Mortal Mischief

a dull thud. 'See how your breathing is becoming shallow. Every time you breathe out, you relax a little more . . .'

The stove hissed as the scorched logs inside exuded a smoky fragrance.

'Your eyelids are becoming heavier and heavier,' murmured Liebermann. 'Heavier and heavier. You are sinking into a deep, deep, relaxing sleep.'

A detonation in the stove made Rheinhardt startle. His neck muscles had become slack, allowing his head to roll from side to side, and he was alarmed to discover that his breathing had acquired the limping rhythm that typically accompanies the mind's descent into oblivion. Rheinhardt bit his lower lip until the pain cleared the fog in his head, and then, to ensure continued wakefulness, he surreptitiously pinched himself.

'When I count to three,' said Liebermann, maintaining his languid delivery, 'your eyes will close, and you will enter a deep, dreamless sleep. However, this sleep will be very different from the ordinary sleep to which you are accustomed. While you are in this sleep, you will retain the ability to hear my voice, and you will be perfectly capable of answering questions. One. Two . . .' Rosa's eyelids began to close, continuing to flutter with the restless agitation of a butterfly. On the count of 'Three', however, she succumbed to sleep with the decisive swiftness of a falling guillotine. Her eyelids dropped, and in an instant her face had acquired the cherubic composure of a slumbering infant's.

Liebermann raised his head and smiled at Rheinhardt – clearly satisfied that the procedure had been successful. He then proceeded to ask Rosa a number of questions about the domestic duties she had been instructed by Fraulein Lowenstein to perform. The young woman's answers were perfectly intelligible, although her voice sounded somewhat flat as though she was under the influence of a powerful soporific. This form of questioning went on for some time. Indeed, Rheinhardt found himself becoming a little impatient, as Liebermann's interrogation progressed from one inconsequential matter to the next: flower arrangement, laundry, dusting, furniture polish, and so on. Rheinhardt became particularly exasperated when Liebermann seemed to get caught up in a protracted discussion on the subject of shopping lists and food.

'So, you ordered less coffee?'

'In February, yes.'

'And fewer eggs?'

'Mistress went off eggs.'

'But noodles appeared more frequently on the shopping list?'

'My mistress asked me to make her some Schinken-fleckerin.'

'For breakfast?'

'Yes, sir.'

'How many times.'

'Five, sir.'

'Did that strike you as unusual?'

'Yes, sir. Mistress rarely ate breakfast.'

'Tell me, did Fraulein Lowenstein ever ask you to purchase peppermint tea?'

'Yes. From a shop on Karntner Strasse.'

'Recently?'

'In February.'

'Had she ever asked you to buy peppermint tea before?'

And so the peculiar conversation went on, touching upon one trivial topic after another. Eventually Liebermann abandoned his exhaustive investigation into the minutiae of Charlotte Lowenstein's domestic arrangements and raised the subject of Otto Braun. Rheinhardt sighed with relief, attracting Liebermann's attention, who turned to see if anything was wrong. Rheinhardt shook his head as if to say, 'Nothing.' Liebermann continued: 'How often did Herr Braun visit your mistress?'

'Very often, sir.'

'Every day?'

'No. Not every day.'

'Two or three times a week?'

'Yes, about that. Although not always. Sometimes he would not call for several weeks.'

'Why was that? Do you think he had to go away sometimes?'

'No. Because he always attended Fraulein Lowenstein's meetings.'

'Where did Fraulein Lowenstein entertain Herr Braun?'

'In the sitting room, sir.'

'And where were you? When they were together?'

'Sometimes I was in the kitchen . . . sometimes in the drawing room . . . and sometimes—' Rosa's brow furrowed.

'Yes?' said Liebermann.

'Sometimes, Fraulein Lowenstein suggested that I should leave the apartment . . . for a few hours.'

'She wanted to be alone with Herr Braun?'

'I don't know.'

'That seems likely, don't you think?'

'I don't know.'

Rheinhardt found her loyalty touching. Even under hypnosis, she strived to protect her mistress's honour.

'Listen to me very carefully,' continued Liebermann. 'You must answer my questions honestly. I repeat: do you think your mistress wanted to be alone with Herr Braun?'

The corner of Rosa's mouth twitched.

'You must answer,' Liebermann pressed.

'Yes,' said Rosa, sighing heavily. 'Yes, I do think that.'

Liebermann glanced at Rheinhardt and then continued: 'Did they ever argue, Herr Braun and Fraulein Lowenstein?'

'Sometimes . . . sometimes I heard their voices. When I was in the kitchen. They sounded upset . . .'

'What were they saying?'

'I can't remember.'

Liebermann leaned forward.

'Rosa, imagine you are in Fraulein Lowenstein's kitchen. Picture it with your mind's eye. Every detail. The floor, the cupboards, the sink . . . The curtains hanging in the window casement. Can you picture those things?'

'Yes.'

'The picture in your mind is so clear, so vivid, that it is almost real. It feels like you are in the kitchen again. It feels like you are there. Tell me, are you seated? Or are you standing?'

'Seated. Seated at the table.'

'What are you doing?'

'Sharpening knives.'

'Now listen. Listen very carefully . . . You hear voices. It is Fraulein Lowenstein and Herr Braun. They are in the sitting room, and you can hear their voices. They sound upset . . .'

'Yes. Upset and . . .'

'What?'

'Angry.'

'Listen carefully now. What are they saying?'

'I can't hear them properly. They are too far away.'

'Try, Rosa. Concentrate. Listen to their voices. What are they saying?'

'It's nothing to do with me. It's none of my business.'

'But you cannot help yourself from hearing. They are shouting at each other. What are they saying, Rosa?'

'I can't hear them. They are too far away . . .'

Liebermann leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of Rosa's head. Applying a gentle pressure to