Mortal Mischief

Braun fell silent.

'Did you strike her?' asked Liebermann.

Braun lowered his chin, a movement so subtle as to almost escape detection.

'Lotte left the room and came back with a kitchen knife in her hand.' Braun's eyelids tightened, creating a delta of creases that spread across his temples. Lowering his voice, suddenly absorbed by his own narrative, he murmured: 'I can see her now, standing there in the doorway, brandishing that great knife – out of breath – panting like an animal. She looked at me for a few moments, and then came rushing in. All that I can remember are those eyes and thinking How beautiful – and how terrible. . . I didn't try to defend myself, I felt curiously detached. She would have killed me, I'm certain. But something happened. There was an accident – an act of God, you might say – and I was saved. She tripped over the rug, and fell. She ended up sprawled out at my feet, and the knife went skittering across the floor – it went under the chaise longue. I suddenly came to my senses. Before she could get up again I threw myself on top of her. Of course, she struggled – kicked and shouted. But I managed to hold her down. Eventually she gave up, just went limp and started crying . . . It was a close thing – she could have killed me.' Braun shook his head and mumbled: 'It was difficult to loathe – I'm sorry – love her, after that.'

Liebermann immediately seized on the implications of Braun's verbal slip. It suggested to him that, although Braun might claim otherwise, he still harboured feelings of affection for his beautiful and volatile paramour.

'What do you know about her past? Her childhood?'

'We didn't talk about such things.'

'Why not?'

'I don't know, we just didn't – although I think Lotte had an unhappy childhood. Her parents died when she was quite young, and she had to fend for herself – but I don't know a lot more than that.'

'Were you not interested?'

'She didn't want to talk – and I didn't want to press the matter. Besides, the past is the past, Doctor. What's done is done, eh?'

'Herr Braun,' asked Liebermann, 'who do you think killed Fraulein Lowenstein?'

'At first I thought it might have been Theodore Roche – but I'm not so sure now. He was a proud man, just the sort to seek revenge. But he had no imagination. That business with the bullet and the locked door . . . the figurine in the box . . . extraordinary. I have no idea how it was done.' Braun's lips curved to form a faint, cynical smile. 'So maybe it was a devil. Maybe they do exist, after all.'

The young man opened his eyes and looked up, straining to see Liebermann.

'I don't suppose, Herr Doctor, that you have a bottle of something or other hidden away in here?'

'No,' said Liebermann. 'I don't.'

'I find that difficult to believe. I know how much you medical men appreciate a tipple.'

Liebermann did not respond, and Braun let his head fall back into its original position.

'I understand that Fraulein Lowenstein met privately with Herr Uberhorst. Do you know anything about that?'

'Yes, that's right. He was always dropping in to see her – for extra consultations. To tell the truth, I think she had a bit of a soft spot for him – poor Karl.'

'Why do you say 'poor Karl'?'

'Have you met him?'

'No.'

'Well, if you had, you'd understand. Pathetic man. Lonely. Suffers from nerves, if you ask me.' Braun turned his head and said quickly, 'Only a layman's opinion, of course, but I'm sure you'd agree.'

'Fraulein Lowenstein felt sorry for him?'

'Yes, certainly. She could have fleeced him – relieved him of everything, down to his last heller. But do you know what? She was satisfied to accept two krone for an hour of her time.'

'Did she entertain any of the other men privately?'

'From the circle?'

'Yes.'

'None that I know of – only Karl. I used to say to her, 'What on Earth do you think you're doing, running a charity?' '

'And what did she reply?'

'She said that he was a sad man and needed help. It was a side of her character that she rarely exhibited. He's a small chap . . . I think he brought out her maternal instinct.'

'Herr Braun, what did you intend to do – after the child was born?'

'What child?'

'The autopsy showed that Fraulein Lowenstein was three months pregnant. She would have had twins.'

'You must be mistaken, Herr Doctor. Lotte and I . . . we had stopped having relations of any kind. We had not made love for many, many months.'

'I can assure you, Herr Braun, that at the time of her death Lotte Lowenstein was pregnant.'

Braun sat up and, turning, let his legs slide over the side of the divan. His eyes flashed with anger.

'Don't try to trick me, Herr Doctor. There's only one magician in this room – and it isn't you.'

42

THE DOORMAN BOWED and clicked his heels as the couple left the Hotel Bristol. Rheinhardt rewarded the man with a generous tip, given so discreetly that his wife – even though her arm was linked with his – did not notice. If their progress was more ponderous than usual, it was on account of the meal that they had just enjoyed. It had stretched to accommodate some five courses, the last of which was (to Rheinhardt's satisfaction) a particularly sweet Marillenknodel – apricots in curd cheese dumplings, sprinkled with breadcrumbs and roasted in butter.

A cab was already waiting outside, the driver patiently stroking the horse with the handle of his whip. Rheinhardt opened the door for his wife and, holding her hand, guided Else up onto the footplate. A strand of mousy brown hair had fallen from beneath her hat. Although her face had become more round with age, it retained a certain girlish quality and her full figure had not exceeded the limits of Rubenesque beauty. As Else stepped into the cab, Rheinhardt took the liberty of raising her skirt, just a little, to ensure that she would not stumble. This small service was administered so tactfully that, like his tipping, it escaped Else's attention completely.

The cab rolled down the Ringstrasse, past the art and natural history museums and west into Josefstadt. As Rheinhardt looked out of the window, Else, replete with the evening's indulgences, rested her cheek on his shoulder. The cab rumbled along, bouncing on the cobbles, rocking her head from side to side. The interior became warm and slightly stuffy. Rheinhardt's thoughts, like detritus in a whirlpool, were drawn in ever-decreasing circles towards a single point of contemplation: Otto Braun.

Rheinhardt had assumed that Else had fallen asleep and was therefore surprised when his cogitations were disturbed by a question: 'What are you thinking?'

Rheinhardt gave himself a moment to compose an anodyne response and replied: 'I am thinking how beautiful you look in your new dress.'

'Oskar,' said Else, a certain drowsiness thickening her voice, 'you should know by now that I am not one to be bamboozled with flattery.'

The Inspector chuckled, and turned to kiss the ribbon on his wife's hat.

'All right, I confess,' said Rheinhardt. 'I am a little preoccupied. But I have no wish to spoil our anniversary by discussing a murder inquiry.'

'Nothing could spoil our anniversary,' said Else. 'It has been a wonderful evening, and I am very, very happy.' Saying this, she heaved herself up and nuzzled more deeply into his shoulder.

'And you like your dress?'

'I love it.'

As they progressed past the regularly spaced lamp-posts, the cab was softly illuminated with pulses of amber. The black leather of the upholstery creaked as Rheinhardt made himself more comfortable, leaning more