Mortal Mischief

'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 Bohmerwald – 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 . . .'

Rheinhardt looked over at his wife. She too had stopped working and was listening to the story.

'Many years ago,' continued Therese, 'a man from Zda . . . Zdan—'

'Zdanov,' Else called out.

'Oh yes, Zdanov – a man from Zdanov was riding into Kaperske Hory and met Swiza. He knew who she was and tried to escape, but the old hag ordered him to stay and worship her. The man from Zdanov was a Christian and did not wish to do so. As a punishment, Swiza turned him to stone.'

'Therese,' said Rheinhardt. 'Must you read your sister such stories? You'll frighten her.'

'I'm not frightened,' piped the younger girl.

'Well, you say that now, Mitzi, but you won't say that at bedtime.'

'I like these stories.'

Rheinhardt sighed and looked to his wife for guidance.

'I like them too,' said Else, her eyes sparkling with good humour.

Accustomed to making concessions when confronted with female solidarity, Rheinhardt grumbled: 'Then carry on . . . but if Mitzi has nightmares don't come running to me.'

He buried his nose back between the pages of Gross's tome.

'Father?'

It was Mitzi.

'Yes.' The syllable was extended and dipped a little in the middle, signalling mild irritation.

'Do you believe in witches?'

'No.' He spoke the word loudly, as if by denying the existence of witches he could deny the existence of all things supernatural.

14

'SHE WAS FOUND THERE,' said Rheinhardt, pointing at the chaise longue.

Liebermann's gaze wandered from corner to corner, and once or twice ventured up the walls to the cracked bas-relief ceiling.

'She was reclining,' Rheinhardt continued, 'with one hand behind her head, and the other at her side.'

'It struck you as odd?'

'Of course. She looked like she was relaxing. Not what you'd expect, given the circumstances.'

Liebermann crouched beside the open door and examined the lock. It was still working, and he turned the key a few times to test it. The lock worked perfectly. Liebermann allowed the thick metal bolt to slide out of its casing and press against his palm.

'So . . .' he said, thinking out loud. 'What are we supposed to believe? That Fraulein Lowenstein was expecting some form of supernatural retribution? She composed her note and, recognising that there would be no escape, lay back on the chaise longue where she patiently awaited her transport to hell. Like Faust, Fraulein Lowenstein had benefited from forbidden knowledge, the price of which was eternal damnation?'

Liebermann walked over to one of the windows and, reaching up, released the lock. He then opened the window and looked out – a blast of cold air made him wince. The apartment was high up, and there was no visible means of escape. Closing the window, he continued to think aloud.

'In due course, a spectral assassin did arrive, armed with a ghost gun, the chamber of which was loaded with an ectoplasmic bullet. Apparently, our demonic friend then promptly dispatched Fraulein Lowenstein and sailed away through a locked door – or through one of the windows, perhaps – presumably dragging the doomed soul of the unfortunate Fraulein Lowenstein behind him.'

It was clear from Liebermann's tone that he found the idea entirely ridiculous.

'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'It is absurd – but unfortunately there are no alternative explanations.'

Liebermann walked over to the shelves and picked up the ceramic hand, showing palpable disdain.

'Do you have any suspects?'

Rheinhardt threw his arms up in the air and looked despairingly around him.

'Suspects? Do impossible murders have suspects? To be honest, Max, I haven't really given the matter of suspects much consideration.'

'Which, of course,' said Liebermann, 'was the intention. The picture you paint of the crime scene is so bizarre that all of our mental resources are expended on the task of working out how the murder was accomplished. We become so preoccupied with this question, we don't even think to ask the more important question: who killed Fraulein Lowenstein? Further, I imagine that even if you were to arrest a particular individual on suspicion of murder, at present there would be little prospect of a satisfactory prosecution. How can you try someone for an impossible crime! It's all very clever. The man – or woman – you are looking for is certainly very intelligent and highly imaginative.'

'So, how do you think we should proceed Max?'

'Don't be fooled by the illusion. Forget demons, visitations, and Faustian pacts. Just go about your business as usual.'

'And you're convinced it's an illusion?'

'Of course it's an illusion!' exclaimed Liebermann, evidently appalled that his friend should ask such a question. 'Illusions are the stock-in-trade of these people – these spiritualists! I mean, take a look at this table.' Liebermann rapped it with his knuckles. 'Listen.' As his fist moved across the surface the quality of the sound changed. 'Parts of it are hollow. Look at the size of the thing! Open it up and you'll find all manner of trickery inside. Fraulein Lowenstein must have had accomplices who helped her to practise her deceptions. A locked room, a disappearing bullet – it all smacks of theatre to me. Stagecraft. Smoke and mirrors! Perhaps one of her accomplices killed her. And perhaps you should be consulting a stage magician rather than a psychiatrist!'

'Well, as it happens,' said Rheinhardt, 'I visited the Volksprater this morning and spoke to one Adolphus Farber, better known to circus patrons as The Great Magnifico. He makes people vanish after locking them inside cabinets.'

'And?'

'Although Herr Farber is reputed to be the finest of illusionists, when I told him the facts of the case he was unable to help.'

'What did he conclude?'

'He said that the murder must have been the result of a supernatural visitation.'

Liebermann shook his head in despair.

'This crime is an illusion, make no mistake, and if we fail to understand how it was accomplished this will only demonstrate the intellectual and creative superiority of our adversary, nothing more.'

Rheinhardt was heartened by his friend's confidence, but the extraordinary facts of the case still made him deeply uneasy.

'If,' said Liebermann, 'this murder was perpetrated by an accomplice, then he – or she – must be a member of Fraulein Lowenstein's spiritualist circle. Do you know much about them?'

Rheinhardt took out his notebook.

'There's a locksmith called Uberhorst. Hans Bruckmuller – a businessman – makes surgical instruments. A