her, slumbering in a gilded four-poster bed, her sweet nose pressed into soft, downy pillows. Now, at that moment I saw this fellow making his way toward me-a musician, carrying a cello on his back. And it struck me, all at once, that it would be a truly wonderful gesture to arrange a little concert-so that she might wake to the strains of some beautiful love song. There's a famous, oft-quoted line, by an English author: If music be the food of love, play on…”
“Shakespeare,” said Liebermann.
“Is it?
“Yes. Twelfth Night.”
“Perhaps I saw it at the Court Theater. To be honest, I can't remember. Anyway, I thought it a most agreeable sentiment, so I raised my hand and the cellist halted. I asked him if he would be kind enough to play a love song, for the Archduchess Marie-Valerie. He was an odd fellow… something about him… Oh, it doesn't matter. He went to move off and I begged him to wait a moment. ‘I'll make it worth your while,’ I said. ‘Naturally.’ He didn't respond. ‘What shall it be?’ I asked. ‘Two krone?’ I thought it a generous offer-but the fellow didn't budge. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘let's call it three kronen.’ Still-no response. ‘Four, five, ten?’ Still nothing. So, more out of curiosity than anything else, I offered him twenty, then fifty, and finally, one hundred krone. And do you know what? He still didn't accept. Instead, he said: ‘The Archduchess won't be able to hear.’ I disagreed. ‘My good man’-I said-‘it's a very still, quiet morning. The cello has a full, deep voice-of course she will be able to hear.’ He shook his head. ‘I can assure you,’ he said, ‘she won't. This is the summer palace-there's no one home.’ And then he walked off. It wasn't empty, of course. The fool was totally wrong. She was in the palace- I knew it!”
A note of petulance had crept into his final exclamation. But he sighed, pulled at his vibrant orange-yellow beard, and continued, speaking more calmly now.
“Such a shame… If he had been more of a game fellow, it would have been a glorious way for her to wake. Those sweet eyelids, still heavy with sleep, fluttering open. Her head turning, to hear better the sweet melody… she would have known that it was me, of course.”
He closed his eyes and blissfully contemplated the imaginary royal chamber.
“Herr Beiber,” said Liebermann. “If you were… united, with the Archduchess Marie-Valerie, how do you think you would spend your time together? What would you do?”
“That is an interesting question, Herr Doctor,” said the accountant, “and one to which I have devoted much consideration. You will forgive me, however, if I correct your language slightly. It is somewhat misleading. The question is not if-but when. When the Archduchess Marie-Valerie and I are united, how shall we choose to spend our time together?”
“Very well,” said Liebermann.
“We shall take walks. We shall go to concerts. We shall read poetry. We shall hold hands. I shall spend whole days gazing into her soft, compassionate eyes. I shall comb her hair. We shall talkendlessly-about our miraculous love, and we shall tell and retell the story of our coming together.”
Herr Beiber licked his lips and continued to enumerate.
“I shall fill her pen with ink when she wishes to write letters. I shall open doors for her when she wishes to pass from one room to the next. I shall give her roses…”
Herr Beiber went on in this vein for some time; the life that he envisaged for himself as the Archduchess's consort was curiously sterile. It was nothing more than a series of frozen tableaux: tiny gestures of affection and tired romantic motifs.
Liebermann coughed in order to interrupt the mundane litany.
“Herr Beiber.” He paused and looked down at the freckled bald patch. “I am sorry, but… What of erotic feelings?”
“What of them?”
“You have not mentioned them.”
“Why should I? I am in love with the Archduchess. Have I not made myself clear?”
Liebermann tapped his index finger on the side of his temple.
“Herr Beiber,” said Liebermann, “have you ever experienced sexual relations with a woman?”
The great romantic looked somewhat flustered.
“I… erm… There has never been anyone… special to me. No.”
“Does the idea of sexual congress frighten you?”
Beiber laughed. “Good heavens, no, Doctor. What a ludicrous idea!”
Liebermann was familiar with the work of the French neurologist Guillaume Duchenne, particularly his The Mechanism of Human Facial Expression. Although Beiber's mouth had curved upward, the orbicularis oculi muscles around his eyes had not contracted. The smile was-without doubt-false.
51
A LARGE MAP OF Vienna hung on the wall behind Rheinhardt's desk. The heart of the city was clearly demarcated by the Ringstrassereally a horseshoe, the ends of which connected with the Danube Canal. Farther north was the wide diagonal of the mighty Danube itself. To the east were the open grassy spaces of the Prater, and to the west the foothills of the famous Vienna Woods. In the bottom left corner of the map was a complex grid that represented the paths and gardens of the Schonbrunn Palace. A tack with a broad silver head had been planted within the boundary of the imperial zoo. There were three more: one just outside the eastern curve of the Ringstrasse, one in the town center, and one in Wieden-close to a delta of black railway lines that terminated under the word Sudbahnhof.
Rheinhardt connected the tacks with four strokes of an imaginary pen. The exercise produced a mental impression of something that looked vaguely like a kite. The inspector wondered if-in the unfortunate event of more pin-tacks being added-a more significant pattern might possibly emerge. Salieri clearly had a weakness for programs and symbols. He could autograph the entire city by striking in carefully chosen locations.
The inspector's thoughts were disturbed by the sound of Haussmann turning the pages of his notebook.
“We've been keeping a close eye on the List residence for three weeks now,” said the assistant detective.
Rheinhardt raised and lowered himself on his toes, unaware that he was doing so. “Indeed.”
“And, in spite of his infirmity,” continued Haussmann, “or perhaps because of it, he has been receiving many visitors. His eye doctor, of course; the Englishman, Chamberlain; Counselor Schmidt; a student called Hertz; the actor, Bernhard-I've never heard of him but I understand that he's supposed to be quite famous.”
“Yes, yes, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, trying to hide his growing impatience. “But if I'm not mistaken you told me this last week.”
Haussmann turned another page. “Quite right, sir. Please accept my apologies. In addition to the aforesaid gentlemen, Herr List has also received… Viktor Grasz, a publisher; August Haddorf-another actor, and a well-known patron of the arts called Gustav von Triebenbach.”
Rheinhardt trained his melancholy baggy-eyed gaze on his assistant. Trying hard not to sound impatient, he said, “Haussmann, do you actually have something interesting to report?”
The assistant detective reddened slightly. “Yes, sir-although it may only be interesting in my estimation, you understand.”
“I am happy to proceed on that basis.”
The younger man blinked, unsure how to interpret the inspector's arch expression. “All these people,” he continued warily, “are affiliated with associations and societies. For example, the Richard Wagner Association, the German League, the Alemania Dueling Fraternity, and the Aryan Actors’ guild.”
“Well, given the nature of Herr List's writings it does not surprise me that he mixes with individuals who share his Pan-German sympathies.”
“Yes, sir. But Baron von Triebenbach…”
“What about him?”
“He is the president of a small group who call themselves the Eddic Literary Association.”
“The Edda, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, suddenly striking a pedagogical attitude, “are the two collections
