Mortal Mischief

In his eagerness to read the article he skipped whole sentences.

Locked room . . . no bullet . . . a statuette of an ancient god . . .

Clever illusion . . . stagecraft

.

A thin smile appeared on Zaborszky's face.

Looking for a young man called Otto Braun.

Tamas, assuming that the Count was enjoying the Strauss, beat the strings of his cimbalom with greater vigour and encouraged his companions to play faster.

'That bumbling clown of an Inspector,' muttered Zaborszky to himself. 'Completely out of his depth.'

Zaborszky could picture them all: the constables with their ridiculous spiked helmets and sabres guarding the entrance, the Inspector's team floundering around her apartment, tapping the walls, looking for trapdoors and levers. They would discover nothing.

The Count closed his good eye again, and a distant memory floated to the surface of his already troubled mind: winter. Ravens, like tattered rags, caught on the branches of bare trees.

He had been hunting in the immense wood that covered the uplands of the estate: pools of fog churning in the hollows, clods of frozen earth kicked up by the horse.

The animal had been frightened. It sensed danger. An old crone was standing by the bridleway. She seemed to come from nowhere. The horse neighed and nervously swung its head. Zaborszky did not know who she was – but he knew what she was.

The witch had spoken a taboo word. She had mentioned the szepasszony – The Fair Lady, the beautiful woman with long blonde hair who preyed on young men. The demonic seductress who emerged in storms and showers of hail . . .

The witch had cursed him.

She will get you, the witch had said.

26

FRAULEIN LOWENSTEIN'S BODY had been returned to the dissection table where it lay concealed under covers. The folds and creases of the material created a miniature landscape of mounds and ravines that all but disguised the human form underneath. The air was ripe with corruption – a noxious effluvium that might have been coughed up through a vent in the earth's crust.

Professor Mathias tugged gently at the top sheet. It slipped downward, revealing Fraulein Lowenstein's face. Rheinhardt had not expected her to be very much changed, but already her skin was discoloured and her features wasted. Her lips, previously blue in the early stages of death, were now almost black. There was something about her expression that suggested terror, as though her mouldering brain was still in possession of just enough sentience to generate a nightmare. Only Fraulein Lowenstein's hair had retained its incandescence. Her curls and tresses blazed defiantly beneath the merciless electric light.

Mathias placed a finger on her brow and pressed out a wrinkle.

'The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away.'

Rheinhardt caught Liebermann's eye and assumed a hangdog expression – the old man's eccentricity was already beginning to pall. Mathias sighed and, slowly lifting his head, examined the young doctor who stood on the opposite side of the table.

'I will grant your request,' said Mathias with sudden firmness. 'But I do so with some reluctance. I still suspect that we are all the victims of some dreadful practical joke. What you ask, Liebermann, is a kind of violation – you realise that, don't you? It is not a procedure that I undertake lightly.'

Liebermann had been forewarned of Mathias's peculiar affinity with the dead and was prompted to wonder why a man possessed of such sensitivities should choose to be a pathologist in the first place.

'Professor Mathias,' said Liebermann, 'permit me to assure you that I have given this matter the utmost consideration.'

'I hope so,' Mathias continued. 'Because if you are wrong and your psychological methods of deduction prove deficient, not only shall we all appear very foolish – yet again, I might add – but we shall also have performed an inexcusable act of violence against this poor, poor woman.'

Mathias's eyes bulged behind his thick lenses.

'Indeed,' said Liebermann. 'However, I am confident that the results of today's post-mortem examination will be in accordance with my prediction and of great value to my colleague.' He motioned towards Rheinhardt.

Mathias tilted his head a little.

'Where do you work, Liebermann?'

'In the psychiatry department of the General Hospital.'

'Under Professor Gruner?'

'Yes.'

'And what is your opinion of Professor Gruner?'

Liebermann replied with some hesitancy: 'I do not think it appropriate for me to comment on—'

'Come now – I am asking you a perfectly reasonable question!' Mathias snapped. 'What is your opinion of Professor Gruner?'

'I cannot claim any special knowledge of Professor Gruner as a man; however, as a doctor . . .'

'Yes?'

Liebermann took a deep breath: 'I disagree with his methods profoundly.'

'And why?'

'They are inhumane.'

Mathias grunted his assent.

'Precisely. The man's an idiot. Slowest student in my anatomy class – only got where he is today through nepotism and patronage!' Liebermann heard Rheinhardt releasing a little whistle of relief. 'Well, Herr Doctor,' continued Mathias, 'Perhaps you are not such a bad judge after all. Even though,' he added under his breath, 'you have decided to specialise in the most disreputable branch of medicine.'

Liebermann smiled politely and trapped his tongue between his teeth.

The old professor dragged his trolley closer to the table and began to arrange his collection of instruments. He moved a mallet a fraction of an inch to the left, but then nudged it back again. He then started lining up knives, only to give up halfway through in order to restart the operation from the very beginning. Liebermann was quick to recognise a very obvious case of obsessional neurosis.

Rheinhardt was growing impatient. Not only was he anxious for the professor to proceed but he was also finding the smell of the morgue intolerable. Fraulein Lowenstein's body was exuding fetid vapours that made his gorge rise. The air was thick with formaldehyde fumes and the stench of putrefaction. Rheinhardt took out a handkerchief and held it over his face, attracting the attention of Professor Mathias.

'Do you know,' the old man said, 'I can hardly smell a thing. I'm so used to it.' He placed a serrated blade next to a chisel and added: 'Might I suggest some cigars, gentlemen? Smoking makes the effluvium more tolerable – so I'm told.'

'Thank you, Herr Professor,' said Rheinhardt.

With quick, desperate movements the Inspector undid the top button of his jacket and pulled out a flat box of panatellas. He immediately lit a cigar and drew on it until his head almost disappeared in a cloud of pungent smoke. Rheinhardt's tense lineaments softened with pleasure as the fragrant tobacco neutralised the stench.

'Forgive me. Herr Doctor?' He offered his friend the box.

Liebermann felt that as a medical man he should be able to cope without smoking; however, he had not attended an autopsy for a long time and the rising miasma was making him feel quite sick.

'Thank you,' he said, taking the box.

Professor Mathias completed his preparatory ritual and proclaimed: 'If we do not find anything pleasant, at least we shall find something new.'

He then looked at his two companions, an expectant expression on his face.

'No? Very well, it was from Candide.' He then gently turned back the lower covers, revealing Fraulein Lowenstein's abdomen. Her stomach was bloated, the skin stretched taut by the gases in her gut.