would have to relinquish all my dreams – of working with Doctor Landsteiner, of acquiring sufficient knowledge to edit my grandfather's journals. All my plans, all my aspirations would come to nothing. I wept bitterly. Although I was wholly absorbed in my own misery, the shock of hearing Herr Schelling descending the stairs again brought me quickly to my senses. He came directly to my room. There was no knocking, no calling. I heard the sound of a key in the lock and the bolt turning. The door quickly opened and closed – and he was in.
'I was stunned. I could barely believe what had happened. Yet I had to believe it for I could hear his breathing – a horrible, ragged sound. There was a flash of lightning, and the impression of his presence was confirmed. I saw him standing close, like some terrible visitation in a nightmare. The mattress tilted as he crawled onto the bed.
Miss Lydgate's chest heaved. She raised her left arm. It was a sluggish, lymphatic movement, like that of weeds caught in a languid stream. She stifled a cough – and tried to continue.
'It was . . .' She coughed again. 'It was . . .'
Suddenly her eyes flicked open – like those of a doll. They were unnaturally wide and staring. Her pewter irises moved from left to right, examining the ceiling, before dipping to examine what lay beyond her toes. Then, with unexpected fluidity, Amelia Lydgate slid her legs off the side of the bed and sat up – supporting herself with both arms. Liebermann noticed that the fingers of her right hand were gripping the bedstead as tightly as were those of her left. The hospital gown had slipped from her shoulder, revealing an area of pale flesh and the nascent curve of a small breast. There was something wholly different about her attitude – something casual, almost slovenly in her appearance. A curtain of hair fell across her face. She made no effort to brush it away. Yet Liebermann could still see Miss Lydgate's eyes, glowing behind the russet strands with a dull metallic light. She was staring at him – a fixed, forensic stare.
Liebermann had not instructed her to wake, and even if he had it was customary for hypnotic subjects simply to open their eyes and remain still. Amelia Lydgate had acted spontaneously, opening her eyes and sitting up in the absence of a command. Liebermann wasn't altogether sure what was happening. Before he could make a decision, she spoke: 'Who are you?'
Her voice was less hesitant than usual. Moreover, she had asked the question in English.
'I am your doctor,' he replied – in German.
Liebermann could see that she didn't understand him.
'I said – who are you?' She articulated each syllable with deliberate emphasis, as though talking to a stupid child.
Liebermann edged his seat back and responded again, this time in English.
'My name is Doctor Liebermann. Who are you?'
'Me?' Amelia Lydgate looked down at her feet and swung them backwards and forwards. Then, looking up, she brushed the hair from her face with her right hand, revealing a manic grin. 'My name is Katherine.'
32
THE OPEN-AIR CONCERT platform was situated near the Prohaska restaurant. Karl Uberhorst was seated a few rows from the front, enjoying a programme of popular pieces performed by the Ladies' String Orchestra of Vienna – a small ensemble of only nine players. Uberhorst was not a great music lover. He recognised the famous works by Strauss and Lanner but little else. He was not there for the music but for the leader of the orchestra, Fraulein Zochling.
She was not as attractive as Fraulein Lowenstein, but nevertheless, there was something about her that Uberhorst found beguiling: her proud, almost defiant posturing – the way her torso swung backwards and forwards as she bounced the bow on the violin strings.
He had chanced upon the Ladies' String Orchestra while walking in the Prater a few days earlier and had felt compelled to return. It was like being granted a preview of heaven. The women, in high necked white dresses and gold sashes, looked like angels. At one point, Fraulein Zochling had glanced directly into his eyes. The intensity of her gaze had been too much, and he had looked away – confused and ashamed.
The orchestra came to the end of
Their beauty tormented him – as
Why had Fraulein Lowenstein chosen to trust him with her secret?
Why not any of the others?
It was his duty to protect her honour – but at the same time, the information in his possession might be of considerable interest to the police. In addition, being truthful with them might free him from suspicion. Yet even contemplating this course of action felt like a terrible betrayal. Perhaps he would discover what to do at the seance? On the other hand, perhaps he should continue to experiment with the locks . . .
Fraulein Zochling's orchestra sat down again as the applause gradually died away. Immediately, Fraulein Zochling herself raised her violin, glanced at her fellow musicians and launched into a hectic polka.
Uberhorst found that he could no longer enjoy the concert. His lungs laboured to fill his ribcage and a patina of sweat coated his forehead. He felt dizzy with anxiety.
'Excuse me,' he whispered.
Fortunately he was only three seats from the end of the row and was able to leave without causing any disruption. He rushed away, gasping for air in the lilac-scented breeze.
When he was away from the crowds he stopped and looked back. The heavenly orchestra was still playing beneath the proscenium arch and, beyond, the Riesenrad was a black silhouette against the white sky.
33
THE FACTORY YARD was an expanse of damp gravel, strewn with empty crates and abandoned pushcarts. Above Haussmann and Rheinhardt's heads, the moribund sky, a canopy of charcoal and pepper clouds, was made even more oppressive by a plume of black smoke streaming from a tall chimney. The factory itself was long, low, and built of dirty yellow bricks. A single line of small, blind windows perforated an otherwise featureless block; however, at the nearest end of the building, two large wooden doors had been left open. Through them came the relentless clang and clatter of heavy machinery.
'There he is,' said Haussmann.
Leaning up against the wall and smoking a cigarette was a scrawny man in overalls. He was talking to two similarly dressed companions who – on seeing the two policemen – hurried into the building.
'How did we find him?' asked Rheinhardt.
'Through Tibor Kiraly.'
'Who?'
'One of those magicians we consulted at the Volksprater.'
'The Great Magnifico?'
'No – that was Adolphus Farber. Kiraly was Chan the Inscrutable.'
The scrawny man threw his cigarette on to the ground and stubbed it out with his boot. Then he wiped his hands on his overalls and stood up straight. There was something unexpected about his attitude – the way he pushed out his chest and straightened his back. Rheinhardt thought he looked rather haughty. This impression only strengthened as they drew closer.
'Good morning, Herr Roche,' said Haussmann.
'Good morning, my dear fellow,' said the man in a dry, refined accent.
'Detective Inspector Rheinhardt,' said Haussmann, gesturing deferentially towards his chief.
Rheinhardt bowed.
'Thank you so much for helping us, Herr Roche.'
