Mortal Mischief

room into total darkness.

55

LIEBERMANN AND RHEINHARDT entered the dim ante-room of the Cafe Central and passed through a narrow corridor smelling of coffee – and of ammonia from the urinals. Climbing a small flight of stairs they entered the arcade court: a pillared vaultlike arena that hummed with conversation and clicked with the brittle collision of billiard balls. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke provided a low canopy beneath which a milling crowd seemed to have gathered. The tables were well spaced, but most were surrounded by audiences of onlookers, openly criticising the moves in a chess game or praising a taroc player for increasing his stake.

The two men squeezed past the press of bodies and found somewhere to sit at the back.

Rheinhardt touched the arm of a passing waiter.

'A turkische for me and a schwarzer for my friend.'

The waiter bowed.

'Oh – and some Dobostorte. Max?'

'Nothing for me, thank you.'

The waiter vanished behind the nearest pillar.

'Well,' said Rheinhardt, puffing out his cheeks. 'Quite extraordinary, don't you think?'

'She is a fraud.'

'Come now, Max, you're being churlish. I thought you said you'd be coming with an open mind.'

'I did – and she's a fraud. That absurd fainting fit at the end – I've seen more convincing swoons at the opera. Her pulse was perfectly normal.'

'If you say so . . .' said Rheinhardt. 'But I can't help feeling that there was something more to those messages. More than trickery, I mean. Did you see Braun's face? He looked utterly flabbergasted when she mentioned the Danube, Baden, and the widow. He clearly wasn't expecting that . . . And what about Fraulein Heck? How on Earth did Madame de Rougemont know about a specific brooch that Heck coveted? And Heck's white summer dress! How could she know?'

'Every woman I've ever known owns a white summer dress, Oskar.'

'All right, but what about the brooch?'

Liebermann sighed.

'I don't know – I don't know how she managed to get that right. But I imagine she found out all she needed to know by talking to the members of Lowenstein's circle before our arrival. She is clearly a very skilled observer, able to read even the most minute reactions. In fact, she must possess skills very similar to those of a psychoanalyst. Professor Freud says that human beings are incapable of keeping secrets – we are always confessing something or other with fidgeting fingers and slips of the tongue. He once told me that betrayal forces itself through every pore. Madame de Rougemont is simply a consummate observer of human behaviour.'

Rheinhardt still looked troubled.

'That voice, though – Morax. It was unnerving.'

'Oskar, I've seen similar phenomena in the clinic. Morax was a kind of sub-personality, something created and cultivated by repeated use of self-hypnosis.' The waiter arrived with the coffee and Rheinhardt's cake. 'Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?' asked Rheinhardt.

'Quite sure.'

Liebermann scooped the froth off his coffee with a teaspoon, while Rheinhardt plunged his fork through several layers of sponge and chocolate cream.

'Mmm . . .' Rheinhardt closed his eyes. 'Delicious.'

Liebermann reached into his pocket and took out a crumpled letter and a pen.

'Here . . .' he said.

'What? You want me to read it?'

'No, I want you to draw something on it. Something simple. But don't let me see.'

Liebermann looked away, while Rheinhardt, puzzled, produced a small sketch.

'Have you finished?'

'Yes.'

'Turn the paper over so that your drawing is underneath.'

'I've done that.'

'Good.'

Liebermann then turned around and said: 'Hand me the letter.'

Rheinhardt handed the letter back to his friend, who promptly popped it into his pocket without attempting to look at the underside.

'You drew the Habsburg coat of arms – the double-headed eagle,' said Liebermann.

'God in heaven!' exclaimed Rheinhardt. 'How on Earth did you do that?'

'I read your mind, of course,' said Liebermann coldly.

Rheinhardt burst out laughing.

'All right, all right . . . you've made your point. Now tell me how you did it.'

'I glanced into my coffee cup as I took the letter. I could see your drawing reflected on the surface of my schwarzer.'

'Very good,' said Rheinhardt, impressed. 'I'll try that one on Else – she'll be mystified.' He picked up his fork again and continued to attack the Dobostorte. 'So what did you make of Holderlin's outburst?'

'He was clearly very uncomfortable—'

Rheinhardt leaned forward, raising a hand to his ear.

'Speak up, Max, I can't hear you.'

The clattering cups, the babble of conversation and the sound of laughter had combined to create a sudden swell of sound.

'He was clearly very uncomfortable,' Liebermann repeated, 'and wanted to bring the seance to a swift end. He was obviously concerned – worried that something incriminating was about to be revealed. And did you notice how he looked at his wife?'

'No.'

'He seemed excessively attentive.'

'Which makes you think what?'

Liebermann gazed into his coffee: 'Lowenstein was pregnant. And I must admit, I'm inclined to believe Braun when he says he wasn't the father.'

'But Holderlin! Really, Max . . .'

'He's middle-aged, respectable, a man with responsibilities. Trusted. Just the kind of man I'd expect to become embroiled with a young woman.' Rheinhardt shook his head and laughed. 'His sanctimonious speech had precious little to do with genuine spiritual conviction. I found it very unconvincing.'

'And what about that . . . that woman!' said Rheinhardt. 'What a character! It is not for me to speculate on medical matters, Herr Doctor, but surely . . .' Rheinhardt rotated a finger close to his temple.

'Indeed,' said Liebermann, picking up his coffee and taking a small sip. 'The rumours about Bruckmuller's political ambitions must be true: why else would he want to marry Cosima von Rath? And there was something about his behaviour, too . . .' Liebermann sank into a silent reverie.

'What?'

'He was so controlled. He didn't startle or jump at any point – just stared at the candle. He was overcompensating. People who have something to hide often present a conspicuously opaque exterior to the world.'

'Could he have done it, do you think?'

'The murder?' Liebermann shrugged.

Through wreaths of cigarette smoke they both watched a man removing the piano cover and propping up its lid.

'You've never identified the Count as a suspect,' said Liebermann bluntly. 'Why's that?'