Mortal Mischief (52 page)

Bruckmüller puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. Then, bracing himself, he stood up straight and took a step towards Liebermann.

'Well, Herr Doctor, you must be feeling very pleased with yourself. I feel almost obliged to return the compliment that you paid me earlier. Yes, and why not? I think I will. Congratulations, Herr Doctor: a brilliant exposition. I can only assume that when we reach the ground the police will be waiting to arrest me.' Bruckmüller's smile was broad and humourless. 'Which makes me wonder: are you so very clever, after all? Sly, cunning, slippery – as one would expect from a member of your race – but clever? Maybe not.'

Liebermann took a step back and shifted to the other side of the gondola.

'You have left me very few options, Herr Doctor. But I can still exercise some choices. I take it that you now realise your mistake.' Bruckmüller reached for the door and yanked it open. A gust of damp air blew into the cabin.

'Don't jump!' cried Liebermann automatically.

Bruckmüller laughed.

'I don't intend to, Herr Doctor.'

The big man moved towards Liebermann, his fists held up like a pugilist's. Bruckmüller's bulk made him appear more squat than his true height but now that he was up close Liebermann realised that his antagonist was disconcertingly tall.

The young doctor was able to dodge the first punch but there was nowhere to run. A second swipe cuffed Liebermann on the side of the head and he stumbled towards the open door. The gondola rolled and Bruckmüller lurched forward, clawing the air before his heavy paw landed on Liebermann's shoulder, his grip tightening as he pressed down. Bruckmüller's fingers dug into Liebermann's flesh like the teeth of a Rottweiler. The sheer weight of his arm threatened to snap the young doctor's collarbone. Liebermann flailed around helplessly before Bruckmüller landed an eviscerating punch. It felt like a cannon ball tearing through Liebermann's stomach and scorching his innards. Unable to breathe and wanting to vomit, he was still bent double when a second punch lifted him off his feet and deposited him inches from the door. Dazed, Liebermann managed to stand for a brief moment before losing his balance and falling backwards.

He grabbed the door frame but found himself hanging out of the gondola, his feet barely keeping their precarious purchase on the cabin floor. He looked down at the vertiginous drop.

'That's it,' shouted Bruckmüller. 'See where you're going!'

Bruckmüller smacked his palm against the fingers of Liebermann's right hand, producing a white-hot shock of pain. The fear of death was suddenly superseded by a lesser anxiety: it occurred to Liebermann that his fingers might be crushed and that he might never play the piano again. A helpful gust of wind allowed him to pull himself forward a little. But again, Bruckmüller's palm slammed against his grasping fingers like a mallet blow. This time, the incandescent pain was short-lived and was soon replaced by a terrible numbness. Liebermann's hand had become insensate and he watched with detached resignation as his fingers slowly began to slip away from the door frame.

Bruckmüller raised his arm, ready for the final blow.

Suddenly there was a loud report and the noise of glass shattering.

The big man spun round, bewildered. A stain had appeared close to his shoulder – a dark circular stain that spread quickly, fed by a small bullet hole from which blood was bubbling. Liebermann scrambled back into the gondola and threw the weight of his body against Bruckmüller who lost his footing and stumbled backwards – grabbing at the lapels of Liebermann's coat.

Liebermann found himself being dragged after Bruckmüller. The big man's shoulders hit the cabin's woodwork, bringing his bulky body to an abrupt halt. Bruckmüller leaned against the cabin wall for support and drew Liebermann's head up so that it was level with his own. Liebermann struggled to get away but found that he could not move. Bruckmüller's superhuman grip held fast. Glancing down at the expanding stain, Liebermann said: 'Herr Bruckmüller, you have been shot.'

Bruckmüller's jaw began to move, as though he was chewing. Then, after clearing his throat, he hawked into the young doctor's face. Liebermann flinched as a ball of bloody mucus hit him and splattered across his cheek.

'I know I've been shot,' said Bruckmüller. 'And I don't want to be shot again.'

Liebermann realised that Bruckmüller was using him as a shield.

'There is no escape, Herr Bruckmüller.'

'Not for you – Doctor Jew.'

Bruckmüller's basso profundo vibrated in Liebermann's chest. Before Liebermann could respond, Bruckmüller's free hand closed around his neck. An instant later, Liebermann could not breathe. Instinctively, he tried to prise Bruckmüller's thick fingers apart – but his right hand was still numb and each of Bruckmüller's digits was slick with blood.

Liebermann was horrified by the look in Bruckmüller's eyes. Malice had been replaced by something far more sinister: detached concentration. Bruckmüller was like a scientist observing a creature expiring in a vacuum jar. He seemed to be willing Liebermann dead – dispassionately consigning him to oblivion. As the world began to darken around him, Liebermann became aware of a thought forming in his mind – a small voice, striving to be heard amid the noise and confusion.

I am not ready to die
.

It was the closest that he had ever come to praying and even though he had not requested the intervention of a higher power this assertion – resentful and pathetic – was still an appeal. An entreaty. And, against all expectations, it appeared to have some effect.

Bruckmüller's serious, studious gaze clouded. His lids fell and then lifted in a sluggish blink – and, miraculously, Liebermann found that he could breathe again. He gulped the air hungrily, sucking it deep into his lungs through his painfully restricted windpipe. Bruckmüller's grip weakened and his fingers peeled away from Liebermann's throat one by one.

The big man's coat was soaked with his own blood. He blinked again and this time his lids remained closed for longer. Then he swayed and fell sideways, toppling to the floor.

Liebermann rested against the side of the gondola and tried to catch his breath. Looking out of the window, he experienced a curious illusion. The ground seemed to be rising up to meet the gondola. He glanced at Bruckmüller, whose supine body looked like that of a slumbering giant.

Bruckmüller pushed himself up with his left hand and then clasped his shoulder. Blood was gushing out between his big white knuckles. With his mouth wide open he was panting like a thirsty bulldog.

The wind whistled through the smashed window. In the next gondola, the soberly dressed bourgeois – clearly a police marksman – had his revolver at the ready for a second shot, should it prove necessary.

Bruckmüller shifted and immediately winced.

'If you get up,' said Liebermann, 'I have reason to believe that you'll be shot again. I would strongly advise that you remain exactly where you are.'

Bruckmüller closed his eyes and let his body fall back on to a bed of broken glass.

'May I . . .' Liebermann paused. 'May I attend to your wound, Herr Bruckmüller? You are losing a great deal of blood.'

The big man tried to open his eyes.

'Stay away from me . . . you filthy . . .'

But before the insult was complete Bruckmüller's eyelids flickered and he lost consciousness.

Liebermann crouched beside Bruckmüller and did what he could to staunch the flow of blood. But his right hand was still insensate and Bruckmüller was lying in an awkward position. He applied as much pressure as he could. The big man was still breathing but each breath seemed more shallow and difficult. His chest and stomach were hardly moving.

A chorus of metallic voices filled the air – the demented strains of the great wheel coming to a halt. The gondola had returned to the ground.

The door flew open and Rheinhardt stepped into the cabin.

Liebermann looked up from his patient.

'I believe he'll live,' he said softly.

86

T
HE SONGS THAT
they chose were necessarily slow. Liebermann's right hand was better but his fingers were still bruised and stiff. He did not feel ready to play anything with a tempo marking faster than
allegro moderato.
As a result their buoyant mood was not reflected in their music-making and what might have been an evening of carefree
Ländler
and popular songs became instead a programme of wistful ballads and soulful meditations. Yet, as he plumbed the darker sonorities of the Bösendorfer, Liebermann recognised that this valedictory concert was more fitting. It was, after all, a murder investigation that had been brought to a successful conclusion.

After some dignified choral-like Beethoven they decided to end with 'Der Leiermann' from Schubert's
Winterreise
. The piano part was so sparse, so frugal that Liebermann had no trouble producing an entirely faultless performance. Bare fifths in the left hand imitated the sound of a drone, while the right hand picked out a sad, desolate melody. It was chilling music – stark and emotionless. Even the scarcity of notes on the page suggested the open, blank whiteness of a frozen landscape.

Rheinhardt's voice was sweet and true – each note produced with hardly any vibrato.

Drüben hinterm Dorfe steht ein Leiermann.

'Over there beyond the village stands an organ-grinder . . .'

Numb with suffering, Schubert's narrator follows blindly:

'Strange old man, should I come with you?'

As the final chord faded, with its promise of redeeming cold and oblivion, Liebermann lifted his hands off the keyboard. Reverently, he closed the piano lid, allowing the sustain pedal to amplify its beat, the hollow echo of which dissolved into the vastness of an imaginary icy waste.

'Well, Max,' said Rheinhardt, 'that wasn't too bad at all, considering. You acquitted yourself rather well.'

'Thank you,' said Liebermann, raising his right hand and rubbing his fingers together with a swift scissoring movement. 'Another week or two and I'll be ready for the
Erlkönig
.'

Rheinhardt laughed and slapped his friend on the back.

'You might be, Max, but I'm not sure that
I
will.'

Without further delay the two men retired to the smoking room where, between the leather armchairs, a new table had appeared – a simple, empty wooden cube, the upper plane of which was a square of polished ebony.

Rheinhardt stared at the new acquisition and tilted his head from side to side.

'You don't like it – do you?' said Liebermann.

'Was it expensive?'

'Yes. It's from Moser's workshop.'

'Who?'

'Koloman Moser?'

'No, can't say I've heard of him.'

'Never mind. Regardless of its aesthetic properties, I can assure you that this table will serve our purposes as well as the old one.' Liebermann gestured towards the brandy and cigars.

The two men sat down, Rheinhardt to the right, Liebermann to the left, and stared at the glowing embers in ritual silence, puffing and sipping. Eventually, Liebermann shifted his position and said, somewhat sheepishly: 'You want to know everything, I presume.'

'Yes, I do.'

'Well, I must say, Oskar, you have exercised admirable restraint this evening. A lesser man might have insisted that we should forgo some of our musical pleasures.'

'Indeed. And having shown such admirable restraint, I feel bound to advise you that any further equivocation on your part will test our friendship to the limits of endurance.'

'Yes, of course, Oskar,' said Liebermann, smiling. 'Forgive me.'

The young doctor turned to look at his friend. 'You know, I've told you most of it already.'

'I should hope so, too,' said Rheinhardt with justified indignation. 'Even so, I am curious to know how it all came together – in your head, I mean.'

'Very well,' said Liebermann, 'kissing' his cigar to sustain the burn and producing great clouds of pungent smoke. 'I am happy to satisfy your curiosity. But I must begin with a confession. It was not I who solved the mystery of Fräulein Löwenstein's impossible wound, but Miss Lydgate.'

'The microscopist?'

'Indeed – although her talents extend well beyond the novel employment of optical devices: she is now registered with the university and will begin studying for a medical degree in the autumn.'

'But she's—'

'A woman – obviously. The university has recently changed its admission policy.' Rheinhardt assumed a benign but perplexed expression. Liebermann's cuboid table had been enough modernity for one evening. 'She's quite remarkable, Oskar, and endowed with extraordinary intellectual gifts. I simply told her the circumstances of the crime, and after a few days she had the answer, claiming – quite rightly – that a bullet made from meat was the only solution. Such is her predilection for rational thought that she wasn't distracted or tempted in the least by supernatural considerations.