Mortal Mischief

Why not? he thought.

What harm would it do to make a few enquiries?

Liebermann opened the door. He was not, however, greeted by the proprietor but by the screeching and agitated fluttering of a mynah bird. Hanging from the raised arm of a weather-beaten Aphrodite was a bamboo cage, the night-black occupant of which squawked in a shrill falsetto: 'Pretty things, pretty things.' Next to the bird was a large canopied wicker chair, within which a wizened old man was ensconced, as snug as a whelk in its shell. He was wearing a Moroccan fez, and a heavy tartan blanket covered his legs. Tufts of grizzled hair sprouted out above his ears, and his long, peppery beard was streaked with remnants of colour – biscuit and beige. He was fast asleep, and neither bell nor bird could wake him. Liebermann noticed that the old man's pipe had fallen to the ground. He tiptoed across the cluttered floor space, picked it up, and placed it gently on the old man's lap.

It was insufferably hot and stuffy. Behind the Aphrodite a large stove was radiating heat.

Liebermann looked around. The shop was a strange emporium – a haphazard collection of lumber and ancient treasure. Among the battered chairs, old curtains, picture frames and silverware were items that appeared to be bona fide antiquities. Liebermann bent down to examine a terracotta Greek amphora decorated with a crude winged figure. A label attached to its neck and written in brown ink read Classical period, 20 krone. Next to it sat a sphinx. Its features were almost worn smooth, but its posture was resolute – sitting solidly on its haunches and staring ahead. The label declared that it was of Italian origin. There was no price.

Liebermann picked up the sphinx and was reminded of her giant cousins in the Belvedere gardens.

'Pretty things . . . pretty things.'

It was where they had always gone – the Belvedere. At first he had escorted both sisters, but eventually Clara was permitted to go with him on her own, without Rachel. Herr Weiss had voiced no objection. Why should he? They all trusted him . . . How many times had he and Clara walked through those gardens? Once she had insisted on touching the head of every sphinx.

He had always looked forward to her company – her laughter, the endless chatter, her mischievous observations. He loved the way she dressed – so fastidious, so careful with every matching colour. He was captivated by the subtle slant of her eyes, her inviting lips, her smile. She was his Clara. Yet something had changed. He didn't feel as he should . . .

'Pretty things, pretty things.'

Liebermann placed the sphinx back on the floor.

'The sphinx is worth at least eighty krone. But I'd let you have it for thirty.'

Liebermann very much hoped that he wasn't being addressed by the mynah bird – but he couldn't be absolutely sure. The words had been spoken in an equally shrill voice. He stood up and turned.

The old man's eyes were open and glimmering with unusual brightness.

'Good afternoon, sir,' said Liebermann.

The old man acknowledged the greeting by raising his pipe. Then, turning to the bird, he cried, 'Giacomo, you rogue!'

The bird squawked and preened its feathers.

Liebermann stepped forward.

'Are all of the antiquities authentic?'

'Authentic? Of course they're authentic,' stated the old man in his querulous screech. 'Roman, Etruscan, Persian, Greek, Egyptian . . . you couldn't find a better selection – not even in Paris! Not even in London!'

'I was wondering if you could help me? I'm trying to trace a particular item, one which you might have sold.'

'What kind of item?'

'An Egyptian figurine, about so big.' Liebermann indicated the size with his hands. 'A representation of the god Seth.'

The old man leaned out from beneath his wicker canopy.

'Come, come closer.' He beckoned with a gnarled finger.

Liebermann stepped forward. The old man squinted at him.

'Seth – what do you want him for, eh?'

'For a friend, a collector.'

'Word of advice,' said the old man. 'Let your friend find Seth for himself . . .'

'Why?'

'Because those who seek him usually find him.'

There was something rather chilling in the old man's delivery. A certain authority – in spite of his eccentric appearance – that made the hackles rise.

'What do you mean?' asked Liebermann.

But the old man did not reply. He smacked his lips, closed his eyes, and sank back into his chair. He seemed to have slipped back into sleep and was mumbling softly to himself: 'The mountainside . . . covered in bushes – and wild fruit trees. I'd been riding for eleven hours. They said the distance was nine farsakhs – but it was more, I tell you, much more. Beneath one of the bushes was a dead wolf. The road was almost impassable – slippery shale, a rock fall – but I reached the top: the Muk pass. I followed a stream . . . down to the Zanjiran gorge – narrow between two cliffs: a famous place for robbers . . .'

'That's enough, father – that's enough!' From behind a screen at the back of the shop came a plump middle- aged man wearing a tight suit. He immediately went over to the somnolent storyteller and straightened his blanket: 'Honestly, father, I can't leave you alone for five minutes.' He removed the old man's pipe and replaced it with a plate of sausage and sauerkraut. Looking up at Liebermann, the son said, 'I'm so sorry – I'll be with you in a moment.' Then he turned back to his father: 'How many times have I told you: when people come in, tell them to wait. They're not interested in your nonsense.' The old man opened his eyes, picked up a fork, and stabbed a slice of sausage.

'Good afternoon, sir,' said the proprietor, clicking his heels. 'My name is Herr Reitlinger, Adolph Reitlinger – how can I help you?'

'I'm trying to trace an Egyptian figure – a small effigy of the god Seth. I was wondering if you had sold it . . .' Liebermann's sentence trailed off.

Herr Reitlinger paused for a moment. 'Seth, you say?'

'The god of storms, boy – the god of chaos,' the old man called out.

'That's enough, father!' said Herr Reitlinger.

'Pretty things,' said the bird.

'No,' continued Herr Reitlinger. 'I don't think that was one of our acquisitions. But let me show you this . . .' Herr Reitlinger reached up to a shelf and offered Liebermann a small bronze figure of a walking man. 'Amon-Re – in human form. Late period – possibly 700 BC.I think you'll agree that it's a charming piece. Notice the detail.'

Liebermann turned the figure in his hands and whispered to Reitlinger.

'What was your father talking about – the mountains, the gorge . . .?'

'He travelled a great deal when he was younger.' Reitlinger made a stirring motion next to his ear. 'It all gets mixed up now.'

Liebermann handed the bronze back to Reitlinger.

'It is certainly a charming piece, but not really what I'm looking for. Good afternoon.'

The old man, his son and the bird watched in silence as Liebermann left.

68

THE HEAVY EMBOSSED wallpaper, thick red curtains and polished ebony floorboards of the Schelling parlour combined to create an oppressive atmosphere. Even the engraved silver plates, suspended on either side of an aureate Biedermeier mirror, seemed dull and patinated: large grey-green discs that absorbed rather than reflected the weak sunlight.

Beatrice Schelling was seated by a lamp stand and was embroidering Adele's name on to a quilt. Although the task should have been restful the speed with which she executed her needlework suggested urgency. Her lips were pressed together and her brow was deeply furrowed. She had been there for some time, and the fronded