Mortal Mischief

'Why do you think Fraulein Lowenstein told you these things? They are very personal, are they not?'

'Perhaps she was lonely too.'

Rheinhardt considered this statement. Was it possible? That the beautiful Lowenstein and the diminutive Uberhorst were equally alienated? That an intimate friendship had developed between them? Rheinhardt pencilled the words 'loneliness' and 'disclosure' in his notebook, followed by three question marks.

'What happened then? After she went to live with her uncle?'

'She ran away . . .'

'To where?'

'I don't know.'

'And how did she live?'

'She found menial jobs – cleaning, running errands – and then I think she may have worked in the theatre. Inspector?'

'Yes?'

'What I just said – about her uncle? She told me these things in confidence.'

'Obviously.'

'The others – Bruckmuller, Zaborszky, the Holderlins – I would be grateful if you did not discuss these matters with them.'

'You have my word. Herr Uberhorst, when did Fraulein Lowenstein become a medium?'

'She was always sensitive – she always saw things.'

'Spirits?'

'Yes.'

'All right – when, then, did she become a professional medium?'

'I don't know. But she accepted her vocation after a vision.'

'What kind of vision?'

'She said that it could not be described – how can one describe communion with the infinite?'

'You think that she was instructed by a higher power?'

'Certainly.'

'I see.' Without pause or preparation Rheinhardt added: 'Do you remember what you were doing on Wednesday evening, Herr Uberhorst?'

'Yes.' There was a slight wavering in Uberhorst's voice.

'Where were you?'

'Please, I don't wish to be discourteous, Inspector, but I did tell your assistant who . . .'

Rheinhardt's brow furrowed, prompting Uberhorst to answer the question without further hesitation.

'I was here. I live upstairs.'

'And is there anyone who can confirm your story?'

'It isn't a story, Inspector. I was here – and no, I have no alibi. I rarely have visitors.'

Rheinhardt walked to the lathe, his shoes crunching on a carpet of metal shavings. Above it hung a framed mezzotint. It appeared to have little artistic merit, being only a diagrammatic representation of a mechanism, the parts of which were labelled with the letters of the alphabet.

'What is this?' asked Rheinhardt.

'It is a drawing of the detector lock designed by Jeremiah Chubb. It was patented in 1818. A masterpiece, I believe.'

Rheinhardt took a few steps and examined the titles that filled the bookcase. They were mostly bound journals and technical histories.

'You seem to be something of a connoisseur,' he said.

'I enjoy my work.'

Uberhorst joined Rheinhardt and pulled a volume from the top shelf. The spine was embossed in English, but Uberhorst translated:

'On the Construction of Locks and Keys – by Jeremiah Chubb. It is a first edition.' He caressed the cover and produced a weak, nervous smile.

Rheinhardt tried to look impressed and pointed to another volume.

'Locks of the Ancient World? I didn't realise they had them . . .'

'Oh yes,' said Uberhorst, his eyes now shining with the special light generated by fanatical interest. 'The very earliest were made of wood, but metal examples – of a similar design – can be found dating back to the time of the Caesars. Roman keys are still being found today . . . I have one in my possession, in fact. It was found when they were building the new Karlsplatz station.'

Uberhorst slid Jeremiah Chubb's treatise back into its vacant slot.

'Herr Uberhorst, are you familiar with the locks in Fraulein Lowenstein's apartment?'

'I didn't give them any special attention. But I imagine, given the age of the building, they are all some form of lever tumbler.'

'When we found her body,' Rheinhardt said casually, 'there was no weapon in the room, and the door had been locked from the inside. Do you have any idea how Fraulein Lowenstein's murderer accomplished this?'

'He must have locked the door and climbed out of the window.'

'I don't think so. The windows were locked too, and as you know the drop is quite considerable.'

Uberhorst thought for a moment.

'Then you must be mistaken, Inspector.'

'Why?'

'It's impossible.'

'Really? Even for a master locksmith?'

The little man touched his lower lip with his forefinger. His lip was no longer trembling, but his finger very clearly was.

17

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON but the chandeliers of the Cafe Schwarzenberg were blazing. Outside, a thin, persistent rain had subdued the light. Looking out of the window and on to Scharzenberg Platz, Liebermann could see the large equestrian statue of Prince Karl von Schwarzenberg, a pallid, ghostly rider, emerging slowly from the fine mist. Beyond the spectral prince, just visible, was the spout of a fountain.

'I don't understand,' said Clara. 'If there's nothing wrong with her arm, why can't she move it?'

They were sitting in a cosy wood-panelled alcove. Even though the cafe's vaulted interior was almost full their seating felt private. They were also isolated by the peculiarly potent, almost tangible intimacy of lovers.

'The arm is paralysed,' said Liebermann.

'All right, if it's paralysed how is it that she was able to hit Doctor Kanner? Can't you see? She's just pretending, Maxim!'

Having offered her very definite opinion, Clara began to dissect her apfelstrudel. She broke the sugar-coated pastry case: large pieces of cooked apple and several raisins spilled across her plate. The sweet bouquet of cinnamon and cloves mingled with the aroma of coffee and cigar smoke. Fixing her fiance with an ambiguous expression that vacillated between impertinence and amusement, Clara scooped a cube of aromatic apple into her mouth.

'In a way . . . you're right,' said Liebermann. His words were almost lost in the din of cutlery, conversation and piano music. 'She is pretending. But not to us. She's pretending to herself.'

Swallowing quickly, Clara retorted: 'Maxim, how can you pretend to yourself – you'd know you were pretending!'

'Well, that depends on how you think about the mind,' Liebermann replied. 'What if the mind is not one thing – but two? What if the mind has a conscious region and an unconscious region? Then it might be possible for memories in the unconscious to influence the body without the conscious mind knowing anything about those memories. If this is how the mind works, then when she says she can't move her arm, she's telling the truth. She really can't.'

'But she can move her arm!' said Clara again, a hint of genuine frustration entering