mean.
Nonsense, thought Liebermann. Utter nonsense.
Still, Liebermann could credit the zaddik with being right about one thing: he did think Barash was a lunatic, and had said so in the report he had prepared for Rheinhardt. The zaddik’s account of metoposcopy was equal in absurdity to anything he had heard issuing from the mouth of a patient with dementia praecox.
Constable Mader coughed to attract Liebermann’s attention and gestured toward a staircase.
“Inspector Rheinhardt is waiting upstairs.”
“Of course,” said Liebermann, a little embarrassed that his abstractedness might have been mistaken for reverence.
They began to climb the wooden steps but had to stop to let a photographer pass on his way down.
“Extraordinary,” muttered the photographer. “Quite extraordinary.”
A youthful assistant followed, carrying a tripod on his shoulders. Liebermann thought that the boy’s expression looked somewhat confused, but also a little fearful.
The stairs delivered Liebermann and Constable Mader to a balcony.
A door stood ajar, and through the opening Liebermann could see Rheinhardt and Haussmann. The younger man was kneeling on the floor, collecting samples of dust, while the older was twirling his mustache and looking up at the ceiling. When Rheinhardt heard Liebermann arrive, he turned, acknowledging his friend’s presence by raising his eyebrows. Like that of the photographer’s assistant, his expression was troubled.
Liebermann stepped across the threshold and found himself, if not in another world, then certainly in another century.
The room was windowless except for a small dirt-streaked skylight, and the walls were entirely lined with shelves. Each of these shelves was crammed with a gallimaufry of items: stoppered bottles, dishes, leather-bound books, scrolls, statuettes, rubber tubes, retorts, and several examples of obsolete scientific equipment. It was almost too much to take in. Among the general clutter, Liebermann saw an eighteenth-century shagreen single- draw telescope, a rusting astrolabe, and what appeared to be a very primitive electric battery. Paper labels had been gummed to the bottles and inscribed in Greek, Latin, and Hebrew. Liebermann walked the length of the nearest wall, pausing to inspect some of the labels, and deciphering the writing where possible.
Phosphorus, antimony, cinnabar, sulfur, oil of vitriol…
A workbench was littered with astrological charts and mathematical tables. An ancient calculating cylinder (made from three interlocked metal rings) and a pair of compasses had been employed as paperweights to keep a length of rolled parchment flat. It looked like an old horoscope. Against a background of fading concentric wheels and nebulous patches of moldy discoloration were planetary symbols, newly executed in bright red ink.
The floor had been decorated with a large esoteric design. It consisted of ten painted circles arranged in an approximate diamond shape and connected to one another by thick lines. Some of the circles were more interconnected than others. Thus, the central circle possessed eight lines of connection, whereas those occupying the extremities of the diamond had only three. Every circle and every thick line was marked with a letter (or several letters) from the Hebrew alphabet.
Liebermann’s attention was captured by a row of large glass jars on the opposite side of the room. Floating in a pale yellow liquid were several body parts-eyes, heart, fingers, and spleen-and included in this macabre collection was a small creature in a state of advanced decomposition. Liebermann drew closer. The skull and rib cage were visible beneath remnants of decaying flesh, and thin threads of hair floated up from the exposed beige-ivory crown. Lower down, the spine sank into a pocket of tarnished silver scales that tapered before expanding outward again as a ribbed fish tail. It was utterly grotesque. The young doctor snorted in disgust.
“Take a look in those barrels.”
It was Rheinhardt. He was pointing to the other end of the room.
The barrels were very big, the size used by breweries to transport large quantities of beer. As Liebermann removed one of the lids, a mature loamy fragrance, almost fecal, rose up from inside. The barrel was full of mud: moist, dark earth.
“Mud?” said Liebermann.
“Yes, mud.”
“You think there is some connection?”
“There must be, surely.”
Liebermann replaced the lid.
“Do you know anything about this synagogue?” asked Rheinhardt.
“No,” Liebermann replied. The tone of his voice was slightly offended.
“The rabbi-Rabbi Seligman-has explained to me that this room has been locked for more than ten years. The key was lost. A few weeks ago the caretaker said that he could hear noises coming from inside. Unusual noises. In fact”-Rheinhardt paused and looked round the room-“he thought they were produced supernaturally. In due course the rabbi too heard the noises and called the police.”
“How did you get the door open?” Liebermann asked.
Rheinhardt pulled a bunch of skeleton keys from his pocket and rattled them in the air.
“Rabbi Seligman believes that this room has been used by a kabbalist, which I gather is some kind of Jewish sorcerer. Have you any idea what he’s talking about?”
“Yes,” replied Liebermann, “but only vaguely. Kabbalah is a form of Jewish mysticism, a hybrid of alchemy, astrology, and other vatic arts.”
“How on earth did this fellow manage to get all these things in here without being noticed?”
“Not by magic, I can assure you! The staff of the security office can’t be the only people in the world who know about skeleton keys.”
“The lock was stiff. It didn’t feel like it had been recently opened.”
“Then he must have lowered things through the skylight.” Liebermann looked up. “It would be a tight squeeze, but I think it’s possible.”
“Those barrels look too large to me.”
“All right, maybe the barrels have always been here.”
“And what if they haven’t?”
“Then the barrels would have been made up in this room, from parts that were small enough to be lowered through the skylight.”
“Wouldn’t that be very noisy?”
“You said the caretaker did hear noises.”
Rheinhardt made a sweeping gesture. “There’s so much, though. How could one man…?”
“He probably had an apprentice, like the one in Goethe’s poem!”
“Max, be serious.”
“I am being serious,” said Liebermann. “However, I see very little purpose in trying to establish their exact methods right now! Suffice it to say that we are supposed to consider the existence of this ‘laboratory’ magical. The pressing questions are, first, why would anyone trouble to construct a kabbalist’s lair? And second, do these barrels of mud link the former occupant-or occupants-of this room with the murders of Faust and Brother Stanislav? I have as yet no answer to the first, but I am already inclined to agree with you as regards the second.”
Haussmann had finished collecting samples and was packing envelopes and boxes into a leather case. When he had finished, he stood up and took another look at the disintegrating mermaid.
“Herr Doctor… what is this? I mean, it looks real.”
“Well, it is real in a sense,” said Liebermann. “It is probably made from the skeleton of a small monkey, human hair, and an exotic fish. In the eighteenth century there was much interest in fantastic creatures, and many strange and wonderful things began to appear in private collections. These exhibits were usually put together by impecunious medical students who were able to make a modest income by selling their handiwork to gullible members of the aristocracy.”
“It’s definitely a fake, then?”
Liebermann rolled his eyes. “Yes, Haussmann, it’s a fake!”
Rheinhardt joined his assistant and ran his finger around the rim of the jar. “Dust,” he said. “Thick dust! The caretaker started hearing noises in here about two weeks ago. These jars have been untouched for much longer than two weeks.”
