slow, and many of the notes were cracked or unsteady. Yet his old voice, and the lingering quality of each phrase, imbued Schubert's joyful walking tune with infinite pathos.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Rheinhardt found that he was standing next to a bank of square metal doors. He knew that most of the chambers behind them were, in all probability, occupied by corpses. The frozen dead.
He turned and looked back at the strange little man who was hunched over Fraulein Lowenstein's body like a goblin or dwarf, something from a fairy tale by the brothers Grimm. Under the bright light, Mathias's breath had condensed in the cold air and collected over the table as a fine, luminous mist. Rheinhardt blew into his cupped fists and rubbed his hands together. The mortuary chill was seeping into the marrow of his bones.
Making his way back to the autopsy table, Rheinhardt stopped to examine Professor Mathias's tools, attempting to ignore a sound that reminded him of the leg being pulled from a roast chicken.
Suddenly the lights went out and the morgue was plunged into total darkness: an expanse of impenetrable pitch.
Professor Mathias was still quietly humming the Schubert song and Rheinhardt, already unnerved by the eerie ambience, was conscious that his heart was beating a little too fast. Count Zaborszky's words – like an auditory hallucination – entered his mind:
'Professor?' Rheinhardt called into the void.
The humming stopped.
'Oh, it's all right, Inspector, the light usually comes on again after a few minutes – probably something to do with today's storm. Personally, I think we should have stuck to gas.'
There was a small movement, and the clatter of metal on tiles. Rheinhardt felt something hit his foot.
'Oh dear,' said Mathias. 'I seem to have disturbed one of my instruments.'
There was a loud click, and suddenly the light came on again.
'There we are,' said the professor. 'Told you so.'
Rheinhardt looked down and saw a scalpel on the floor by his foot. He crouched down and picked it up.
'Your scalpel, Professor?'
'Just put it back on the trolley for the moment – not with the others, though. Bottom shelf, in the glass retort.' As he said this, Mathias was removing a large piece of bloody matter from Fraulein Lowenstein's chest. Rheinhardt quickly looked away, bowing his head. To distract himself, he turned the blade idly in his hands and let it flash a few times as it caught the light. Rheinhardt noticed that the scalpel was engraved with a cursive script:
'Professor?'
'Yes, what is it?'
'Does the name Hans Bruckmuller mean anything to you?'
'Yes, of course. Bruckmuller's. It's the surgical-instrument shop near the university.'
'Do you know Herr Bruckmuller?'
'No. Why do you ask?'
'He was an acquaintance of Fraulein Lowenstein.'
'Really?' said the professor – although it was clear that he wasn't paying much attention. Rheinhardt placed the scalpel in the glass retort. It rang like a bell.
As Rheinhardt stood behind Mathias, he couldn't help but notice that, in spite of the old man's earlier exhortations concerning haste, he was working much faster now. He was employing different instruments, one after the other, and tutting loudly. Indeed, he was looking increasingly agitated – if not actually annoyed. Rheinhardt thought it best not to interfere and waited patiently.
After several minutes Mathias wiped the blood from a long pair of tweezers and, displaying an uncharacteristic lack of care, tossed them on to the trolley. Rheinhardt was startled. The old man then stared directly at Rheinhardt, saying nothing. His expression was far from friendly.
'Professor?' ventured Rheinhardt.
'What is the meaning of this?' asked Mathias, gesturing towards the corpse.
'I beg your pardon, Professor?'
'Was it Orlov? Or was it Humboldt? Did they put you up to this?'
Rheinhardt raised his hands.
'I'm sorry, Herr Professor, but I haven't a clue what you're talking about.'
Mathias grunted, took off his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. Rheinhardt wondered whether Mathias's eccentricity wasn't, after all, something very close to madness. The old man replaced his spectacles and undid his apron with a decisive tug. He lifted the collar over his head, rolled the apron up, and placed it on the bottom shelf of the trolley. He then began to fidget with his instruments, moving them around as though they were the pieces in a bizarre chess game.
'Professor,' said Rheinhardt. 'I would be most grateful if you would explain yourself.'
Mathias looked up from his instruments. Again, he stared at Rheinhardt, his enlarged eyes swimming behind their lenses. Rheinhardt endured the silence for as long as he could before finally losing his patience.
'Herr Professor, I have had a long and difficult day. I have not eaten since this morning, and I am tired. I would very much like to go home. Now, for the last time, I would be most grateful if you would explain yourself!'
The professor snorted, but a fog of doubt passed across his face, softening his angry pout.
'This isn't a joke?' he said in a neutral voice.
Rheinhardt shook his head.
'No, Professor, this isn't a joke.'
'Very well,' said Mathias warily. 'I will explain my findings, and if you can make any sense of them, you're a better pathologist than I am.' The old man paused before turning to face the corpse. Pointing at the gaping hole in Fraulein Lowenstein's chest, he continued: 'This woman has been shot. Here is the point where the bullet entered her body. The heart has been torn open, as one would expect.' He poked his finger into her chest and lifted a flap of skin. Rheinhardt felt a little sick. 'See here,' said the professor. 'This is where the bullet ripped through the left ventricle. Everything is consistent with a gunshot wound.'
'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'I can see that.'
'But,' said Mathias, 'there is no bullet.'
'I beg your pardon, Herr Professor?'
Mathias said again: 'There is no bullet.'
Rheinhardt nodded.
'It passed through her body?'
'No,' replied Mathias. 'The entry canal has a definite terminus. Nothing came out the other side of her body.'
'Then what are you saying?' asked Rheinhardt. 'That the bullet was . . . removed?'
'No. The bullet has not been removed.'
'You're absolutely sure?'
'Absolutely.'
'Then how can you explain . . .'
Rheinhardt's words trailed off into silence. The electric-light system began to buzz, and the lights blinked out again for a second or two.
'I can't explain this,' said Mathias, flicking the flap of skin back like the lid of a jewellery box. 'Rheinhardt, you have brought me a physical impossibility. That is why it is my belief that I – or perhaps both of us – are the victims of a tedious prank. Goodnight, Inspector.'
Mathias wiped his bloody fingers on a white towel. He then walked towards the door, his metal-tipped shoes sparking on the flagstones as he dragged his heavy heels.
8
HEINRICH AND JUNO HoLDERLIN were seated in the spacious breakfast room of their Hietzing villa. Two housemaids were clearing the plates – and as they did so they exchanged surreptitious, knowing glances: the
