They were both a little breathless when they reached the top floor. The rooms, of which there were several, had formerly been occupied by servants; now, though, the fusty atmosphere suggested that they had been vacant for some time. Perhaps Herr Rubenstein's financial problems had had a much longer history than Mendel had realised. Amelia Lydgate systematically examined each room, her face flushed with excitement; Liebermann, however, was somewhat disappointed. The rooms were small and gloomy in the fading light. He ran a finger across a table top and examined the dust on his fingertip.
'Of course, it will need a thorough clean,' he said.
Miss Lydgate did not respond. Instead, she rushed between rooms, finally stopping on the landing.
'It's wonderful,' she said.
'Is it?'
'Oh yes.' She turned and pointed at the various doors. 'This will be my bedroom, this my library – and the smaller room at the back will be my laboratory.'
Liebermann watched her – and became acutely aware of her appearance. He had become accustomed to seeing Amelia Lydgate in a plain, shapeless, hospital gown. Now she was transformed. Although she was only wearing a simple green dress with a high collar, the effect was striking. Her bosom and the pleasing symmetry of her hips had become conspicuous. Her hair seemed like fire: a deep, burning red. She looked elegant, sophisticated.
'I will inform Doctor Landsteiner immediately,' said Miss Lydgate.
Their gaze met, and Liebermann looked away.
'Yes,' he said, loosening his necktie a little. 'Yes, you must resume your work as soon as possible.' Then, after a short pause, he added: 'Miss Lydgate, could we sit down for a few moments? There are some practical matters that I wish to discuss.'
They entered the rear room where they found a folded gateleg table and two hard chairs.
'Miss Lydgate, what are your immediate plans?'
'Is it possible to stay here – this evening?'
'Yes, of course. I can write your discharge summary when I return to the hospital.'
'I have a trunk . . .'
'Which you can collect when you are ready. Or I can arrange to have it sent on.'
Amelia Lydgate looked down at her hands and slowly locked her fingers together.
'I shall write to Herr Schelling. He will receive my letter of resignation tomorrow.'
'And your parents?'
'Yes, I will write to them too. But I will spare them such detail that is likely to cause them distress. They do not need to know everything.'
Miss Lydgate looked up, and her cool, metallic eyes caught the light.
'Well,' said Liebermann, 'I suppose I should say goodbye to Frau Rubenstein, and allow you to settle into your new home.'
They both stood – but did not move. The moment became oddly uncomfortable.
'Doctor Liebermann . . .' said Amelia Lydgate, her customary restraint perturbed by a trace of agitation. 'I cannot thank you enough.'
'Not at all,' said Liebermann, shaking his head. 'I am sure that Frau Rubenstein will thoroughly enjoy your company.'
'No, not just for this.' She swept her hand around the room. 'Frau Rubenstein . . .' She paused before adding: 'I mean, thank you for everything.'
Liebermann smiled but – as usual – the smile was not returned. The young woman's expression remained intense.
'I will of course . . .' His words petered out.
'Visit?' There was the slightest inflexion of hope in her voice.
'Yes, visit,' said Liebermann decisively. 'To see how you are.'
'I would like that very much,' came Miss Lydgate's half-whispered response.
63
VICTOR VON BULOW RAN his hands over the silver stubble on his head. It made a rough, abrasive sound. Unlike most of his contemporaries, his face was hairless but for a trim rectangle of bristle on his chin. His features were sharp. An aquiline nose separated two widely spaced eyes and his ears tapered to become slightly pointed. However, there was nothing comic about his looks. Indeed, the severity of his lineaments conveyed an impression of quick intelligence. It was in many ways a handsome face: unconventional, arresting and singular.
Rheinhardt noticed the stylish cut of von Bulow's suit, the glint and glimmer of diamond cuff links.
Von Bulow made Rheinhardt feel shabbily dressed and overly conscious of his own modest origins. Rheinhardt pulled in his paunch and straightened his back.
'Well, Rheinhardt,' said von Bulow. 'I've looked through the files and I haven't found them very illuminating.' As he said these words he glanced up at the Commissioner. Brugel, sitting under his portrait of Emperor Franz Josef, nodded in tacit agreement. 'I couldn't find the floor plan,' he continued. 'I take it a floor plan was drawn up?'
Von Bulow's eyes were of the palest watery grey – almost entirely bleached of colour.
'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'My assistant Haussman would have done it.'
'Then where is it?'
'It isn't with the principal summary?'
'No.'
'Then it must . . . it must have been . . . mislaid.'
Von Bulow shook his head: 'Or he forgot.'
Rheinhardt realised that any further attempt to protect his assistant would be futile.
'If Haussmann neglected the sketches – then that was only because he was otherwise engaged. We had an unusual number of witnesses to interview.'
'Assistants learn by example, Rheinhardt,' said von Bulow.
'Indeed, and it is my judgement that people matter more than the position of objects.'
'Well, you are entitled to that view – but it is one that goes against the climate of expert opinion.' Again, von Bulow glanced at Brugel before continuing. 'And while we are on the subject of correct procedure – I was surprised to come across the original of Fraulein Lowenstein's note . . . in an envelope.'
'Is that a problem?' asked Rheinhardt.
'Given that such a note is liable to become damaged with handling, a photographic reproduction should have been made. This could then be handled at will.'
'Had I done that,' interrupted Rheinhardt, 'Herr Doctor Liebermann would never have been able to make his interpretation of Fraulein Lowenstein's error. A photographic reproduction wouldn't—'
Von Bulow raised his hand.
'If you would kindly allow me to finish. After photographic reproductions had been made, the original should have been enclosed between two sheets of glass bound with gummed paper round the edges. It allows both sides of the document to be seen and makes it easy to examine against the light.'
'That's all very well, von Bulow, but—'
'Inspector!' Brugel silenced Rheinhardt with a minatory stare.
'I'm afraid I am completely unable to form a mental picture of Fraulein Lowenstein's apartment,' continued von Bulow.
'Aren't the photographs satisfactory?' asked Rheinhardt.
'Not without a floor plan indicating dimensions and distances.' Looking at Brugel, he continued: 'I'm afraid I'll have to visit the apartment.'
