Mortal Mischief

'Signor Locatelli,' said Gruner, spreading his hands in a placatory gesture. 'You are clearly in a state of shock. Please permit me to prescribe a sedative. I will arrange for you to be accompanied home by a junior doctor who will make sure that you take the correct dosage. Tomorrow, when you are properly rested, you will feel better and we can continue our conversation.'

Ignoring Gruner, the Italian reached into his pocket and produced a sheet of paper. It was covered on both sides in an inky scrawl.

'This letter was the last I received from Julietta, my wife. Let me translate it for you:

The professor does not listen to a word I say – he is only interested in his infernal machines. I have asked him about alternative treatments but he refuses to discuss the matter. I have heard that there is a new talking cure but he says that no such cure exists. I know that this is not true. The electrotherapy is unbearable – I feel like I am being punished. I cannot go on like this. Please come back soon. I am so unhappy.'

Locatelli folded the sheet and placed it back in his pocket.

'There is much more, Professor.'

'I'm sure there is,' said Gruner, suddenly showing signs of irritation. 'But your wife was ill – very ill. That is why you admitted her. If you are trying to suggest that your wife was mistreated while she was in my care, then you are very much mistaken. She was in the throes of a suicidal melancholia: that she should have taken a dim view of her treatment is hardly surprising, Signor.'

During the ensuing pause each torturous second registered like the creaking turn of a rack. Finally the Italian diplomat stood up.

'Concerning the propriety of her treatment, this is a matter that I will be raising, in due course, with your minister responsible for hospitals and health. Now, Professor, if you would kindly ask the porter to come back in, I wish to be escorted to the mortuary.'

48

'STEFAN, WOULD YOU cover for me? Just this morning?'

'Aren't you in enough trouble already, Max? If Gruner finds out—'

'He won't. Today's demonstration has been cancelled.'

'Really? That's unusual. Even so, why tempt fate, Max?'

'It's an emergency, I think.'

'You think?'

'Yes, I've just received this note – it's from Rheinhardt, my friend the police Inspector.' He handed it to Kanner.

'Dear Max,' Kanner read aloud, 'please come to the following address in Leopoldstadt. It is a matter of some urgency.'

'Will you cover for me? Please?' said Liebermann.

'Of course. But you must return by midday.'

Liebermann rushed out of the hospital and ran to the main road where he found a cab waiting on the corner.

'Leopoldgasse,' he called to the driver as he opened the door. 'And I'd appreciate it if you could get me there fast.' The cab driver touched his hat and whipped the horse. The carriage jolted forward and Liebermann fell back onto the black leather seat. Dodging two tram cars the driver crossed Wahringerstrasse and headed down Berggasse towards the Danube. They were over the canal in minutes and rattling down a small road that took Liebermann to his destination.

When he got out of the cab Liebermann found himself standing in front of a small row of shops. The entrance to one of them, painted in dull green paint, was made conspicuous by the two police constables standing outside. He introduced himself and they allowed him to pass. It wasn't until he stepped inside that Liebermann realised the shop belonged to a locksmith.

A worn brown curtain separated the vestibule from the workshop. Liebermann could hear Rheinhardt's voice. As Liebermann was deciding whether or not to proceed, Haussmann followed him through the front door, his notebook and pencil in his hand.

'Inspector Rheinhardt is interviewing one of the neighbours,' he whispered. 'Would you be kind enough to wait in here, Herr Doctor?' Haussmann offered Liebermann a chair.

'What has happened?'

'Murdered in his sleep.'

'Who?'

'Herr Uberhorst – one of the medium's circle. An ugly business.'

Haussmann walked towards the curtain, shaking his head and looking rather pale. The brown material billowed in his wake.

Liebermann took the seat and waited. He strained to hear Rheinhardt's interview but Herr Uberhorst's neighbour was too softly spoken. He could hear questions, but no answers.

Eventually, Rheinhardt raised his voice: 'Thank you for your assistance, Herr Kaip. I am much obliged.'

'Not at all, Inspector. I only wish I could have been more helpful.'

The curtain parted and Rheinhardt ushered a bearded man in a kaftan to the door.

'Goodbye, Herr Kaip.'

'Inspector.'

Liebermann rose from his seat.

'Max,' said Rheinhardt, 'I'm so glad you could come.'

'I persuaded a colleague to do my ward round – I can only spare an hour.'

'That will be quite enough. Did Haussmann tell you what happened?' Liebermann nodded. 'Let me warn you, it's not a pleasant sight.'

Rheinhardt led Liebermann through the cluttered workshop to a staircase that spiralled up to the first floor. The landing had only two doors, one of which was ajar. As Liebermann crossed the threshold he knew that something dreadful had happened. The air was tainted with an ominous metallic fragrance.

The room itself was small and bright. Shafts of sunlight slanted through the angled slats of a battered jalousie; the blind swung backwards and forwards, rocked by a gentle breeze, sounding an irregular tattoo against the window frame. A crude rustic table stood against the wall. On it rested a large washbowl, a jug, a hand mirror and a pair of pince-nez. The room was dominated by a large four-poster bed veiled with white muslin drapes. From Liebermann's position he could see that the two visible drapes were dappled and striped with blood.

'How was he killed?' Liebermann asked.

'Bludgeoned to death, we think.'

Liebermann approached the bed and gently pulled the nearest piece of muslin aside. What he saw filled him with a deep sense of revulsion. His stomach heaved and for a moment he thought that he might be sick.

The drapes made a luminous white box, the sides and top of which were splattered with congealed blood and globs of fibrous tissue. Herr Uberhorst (or at least the person whom Liebermann presumed had been Herr Uberhorst) was still lying beneath the bed sheets, but half his face had been destroyed. His left cheek had been stoved in and the maxilla had been smashed. Liebermann could see directly into the corpse's mouth, as far back as the soft palate. Several teeth were scattered around the dead man's shoulders and some had got caught in his hair, which was matted with yet more blood and a dried crust of cerebrospinal fluid. Worse still, the upper cranium had been perforated, revealing the wrinkled grey-pink matter of his brain: it glistened wetly, a strange fruit surrounded by petals of shattered bone.

Liebermann swallowed. He let the drape fall back.

'He was discovered,' said Rheinhardt, 'at seven o'clock this morning by the maid. She'd come to change his bedding.'

'Poor girl.'

'Yes, she's speechless. The lock on the front door is intact, and there's nothing here to suggest a forced entry. Herr Kaip – the neighbour – didn't hear anything in the night. He and his family weren't disturbed.'

'There's no sign of a struggle.'

'And the bed sheets are still quite tight.'