have administered such a large dose. In fact, it was probably the morphine that accelerated the young baron’s demise. I could have mentioned this to Professor Friedlander, but I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
Liebermann produced a twisted smile. “Doing so might have damaged Edlinger’s prospects. I thought it unnecessary.”
“The scoundrel,” said Rheinhardt. “You should definitely report him now.”
“I’m not sure that would be wise, Oskar. He could deny that he administered morphine-or such a large dose, at any rate-and that would cast me in a very unfavorable light.”
“Wasn’t there a nurse present?”
“Yes, Nurse Heuber. But she was wearing a crucifix, and it was she who went to fetch Father Benedikt. I don’t think I can count on her for support.” Liebermann drew on his cigar and blew out a jet of blue smoke. “Do you really think that I should leave Vienna?”
“Yes. Let me know where you’re staying, and I can send you a telegram when it’s safe to come back.”
“Then perhaps I will go to…” Liebermann hesitated before saying, “Prague.” The city was now inextricably linked with the zaddik’s injunction. Once again, he felt as if he were being drawn there by fate. “My father asked me to accompany him to Prague on a business trip. He leaves tomorrow morning.”
As he said these words, Liebermann felt as if he were making a concession not only to his father but, irrationally, to the zaddik as well. Still, it was the obvious solution to his predicament. He told himself that he should take advantage of the opportunity.
“Don’t tell anyone at the hospital where you’re going. Just leave a telephone number-your mother’s, perhaps, and then she can contact you if the hospital committee is about to convene. I’ll see what I can do…”
Liebermann rested a hand on his friend’s arm and tightened his grip.
“Thank you, Oskar.”
The inspector, embarrassed by Liebermann’s gratitude, made some dismissive noises and said, “Cake. We haven’t had cake.”
Rheinhardt called the waiter over and ordered two topfenstrudels.
“How is the investigation proceeding?” Liebermann asked.
“Do you really want to talk about that now?”
“Of course I do.”
Rheinhardt shrugged. “Well, if you insist. Haussmann has been watching Barash’s residence but has had nothing remarkable to report, although Barash has been receiving a large number of visitors-other Hasidim, from different sects.”
“How did Haussmann know that they were from different sects?”
“They wear different hats, apparently. Haussmann also formed the impression that most of these visitors were community leaders-zaddiks, like Barash.”
“What do you make of that?”
“It could, I suppose, be something to do with our discovery at the Alois Gasse Temple.”
“Very likely, I imagine. Presumably you have someone posted there?”
“Yes, a constable from Grosse Sperlgasse, but the kabbalist has not returned to resume his activities.” Rheinhardt raised his cigar and inspected the twisting column of smoke that rose from its burning tip. “Whoever created the kabbalist’s lair wanted it to be discovered. They made loud enough noises to ensure that the room would be opened. Clearly they wanted us to make a connection between the lair and the murders, the barrels of mud serving to remind us of the deposits found close to the bodies of Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust.”
“Have you compared the samples?”
“Yes. The laboratory results showed they were identical.” Rheinhardt puffed at his cigar and added, “Incidentally we went up onto the roof of the Alois Gasse Temple. It is certainly possible that many of the items we found could have been lowered through the skylight. The houses on that side of the street are dilapidated, and several of the rooms are unoccupied. A dedicated team working from a top-floor hideout could have accomplished the operation quite easily.”
The waiter arrived with the two strudels.
Rheinhardt broke the flaky pastry with his fork, and the sweet curd filling spilled out, exuding a distinctive aroma of cinnamon, vanilla, and something less easily identified, an unknown ingredient that evoked images of a caravanserai and sand dunes.
“Exquisite,” said Rheinhardt, his spirits rising with his appetite. “I wish I knew the chef’s secret.”
Liebermann stirred the froth around in his coffee and said, “I’ve been doing a bit of research into the kabbalah myself.”
“Really?” said Rheinhardt somewhat vaguely, his attention having been captured almost entirely by his pastry.
“Yes. That floor design, the one consisting of interconnected circles. It’s called the Tree of Life, and it represents creation and the subsequent dispersal of vital energies through the universe. Kabbalistic scholars believe that a thorough understanding of its principles can give a man godlike powers.”
“Is that so?” said Rheinhardt.
Liebermann picked up his fork. He knew that he could not compete with Rheinhardt’s topfenstrudel. He would have to wait for the inspector to finish.
Part Three
45
The whistle blew and the train began to roll out of the Nordbahnhof. Leaning his head against the window, Liebermann looked out at the receding platform-at luggage porters, army officers, smartly dressed women and children, the tide of humanity flowing backward as the locomotive engine gathered speed. The last person Liebermann glimpsed on the platform was an elderly gentleman holding up a white handkerchief, fixed in the attitude of his final parting gesture. It was a sad image that kindled a sympathetic pang of grief in Liebermann’s chest. He did not want to be leaving Vienna. The train chugged through Brigittenau, crossed the Danube over an iron bridge, and thundered off through a thinly populated suburb out into open countryside.
“So,” said Mendel. “What made you change your mind?”
“It’s a long and rather complicated story.”
“Well, we won’t be arriving in Prague until midday, Maxim. You’ve plenty of time to explain yourself.”
Liebermann sighed and told his father about the young Baron von Kortig, Liebermann’s interviews with the chancellor, the article in Das Vaterland, his suspension from clinical practice, the allegation of religious agitation, and the forthcoming committee meeting at which, in all probability, his career as a doctor would be blighted. Mendel sat through the account in silence, but his expression showed that his feelings were complex, vacillating between conflicting states of horror and hope. He was furious that his son had become the victim of anti-Semitism, but at the same time he was aware that the demise of his son’s medical career would force him to consider alternatives, one of which would surely be to enter the family business. Never before had Mendel’s foremost wish come so close to fulfillment.
“Well, that’s very bad. Very bad indeed,” Mendel muttered. “Do you need a lawyer? I’d pay, of course.”
“I don’t think that would help, Father.”
“Perhaps not.” Mendel took off his hat and laid it on his lap. “Despicable, the way they treat us. Despicable.” He looked down and toyed with the hat’s label. “I know how much medicine means to you, Maxim. But if you do lose your position, and can’t find another post…” Somehow the offer of employment seemed to be more tactful if implied, rather than spoken.
