lit, and smudges of yellow light began to gleam through the mizzle.
'Of course,' continued Liebermann, 'you knew nothing of Fraulein Lowenstein's contingency plan, and the pressure on you was mounting. You needed to resolve this difficult situation – and quickly.'
The wheel juddered to a halt.
'Do you know something, Herr Doctor . . . I must confess, I have never been on the Riesenrad before. The view is quite extraordinary.'
Liebermann was unnerved by Bruckmuller's uncharacteristically quiet delivery and the incongruity of his statement. Yet it was symptomatic of a dissociative process that he was eager to encourage.
'You visited Charlotte Lowenstein and at gunpoint forced her to write a note suggesting that she had made a Faustian pact with the devil. Halfway through, she realised that she might be writing her own death certificate, paused, and got up abruptly. You pressed the revolver to her chest and pulled the trigger. Inside the chamber was a modified bullet. It was made not of metal but of compacted meat and bone. Such a bullet would be strong enough to punch a hole in Fraulein Lowenstein's chest but would ultimately disintegrate. Tiny fragments of – let us say – a pork chop would be completely undetectable in an autopsy.
'Charlotte Lowenstein died instantly. You then arranged her body on the chaise longue and placed the Egyptian statuette in the Japanese box. The key was left on the inside, and locked from the outside using minute surgical forceps – made by Bruckmuller & Co. The same technique was used to turn the larger key in the sitting-room door. Correct me if I am mistaken, but the subsequent deluge was sheer good fortune, reinforcing the idea that Fraulein Lowenstein had been visited by the devil in the person of Seth – the god of storms, chaos and mischief.'
Over the distant hills, a cloud break allowed the setting sun to peek through. A ruddy haze spread across the horizon, and for a moment the sky acquired the texture and colour of beaten bronze. Under this vengeful firmament, Vienna appeared like a biblical city, a decadent sprawl ripe for retribution and the cleansing lick of holy fire.
Bruckmuller was entirely motionless.
'Your ruse worked remarkably well, Herr Bruckmuller. The police were baffled, mystified, bewildered. The Lowenstein murder seemed to have been perpetrated by a supernatural entity. The police were so distracted by the bizarre circumstances of Fraulein Lowenstein's death that they almost forgot to conduct a proper investigation! And even when the police did start to ask pertinent questions you remained unconcerned. You were confident that your clever illusion would never be unravelled. And you knew that no one would ever be successfully tried for committing an impossible crime. I congratulate you, Herr Bruckmuller: it was a brilliant plan.'
The wheel groaned and the gondola continued its ascent. Bruckmuller turned his large head.
'But then your fiancee, Fraulein von Rath, organised a seance, during which it became obvious to you that Herr Uberhorst was in possession of some very important information. Information that he was considering disclosing – very probably – to the police. Perhaps Fraulein Lowenstein had confided in him? Perhaps he knew that she was pregnant? Perhaps he suspected – or even knew – the name of her lover? These must have been some of the troubling questions that you began to ask yourself. Soon after, you might also have learned – although I'm not sure how – that Herr Uberhorst was trying to work out how the illusion of the locked door was achieved. If he determined that such a trick could be performed by using surgical forceps, then he would become doubly dangerous to you.
'Perhaps you imagined the von Rath fortune slipping through your fingers? Or was it the dead weight of your body, swinging from the gibbet? Whatever image it was that played on your mind, you panicked. In the early hours of the morning you entered Uberhorst's shop, again using forceps, and crept into his bedroom. He was, I believe, asleep when you bludgeoned him to death.'
The wheel ground to a halt. The gondola had reached the very top of the Riesenrad. It was the strangest sensation to be suspended in such a high place. Looking directly out of the window, it indeed felt like flying. More lights were appearing below, like the majestic stellar revelation that accompanies dusk in winter – a general twinkling of stars, the constellations of which were the streets and squares of Vienna.
'It is such a beautiful city,' said Bruckmuller. 'Wouldn't you agree, Herr Doctor?' But before Liebermann could answer he began talking again. 'No, I suppose you wouldn't agree. Being Viennese . . . I dare say it would offend your urban sensibility to make such an admission. You would prefer, no doubt, to make some cynical remark about its excesses.'
A firework, launched from the Prater, shot into the air and exploded – a starburst of blue and yellow stars.
'But what a prize . . .' continued Bruckmuller reflectively. Then, shaking his head, he repeated: 'What a prize.'
The gondola was slapped by a gust of wind, rocking it backwards and forwards like a cradle.
'You wanted to be Mayor,' said Liebermann, recognizing the reach of Bruckmuller's ambition.
The big man's face swung around. Perspiration was trickling off his forehead.
'He's got some good ideas, has Lueger – but he never goes far enough . . .' The four hundred tons of iron on which they were perched began to revolve again. 'He'll never do what's necessary.'
'And what's that?'
'To get rid of the vermin. The journalists, the subversives, the intellectuals . . . I pray that someone has the good sense to do what needs to be done. Before it's too late.'
They had begun their descent.
'Vienna,' said Bruckmuller again. 'The jewel of the empire . . . but it won't hold, you know. All these people. All these different people. They are too numerous, and too varied. It'll need a strong arm to protect the honest, decent folk when it all begins to unravel. Do you believe in destiny, Doctor Liebermann?'
The young doctor shook his head.
'I didn't think you would,' said Bruckmuller.
Liebermann's clinical sensibility had not deserted him. He examined Bruckmuller as if he were a patient. He saw a man who believed that he was, in some way, chosen. A narcissist who subscribed to a suspect Pan-German philosophy in which the threads of mysticism, prejudice and a folkish idealism, had become hopelessly entangled. It was little wonder he could kill so easily. A man like him would kill anyone who got in the way of his lofty ambitions.
Bruckmuller puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. Then, bracing himself, he stood up straight and took a step towards Liebermann.
'Well, Herr Doctor, you must be feeling very pleased with yourself. I feel almost obliged to return the compliment that you paid me earlier. Yes, and why not? I think I will. Congratulations, Herr Doctor: a brilliant exposition. I can only assume that when we reach the ground the police will be waiting to arrest me.' Bruckmuller's smile was broad and humourless. 'Which makes me wonder: are you so very clever, after all? Sly, cunning, slippery – as one would expect from a member of your race – but clever? Maybe not.'
Liebermann took a step back and shifted to the other side of the gondola.
'You have left me very few options, Herr Doctor. But I can still exercise some choices. I take it that you now realise your mistake.' Bruckmuller reached for the door and yanked it open. A gust of damp air blew into the cabin.
'Don't jump!' cried Liebermann automatically.
Bruckmuller laughed.
'I don't intend to, Herr Doctor.'
The big man moved towards Liebermann, his fists held up like a pugilist's. Bruckmuller's bulk made him appear more squat than his true height but now that he was up close Liebermann realised that his antagonist was disconcertingly tall.
The young doctor was able to dodge the first punch but there was nowhere to run. A second swipe cuffed Liebermann on the side of the head and he stumbled towards the open door. The gondola rolled and Bruckmuller lurched forward, clawing the air before his heavy paw landed on Liebermann's shoulder, his grip tightening as he pressed down. Bruckmuller's fingers dug into Liebermann's flesh like the teeth of a Rottweiler. The sheer weight of his arm threatened to snap the young doctor's collarbone. Liebermann flailed around helplessly before Bruckmuller landed an eviscerating punch. It felt like a cannon ball tearing through Liebermann's stomach and scorching his innards. Unable to breathe and wanting to vomit, he was still bent double when a second punch lifted him off his feet and deposited him inches from the door. Dazed, Liebermann managed to stand for a brief moment before
