Mortal Mischief

movement. 'Another week or two and I'll be ready for the Erlkonig.'

Rheinhardt laughed and slapped his friend on the back.

'You might be, Max, but I'm not sure that I will.'

Without further delay the two men retired to the smoking room where, between the leather armchairs, a new table had appeared – a simple, empty wooden cube, the upper plane of which was a square of polished ebony.

Rheinhardt stared at the new acquisition and tilted his head from side to side.

'You don't like it – do you?' said Liebermann.

'Was it expensive?'

'Yes. It's from Moser's workshop.'

'Who?'

'Koloman Moser?'

'No, can't say I've heard of him.'

'Never mind. Regardless of its aesthetic properties, I can assure you that this table will serve our purposes as well as the old one.' Liebermann gestured towards the brandy and cigars.

The two men sat down, Rheinhardt to the right, Liebermann to the left, and stared at the glowing embers in ritual silence, puffing and sipping. Eventually, Liebermann shifted his position and said, somewhat sheepishly: 'You want to know everything, I presume.'

'Yes, I do.'

'Well, I must say, Oskar, you have exercised admirable restraint this evening. A lesser man might have insisted that we should forgo some of our musical pleasures.'

'Indeed. And having shown such admirable restraint, I feel bound to advise you that any further equivocation on your part will test our friendship to the limits of endurance.'

'Yes, of course, Oskar,' said Liebermann, smiling. 'Forgive me.'

The young doctor turned to look at his friend. 'You know, I've told you most of it already.'

'I should hope so, too,' said Rheinhardt with justified indignation. 'Even so, I am curious to know how it all came together – in your head, I mean.'

'Very well,' said Liebermann, 'kissing' his cigar to sustain the burn and producing great clouds of pungent smoke. 'I am happy to satisfy your curiosity. But I must begin with a confession. It was not I who solved the mystery of Fraulein Lowenstein's impossible wound, but Miss Lydgate.'

'The microscopist?'

'Indeed – although her talents extend well beyond the novel employment of optical devices: she is now registered with the university and will begin studying for a medical degree in the autumn.'

'But she's—'

'A woman – obviously. The university has recently changed its admission policy.' Rheinhardt assumed a benign but perplexed expression. Liebermann's cuboid table had been enough modernity for one evening. 'She's quite remarkable, Oskar, and endowed with extraordinary intellectual gifts. I simply told her the circumstances of the crime, and after a few days she had the answer, claiming – quite rightly – that a bullet made from meat was the only solution. Such is her predilection for rational thought that she wasn't distracted or tempted in the least by supernatural considerations.

'Once Miss Lydgate had explained how the illusion of the vanishing bullet had been achieved, I had what can only be described as a . . . a moment of revelation! I remembered that Bruckmuller started life as a provincial butcher. I also remembered seeing him with Mayor Lueger at the Philharmonic – Lueger has always received strong support from butchers and bakers – and it occurred to me that perhaps Bruckmuller's origins were much more significant than any of us had guessed – and in more ways than one. Bruckmuller, by virtue of his original occupation, would have been very familiar with the properties of meat, in much the same way as I, being a psychiatrist, am familiar with the properties of the human mind. Who else but a butcher would recognise the ballistic possibilities of his supper!'

'It is extraordinary,' said Rheinhardt, 'and yet—'

'So simple,' said Liebermann. 'I couldn't agree more.'

They both raised their glasses at the same time.

'Go on . . .' said Rheinhardt, eager for his friend to continue.

'Of course,' said Liebermann, 'as soon as I had identified Bruckmuller as the likely perpetrator other things about him started to acquire greater significance – his business, for example. You will recall that Miss Lydgate's microscopic examination of Charlotte Lowenstein's keys revealed unusual indentations. She had suspected that some instrument or other had been employed to rotate the keys.' Liebermann sipped his brandy and shook his head. 'Had I been a surgeon, Oskar, I think I would have linked Bruckmuller with the crime immediately. Even though Miss Lydgate's results suggested the use of a specialised tool I simply failed to think of forceps. My mind was fixed on some train of thought to do with locks and locksmiths . . . However, when Miss Lydgate suggested that a bullet could be constructed from meat, and I remembered that Hans Bruckmuller was a butcher, the significance of his business became obvious. Armed with a microscope, I went to the department of surgery and discovered that the indentations on Fraulein Lowenstein's keys corresponded exactly with a gripping pattern found on forceps manufactured by Bruckmuller & Co. We have since, of course, found the very same pattern on the key to Uberhorst's shop.'

'Why didn't you want to see that key too – before suggesting your meeting with Bruckmuller?'

'I didn't need to and anyway we were running out of time. There was always a possibility that von Bulow was going to succeed in extorting a bogus confession from Holderlin, which would have complicated matters a great deal. When I tried to lock the door of my own apartment using Bruckmuller's forceps, I found the task extremely difficult. Turning keys in this way requires considerable strength – the kind of strength that had already betrayed itself in Bruckmuller's memorably firm handshake (which I had the pleasure of experiencing on the night of the seance) and the depth of Uberhorst's wounds.'

'Indeed,' said Rheinhardt, shuddering as he recollected the carnage. 'And I presume you had also already visited the antique dealers?'

'There are only a few establishments on Wieblinger strasse who sell Egyptian artefacts. Apparently, they aren't very collectable at the moment. I soon learned that an Egyptian statuette with a forked tail had been sold to a big man with a strong handshake some time in March.'

'Thus,' said Rheinhardt, 'we had in our possession – at this point – some extremely good evidence. So why . . . why on Earth were you so insistent that your meeting with Bruckmuller should take place?'

'Extremely good evidence, you say? But was it really? Anybody can purchase forceps from Bruckmuller & Co. And he isn't the only big man in Vienna!'

'Yes, that's true.'

'And Bruckmuller is very well connected – and potentially very rich: a friend of the Mayor, no less. Sadly, I am not convinced that our judicial system always reaches the correct verdict under such circumstances. We had collected some incriminating evidence, but it was not decisive evidence.'

'All right, but why the Riesenrad? You told Brugel that you needed to be completely alone with Bruckmuller to extract a confession. Yet there are many secluded places in Vienna. I'm afraid I can't help feeling that you're concealing something, Max.'

Liebermann knocked the ash off the end of his cigar.

'It was necessary to meet Bruckmuller on the Riesenrad because of its peculiar effect on the mind.'

'Oh?'

'Have you been on it lately?'

'No, but I did take Mitzi last year.'

'Did you not find the experience . . . unreal?'

'It is certainly very odd, being taken to such a great height.'

'Exactly. It detaches the passenger from everyday existence and suspends him in an environment that is usually the exclusive province of birds. Now, think, Oskar: when else does one experience something similar?'

'Well, I don't know that there is somewhere similar. Still—'

Liebermann interrupted: 'Are you sure?'

'Yes, quite sure.'