Mortal Mischief (40 page)

Von Bulow's eyes flicked upward. He stared at Rheinhardt, attempting to decipher the other man's expression. Rheinhardt smiled, politely.

Returning to his notebook, von Bulow continued: 'I could not find a report by the medical officer . . . Doctor Liebermann?'

Rheinhardt coughed nervously.

'Doctor Liebermann is not a medical officer. That is why he hasn't filed a report.'

'Then what is he?'

'An unofficial consultant,' said Rheinhardt authoritatively.

'Even so, you might have taken the trouble to commission a report.'

'I didn't think it was necessary.'

'Well, it is. How am I to come to any conclusions concerning his findings?'

'I'm sure the good doctor would consent to an interview.'

'I'm sure he would – but that doesn't help me right now, does it, Inspector?'

For the next hour, von Bulow worked through his notes, asking questions that invariably highlighted one or other departure from 'procedure'. As he did so, Rheinhardt's head filled with a whistling emptiness. A sense that he was teetering on the edge of a deep, dark abyss. He found himself staring vacantly at the portrait of Franz Josef – and curiously fascinated by the whiteness of the general's uniform that he was wearing and the deep red sash that fell diagonally across his chest. On a table beside the Emperor was a field marshal's large black hat with a thick plume of peacock green feathers.

'Rheinhardt?'

It was Brügel's voice.

'Would you please pay attention . . .'

64

'I
GOT YOUR
note, mother – is everything all right?'

'Yes, yes – everything is fine. Come in.'

Liebermann entered the drawing room.

'Where's Hannah?'

'Out with her friend – she said she wanted a new hat. They've gone for a walk down Kärntner Strasse.'

Liebermann handed his coat to the servant who had followed him in from the hall.

'Do you want some tea?'

'No, thank you.'

'Then sit down, Maxim.' Addressing the servant, she added: 'That will be all, Peter.'

'Mother . . .' Liebermann hesitated. He was already beginning to suspect that he had been manipulated.

Before he could continue, Rebecca said: 'I know – I know exactly what you're thinking. Why did she say it was urgent? But if I hadn't said it was urgent would you have come? No. You would have sent me a note saying that you were too busy at the hospital. Am I wrong?'

Liebermann sat down on the sofa.

'No, mother, you are not wrong. However, the fact is . . . I
am
very busy at the hospital. To tell the truth—' He thought of telling his mother about Gruner and his pending dismissal but quickly changed his mind: 'Oh, it doesn't matter.'

'What doesn't matter?'

Liebermann sighed. 'Why did you want to see me today?'

Rebecca sat down on the sofa beside her son and took his hand in hers. She looked at him and her eyes creased with affection. Yet her gaze was also investigative, probing. Liebermann found her close attention a little unnerving.

'Maxim, I wanted to talk to you – alone.'

'What about?'

'Clara.'

'Very well, mother. What is it that you wanted to say?'

'She's a beautiful girl. So very pretty. And the Weisses – such a good family. You know, her father and yours—'

'They go back a long way,' interrupted Liebermann. 'They went to school together in Leopoldstadt, and grandfather Weiss helped grandfather Liebermann start his first business.' He placed a hand over his mouth and enacted a theatrical yawn.

'Yes, yes,' said Rebecca. 'You've heard it all before, I know.' She rubbed his hand with her thumb.

'What is it, mother?'

'Are you—' She smiled nervously. 'Are you sure that she is the one? Are you sure that she will make you happy?'

Strangely, the sentence that Liebermann had been composing for the benefit of Professor Gruner came into his mind:
Professor Gruner, much as I would like to retain my position at this hospital, I cannot act against my conscience . . .

An odd coldness seemed to spread through his chest. Liebermann dismissed the thought, irritated at its intrusion.

'Yes,' he said, rather tentatively. 'Yes – I think we shall be happy together.'

'And you love her? Really love her?'

'Of course,' he said, laughing. 'I wouldn't have proposed if I didn't love her.' Yet, as he said these words, they seemed curiously light and airy, lacking in emotional substance. He did not feel the weight of affection compressing his heart. 'Mother – I'm not absolutely certain, how can I be?' He remembered the uxorious Rheinhardt:
My dear fellow, of course I had doubts. Everyone does.
'I . . . I don't know what sort of a life we shall have together – I don't have a crystal ball. But I am
very fond
of Clara and when we're together she
does
make me happy. And she is very pretty.'

'That doesn't last, let me tell you,' said Rebecca sharply. 'They used to say that I was beautiful once.' She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her son's ear – as though he was still an infant. Liebermann frowned and pulled away.

'You're sure, then?' asked Rebecca, smiling.

'I'm as sure as I can be, mother.'

With that, Rebecca got up and went over to the chest of drawers on the other side of the room. She came back and, sitting down, handed her son a small black box.

'Take it,' she said.

Liebermann took the box and opened it. Inside, on a bed of silk, was an engagement ring. A cluster of little diamonds flashed around a deep blue sapphire.

'It was my grandmother's – your great-grandmother's. God knows how they came by it. I suppose you've been too busy to go out and buy a new one.'

65

T
HE ROOM WAS
lit by candles, most of which had burned down to flickering stubs of wax. A line of abandoned hookahs obscured Záborszky's view; however, the grotesquely distorted images of two unconscious gentlemen could be seen through the glass cylinders. As Záborszky moved his head, his oblivious companions seemed to expand and shrink.

'My dear Count.'

Záborszky turned. A soberly dressed middle-aged woman was standing close by.

'Frau Matejka . . .' Záborszky sneered as he said her name.

'There is a matter that I wish to discuss with you.' Záborszky remained inert. 'In private.' Záborszky stood up, swaying slightly. 'Careful now, you don't want to fall.'

'I would never be so undignified.'

The madam led him down a dark passage into a dilapidated room that smelled of damp. The floorboards were bare and the wallpaper had begun to peel near the ceiling; streaks of black mildew dribbled down either side of the shuttered window; a paraffin lamp stood on a scratched and battered writing bureau in front of which were two rustic chairs.

'Please, do sit down.'

Záborszky pulled a chair across the floorboards, making a scraping noise so loud that it pained his sensitive ears. He collapsed on the chair, slumping and letting his arms dangle.

'Well,' he said, 'what is it?'

'As you know,' said Frau Matejka, 'you are a much-valued patron of our little business . . .'

'I've paid – I paid Olga for everything last week.'

'Yes, of course. I wasn't suggesting—'

'Then what is it? Get to the point.'

Frau Matejka looked like a provincial schoolteacher. She was not wearing make-up and her greying hair was tied back in a loose bun from which several unruly strands had escaped. The silver crucifix that hung from her neck reinforced a general impression of spinsterish propriety.

She smiled patiently.

'I like to think of our regular patrons as friends. Gentlemen I can talk to.'

'You can't have any more money, Frau Matejka. I don't have any.'

'It isn't a financial matter that I wish to discuss. It is a matter of conduct.'

Záborszky laughed – a slow, mechanical cackle.

'Conduct? But this is a
brothel
!'

The madam reached for the paraffin lamp and increased the length of the wick. The effect was not flattering. The sagging skin under her eyes looked bruised and the vertical creases that scored her upper lip were thrown into sharp relief.

'The girls are my responsibility – you do appreciate that, don't you? I'm like a mother to them. They come to me when they're worried – when they've something on their minds.'

'What has this got to do with me?'

'There have been some complaints.'

'Complaints?'

'Yes.'

'What complaints?'

'Roughness. It won't do, dear Count – you're frightening the girls.'

Záborszky rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

'Nonsense.'

'Amalie showed me her neck. She thought you were going to strangle her.'

'Heat of the moment . . .' mumbled Záborszky.

'You know,' Frau Matejka leaned forward, 'there are some who are willing to indulge gentlemen of irregular habit. Specialists. If you wanted, I could make some enquiries. Although, naturally, it would cost a little more. Let's say four – possibly five krone.'

'I'm going . . .'

Záborszky got up and left the room. He was feeling steadier, and marched briskly down the corridor and through the vestibule where his companions were still sleeping. In a small antechamber he collected his coat and cane.

Outside, he paused and allowed the cold night air to clear his head. The door had opened directly – and discreetly – onto a narrow and poorly illuminated alleyway. Bare bricks peeped through gaps in a decaying poultice of plaster. He set off immediately, noticing a figure coming towards him from the other end. The man advanced, a featureless silhouette against the diffuse yellow glow of the street lights.

There was not enough room in the alley for them to pass comfortably, and neither of them gave way when they met. As a result their shoulders banged together with considerable force.

Still fuming from his encounter with Frau Matejka, Záborszky wheeled around: 'Watch where you're going!'

The other man stopped and turned. Now that it was lit by the street lights Záborszky could see his face.

'Braun. What are you doing here?'

'The same as you, I imagine.' The younger man took a step forward. 'Not a very spiritually enriching place – Frau Matajka's house.'

Záborszky said nothing.

'You know,' continued Braun, 'I'd always suspected that your interest in our circle was superficial.'

'What do you mean?'

'You were never really interested in communicating with the dead – were you?'

'You're drunk, Braun. Good night.'

Záborszky turned and started to walk away. Then he felt Braun's hand come down heavily on his shoulder.

'No, dear Count. I think you should stay and talk a while.'

Záborszky remained absolutely still.

'It was all trickery you know – she wasn't genuine . . .' continued Braun. 'And I think you knew that.'

'Remove your hand.'

'So why did you keep on coming, week after week. Was it you?'

'What are you talking about?'

'Did you
have
her – did you?'

'Remove your hand,' Záborszky repeated.

'She was always impressed by foppery and promises.'

'I will not ask you again.'

'Were they your children? The ones she was carrying?
Were
they?'

Záborszky pulled on the gold jaguar-head of his cane. There was a rasping sound and the glint of light on metal. Braun jumped back, clutching his hand and nursing the deep cut that was already bleeding profusely.

'Test my patience again, boy, and I will slit your throat, not just your hand.'

Záborszky dropped the slim-bladed sword back into its unconventional scabbard and pressed down. Braun heard a gentle click – the locking of a mechanism. Without looking round to face Braun, Záborszky began walking again. When he reached the end of the alley, it seemed to Braun that the Count did not turn left or right but simply dissolved into the night.

Part Five
The Pocket Kozy