Mortal Mischief

up, swaying slightly. 'Careful now, you don't want to fall.'

'I would never be so undignified.'

The madam led him down a dark passage into a dilapidated room that smelled of damp. The floorboards were bare and the wallpaper had begun to peel near the ceiling; streaks of black mildew dribbled down either side of the shuttered window; a paraffin lamp stood on a scratched and battered writing bureau in front of which were two rustic chairs.

'Please, do sit down.'

Zaborszky pulled a chair across the floorboards, making a scraping noise so loud that it pained his sensitive ears. He collapsed on the chair, slumping and letting his arms dangle.

'Well,' he said, 'what is it?'

'As you know,' said Frau Matejka, 'you are a much-valued patron of our little business . . .'

'I've paid – I paid Olga for everything last week.'

'Yes, of course. I wasn't suggesting—'

'Then what is it? Get to the point.'

Frau Matejka looked like a provincial schoolteacher. She was not wearing make-up and her greying hair was tied back in a loose bun from which several unruly strands had escaped. The silver crucifix that hung from her neck reinforced a general impression of spinsterish propriety.

She smiled patiently.

'I like to think of our regular patrons as friends. Gentlemen I can talk to.'

'You can't have any more money, Frau Matejka. I don't have any.'

'It isn't a financial matter that I wish to discuss. It is a matter of conduct.'

Zaborszky laughed – a slow, mechanical cackle.

'Conduct? But this is a brothel!'

The madam reached for the paraffin lamp and increased the length of the wick. The effect was not flattering. The sagging skin under her eyes looked bruised and the vertical creases that scored her upper lip were thrown into sharp relief.

'The girls are my responsibility – you do appreciate that, don't you? I'm like a mother to them. They come to me when they're worried – when they've something on their minds.'

'What has this got to do with me?'

'There have been some complaints.'

'Complaints?'

'Yes.'

'What complaints?'

'Roughness. It won't do, dear Count – you're frightening the girls.'

Zaborszky rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

'Nonsense.'

'Amalie showed me her neck. She thought you were going to strangle her.'

'Heat of the moment . . .' mumbled Zaborszky.

'You know,' Frau Matejka leaned forward, 'there are some who are willing to indulge gentlemen of irregular habit. Specialists. If you wanted, I could make some enquiries. Although, naturally, it would cost a little more. Let's say four – possibly five krone.'

'I'm going . . .'

Zaborszky got up and left the room. He was feeling steadier, and marched briskly down the corridor and through the vestibule where his companions were still sleeping. In a small antechamber he collected his coat and cane.

Outside, he paused and allowed the cold night air to clear his head. The door had opened directly – and discreetly – onto a narrow and poorly illuminated alleyway. Bare bricks peeped through gaps in a decaying poultice of plaster. He set off immediately, noticing a figure coming towards him from the other end. The man advanced, a featureless silhouette against the diffuse yellow glow of the street lights.

There was not enough room in the alley for them to pass comfortably, and neither of them gave way when they met. As a result their shoulders banged together with considerable force.

Still fuming from his encounter with Frau Matejka, Zaborszky wheeled around: 'Watch where you're going!'

The other man stopped and turned. Now that it was lit by the street lights Zaborszky could see his face.

'Braun. What are you doing here?'

'The same as you, I imagine.' The younger man took a step forward. 'Not a very spiritually enriching place – Frau Matajka's house.'

Zaborszky said nothing.

'You know,' continued Braun, 'I'd always suspected that your interest in our circle was superficial.'

'What do you mean?'

'You were never really interested in communicating with the dead – were you?'

'You're drunk, Braun. Good night.'

Zaborszky turned and started to walk away. Then he felt Braun's hand come down heavily on his shoulder.

'No, dear Count. I think you should stay and talk a while.'

Zaborszky remained absolutely still.

'It was all trickery you know – she wasn't genuine . . .' continued Braun. 'And I think you knew that.'

'Remove your hand.'

'So why did you keep on coming, week after week. Was it you?'

'What are you talking about?'

'Did you have her – did you?'

'Remove your hand,' Zaborszky repeated.

'She was always impressed by foppery and promises.'

'I will not ask you again.'

'Were they your children? The ones she was carrying? Were they?'

Zaborszky pulled on the gold jaguar-head of his cane. There was a rasping sound and the glint of light on metal. Braun jumped back, clutching his hand and nursing the deep cut that was already bleeding profusely.

'Test my patience again, boy, and I will slit your throat, not just your hand.'

Zaborszky dropped the slim-bladed sword back into its unconventional scabbard and pressed down. Braun heard a gentle click – the locking of a mechanism. Without looking round to face Braun, Zaborszky began walking again. When he reached the end of the alley, it seemed to Braun that the Count did not turn left or right but simply dissolved into the night.

Part Five

The Pocket Kozy

66

HAUSSMANN WAS GETTING breathless. Von Bulow seemed to walk faster than most other people ran.

'What did you think when you first entered the room?'

'I thought it was a suicide, sir. What with the note on the table.'

'Yes, the note. I was reading Rheinhardt's report. He consulted that doctor – what's his name?'

'Liebermann, sir.' Their precipitate departure from the security office was still making Haussmann feel uneasy. 'Do you think we should have waited a little longer for Inspector Rheinhardt, sir?'

'No, he was late.'