Mortal Mischief

Roche wiped his hands on his overalls again before giving them a cursory inspection.

'I am afraid that we shall have to forgo the usual courtesies,' said Roche, displaying his grubby palms.

'Is there perhaps somewhere we could sit, Herr Roche? It's rather loud here,' said Rheinhardt.

'It's a lot worse inside. I would recommend that we use some of those boxes over there.' Roche pointed across the yard. 'Not very comfortable, but they will serve our purpose.'

The three men walked over to a collection of crates by the main entrance, where they improvised some seating. Rheinhardt noticed that the ground was littered with spent rifle shells.

Before Rheinhardt could ask his first question, Roche said: 'You know, she had it coming to her. She deserved to die.'

Rheinhardt looked into Roche's eyes, and was shocked to see his crows-feet wrinkling with pleasure. Ignoring the man's curious opening gambit, Rheinhardt said, 'Herr Roche, could you explain how you came to know Fraulein Lowenstein?'

'She was my assistant,' replied Roche. Then, recognising that Rheinhardt was waiting for him to elaborate, he added: 'I didn't always work in that hell-hole, you know.' He thumbed over his shoulder in the direction of the factory. 'I used to be in the theatre. The

Blue Danube – do you remember it?'

Rheinhardt shook his head.

'Small place on Dampfschiffstrasse?' Roche persisted hopefully.

'I'm sorry,' said Rheinhardt, shaking his head again.

'Well, I used to manage it,' Roche sighed. 'And I'd still be managing it today, if it wasn't for . . .' He paused for a moment before adding, 'That woman' – each syllable was costive and contemptuous. 'Of course, she was never an official employee – there was no contract. Nevertheless, she performed all of the duties expected of an assistant manager.'

'Why wasn't her appointment official?'

'Unfortunately,' said Roche, 'I permitted her to become involved without notifying the proprietor.'

'Any reason?'

Roche took a small tin from his overalls and opened the lid. Inside, were three thinly rolled cigarettes. He half-heartedly offered them to Rheinhardt and Haussmann, but showed palpable signs of relief when they refused.

'Please, allow me.' Rheinhardt struck a match and lit Roche's cigarette.

'The proprietor would have objected,' said Roche. 'She had no experience of management – she was an actress.'

'Then why did you appoint her?'

'We were lovers,' said Roche, 'and I trusted her.' He drew on his cigarette and blew twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. 'In retrospect, I was foolish. But I really thought she could be trusted.'

'How did you meet?'

'She was with a provincial touring company – not a very good one, I might add – who had decided to try their luck in the capital. As you can imagine, the reviews were terrible, although Schnabel said some complimentary things about her in particular. Something like: What she lacks in talent is amply compensated for by her stage presence and her beauty. I forget exactly what now, but something to that effect. After the terrible reviews there was a lot of bad feeling – accusations and counter- accusations. The upshot of which was that the company finished their execrable run at The Danube and then immediately disbanded. She – Charlotte – came crying to my door and . . . Well, you know how it is, Inspector, you're a man of the world – things happen.'

Rheinhardt nodded sagely.

'She said that she didn't want my charity,' continued Roche. 'She was very insistent – said that she would rather leave Vienna than be a burden to me. So I gave her a few jobs – here and there – and it must have built up. She did more and more, and I suppose I got used to doing less and less. Then, one morning, she vanished. Just like that.' Roche clicked his fingers. 'All of her things were still in the apartment, but she was gone. When I got to my office, I discovered that the safe had been emptied. Worse still, it turned out that the accounts were completely inaccurate. The record of our box-office takings meant nothing. As you can imagine, the proprietor was not amused. I was blamed for everything.'

'Had you given her the combination of the safe?'

'No, but I'd opened it in her presence on many occasions. She was obviously far more observant than I'd thought.'

'Did you try to find her?'

'Yes, of course – but it was too late. She'd already left Vienna.'

'On her own?'

'No, I don't think so. Later I discovered that she'd been having an affair with a stage magician – right under my nose. Braun, I think his name was. He'd taken part in a few of The Danube's summer shows (never popular, everyone having gone off, of course). I imagine that they must have run away together.'

A few spots of rain speckled Roche's overalls and he looked up at the grim sky.

'You had no idea that Fraulein Lowenstein had returned to Vienna?' asked Rheinhardt.

Roche shook his head.

'No idea at all. Had I known, Inspector, you would undoubtedly have had the pleasure of charging me with her murder.'

34

LIEBERMANN'S MIND RACED as he tried to make sense of the curious transformation he had just observed. Miss Amelia Lydgate – in the person of Katherine – was still staring at him. She did not seem to present any immediate physical threat, but he knew well enough that the emergence of a secondary personality was a rare and unpredictable phenomenon: an occurrence that merited caution and a healthy respect for the complexities of human mental life.

Liebermann and 'Katherine' retained their respective positions for some time. The silence curdled, thickening slowly with disturbing possibilities. Still floundering a little, Liebermann began to rehearse some English in his head. The task steadied his nerves, providing him with a necessary focus.

'Where is Amelia?' he asked.

'She's asleep.' Even the timbre of Miss Lydgate's voice was strangely altered. She seemed to be speaking in a slightly higher register.

'Does she know that you are here?'

'No – she's asleep.'

It occurred to Liebermann that Amelia Lydgate's secondary personality might be that of a child.

'How old are you ?' he asked.

'Not as old as Amelia.'

'Yes – but how old are you?'

Katherine lifted her chin and said in a voice that was presumably supposed to create an impression of superiority: 'Doctor Liebermann, were you never told that it is impolite to ask a woman her age?' So saying, she pushed herself off the bed and landed squarely on the floor, her bare feet slapping against the tiles. Then she straightened her gown, pressing her palms against her waist and sliding them down over her hips. This stretched the cotton, emphasising the curves of her body. Though the movement might have been meant to be seductive, Liebermann recognised that there was still something very childish about the young woman's posturing. It reminded him of the half-innocent, half-knowing behaviour of girls on the cusp of pubescence: a natural, almost unconscious flirtation.

She took a step forward. Then, holding her gown at the hip, she raised it a little and stood on her toes. It was a curious, balletic movement – presumably meant to be some kind of parody of elegance.

'Do you think me pretty, Doctor Liebermann?'

Liebermann coughed uncomfortably, which reminded him that since Katherine's arrival, Miss Lydgate – or at least her dormant personality – had not coughed once.