Mortal Mischief

'You probably think it's nothing to do with me,' Mendel added. 'But—' He stopped abruptly and pushed the severed corner of his Topfenstrudel around the plate with his fork.

'What is it, father?'

'I was speaking to Herr Weiss the other day and . . .' Again his sentence tailed off. 'Maxim.' This time he returned to his task with greater determination. 'You and Clara seem to be getting along well enough and – understandably, I think – Herr Weiss is anxious to know of your intentions.'

'My intentions?'

'Yes,' said Mendel, looking at his son. 'Your intentions.' He carried on eating his cake.

'I see,' said Liebermann, somewhat taken aback. Although he had considered many subjects that his father might wish to discuss, his relationship with Clara Weiss had not been one of them. Yet now the omission seemed obvious.

'Well,' replied Liebermann. 'What can I say? I like Clara very much.'

Mendel wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned forwards.

'And?'

'And . . .' Liebermann looked into his father's censorious eyes. 'And . . . I suppose that my intention is, in the fullness of time to—' (Now it was his turn to hesitate.)

'Yes?'

'To marry her. That is – if she'll have me.'

Mendel relaxed back in his chair. He was clearly relieved and a broad smile lifted his grave features.

'Of course she'll marry you. Why shouldn't she?'

'Sometimes we seem to be . . . well, just good friends.' In all areas of life, Liebermann was entirely confident of his powers of perception; however, where Clara was concerned, he was never entirely sure if her affectionate gestures were tokens of love or merely of flirtation. Desire had blunted his clinical acumen. 'It isn't always clear what—'

'You have nothing to worry about,' Mendel interrupted, inclining his hand in a courtly gesture. 'Believe me.' He leaned forward again, and squeezed his son's arm: 'Nothing to worry about at all. Now eat your Rehrucken!'

But Liebermann had no desire to eat. Clara had obviously told her father that she would accept a proposal of marriage. He had nothing to worry about. Liebermann thought of her delicate features: her expressive eyes, small nose, and rose-petal lips – her straight back and slender waist. She was going to be his wife. She was going to be his Clara.

'I won't tell your mother,' continued Mendel. 'I'll leave that to you. She'll be delighted, of course. Delighted. As you know, she's very fond of Clara. In fact, she was saying only the other day how pretty Clara's become. And they're a good family, the Weisses. Good people. Jacob and I go back many, many years. We went to the same school, you know, in Leopoldstadt. And his father helped my father – that's your grandfather – into the trade. They shared a market stall together.'

Liebermann had been told this more times than he cared to remember. Even so, he knew that his father took immense pleasure in reiterating family history, and simulated interest as well as he could. Mendel warmed to his theme, and continued to expound upon the several other links that existed between the Weiss and Liebermann families. The Rehrucken helped Liebermann to survive the repetition. Eventually, when Mendel had exhausted the topic, he attracted Bruno's attention and ordered more coffee and cigars.

'You know, Maxim,' said Mendel, 'with marriage comes much responsibility.'

'Of course.'

'You have to think about the future.'

'Clearly.'

'Now tell me, will you really be able to provide for a young family on that salary of yours?'

Liebermann smiled at his father. It was extraordinary how Mendel never missed an opportunity.

'Yes,' Liebermann replied patiently. 'In due course, I think I will.'

Mendel shrugged.

'We'll see . . .'

The old man managed to sustain his stern expression for a few seconds longer before allowing himself a burst of laughter. Again, he reached over the table, and patted his son on the shoulder.

'Congratulations, my boy.'

The gesture was curiously affecting, and Liebermann recognised that – in spite of their differences – the relationship they shared was predicated on love. His throat felt tight and his eyes prickled. The bustle of the cafe faded as the two men stared at each other, suspended in a rare and vivid moment of mutual understanding.

'Excuse me,' said Mendel, rising precipitately and setting off towards the cloakroom. But the old man had been too slow. Liebermann had already observed a tear in his eye.

Liebermann watched his father disappear into the bustling Ringstrasse crowd. A gust of wind reminded him that – unlike Mendel – he was not carrying an umbrella. Fortunately, a cab was waiting just outside The Imperial. There was another rumble of thunder – the growl of a discontented minor god. It made the cab horse toss its head, jangle its bridle, and stroke the cobbles with a nervous hoof.

'Easy now,' called out the driver – his voice barely audible above the rattling of the carriages. Across the road a loose cafe awning snapped like a sail.

Liebermann looked up at the livid millstone sky. Ragged tatters of cloud blew above the pediment of The Imperial like the petticoats of a ravished angel. The air smelled strange – an odd, metallic smell.

Liebermann raised his hand to catch the cab driver's attention but was distracted by a familiar voice.

'Max!'

Turning, he caught sight of a sturdy man approaching. His coat was undone and flapping around his body as he walked into the wind – a precautionary hand kept his hat from flying off his head. Liebermann immediately recognised his good friend Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt, and smiled broadly.

'Oskar!'

The two men shook hands.

'Max, you will think this a dreadful impertinence, I know,' said Rheinhardt, pausing to recover his breath. 'But would you mind awfully if I took your cab?'

The Inspector possessed a face that suggested weariness. The skin under his eyes sagged into discoloured catenated pouches. Yet he had grown a miraculously trim moustache, the turned-up extremities of which tapered to form two sharp points.

'An incident?' asked Liebermann.

'Indeed,' said Rheinhardt, puffing. 'A matter of some urgency, in fact.'

'Then please be my guest.'

'Thank you, my friend. I am much indebted.'

Rheinhardt opened the door of the cab and as he climbed up, called out to the driver: 'The market square – Leopoldstadt.' The driver responded by touching his forelock with a gloved finger. Before closing the cab door, Rheinhardt addressed Liebermann again: 'Oh, and by the way, the Hugo Wolf songs are coming along nicely.'

'Until Saturday, then?'

'Until Saturday.'

With that, Rheinhardt pulled the door shut and the cab edged out into the noisy traffic.

A sheet of white lightning transformed the Ringstrasse into a glaring monochrome vision. Moments later a great ripping sound opened the heavens, and the first heavy drops of rain detonated on the paving stones.

Liebermann looked around for another cab – knowing already that the attempt would be futile. He sighed, good-naturedly cursed Rheinhardt, and stomped towards the nearest tram stop.

2

RHEINHARDT PRESSED HIS shoulder against the locked door and pushed. It didn't budge.

A blast of wind rattled the windows and unholy-sounding voices wailed in the chimney flues. A shutter was banging – again and again – like an impatient revenant demanding entry, and all around was the inescapable sound of rain: a relentless artillery. Teeming, drenching, torrential. Drumming on the roof, splashing from the gutters and