background.
“Where are you?”
“Cafe Mozart.”
“Wait there. I'll be with you shortly.”
Liebermann replaced the receiver in its cradle and stepped out of the kiosk. Nearby, two rakish gentlemen in striped jackets were entertaining a loud lady friend. A dark green magnum bottle of champagne suggested that she had been plied with an injudicious, if not positively reckless, quantity of alcohol. Peering through thick, undulating curtains of cigar smoke, Liebermann tried to locate an empty table. None seemed to be available; however, he was soon rescued by the waiter, who-perhaps anticipating further tokens of gratitude-guided the young doctor to a vacant window seat.
Liebermann ordered a schwarzer.
“And something to eat, sir?” The waiter offered him the menu. Liebermann gestured to indicate that he did not need to read it.
“Mozart torte,” he said decisively.
“An excellent choice, sir,” said the waiter, smiling and stepping backward, his head lowered between hunched shoulders.
The inebriated woman threw her head back and produced a shrill, abrasive laugh. Her hair had begun to unravel and loose dark strands tumbled wildly past her shoulders. The two rakes exchanged eager glances, their eyes alight with concupiscent interest. A group of portly burghers at an adjacent table shook their heads and scowled disapprovingly.
Liebermann's attention was recaptured by the waiter, who had returned with his coffee and cake. The Mozart torte was a colorful checkered arrangement of chocolate and pistachio sponge, on top of which was a marzipan coin bearing the profile of the great composer. Liebermann took a mouthful, found it a little too sweet, and decided that the time might pass just as quickly with a cigar.
Some twenty minutes later Rheinhardt appeared at the door. He did not take his coat off and came directly to Liebermann's table.
“Well, Max,” said Rheinhardt. “This is most unexpected.”
Liebermann rose and they shook hands firmly.
“Please, sit.”
Before they had settled, the waiter seemed to materialize out of a vortex of cigar smoke.
“Another schwarzer,” said Liebermann. “And a turkische for my friend.”
“Strong-with extra sugar,” Rheinhardt added.
The waiter retreated into the yellow-brown fug.
“It's extraordinary,” Liebermann began. “He must be unique… peerless in the annals of abnormal psychology. We are dealing with a most remarkable individual. A mind of singular peculiarity.”
“Max,” said Rheinhardt, halting his friend with an expression that demanded moderation. “Slowly, please. And from the beginning.”
Liebermann nodded. “I am quite feverish with excitement.”
“And I do not doubt that you have good reason to be; however…”
“Yes, of course. Slowly, and from the beginning.” Liebermann sat back in his chair and loosened his necktie. “This evening I went to the opera.”
“It must have been uncommonly short.”
“I left early.”
“Was it that bad?”
“Not at all-Director Mahler's Magic Flute.”
“Then why-”
“Do you know it?”
“The Magic Flute? Not very well… I haven't seen it in years.”
“Nor have I.”
“Well?”
“The characters, Oskar-can you remember the characters?”
“There's a prince-Tamino… and a princess, Pamina. The Queen of the Night, who has that glorious aria-the famous one in which the melody hops about on the very highest notes.”
“Yes, the Queen of the Night! Now think, Oskar! Does that name-the Queen of the Night-not sound to you like a certain colloquialism?”
Rheinhardt twisted the right tip of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “Lady of the night?”
“Or, as the French would say, fille de nuit. Meaning what?”
“A prostitute, of course!”
“The Queen of the Night has three attendants-or serving women…”
The inspector's eyes widened until he began to resemble an exophthalmic patient whom Liebermann had examined earlier the same day.
“Good heavens,” Rheinhardt gasped. “Madam Borek and the three Galician girls.”
“Exactly! And then there is Papageno, the bird catcher. Who is punished for lying. Can you remember the punishment, Oskar?”
“Dear God! His mouth is sealed with a padlock!”
“Now think of the Wieden murder. The black man.”
“Why, he must correspond to the Moor.”
“Monostatos.”
Suddenly Rheinhardt's expression changed. It vacillated on some nameless cusp before collapsing into unequivocal despondency.
“Oh, no, no, no.” The inspector groaned as if in physical pain.
Liebermann was puzzled at his friend's unexpected response. “Oskar?”
Rheinhardt placed his head in his hands.
“What a fool I've been. What an absolute fool!”
Liebermann felt rather deflated by his friend's response. “It wasn't that obvious, Oskar. The recognition of these correspondences did require some imagination.”
“Forgive me, Max. I did not mean to belittle your achievement. But it really should have been obvious… to me!”
“Why? You are a policeman. Not a Mozart scholar.”
The waiter arrived with the coffees. The inspector lifted his head, tasted his turkische, and dropped two pieces of crystallized sugar into the cup. His melancholy sagging eyes looked close to tears.
“It begins with a snake, doesn't it?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Liebermann, somewhat confused.
“The Magic Flute: it begins with the slaying of a snake.”
“Yes.”
“Well, so did this series of murders.”
Liebermann slid the remains of his Mozart torte across the table toward the dejected inspector. On numerous occasions he had witnessed Rheinhardt's spirits rallying after a few mouthfuls of pastry. Almost unconsciously, Rheinhardt plunged the fork through the invitingly pliant sponge.
“Before the Spittelberg atrocity,” said Rheinhardt, “a giant anaconda was killed at the zoo.”
“Hildegard.”
“That's right-did you read about it?”
“Yes. I recall that the animal was supposed to be a favorite of the emperor's.”
“Indeed. I investigated the incident myself. It was a highly irregular crime, but in the light of subsequent events, it paled into insignificance. The Spittelberg murders occurred the following day… and I simply forgot about the emperor's prize snake. Even the life of the most exalted royal animal should not be valued above the life of a human being-however wretched-and with that thought in mind I transferred all my attention from one case to the other. But now, of course, I can see the error of my ways. How stupid of me!”
Rheinhardt mechanically deposited a corner of Mozart torte into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and
