Mortal Mischief

In addition to recreation and analgesia, Uberhorst's singular hobby served another, less readily articulated purpose. Somewhere, in the darker recesses of his sombre mind, a germ of ambition had taken root. His comprehensive understanding of lock mechanisms would allow him, one day, to design a system that was truly invulnerable. In the moments before sleep, he was teased by a speculative vision, a hypothetical mechanism floating in the darkness: a pin-tumbler lock with a revolving cylinder . . .

Uberhorst closed his eyes and raised the lever, feeling the slight resistance.

A little more . . . a little more.

At this point, skill required the supplementary advantage of intuition. Uberhorst decided that he would take a risk.

Ever so gently . . .

But he had gone too far. He had tripped the lever past the corner of the detecting spring.

The bolt was trapped.

He sighed, withdrew the pick, and considered the importance of his mistake. As he did so, his thoughts were interrupted by an image that had been invading his mind all week: the Inspector – sagging eyes and turned-up moustache, his large body filling the workshop, the final words of their conversation.

Then you must be mistaken, Inspector.

Why?

It's impossible.

Really? Even for a master locksmith?

If Uberhorst wasn't careful, he could find himself swinging from a rope.

23

WHEN LIEBERMANN HAD ACCEPTED his father's invitation to dinner he had felt slightly uneasy. The feeling had returned as he got out of the cab in Concordiaplatz, and when he discovered that in addition to his parents and younger sister Hannah, his elder sister Leah had been invited – with her husband Josef – and that little Daniel was also present his heart sank. Mendel had obviously decided to organise a family gathering around his son's visit, which meant that the old man would feel justified in celebrating the Sabbath.

With his wine cup conspicuously raised, Mendel stood at the head of the table, reciting Kiddush with the solemnity of an Old Testament prophet.

Mendel was perfectly aware that his son had virtually no attachment to Jewish tradition, but it was a fact that he was unwilling to accept. Indeed, at times it seemed to Liebermann that his father was conducting a war of attrition – always seeking to erode his resistance by subjecting him whenever possible to customs and rituals.

'Boruch Atoh Adonoi Eloheinu Melech Hoolom . . .'

Blessed are You, Lord, Our God, King of the Universe, who sanctifies us with his commandments, and has been pleased with us.

Across the table, beyond the Sabbath candles, Liebermann caught Hannah's eye and assumed an expression of exaggerated piety. His younger sister looked away, and Liebermann was gratified to see her shoulders shaking as she fought to conceal laughter. He found the ease with which he could provoke her only slightly less remarkable than the magnitude of his own immaturity.

'Kiy Vanu Vacharsa V'osanu Kidashta Mikol Haamim . . .'

Indeed, You have chosen us and made us holy among all people, and have willingly and lovingly given us Your holy Sabbath for an inheritance.

Liebermann filled the vessel for washing hands, and systematically poured a small quantity of water over his right hand, then his left, three times in succession. His actions reminded him of the superstitious rituals associated with obsessional neuroses. Before drying his hands he recited the next blessing.

Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who sanctifies us with his commandments, and commands us concerning washing of hands.

Leah, gifted with the uncanny prescience of watchful mothers, intercepted Daniel's chubby little fingers as they crawled towards the bread. Unperturbed, Mendel removed the shabbos deckle covering the loaves in preparation for the final blessing:

'Boruch Atoh Adonoi Eloheinu Melech Hoolom,'

Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe,

'Hamoitzi Lechem Min Haaretz.'

Who brings forth bread from the earth.

Liebermann whispered an indifferent 'Amein' with the others, and winked at Hannah when she lifted her head. She was smiling – a broad, triumphal smile. Once again, she had survived the Sabbath ritual, in spite of her brother's efforts to embarrass her.

Mendel signalled to the head servant who had been patiently standing by the door and a few moments later the room was a hive of activity. A large tureen of chicken soup was deposited in the middle of the table, and several conversations began at once. Liebermann's mother – Rebecca – was fussing over Daniel, while Mendel questioned Josef on an abstruse point of contract law. The old man looked down the table at his son, willing him to join in, but Liebermann only smiled and turned towards Hannah.

'So,' he began. But before he could utter another word his mother was talking to him.

'Maxim, you'll never guess who I met the other day.'

'Who?'

'Frau Hirschfeld.'

'Really?'

'Yes. I haven't seen her for years. Apparently –' without pausing, Rebecca wiped a dribble of soup from Daniel's mouth and combed his hair with her fingers '– they've been living in Italy – the whole family – except for Martin, of course. Do you ever see Martin?'

'Very rarely.'

'He's been promoted, you know.' Rebecca passed more bread to Mendel. 'She was looking well, Frau Hirschfeld. She's put on a little weight, of course – but then, who doesn't when you get to our age.' With a swiftness that almost eluded detection, Rebecca adjusted the angle of the spoon in Leah's hand before it reached Daniel's mouth. 'Oh, and Rosamund – you remember Martin's sister Rosamund? She has two children now. She was the one who married the architect. What was his name?'

'Weisel. Hermann Weisel.'

'That's right. Herr Klein's cousin. Making a name for himself – so Frau Hischfeld says.'

'Herr Klein?'

'No, no. The architect.' Suddenly turning on her husband, she said: 'Mendel, let Josef eat. He hasn't touched his soup.'

Gesturing towards Rebecca's bowl, Mendel responded dryly: 'Neither have you, my dear.'

Rebecca shrugged and continued to fret and fidget.

'So,' said Liebermann, looking across the table at Hannah for the second time. 'What have you been up to?'

Hannah screwed up her face.

'Nothing, really.'

Liebermann shook his head.

'You must have done something, I haven't seen you for almost a month.'

'All right,' said Hannah, her adolescent moue softening to become a more adult pout, 'I've been to see Emelie. But that's all.'

'Really?'

'Yes, really.'

Liebermann felt sorry for his younger sister. Hannah was a late addition to the family, and since Leah's marriage she had had to live alone with their parents. At sixteen she had been marooned in a household that was beginning to feel frowsty and moribund.

'Then I suppose I should take you out, to cheer you up. How would you like that?'

Hannah's face brightened.