Mortal Mischief (17 page)

He sighed, withdrew the pick, and considered the importance of his mistake. As he did so, his thoughts were interrupted by an image that had been invading his mind all week: the Inspector – sagging eyes and turned-up moustache, his large body filling the workshop, the final words of their conversation.

Then you must be mistaken, Inspector.

Why?

It's impossible.

Really? Even for a master locksmith?

If Uberhorst wasn't careful, he could find himself swinging from a rope.

23

W
HEN
L
IEBERMANN HAD ACCEPTED
his father's invitation to dinner he had felt slightly uneasy. The feeling had returned as he got out of the cab in Concordiaplatz, and when he discovered that in addition to his parents and younger sister Hannah, his elder sister Leah had been invited – with her husband Josef – and that little Daniel was also present his heart sank. Mendel had obviously decided to organise a family gathering around his son's visit, which meant that the old man would feel justified in celebrating the Sabbath.

With his wine cup conspicuously raised, Mendel stood at the head of the table, reciting
Kiddush
with the solemnity of an Old Testament prophet.

Mendel was perfectly aware that his son had virtually no attachment to Jewish tradition, but it was a fact that he was unwilling to accept. Indeed, at times it seemed to Liebermann that his father was conducting a war of attrition – always seeking to erode his resistance by subjecting him whenever possible to customs and rituals.

'Boruch Atoh Adonoi Eloheinu Melech Hoolom . . .'

Blessed are You, Lord, Our God, King of the Universe, who sanctifies us with his commandments, and has been pleased with us.

Across the table, beyond the Sabbath candles, Liebermann caught Hannah's eye and assumed an expression of exaggerated piety. His younger sister looked away, and Liebermann was gratified to see her shoulders shaking as she fought to conceal laughter. He found the ease with which he could provoke her only slightly less remarkable than the magnitude of his own immaturity.

'Kiy Vanu Vacharsa V'osanu Kidashta Mikol Haamim . . .'

Indeed, You have chosen us and made us holy among all people, and have willingly and lovingly given us Your holy Sabbath for an inheritance.

Liebermann filled the vessel for washing hands, and systematically poured a small quantity of water over his right hand, then his left, three times in succession. His actions reminded him of the superstitious rituals associated with obsessional neuroses. Before drying his hands he recited the next blessing.

Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who sanctifies us with his commandments, and commands us concerning washing of hands.

Leah, gifted with the uncanny prescience of watchful mothers, intercepted Daniel's chubby little fingers as they crawled towards the bread. Unperturbed, Mendel removed the shabbos deckle covering the loaves in preparation for the final blessing:

'Boruch Atoh Adonoi Eloheinu Melech Hoolom,'

Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe,

'Hamoitzi Lechem Min Haaretz.'

Who brings forth bread from the earth.

Liebermann whispered an indifferent 'Amein' with the others, and winked at Hannah when she lifted her head. She was smiling – a broad, triumphal smile. Once again, she had survived the Sabbath ritual, in spite of her brother's efforts to embarrass her.

Mendel signalled to the head servant who had been patiently standing by the door and a few moments later the room was a hive of activity. A large tureen of chicken soup was deposited in the middle of the table, and several conversations began at once. Liebermann's mother – Rebecca – was fussing over Daniel, while Mendel questioned Josef on an abstruse point of contract law. The old man looked down the table at his son, willing him to join in, but Liebermann only smiled and turned towards Hannah.

'So,' he began. But before he could utter another word his mother was talking to him.

'Maxim, you'll never guess who I met the other day.'

'Who?'

'Frau Hirschfeld.'

'Really?'

'Yes. I haven't seen her for years. Apparently –' without pausing, Rebecca wiped a dribble of soup from Daniel's mouth and combed his hair with her fingers '– they've been living in Italy – the whole family – except for Martin, of course. Do you ever see Martin?'

'Very rarely.'

'He's been promoted, you know.' Rebecca passed more bread to Mendel. 'She was looking well, Frau Hirschfeld. She's put on a little weight, of course – but then, who doesn't when you get to our age.' With a swiftness that almost eluded detection, Rebecca adjusted the angle of the spoon in Leah's hand before it reached Daniel's mouth. 'Oh, and Rosamund – you remember Martin's sister Rosamund? She has two children now. She was the one who married the architect. What was his name?'

'Weisel. Hermann Weisel.'

'That's right. Herr Klein's cousin. Making a name for himself – so Frau Hischfeld says.'

'Herr Klein?'

'No, no. The architect.' Suddenly turning on her husband, she said: 'Mendel, let Josef eat. He hasn't touched his soup.'

Gesturing towards Rebecca's bowl, Mendel responded dryly: 'Neither have you, my dear.'

Rebecca shrugged and continued to fret and fidget.

'So,' said Liebermann, looking across the table at Hannah for the second time. 'What have you been up to?'

Hannah screwed up her face.

'Nothing, really.'

Liebermann shook his head.

'You must have done something, I haven't seen you for almost a month.'

'All right,' said Hannah, her adolescent moue softening to become a more adult pout, 'I've been to see Emelie. But that's all.'

'Really?'

'Yes, really.'

Liebermann felt sorry for his younger sister. Hannah was a late addition to the family, and since Leah's marriage she had had to live alone with their parents. At sixteen she had been marooned in a household that was beginning to feel frowsty and moribund.

'Then I suppose I should take you out, to cheer you up. How would you like that?'

Hannah's face brightened.

'I'd like that very much.'

'Where do you want to go?'

'I don't know.'

'Come on – you choose.'

'An exhibition?'

'Which one?'

'Any one.'

'Well, what about the Secession? Would you like to see that? It's in the new building. You know, the one that the philistines are calling the golden cabbage.'

'Will it be very . . .' She paused before adding, 'Modern?'

'Of course – but you'll love it, I promise you. Klimt has produced a massive frieze. Very controversial, apparently.'

'I'm not sure father would—'

Liebermann raised a finger to his lips. Checking to see that Mendel hadn't heard anything, he whispered: 'I'll send you a note. Sometime next week.'

The Liebermann family sustained a babble of conversation through several courses, flagging only after the arrival of dessert – a fragrant pool of plum compote in a wide silver dish. The cook brought it to the table personally, and was welcomed with a chorus of compliments.

When everyone had finished eating Liebermann stood up.

'Could I have your attention, please.'

The room fell silent.

'I'm glad you're all here – because I have an important announcement to make.'

'Announcement?' said Rebecca, more anxious than curious. 'What announcement?'

Mendel rested a pacifying hand on Rebecca's arm.

'I'm about to tell you, Mother,' said Liebermann.

He looked around the table. All of his family were viewing him with questioning eyes. Only Mendel seemed fully composed.

'Last Thursday,' Liebermann began, 'I proposed to Clara Weiss.' He paused, prolonging the suspense. 'And . . . I am delighted to report that she accepted my proposal. We are engaged to be married.'

A heartbeat of silence preceded an eruption of cries and applause. Rebecca rose from her chair and, rushing to her son, threw her arms around his neck. Leah and Hannah followed – and a few moments later Liebermann found himself in the middle of an affectionate, tearful scrum, being squeezed, kissed and congratulated. The frenzy was so sudden, and so loud, that it frightened little Daniel – who subsequently added to the hubbub by bawling. When Liebermann was finally released, he found that his father had risen too and was now standing directly in front of him. The old man opened his arms.

'Congratulations, my boy.'

'Thank you, Father.'

They embraced – for the first time in more years than Liebermann could remember.

24

T
HE INTERROGATION ROOM
was sparsely furnished: a table and some simple wooden chairs. The Spartan emptiness was softened a little by a photographic portrait of the ubiquitous Franz Josef. The old Emperor looked down, radiating benevolence. From his elevated, almost godlike vantage point, he appeared content to wait aeons for a confession. The same, however, could not be said of Rheinhardt.

Once again, the Inspector found himself feeling somewhat irritated and bemused by his friend's roundabout questioning. Even Natalie Heck was showing signs of bewilderment. She had clearly been expecting a more demanding interview, perhaps anticipating being tricked by the 'doctor' into revealing more than she intended. Instead, Liebermann had spent an inordinate amount of time discussing the craft of dressmaking and now seemed wholly fixated on the seamstress's knowledge of Fräulein Löwenstein's wardrobe. Rheinhardt had watched Fräulein Heck's expression pass from fear through relief to something that looked very much like confusion.

'There were three silk dresses?'

'Yes,' replied Natalie Heck, 'as far as I know. A red one – she bought it from Taubenrauch and Cie, the shop on Mariahilferstrasse – a green one, and a blue one – designed by Bertha Fürst. She would sometimes wear a wonderful butterfly brooch with the blue one.' 'And they were well made? Of good quality?' 'Of course. The silk was very expensive – Chinese, I think. And they were beautifully cut – particularly the Fürst – although not to everyone's taste.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Some would say they were immodest.'

'And what would you say?'

'I . . .' Natalie faltered before raising her chin and proudly declaring, 'I would not have been comfortable wearing such a dress.'

Rheinhardt stifled a yawn and consulted his pocket watch.

'So,' continued Liebermann, 'it was Fräulein Löwenstein's habit to wear one of these dresses every Thursday evening.'

'Yes.'

'She never wore any of the other dresses?'

'There was a black velvet ball gown – and an old satin one . . . but she stopped wearing them. Some time ago, in fact.'

'They were of inferior quality?'

'Yes. The cuff of the ball gown had frayed.'

'Tell me, did Fräulein Löwenstein exhibit an equal fondness for each of her silk dresses? Or did she like one more than the others?'

'She wore the blue one most – but that's because it was more comfortable.'

'And how do you know that?'

'Why,' said Natalie Heck, smiling, 'because she asked me to let it out. She said that it had always been too tight.'

Liebermann paused for a moment. He picked a hair off his trousers and disposed of it at arm's length. Then, returning his attention to Fräulein Heck, he asked: 'Didn't that strike you as odd?'

Natalie Heck did not understand the question. She pressed her lips together and stared blankly, her large dark eyes opened wide – two pools of Indian ink. 'Remarkable, don't you think?' continued Liebermann. 'That such a well-made dress should be too tight? Would someone like Frau Fürst – someone with such a fine reputation – make such an elementary mistake?'

Natalie Heck shrugged.

'These things happen. You can measure someone one day, and the next . . .' She held her hands out in front of her body and moved them apart.

Liebermann fell silent. He removed his spectacles and began cleaning the lenses with his handkerchief. When he had finished, he placed the handkerchief back in his pocket and inspected the lenses against the light. As he was doing this, he said, in the careless manner of an incidental observation or afterthought: 'Fräulein Heck, why were you visiting Herr Braun's apartment?'