Mortal Mischief

Liebermann swirled his brandy round in its glass and tested the aroma.

'What about when you dream?'

Rheinhardt twirled his moustache and frowned.

'Isn't it just like flying in a dream?' Liebermann persisted.

'Yes,' Rheinhardt replied. 'Now that you mention it, I suppose the two experiences are not dissimilar.'

'You see . . . it is my belief, Oskar, that a ride on the Riesenrad blurs the boundary between reality and unreality – the conscious and unconscious divisions of the mind draw closer together.'

'Which means . . . ?'

'Did you read that book I gave you?'

'The one on dreams? Well, I started but—'

'Never mind,' said Liebermann. 'In the dream-world, our inhibitions break down. Forbidden wishes are frequently dramatised. Even the most devoted husband cannot avoid assignations during his sleep.' Rheinhardt shifted in his chair and looked faintly embarrassed. 'When Bruckmuller learned that I had discovered his method and understood his motives he had one wish, and one wish only: to kill his adversary, an adversary who (at least for him) embodied all of his irrational prejudices. Bruckmuller's political ambitions had been thwarted, and in the dreamlike atmosphere of the Riesenrad, his forbidden wish found expression all too easily. He attempted to kill me – and in doing so as good as confessed to the crime.'

'In which case, it was never your intention to extract a verbal confession. You always meant to provoke Bruckmuller!'

Rheinhardt's voice had risen slightly.

'Now, Oskar, do you see why it was impossible for me to be entirely candid? Brugel would never have accepted a psychoanalytic rationale for the operation—'

'And nor would I – particularly if I had known all the details of your thinking!' Rheinhardt shook his head. 'You do realise, don't you, that the police marksman was instructed at the very last minute? It was an afterthought.'

'Yes,' said Liebermann. 'I am extremely lucky to possess, in your person, such a conscientious friend, and I owe you both an apology and a debt of gratitude.'

'I can't believe you didn't tell me!'

'It was absolutely necessary.'

'To provoke him – knowing that he would probably attempt to kill you!'

'There was no other way. I had hoped that by the time Bruckmuller responded to my provocation the wheel would be nearing the end of its descent. I thought I would be relatively safe . . .'

'Relatively safe! I can't believe you didn't tell me!'

'Well, to be frank, Oskar, I still can't quite believe you didn't tell me that the seance you arranged was a sham!'

'That was different.'

'Was it?'

Rheinhardt grumbled something under his breath and sustained a mask of disgruntlement – which gradually, and grudgingly, softened by degrees towards resignation.

'Still . . .' he finally murmured. 'It all worked wonderfully, and it was good to see von Bulow squirm for once!'

The two friends looked at each other and simultaneously burst out laughing.

For several hours they continued to savour their triumph. The room had filled with cigar smoke and the fire had long since died down. As Liebermann poured the last of the brandy, Rheinhardt chanced to remark that Charlotte Lowenstein's fate would no doubt serve as an example to others of her kind. But instead of agreeing, Liebermann found himself not judging the dead woman but defending her.

'Without question, Fraulein Lowenstein was a femme fatale – a siren worthy of a place in a work of romantic fiction; however, I cannot condemn her, Oskar. In modern Vienna there are few opportunities for intelligent, spirited women to make their way in the world. The majority either relinquish their ambitions and resign themselves to marriage and motherhood – or, alternatively, they protest and attract a diagnosis of hysteria. Charlotte Lowenstein should be pitied. She was, after all, only trying to protect her interests.'

Rheinhardt did not always share his friend's liberal sympathies but this analysis prompted him to consider the future world that his daughters might inhabit. He thawed a little. On reflection, he hoped that Therese and Mitzi would not have to accept an unhappy destiny through want of opportunity. Rheinhardt finished his brandy and prised his watch from the fob pocket of his waistcoat.

'Good heavens, Max, it's almost eleven. I must be getting home.'

As he was leaving, Rheinhardt stopped for a moment and looked at his friend. His eyes expressed a great deal: pleasure, amiability and even, perhaps, amusement.

'Well done, Max,' he said softly. Liebermann did not reply, but simply increased the pressure of his handshake.

87

MISS LYDGATE PICKED up the card and read aloud: 'To Miss Amelia Lydgate, with heartfelt gratitude for services rendered to the security office of Vienna. Please accept this small token of our esteem. Sincerely, Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt.'

Liebermann was seated at the gateleg table and tapped the large mahogany box.

'For me?' she said, her voice uncertain.

'Yes,' said Liebermann.

Miss Lydgate released the hasps and opened the lid. As she did so, the metal object inside lit her face with a reflected warm, golden light. She did not gasp or smile. The only visible response was a slight creasing of her brow; however, Liebermann was not offended. He understood that the young Englishwoman's impassive exterior belied the depth and authenticity of her appreciation.

'Thank you,' she whispered.

Inside the box, among folds of blue velvet, was a large brass microscope.

'It was made by Eduard Messter of Frerichstrasse, Berlin. The case is signed by the maker – see here.' Liebermann pointed to the manufacturer's signature. 'I believe this instrument is more powerful than the one you currently employ – and the lenses are ground more finely. You will experience less distortion at higher levels of magnification.'

Amelia Lydgate lifted the microscope from the box with a gentleness that was almost maternal. It was obviously too heavy for her to manipulate with ease, yet she held it aloft and admired it from every angle. The brass gleamed triumphantly.

'You will be so kind as to thank Inspector Rheinhardt – it is a gift I do not deserve,' the young woman said in a level voice.

'Oh, but you do deserve it, Miss Lydgate!' Liebermann exclaimed. 'The Lowenstein murder would not have been solved without your help.'

Amelia Lydgate lowered the microscope carefully to the table's surface. Then, sitting down, she said: 'I would like you to tell me more of what transpired, Doctor Liebermann. I read in the Zeitung that the 'Leopoldstadt demon' had been caught, but the article contained very little detail.'

'Very well,' said Liebermann, and he proceeded to give a full account of the investigation, from Rheinhardt's presentation of Fraulein Lowenstein's note to his own almost fatal encounter with Bruckmuller on the Riesenrad. As he was describing the point at which he was forced out of the gondola and his grip was failing, Miss Lydgate reached across the table and touched his sleeve. The moment of contact was so brief, so inconsequential, that it could easily have been missed. Yet this simple sign of concern had a profound effect on Liebermann. He felt as though his thoughts had become like dewdrops trembling on a cobweb. He felt insubstantial – weightless and airy.

'You were very brave, Doctor Liebermann,' said Miss Lydgate. Her gesture had been apparently unconscious. She showed no sign of embarrassment or self-awareness.

Liebermann cleared his throat and, after managing to utter some self-deprecatory remarks, gradually