Death and the Maiden (30 page)

The old woman followed Hans-Peter, affecting an air of languid indifference as she rustled past the two gentlemen who had respectfully risen from their seats.

Saminsky made a dramatic supplicating gesture with open arms.

‘I am so dreadfully sorry, gentlemen. But there was nothing I could do.’ He glanced down the corridor to check that the countess was making satisfactory progress and muttered under his breath, ‘She just wouldn’t go.’

‘Never mind, Herr Professor,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘It is no matter.’

‘You are very kind, Inspector. Please, come this way.’

They stepped from the waiting area into a very spacious consulting room. It was unusually large, with high windows overlooking a parterre and medical charts mounted on the walls – the human body, in different poses, excoriated so as to expose the underlying muscle groups. Among these anatomical drawings was an oil painting of the late empress, based on the famous portrait by Winterhalter.

In addition to Saminsky’s desk and a trolley bed there were numerous pieces of technical equipment: a mechanical chair for strengthening wasted legs, several batteries for the administration of
electrotherapy, and an octagonal wooden frame (large enough to admit a standing person) around which hoops of conducting wire had been wrapped.

‘Ah,’ said Saminsky to Liebermann. ‘You are interested in my D’Arsonval Cage. It was constructed by Richard Heller in Paris. Beautiful workmanship, don’t you think?’ Saminsky tugged a strut, demonstrating that one of its eight sides was a door. He held it open, smiling.

There was something about Professor Saminsky’s appearance that reminded Liebermann of a showman. With his pointed beard and colourful waistcoat he might have been a stage magician, inviting a member of the audience to inspect an apparently empty box.

‘Yes,’ Liebermann agreed. ‘It
is
very well made.’

Saminsky closed the cage and marched towards his desk. ‘This way, gentlemen. Would you like some tea?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Liebermann.

‘How about you, Inspector?’

‘No, thank you,’ Rheinhardt replied.

‘A shame. I have some very fine black tea from Ceylon. Please …’ He gestured towards some chairs. Like Professor Freud’s, Saminsky’s desktop was littered with ancient artefacts, including several glass and clay unguentaria. ‘Now, gentlemen, how can I help you?’

Rheinhardt made some preliminary remarks about the purpose of their visit and produced his notebook. He asked Saminsky to confirm a few details from their earlier interview, none of which were, in reality, terribly important. He then requested the precise dates of all Rosenkrantz’s treatment sessions, which Saminsky supplied after perusing her case notes. Occasionally, the professor’s eyes showed a trace of suspicion, otherwise his manner was relaxed and confident. In due course, Rheinhardt said, ‘The night Fräulein Rosenkrantz died, you were away in Salzburg – is that correct?’

Some lines of consternation appeared on Saminsky’s forehead.

‘No. I’m afraid it isn’t. Why do you say that?’

‘When we were here before you said that you were recently returned from Salzburg.’

‘Well, yes, that’s true. I’d just been to see von Kroy. But the night when Fräulein Rosenkrantz died, I was still here in Vienna. I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to mislead you.’

‘Where were you, then, that evening?’

‘I was with a patient called Kluge, Udalbert Kluge, an elderly gentleman who suffers from hallucinations.’

‘Did you go to his residence?’

‘Yes. It was something of an emergency – his wife was most upset.’

‘And where does Herr Kluge live?’

‘Not very far. Near the train station.’

Rheinhardt continued questioning the professor for a few more minutes, then looked at Liebermann.

‘Herr Professor,’ said Liebermann, ‘I have been giving some considerable thought to Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s history.’

‘Oh?’

‘I know that you believe symptoms originate in the body; however, would you accept that some aspects of character are shaped by experience?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s father died when she was very young. Is it not possible that this loss might have produced in her a predilection for the company of older men? That she sought in her relationships with them not only the satisfaction of her physical needs but a surrogate?’

‘I suppose so, although, as I have already made clear, I did not discuss her private life very much. I only learned of her relationship with … the mayor, when she told me of her predicament.’

‘But the other men she mentioned, you must have formed a general impression of their age?’

‘They were, I believe, more established gentleman. Yes.’

‘Father figures …’

‘Yes. Possibly.’

Liebermann paused for a moment before continuing.

‘Professor Saminsky, did you treat Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s
globus hystericus
using the
electrical hand
method.’

‘Yes. As a matter of fact I did.’

‘Inspector Rheinhardt was asking me about the procedure as we travelled here. Would you please explain it to him?’

‘Certainly,’ said Saminsky. ‘The patient sits on a chair with feet placed on a large flat electrode, which is connected to the negative pole of a magnetic coil. The positive pole is held in the physician’s left hand. The current passes through his body and he touches the patient with the right hand, thus delivering the charge.’

‘I see,’ said Rheinhardt.

‘The patient must remove her shoes and stockings?’ asked Liebermann.

‘Obviously,’ said Saminsky.

‘And her other garments?’

‘Of course, although a lightweight gown is provided to preserve modesty.’

‘Which muscles did you stimulate?’

‘The
sternocleidomastoid
– the
splenius capitis
and
cervicis
– the
levator scapulae
– the
trapezius
– the
pectoralis major …’

‘The muscles of the neck and chest?’

‘And upper back, yes.’

The professor reached out and picked up one of his unguentaria – a clay bottle, the neck of which was pinched, creating a shape vaguely reminiscent of the female form.

‘We are agreed that Fräulein Rosenkrantz had a weakness for father figures. Therefore the therapeutic situation you describe must have had a particular but predictable effect on her.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Did she not become … excited? After all, you, a distinguished psychiatrist, must have appealed to all her expectations of what a father figure should be. Successful, suave, cultured, caring.’

Saminsky’s mouth dropped open.

‘Doctor Liebermann, what are you suggesting?’

‘She became aroused, did she not?’ The professor was speechless. ‘It must have been an extremely testing situation. Fräulein Rosenkrantz was a renowned beauty. You are a physician, but being medically qualified does not make you inhuman. We understand this. You are still a man, with a man’s needs. Yes, it must have been very testing indeed to touch her and feel her responding, to feel the soft warmth of her flesh beneath your fingers, to observe the quickening of her breath: a kind of torment.’ Liebermann found that his words had conjured in his mind an image of Amelia Lydgate. He had meant to build towards a condemnation, but when he reached his final sentence it was forgiving. ‘More than a mere mortal man could reasonably expect to resist.’

‘That is enough!’ cried Saminsky. He directed a fiery look at Rheinhardt. ‘What is the meaning of this outrage, Inspector?’

Rheinhardt produced a cigar, lit it, and said calmly, ‘We have reason to believe that the mayor was not responsible for Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s pregnancy.’

‘
What?
’ said Saminsky.

There was an odd cracking sound. Saminsky opened his clenched fist. The tiny bottle had been snapped in half.

The carriage rolled past the Kaiser Pavillion and followed the railway line towards the centre of Vienna. For most of the journey Liebermann
and Rheinhardt were isolated from each other by the heavy folds of a contemplative silence. It wasn’t until they crossed from Fünfhaus into Neubau that the inspector stretched his legs and said. ‘Well?’

Liebermann removed his spectacles from his pocket, cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief, and put them on.

‘I am inclined to believe,’ he began with scholarly aplomb, ‘that when Fräulein Rosenkrantz confided in the angel maker she was telling the truth.’

Rheinhardt made a grumbling noise, the elements of which eventually came together as speech: ‘I suppose I should go and see Herr Kluge.’

‘If you discover that Professor Saminsky does not have a satisfactory alibi …’ Liebermann allowed the incomplete sentence to terminate at a precipice beyond which there existed a host of possibilities.

‘Then that will definitely complicate matters.’ Rheinhardt blew out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly. ‘I couldn’t help noticing that you were unusually direct with Saminsky.’

Liebermann shrugged.

‘It seemed the right approach to take.’ He didn’t want to discuss Saminsky or the illicit goings-on between doctors and patients. Turning to gaze out of the window he produced a jarring non sequitur. ‘Is it very difficult to get a corpse exhumed?’

‘What?’

‘I suppose there are forms to be filled.’

Rheinhardt’s expression darkened. ‘Quite a few of them, actually.’

‘You could get permission, though – I mean, as a senior detective you have the authority.’

‘If an exhumation is pertinent to a murder inquiry, yes.’

Liebermann spun round to face his friend. ‘I would like you to get authorisation for the exhumation of David Freimark’s body.’

Rheinhardt groaned.

‘Max, we’ve got more important things to worry about than the fate of David Freimark!’

‘A murder is a murder.’

‘Indeed. All human lives are of equal value. Be that as it may, a diva of the court opera has been murdered, Karl Lueger, the Lord God of Vienna, is our prime suspect, and the late empress’s physician has just given us good reason to doubt his integrity. It is not the time to be chasing around cemeteries digging up dead composers of thwarted promise!’

‘He was murdered. I’m sure he was.’

‘Let this Freimark business go, Max. It’s becoming a morbid pre-occupation. There are more pressing matters.’

Liebermann shook his head and repeated stubbornly, ‘A murder is a murder.’

L
IEBERMANN ENTERED HIS APARTMENT
clutching the day’s mail. He sorted through the letters looking impatiently for one that had been addressed in Amelia’s distinctive hand, but was disappointed. Overwhelmed by tiredness, he dropped the unopened envelopes into his writing bureau and found himself drawn towards the featureless cabinet in which he kept his spirits. He angled his head to study the contents: slivovitz, becherovka, vodka, and a quarter-full bottle of absinthe. He picked up the absinthe, held it up to the light and, after a moment of perilous indecision, sensibly decided against the idea. Instead, he poured himself a glass of slivovitz and sat down at the piano.

Brosius’s
Three Fantasy Pieces
stood on the music stand. He played through the second of these, before essaying a few of Zemlinsky’s
Rustic Dances
. He then felt a strong urge to hear some Chopin and lifted the Opus Nine
Nocturnes
out of the piano stool. After a satisfactory rendition of the B flat minor, he rewarded himself with a warming swig of alcohol and positioned his hands in readiness for the opening bars of the E flat major. His mental preparations were interrupted by the sound of someone knocking at the front door. His first thought was that it must be one of Rheinhardt’s emissaries. However, he immediately dismissed the idea, having only recently bid the inspector goodbye at the Schottenring station.

Liebermann rose from his seat and went to investigate. He was
amazed to find his erstwhile fiancée leaning nonchalantly against the door jamb.

‘Clara?’

‘You look surprised to see me.’

‘Well … I am.’

‘Didn’t you get my letter?’

‘Your letter?’

‘I sent you one this morning. Didn’t you get it?’

Liebermann remembered the unopened correspondence in the bureau. ‘I might have.’

‘What do you mean, you
might
have?’

‘I’ve only just returned from Hietzing. I haven’t had time to open my letters yet.’

‘No time? You were playing the piano. I could hear you.’

‘Yes.’ Liebermann extended the word until its thinness aroused suspicion.

‘I see.’ Clara took a step backwards. ‘This isn’t quite the welcome I was expecting. I will write to you again and—’

‘No. Don’t go!’ He had not forgotten the gratitude he had felt when she had generously forgiven him, the sweet relief, the heady release from oppressive guilt. The last thing he wanted now was to offend her. ‘I’m so sorry, Clara. Whatever will you think of me? Please, do come in.’