drew on the cigar, leaned back in his chair, and smiled blissfully.
'I see that your collection is growing,' said Liebermann, pointing at the figures. 'Every time I visit, you seem to have acquired another.'
'Indeed,' replied Freud. He reached out and stroked the head of a small marble ape, almost as though it were a real pet. 'This is my latest acquisition. It is the baboon of Thoth. Egyptian, of course, 30 BC – or thereabouts.'
Liebermann did not know a great deal about archaeology. Nor did he understand the aesthetic appeal of antiquities (his sympathies were decidedly modern). Even so, he did not want to offend the professor and so nodded his head appreciatively.
While Freud was admiring his collection, Liebermann seized the opportunity he had been waiting for.
'Actually, Herr Professor, I wondered whether I might consult you in your capacity as an archaeologist?'
Freud looked up and smiled, a little embarrassed.
'Archaeologist? Me? It's a hobby, that's all . . .'
Liebermann gestured at Freud's bookcase.
'Still, I don't know anybody who has read more on the subject.'
The professor nodded vigorously. 'That is true. You know, I'm ashamed to admit it but I've read more archaeology than psychology.'
'Perhaps you should have been an archaeologist?'
Freud blew a cloud of smoke over the desk.
'Ahh,' he said. 'But, in a way, I am. Don't you think?'
Liebermann tacitly accepted the professor's point. Then, reaching into his leather bag, he took out the statuette from Charlotte Lowenstein's apartment.
'Do you think that this is an authentic antiquity?' He showed it to Freud. 'And if so, do you have any idea what it's supposed to be?'
Freud placed his cigar in the ashtray and reached out – his expression becoming more intense and serious. He took the piece gently in his hands, and began to rotate it, inspecting every detail. The silence was disturbed by the sound of the professor's children, running and shouting upstairs. Freud raised his head, momentarily distracted by the noise, before falling once again into a state of total absorption. Liebermann was judging whether it would be considered impolite to remind the professor of his presence when Freud suddenly announced: 'It's Egyptian. Certainly looks genuine – but it's difficult to say. You'd have to get a dealer to confirm that.'
'And what's it supposed to be?'
Freud looked up and fixed Liebermann with his penetrating stare.
'There is only one deity with a snout and a forked tail. That is Set or Seth. The god of chaos – the god of storms and mischief.'
Liebermann appeared unperturbed, yet inside his head his thoughts were racing. The professor's words were like hammer blows: storms and mischief. He had always assumed that Fraulein Lowenstein's murder was a clever illusion. Nothing more than a sophisticated stage trick. Mischief, most certainly, but mortal mischief. For the first time Liebermann experienced doubt. What kind of illusionist could conjure a storm? Liebermann remembered Thursday's unseasonal deluge: massive forks of lightning – followed by apocalyptic thunder – and rain spilling from the gutter and crashing on to the pavement below like a waterfall.
'Where did you get this?' asked Freud.
'It belongs to a friend of mine,' answered Liebermann. 'He asked me to get it valued.'
'Ah,' said Freud, holding the piece up to the light. 'It won't be worth a great deal of money. Egyptian antiquities aren't very popular in Vienna. It's all Baroque and Biedermeier these days.'
'Is it?'
'Oh yes. But there are some good dealers on Wieblinger Strasse. You should take it there.'
'I will—'
'And,' Freud cut in very quickly, 'if your friend isn't satisfied with the offer, please let me know. I would be keen to add this little fellow to my collection.'
The professor placed the statuette on his desk, between the ape and a bronze of Horus. Then he patted the demon's head, saying: 'Handsome little fellow. Handsome.'
A spiral of smoke curled around the creature's legs and tail, evoking, once again, an impression of primeval power – the awakening of an ancient and frivolous malevolence.
Part Two
19
IT WAS EARLY EVENING, and the gaslights were low. Rheinhardt poured his
'That's better,' he said. 'How's yours?'
'Adequate,' replied Liebermann.
On the other side of the room, under the first of two low arches, the cafe proprietor was standing like a guardsman. With the exception of an old man in a kaftan, Liebermann and Rheinhardt were his only customers.
'Locks seem to have acquired a special significance for Herr Uberhorst.'
'In what way?'
'Well, he described one as . . . a masterpiece. He seems to approach lock mechanisms with the same degree of veneration that you or I might reserve for a Beethoven sonata. Now that I've actually interviewed him properly – and seen his shop – I have to admit that I am more suspicious . . . But . . .'
'You don't think him capable of murder.'
'Frankly, no.'
Liebermann detected a certain hesitancy – a telling pause between words.
'What is it Oskar?'
The Inspector frowned.
'I don't think he's capable of murder, but I'm not convinced that Herr Uberhorst is being candid.'
'Why do you say that?'
'He's so very nervous.'
'That might be his disposition.'
'It very probably is. Even so . . . call it a hunch.'
'Could he have used his skills to assist someone else? Someone temperamentally better fitted to the task of murder?'
'Braun? It's a possibility . . .'
Liebermann looked out of the window. Two hussars marched past. From within the shabby cafe, they looked like creatures from another world, birds of paradise with extravagant plumage. The uniform of the light cavalry was striking: a high busby, a heavily braided jacket, and the distinctive loose cloak that hung from the left shoulder. In a few seconds they were gone and the window became a vacant square of darkness again.
'May I see Fraulein Sucher's statement?' asked Liebermann.
'Yes, of course.'
Rheinhardt took two sheets of paper from his pocket and handed them to his friend.
'Is this her handwriting?'
'No, it's Haussmann's.'
'I thought as much.'
