Mortal Mischief

'I really am quite happy to forgo the pleasure – but thank you, nevertheless.'

Miss Lydgate's expression became earnest as she tipped the milk jug, allowing a carefully calculated quantity to spill out into her own cup.

'You were saying . . .' said Liebermann.

'Oh yes, forgive me, Herr Doctor. The murder . . .'

She placed the jug back on the tea tray.

'With regard to the autopsy results and that mysterious bullet wound . . . It seems to me that such an effect could be achieved in two ways. Firstly, by using an ice projectile. Ordinary water, frozen in a bullet-shaped mould, could be inserted into the chamber of a revolver and employed as conventional ammunition. The bullet would – of course – melt away. However, there are some obvious problems with this method. Although a frozen-water bullet might feasibly produce a wound identical to that inflicted by a metal counterpart, it might not be very . . . reliable. A frozen bullet could easily shatter in the chamber. And then there is the problem of refrigeration. I take it there was no means of refrigeration close by? There was no ice store? It had not been snowing?'

'No.'

'Well, then, it is most unlikely the murderer used this method.'

'You said there was another way?'

'Yes – a second, much simpler way. It is more reliable and does not require refrigeration.'

She picked up her teacup and took a sip.

'Miss Lydgate.' Liebermann clasped his hands together, his knuckles whitening. 'I would be most grateful if —'

'Indeed, I am being dilatory and you are impatient to hear my conclusion.'

What she said next was so extraordinary, so compelling, that Liebermann could barely suppress his excitement. Moreover, he now knew who it was who had killed Fraulein Lowenstein

.

84

THE OMNIBUS HAD made surprisingly good progress. It had already crossed the Danube Canal and was rattling up the wide thoroughfare of the Praterstrasse. Liebermann glanced at his watch and realised that he would be arriving too early. The conductor, a short, jovial man with a military moustache, shook his leather satchel and took another fare.

Liebermann's euphoria had subsided, leaving in its wake a rising sense of unease. When he had explained his scheme to Rheinhardt it had seemed faultless. But now, as he came closer to his destination, he wondered whether it was such a good idea after all. He might be wrong, in which case the consequences would be awkward and embarrassing, particularly for Rheinhardt. The Commissioner was sceptical, and his equivocation had been exacerbated by von Bulow's insistence that Holderlin was about to make a full confession. But, on reflection, Liebermann determined that he was worried not so much about being wrong as being right. His scheme, formulated in a moment of heady excitement, was not foolproof. Things could go wrong.

Rheinhardt had made it quite clear that his friend should not consider himself under any obligation. He might choose to abandon his assignment at any point and would still retain the respect of Rheinhardt and his colleagues: You're a doctor, Max, not a police officer.

But in reality Liebermann knew that it wasn't so simple. Withdrawal was no longer an option. Now that he had embarked upon his task he must complete it. Failure to do so would be dishonourable – an abnegation of duty. It was precisely because he was a doctor, and not a policeman, that he had to proceed.

Should I have written a letter? To mother and father, to Clara? Just in case?

He chastised himself for being morbid – yet his exhortations were hollow. The unabated sense of foreboding folded the contents of his stomach like cream in a revolving churn. He found himself thinking about Amelia Lydgate. How would she fare in his absence? Would Landsteiner continue to help her? These were questions to which there were no answers. Yet the fact that he had posed them at all exposed the depth of his attachment – a factor that compounded rather than relieved his anxiety.

The omnibus slowed down.

'Not a very pleasant evening, is it, sir?' said the conductor.

'No,' Liebermann replied, standing up and flattening his coat against his trousers.

'Still, the rain might hold off – if we're lucky.'

'Perhaps . . .'

The conductor raised his cap, turned around and called out: 'Prater. Last stop. Prater.'

The other passengers – an ill-assorted assembly of young men – followed Liebermann as he jumped off the back platform. When the vehicle was empty, the driver, exposed to the elements in his open cabin, shook the reins and the horses moved forward.

The sky was indeed overcast, for which Liebermann was quietly thankful. There would be fewer people milling around the Volksprater. He looked up and caught sight of his destination for the first time: the awesome structure of the Riesenrad. It turned, like the principal cogwheel in a universal clock, ratcheting time, bringing Liebermann's fate steadily closer.

As he made his way down the Hauptallee, he could hear the sound of a barrel organ grinding out a simple, happy march – the bass part oscillating between a low C and its octave. The inane melody was soon competing with the cries of Prater folk who were trying to attract the attention of potential customers. The air began to smell of sausages.

Liebermann wandered into the labyrinth of marquees and pavilions: past the shooting hall, a wrestler's tent and the closed puppet theatre. Then he passed the double-arched entrance of 'Venice in Vienna' – a reconstruction of the famous canals, complete with singing gondoliers. Soon after, he came across a curious wooden cabin, its exterior painted with mystical scenes, the most striking of which appeared to be a mesmeric monk levitating a woman in white robes. A large board hung beside the curtained entrance, bearing a crudely painted upturned palm in a circle. The drapes suddenly parted and a man wearing a top hat poked his head out.

'Want to know your future, sir?'

'Unfortunately, I know it only too well.'

'No man knows his own fate, sir.'

'Then I am the exception.'

'The clairvoyant is very pretty . . .'

'I'm sure she is.'

'Face like an angel.'

'Thank you, but I'm afraid I must decline.'

The man shrugged and his head vanished behind the drapes as quickly as it had appeared.

Liebermann drifted away from the attractions and found himself standing on an open concourse. To his left was the Lustspieltheater, Restaurant Prohaska, and the four towers of the water chute. To his right were the low roofs of more entertainment buildings and the Cafe Eisvogel. Directly ahead, viewed from this angle, the Riesenrad had become an ellipse.

A gust of wind washed the concourse with a diaphanous veil of drizzle, sending a small group of men running towards the cafe. Luckily, the sprinkling was brief and light. Liebermann had neglected to bring an umbrella. He cleaned the rain off his spectacles and combed his damp hair back with his fingers. Looking at his watch, he took a deep breath and marched briskly towards the colossal wheel.

There was no queue at the kiosk. The Riesenrad was not a popular attraction on a dull evening – the damp haze would obscure the view. Even so, a steady trickle of thrill-seekers paid for their tickets and entered one of the thirty red gondolas, eager to experience the juddering ascent. While the wheel was stationary, the wind plucked a strange keening from its taut steel cords. Then, like a waking giant, the girders yawned and groaned as the wheel began to turn again.

Liebermann looked at his watch.

Ten minutes late.

He had expected him to be more punctual and hoped that this small error of judgement was not symptomatic