Anyway, I thought it a most agreeable sentiment, so I raised my hand and the cellist halted. I asked him if he would be kind enough
to play a love song, for the Archduchess Marie-Valerie. He was an odd fellow … something about him … Oh, it doesn't matter. He went to move off and I begged him to wait a moment. ‘I'll make it worth your while,’ I said. ‘Naturally.’ He didn't respond. ‘What shall it be?’ I asked. ‘Two krone?’ I thought it a generous offer—but the fellow didn't budge. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘let's call it three kronen.’ Still—no response. ‘Four, five, ten?’ Still nothing. So, more out of curiosity than anything else, I offered him twenty, then fifty, and finally, one hundred krone. And do you know what? He still didn't accept. Instead, he said: ‘The Archduchess won't be able to hear.’ I disagreed. ‘My good man’—I said—‘it's a very still, quiet morning. The cello has a full, deep voice—of course she will be able to hear.’ He shook his head. ‘I can assure you,’ he said, ‘she won't. This is the summer palace—there's no one home.’ And then he walked off. It wasn't empty, of course. The fool was totally wrong. She was in the palace— I knew it!”

A note of petulance had crept into his final exclamation. But he sighed, pulled at his vibrant orange-yellow beard, and continued, speaking more calmly now.

“Such a shame … If he had been more of a game fellow, it would have been a glorious way for her to wake. Those sweet eyelids, still heavy with sleep, fluttering open. Her head turning, to hear better the sweet melody … she would have known that it was me, of course.”

He closed his eyes and blissfully contemplated the imaginary royal chamber.

“Herr Beiber,” said Liebermann. “If you were … united, with the Archduchess Marie-Valerie, how do you think you would spend your time together? What would you do?”

“That is an interesting question, Herr Doctor,” said the accountant, “and one to which I have devoted much consideration. You will forgive me, however, if I correct your language slightly. It is
somewhat misleading. The question is not
if
—but
when. When
the Archduchess Marie-Valerie and I are united, how shall we choose to spend our time together?”

“Very well,” said Liebermann.

“We shall take walks. We shall go to concerts. We shall read poetry. We shall hold hands. I shall spend whole days gazing into her soft, compassionate eyes. I shall comb her hair. We shall talk— endlessly—about our miraculous love, and we shall tell and retell the story of our coming together.”

Herr Beiber licked his lips and continued to enumerate.

“I shall fill her pen with ink when she wishes to write letters. I shall open doors for her when she wishes to pass from one room to the next. I shall give her roses …”

Herr Beiber went on in this vein for some time; the life that he envisaged for himself as the Archduchess's consort was curiously sterile. It was nothing more than a series of frozen tableaux: tiny gestures of affection and tired romantic motifs.

Liebermann coughed in order to interrupt the mundane litany.

“Herr Beiber.” He paused and looked down at the freckled bald patch. “I am sorry, but … What of erotic feelings?”

“What of them?”

“You have not mentioned them.”

“Why should I? I am in love with the Archduchess. Have I not made myself clear?”

Liebermann tapped his index finger on the side of his temple.

“Herr Beiber,” said Liebermann, “have you ever experienced sexual relations with a woman?”

The great romantic looked somewhat flustered.

“I … erm … There has never been anyone … special to me. No.”

“Does the idea of sexual congress frighten you?”

Beiber laughed. “Good heavens, no, Doctor. What a ludicrous idea!”

Liebermann was familiar with the work of the French neurologist Guillaume Duchenne, particularly his
The Mechanism of Human Facial Expression.
Although Beiber's mouth had curved upward, the orbicularis oculi muscles around his eyes had not contracted. The smile was—without doubt—false.

51

A
LARGE MAP OF
Vienna hung on the wall behind Rheinhardt's desk. The heart of the city was clearly demarcated by the Ringstrasse— really a horseshoe, the ends of which connected with the Danube Canal. Farther north was the wide diagonal of the mighty Danube itself. To the east were the open grassy spaces of the Prater, and to the west the foothills of the famous Vienna Woods. In the bottom left corner of the map was a complex grid that represented the paths and gardens of the Schönbrunn Palace. A tack with a broad silver head had been planted within the boundary of the imperial zoo. There were three more: one just outside the eastern curve of the Ringstrasse, one in the town center, and one in Wieden—close to a delta of black railway lines that terminated under the word
Südbahnhof.

Rheinhardt connected the tacks with four strokes of an imaginary pen. The exercise produced a mental impression of something that looked vaguely like a kite. The inspector wondered if—in the unfortunate event of more pin-tacks being added—a more significant pattern might possibly emerge. Salieri clearly had a weakness for programs and symbols. He could autograph the entire city by striking in carefully chosen locations.

The inspector's thoughts were disturbed by the sound of Haussmann turning the pages of his notebook.

“We've been keeping a close eye on the List residence for three weeks now,” said the assistant detective.

Rheinhardt raised and lowered himself on his toes, unaware that he was doing so. “Indeed.”

“And, in spite of his infirmity,” continued Haussmann, “or perhaps because of it, he has been receiving many visitors. His eye doctor, of course; the Englishman, Chamberlain; Counselor Schmidt; a student called Hertz; the actor, Bernhard—I've never heard of him but I understand that he's supposed to be quite famous.”

“Yes, yes, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, trying to hide his growing impatience. “But if I'm not mistaken you told me this last week.”

Haussmann turned another page. “Quite right, sir. Please accept my apologies. In addition to the aforesaid gentlemen, Herr List has also received … Viktor Gräsz, a publisher; August Haddorf—another actor, and a well-known patron of the arts called Gustav von Triebenbach.”

Rheinhardt trained his melancholy baggy-eyed gaze on his assistant. Trying hard not to sound impatient, he said, “Haussmann, do you actually have something interesting to report?”

The assistant detective reddened slightly. “Yes, sir—although it may only be interesting in my estimation, you understand.”

“I am happy to proceed on that basis.”

The younger man blinked, unsure how to interpret the inspector's arch expression. “All these people,” he continued warily, “are affiliated with associations and societies. For example, the Richard Wagner Association, the German League, the Alemania Dueling Fraternity, and the Aryan Actors’ guild.”

“Well, given the nature of Herr List's writings it does not surprise me that he mixes with individuals who share his Pan-German sympathies.”

“Yes, sir. But Baron von Triebenbach …”

“What about him?”

“He is the president of a small group who call themselves the Eddic Literary Association.”

“The
Edda,
Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, suddenly striking a pedagogical attitude, “are the two collections of early Icelandic literature that together constitute the principal source of all Norse legends.”

“Yes, sir. However, it wasn't the name of the society that struck me as interesting, but rather where they meet.”

“Which is where?”

“At Baron von Triebenbach's apartment, on Mozartgasse.”

Rheinhardt swallowed. “What did you say?”

“Mozartgasse, sir. I thought that …” The younger man shrugged. “What with all this talk of
The Magic Flute …
there might be some … connection?” Haussmann touched the map and ran his finger down the length of the Naschmarkt. He stopped at a minor road adjoining a square. “Mozartgasse. It's in Mariahilf—I know it quite well.”

Rheinhardt rested a gentle hand on Haussmann's shoulder. “That is interesting, Haussmann—very interesting.”

“Shall I obtain a list of members?”

“Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, leaning closer, “I am bound to disclose that for some time now I have harbored the suspicion that you are, in fact, a psychic. I swear, the security office's loss would be vaudeville's gain.”

The assistant detective risked a fragile smile.

“Well done, Haussmann!” bellowed Rheinhardt. “Commendable detection!”

52

T
HE SHELVES OF THE
library were now full. The packing cases had been cleared away and the librarian, ever industrious, was working on a more advanced cross-referencing system. All that could be heard was the scratching of his nib on pieces of card, like the movements of a mouse behind a skirting board.

The venerable stepped over the threshold and the librarian looked up.

“Please,” said the venerable. “Do carry on—I did not mean to disturb you.”

The librarian nodded and returned to his task.

In the corner a new and very handsome porcelain stove had been fitted. Leather reading chairs had been placed beneath gas lamps. All in all, the ambience was most welcoming.

The venerable walked across the rectangular space and examined the colorful embossed spines.

Humanitas: Transactions, Societas Rosicruciana, The Order of the Secret Monitor.

Below these was a shelf of much larger volumes. They were extremely old and were concerned with ceremonials of all kinds.

The Kabbalistic Master Ritual, The Egyptian Rite, Anointing and Purification.

Then there were the works on philosophy and alchemy.

“Has he agreed?”

It was the librarian.

The venerable turned and smiled. “Yes, brother.”

“He will be initiated here?”

“Yes. He will stay for a few nights with our friends in Pressburg— and then he comes to Vienna.”

The coenobitic librarian put his pen down on the desktop. The venerable noticed that the man was breathing heavily.