Mortal Mischief (11 page)

'Clearly, this is the rather pleasing hand of a woman. I've never seen a man's handwriting in which dots are executed as small circles.' Liebermann then turned the note over and looked at the reverse side. 'She was extremely tense when this was written. The nib of the pen was pressed hard into the paper. She paused when she had completed the final word. I know this because the paper has absorbed more ink here.' He pointed to a specific area. 'Then, I imagine, she got up in a hurry, producing the arc that runs off the page . . .' Liebermann's eyes glinted in the firelight. 'But what I'd really like to know,' he continued 'is the identity of the third person.'

Rheinhardt almost choked on his brandy.

'Third person? What do you mean, third person?'

Liebermann gave a sly smile.

'When this note was written there were three people in the room. Fräulein Löwenstein, her murderer, and a third person who – we must assume – accompanied her on her journey to hell.'

Rheinhardt shook his head.

'That's preposterous, Max! How can you possibly know such a thing just by looking at that note?'

Liebermann rose from his chair, and after a swift examination of his bookcase returned with a volume that he held out for Rheinhardt to inspect.

'The Psychopathology of Everyday Life
,' read Rheinhardt. 'By Doctor Sigmund Freud.'

'Yes,' said Liebermann, sitting down again. 'I can't recommend it strongly enough. As you know, Freud suggests that mistakes such as slips of the tongue can be very revealing. But so can inadvertent actions, such as slips of the pen while writing. Now, take a look at Fräulein Löwenstein's note.' He handed it back to Rheinhardt. 'Do you see anything interesting?'

'You are, of course, referring to this crossing-out before the word
me
.'

'Exactly. Look at it closely – what word do you think she started to write before she crossed it out? Hold the note up in front of the fire – the ink becomes more transparent.'

Rheinhardt did as he was instructed.

'It's difficult to say . . . but I think – I think she started to write the word
us
.'

Liebermann smiled.

'Exactly. She had started to write
He will take
us
to hell
when she meant to write
He will take
me
to hell
. Now, why should she make a mistake like that?'

Rheinhardt looked somewhat disappointed.

'You know, Max, sometimes, a mistake is just a mistake.'

Liebermann executed a silent scale on the arm of his chair and began to chuckle.

'Yes, you're probably right, Oskar. Like many who enjoy Freud's work, I am inclined to spoil things by going just a little too far.'

12

A
S
N
ATALIE
H
ECK
passed the brightly coloured marquees of the Volksprater, she found herself stopping, yet again, to look up at the Riesenrad. It was a miracle of engineering. The circumference of the wheel was an approximate circle, achieved by the continuous linkage of bolted iron girders, while the space inside the circle was filled with a reinforcing webbing of immense metal cables. Natalie imagined a Titan's hand, strumming them like the strings of a giant harp. The most eye-catching feature of the Riesenrad, however, was its fleet of red gondolas, each the size of a tram and each carrying a fragile human cargo high above the city.

Natalie's friend Lena had actually ridden on the Riesenrad. She had been taken by her father four years earlier in 1898. Natalie knew the exact date because the wheel had been erected to commemorate Emperor Franz Josef's golden jubilee and Lena had been among the first to step into one of its gondolas. Lena's description of the ride had frightened Natalie. The juddering ascent, the gasps of the passengers, the groaning and creaking of the stressed metal cables. And worst of all, the terrible moment of suspension at the highest point, where the wind had buffeted Lena's gondala – making it tremble and rock like a cradle. Apparently, another young woman had swooned.

Lena was lucky
– her
father was still alive. Natalie's father had died three years before the Emperor's golden jubilee, so there had been no one to take her on the Riesenrad even if she had wanted. Natalie had adored her father. After his death, she would talk to him in the moments before sleep, addressing the darkness and imagining his replies. She often needed advice, but could turn to no one. Her mother had become cold and distant.

The aching sense of loss that Natalie felt persisted for years, and would have continued had she not made the acquaintance of the woman whom the stallholders (particularly the men) called 'The Princess' – an elegant, graceful woman who spoke so very nicely.

The Princess was particularly fond of Natalie's table, which always displayed a fine selection of embroidered shawls. She had introduced herself as Fräulein Charlotte Löwenstein, and Natalie was genuinely surprised that the woman did not possess an aristocratic title. Friendly exchanges became conversations, and when Fräulein Löwenstein learned of Natalie's loss she immediately invited the 'poor girl' for tea in her apartment, which was situated just across the road. It was while taking tea with Fräulein Löwenstein that Natalie Heck had learned of the woman's strange gift. The following Thursday evening, Natalie arrived at Fräulein Löwenstein's door at eight o'clock precisely. Three hours later, Natalie was hugging herself in bed, weeping with joy.

But since that time her relationship with Fräulein Löwenstein had become increasingly complicated – her feelings more confused . . .

The wheel's progress was slow, and Natalie had to watch it very carefully to detect any movement. Although the prospect of a ride on the Riesenrad made Natalie's breath quicken so that her chest pressed against the restraining whalebone cage of her corset, the emotions she felt were not straightforward. She was both frightened and excited at the same time.

Natalie drew her shawl closer around her shoulders and hurried along. It was a very attractive shawl – but then, everything she made was attractive. She was nothing if not industrious.

Fräulein Löwenstein is dead
.

Like the Riesenrad, the thought evoked both fear and excitement. Natalie's conscience was perturbed by a subtle eddy of guilt as she dared to believe that now things might change for the better.

On entering Leopoldstadt, Natalie chose a circuitous route in order to avoid going anywhere near Fräulein Löwenstein's apartment. Last Thursday evening was still fresh in her memory: the police with their notebooks, hushed voices, the sound of Herr Uberhorst sobbing and all the time knowing that
she
was still in the next room. Natalie had been unable to dismiss disturbing mental pictures – macabre imaginings – of Charlotte Löwenstein's corpse either sprawled out on the floor or draped across the chaise longue like an ill-fated Romantic heroine.

Fräulein Löwenstein was – or, rather, had been – a beautiful woman. So beautiful that Natalie had never attempted to compete with her. She had never bothered to pin her hair up, powder her face or wear a revealing dress in her presence. It was not that Natalie was unattractive. Indeed, quite the opposite. She was young, shapely and had dark eyes that – in recent years – had invited many compliments. However, she knew as well as anyone that Charlotte Löwenstein was an unassailable rival in matters of the heart. During a seance, in the flickering candlelight, when her full lips parted to produce a radiant smile, her beauty was uncanny.

When Natalie had confessed her secret (and her despair) to Lena, her friend had said that a woman like Fräulein Löwenstein must be in league with the devil. It had been said in jest, but Natalie now wondered if such a thing were possible. The police had asked her some very strange questions . . .

Although the main thoroughfares of Leopoldstadt were respectable, the back streets were still run-down and shabby. The dreary old buildings were tall and blocked out most of the sky. Natalie quickened her pace, slipped, and had to grab a lamp-post to stop herself from falling.

She was getting closer to where he lived.

A large black rat ran out from under a pile of rubbish and scurried down the street ahead of her. Natalie shuddered and slowed to a halt. She decided to take a detour. Turning a corner, she progressed further into the dismal labyrinth.

It was so unfair, thought Natalie, that a man of his class and talent should be reduced to such circumstances through no fault of his own. He had been cheated out of an inheritance by his contemptible older brother Felix and now had to eke out an impecunious existence as an artist. He was always struggling to find the money to pay his rent, and Natalie had got into the habit of lending him small amounts to prevent his eviction. As their friendship had deepened, Natalie had repeatedly taken coins from her savings box, which she kept beneath a loose floorboard in her bedroom. Over time these small amounts had added up and now the box was almost empty.

Even so, it was worth it. Only a month ago, they had been walking on the green open spaces of the Prater, watching the deer, and talking of his plans for the future – a large exhibition in the new Secession building with the likes of Gustav Klimt. He had thanked her for her assistance, calling her his 'saviour', his 'angel'. Then, without warning, he had leaned forward to plant a kiss on her cheek. It had been improper but she had not protested: the strange combination of fear and excitement had been dizzying.

Natalie raised a hand to her face, in order to feel the place where his lips had touched her skin.

Beauty isn't everything
, she thought.
There is also kindness
.

But again an image of Fräulein Löwenstein invaded her mind – made even more striking by her recent acquisitions: her pearl necklace, her diamond earrings, and her exquisite butterfly brooch (supposed to be the work of Peter Breithut). Thus adorned, Löwenstein's perfection had mocked the seamstress's worthy sentiment.

When Natalie arrived at his apartment building she found the main door open. It was hanging off the frame on only one hinge. Natalie eased through the gap and found herself in a dank, lightless hallway. The stale air smelled of boiled cabbage and urine. She could hear a baby crying, but no adult voices. The walls were streaked with damp and in one or two places lumps of plaster had fallen away. Natalie shivered, ran up the steep stairs, crossed the landing and gently knocked on his door.

'Otto,' she said. 'Otto, it's me. Natalie.'

There was no response.

She knocked again, this time a little harder.

'Otto' she said. 'Are you in there?'

As she pressed her ear against the door, she became dimly aware of a movement in the shadows. Before she could turn, a large gloved hand came down heavily on her shoulder.

13

I
T WAS
S
UNDAY
afternoon and Rheinhardt was sitting in the parlour, smoking an after-dinner cigar. In his lap was the first volume of the
Handbook for Examining Magistrates
by Professor Hans Gross, the definitive work on the subject of criminology. Rheinhardt was perusing a passage that exhorted the investigator to seek out men with specialist skills:
With such men at his disposal
, proclaimed the authoritative voice of Gross,
much labour and trouble and many mistakes may be obviated.

Yes
, thought Rheinhardt.
That makes perfect sense
. And congratulated himself for consulting his friend Liebermann the previous evening.

Rheinhardt raised his head and looked around the room. Seated at the table was his wife Else, sewing a silver button back onto his old tweed jacket. Fifteen years of marriage had not diminished the pleasure he experienced just looking at her. She had the kindest face, and a mouth the curve of which – even in repose – suggested a certain readiness for laughter. On the sofa sat his two daughters, Therese – who was just thirteen – and little Mitzi, aged eleven. The older girl was entertaining the younger by reading stories from a book of folk tales. Rheinhardt sighed with pleasure, and turned to another section of the
Handbook
. It dealt with the dangers of preconceived theories . . . As he tried to follow the professor's line of reasoning, his attention wandered back to the girls.

'Another one?'

'Yes, please.'

'Are you sure, Mitzi?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, very well then.'

Therese cleared her throat like an orator and began reading.

'High up in the Böhmerwald – the mountain range that lies between Austria, Bavaria and Bohemia, is the ancient city of Kasperske Hory. As you approach the city, you must be very careful, because nearby lives the old hag Swiza. She is not like other old women, not like your grandmother, or even your great-grandmother. If you saw her your blood would run cold. Swiza has the antlers of a deer and wears the fur of a wolf. She has lived near Kasperske Hory for longer than anyone can remember. No one knows who she is, or where she comes from, or why she is there. Some say that she is a witch. When travellers arrive at the tavern, claiming to have seen the old hag, men stop talking and the women pray. For whenever Swiza is seen, misfortune must follow . . .'