Mortal Mischief

'He is usually very punctual, sir.'

'Well, he wasn't on time today, Haussmann. If Inspector Rheinhardt has chosen to indulge in a leisurely toilette this morning, that's his business. I have work to do. Jewish, is he?'

'I'm sorry, sir?'

'Liebermann – is he a Jew?'

'I presume so.'

'Can't you tell?'

'Well, I . . .'

'Never mind. He – Liebermann – he worked out that she was pregnant from a mistake in the note. What did you think of that, Haussmann?'

'Very clever.'

'Or lucky?'

'He was right, sir.'

'Do you know him?'

'Not very well – but he has assisted Inspector Rheinhardt on a number of occasions.'

'What's he like?'

'Agreeable . . . intelligent.'

'Trustworthy?'

'As far as I know.'

An omnibus rattled by and von Bulow raised his voice: 'He's a follower of Sigmund Freud, I believe.'

'Who?'

'A Jewish professor. I'm not sure that his principles, his psychology, can be readily applied to the general population.'

'Very good, sir,' said Haussmann, without turning to make eye contact. Von Bulow quickened his pace even more.

'The door was locked from the inside.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And there were no hiding places – places where a man could have concealed himself while you were in the apartment?'

'No, sir.'

'Did you check?'

'Not at the time. But in due course I did, sir – and none were found.'

'How thorough was the search?'

'The floorboards were all secure. There were no compartments behind the shelves. Not enough room up the chimney.'

'And you were present when the examination took place?'

'Yes, sir. With Inspector Rheinhardt and constables Wundt, Raff and Wengraf. Besides, sir—'

'What?'

'The Japanese box. No one could have locked the Japanese box from the inside.'

'So, it was a demon, was it?'

For the first time, Haussmann allowed himself to smile.

'No, sir. But given our failure to come up with an alternative explanation it might as well have been.'

'Indeed.'

'Sir?' Haussmann pointed across the street. 'Cafe Zilbergeld. The maid, Rosa Sucher – that's where she went before going to Grosse Sperlgasse.'

Von Bulow nodded.

When they reached Fraulein Lowenstein's apartment building, von Bulow stopped and surveyed the square.

Market tables had been left out, and loose canvas awnings flapped in the light breeze. The surrounding buildings were relatively large, some of them up to six storeys high, and painted in bright colours – orange, yellow, lime and pink. However, the overall impression was not one of gaiety but of dilapidation. The buildings had lost their festive sheen beneath a coating of grime.

Von Bulow shook his head in apparent disgust, pushed the door open and entered the dingy ground-floor hallway.

'The courtyard is down there, sir,' said Haussmann, pointing ahead.

'Does the room where she was found overlook the courtyard?'

'No, sir – a backstreet.'

'Then I'll take a look at it later. Let's see the apartment first.'

'This way, sir.'

They began climbing the narrow spiralling staircase.

'Who else lives here?'

'The first- and second-floor apartments are empty – the landlord is having them redecorated. The ground floor is occupied by the Zucker family.'

'I didn't read anything about them in the paperwork.'

'Herr Zucker is blind. His wife works as a correspondence clerk in a shop.'

'Even so, Rheinhardt should have recorded their details.'

They came to the top of the stairs and Haussmann stopped abruptly. There were two items propped up against Charlotte Lowenstein's door. The first was a desiccated bunch of dead flowers. The second was a small parcel. Haussmann advanced slowly, and on reaching the door hunkered down. He prised the tangled brown stems apart – a shrivelled head of dry petals fell and rolled across the chipped tiles.

'There's no card,' he said softly. Then, picking up the parcel, he handed it to von Bulow. 'It's addressed to Fraulein Lowenstein.'

The Inspector broke the string and unfolded the stiff paper, exposing a flat cardboard box. He opened it carefully. Inside was a stack of photographs. The first showed a very attractive woman seated at a cafe table. She was wearing a turban-style hat decorated with a cluster of flowers and a stylish white dress. A middle-aged man sat opposite her – he was leaning forward and held her hand in his.

Von Bulow shuffled through the stack.

All the photographs were of the same scene – and the pictures were not of the highest quality; one was particularly blurred. It showed the man raising the woman's hand to his lips. Her moving forearm had left a vaporous trail – like the loose sleeve of a semi-transparent gown.

Haussmann stood up and von Bulow handed him the photographs.

'I know who the woman is, of course,' said von Bulow. 'But who is the man? Do you recognise him?'

'Yes,' said Haussmann. 'Yes, I do.'

67

IT WAS BY ACCIDENT rather than design that Liebermann found himself walking down Wieblinger Strasse. Professor Freud had been quite correct. This was clearly the place to come if one wished to purchase antiques. Liebermann examined the various window displays and tried to muster some enthusiasm for the exhibits. But he remained unmoved. It was difficult to discriminate between true antiquities and worthless rubble – between Biedermeier and junk. The bronze, china, filigree and flock made him long for simple lines and restrained geometry, the clear, polished spaces of a modern interior.

The window through which he was looking had not been washed for a while – and at eye level a wrinkled Neue Freie Presse article had been stuck to the other side. The print was faded and the yellow paper cracked. Even so, Liebermann could still make out the content: a report on the findings of a British archaeological expedition to the Aegean island of Crete.

Among the tarnished silver, cracked vases and copper bowls – cloudy with verdigris – his attention was drawn to two small Egyptian statuettes, one a vulture, the other a human body with the head of a falcon. The second reminded him a little of the Seth figure found in Fraulein Lowenstein's Japanese box.