oddly detached state, somewhat overwhelmed by his encounter with Professor Pallenberg and the unfortunate Herr Auger.
By the time Kanner had reached his office, his mind was occupied by other matters. Before entering the room he looked down the corridor both ways and then quickly slipped inside. He went immediately to his desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, and took out a heavily embroidered sash and apron. The apron bore the image of a temple between two columns that were marked J and B respectively. Kanner quickly stuffed the items into his doctor's bag and closed the hasp. Then, sighing with relief, he looked at his watch.
66
LIEBERMANN AND RHEINHARDT WERE attempting Guglielmo's aria from the first act of Cosi Fan Tutte. Rheinhardt's Italian was less than perfect. “Guardate… taccate…” Look… touch…
He struggled with the liquid vowels. “Il tutto osservate…” Observe everything…
They had not conferred greatly on the selection of songs, yet their musical evening contained an unusual number of piano and voice arrangements taken from the operas of Mozart. It was a fact that made Liebermann feel distinctly uncomfortable. Unconsciously, they were looking for clues. “Il tutto osservate…” Observe everything…
Their music-making had always been sacred: they had always resisted discussing other matters, however urgent, until the final chords of the final song had faded into silence. But now Salieri seemed to have violated their tradition. He had insinuated himself into the music room-between the very notes of Mozart's divine melodies. He stood in the shadow of the Bosendorfer: an unwelcome, ghostly presence.
After performing the Mozart pieces, they returned to more familiar territory-lieder by Brahms. The luscious, romantic harmonies seemed to repel the spectral visitor (at least temporarily) to some distant outer region. But when the recital was done-ending with Wir wandelten-Liebermann still felt uneasy. For it was not only the thought of Salieri that was causing him discomfort. There was also the matter of his pending confession. He had resolved to inform Rheinhardt of his decision to terminate his engagement to Clara, and he was not sure how his friend would receive such news.
The two men retired to the smoking room and took their respective places in front of the fire. They lit cigars, sipped brandy, and permitted themselves a few moments of quiet repose. When the room had become hazy with smoke, the young doctor spoke.
“Forgive me, Oskar. I owe you an apology.”
The inspector turned. “Oh?”
“It was remiss of me not to respond to your note last week.”
“I had assumed that you were ill.”
“No, I was not ill. And you are due more than the dashed-off reply that I sent on Monday.”
Rheinhardt detected that his friend was unusually tense. His restless fingers betrayed an inner state of agitation.
“What is it, Max?”
Liebermann hesitated. Then, bracing himself, he threw back his head and swallowed a medicinal quantity of brandy. “Last week,” he said deliberately, “I had to make a decision regarding a personal issue, which left me feeling utterly dejected. Indeed, my spirits were so low that I could barely summon the energy to attend my patients.” Liebermann studied the refracted rainbows in the finely cut glass. “The decision I made was one that I believe will not meet with your approval.” He looked anxiously at his friend. Rheinhardt dismissed the remark with a hand gesture and signaled that Liebermann should continue. “You will recall that I once expressed some doubt as to whether I should proceed with my engagement to Clara Weiss.”
“Indeed. We spoke at some length on the subject.”
“Well, Oskar. In spite of your wise counsel, I have found it impossible to dispel the feelings of apprehension surrounding the prospect of our union. I arranged an interview with Clara's father and explained that I could not-in good faith-marry his daughter. Needless to say, he was horrified and forbade me to see Clara. I understand she has since been removed from Vienna, and I suspect that she has been taken to a sanitorium.” Liebermann drew on his cigar and expelled a great cloud of smoke. “So, you see, Oskar, I have achieved much since we last met. I have thoroughly embarrassed my parents, caused incalculable pain to a woman whom I had previously professed to love, and declined membership of a family who have hitherto shown me only kindness and the deepest affection. I wouldn't blame you for thinking badly of me.”
A log on the fire suddenly blazed up and a fierce shower of sparks erupted onto the hearth. The inspector squeezed his lower lip and appeared to descend into a meditative state. After a considerable length of time had elapsed, Rheinhardt stirred. He cleared his throat, hummed, and finally spoke.
“First of all, Max, I hope that you will accept my most sincere commiserations. I had no idea that you were so very racked with doubts, and if I had, perhaps my advice to you would have been different. Second, I have every confidence in your character. I cannot claim to have any special knowledge of the human mind-I am no psychiatrist-but I am a fair judge of men, and I understand you well enough to appreciate that your intentions were honorable. You did not want to enter upon a sham marriage-that much is clear. To do so would have been bad for you, and even worse for Clara. Finally, I have always found you to be a man of singular courage. In my small estimation-for what it is worth-this act is perhaps the bravest I have ever known you to perform. The right course of action is rarely the easiest, and to have proceeded with an insincere marriage, for the sake of maintaining appearances, would have been morally reprehensible. As a man whose calling… no, whose very reason for existence is to alleviate human suffering, the events of last week must have cost you dearly. I am so very sorry. Be that as it may, I suspect that this trial need not prick your conscience forever. Given time, they will all come to realize the propriety of your decision-your family, the Weisses, and, most important, your dear Clara.”
Liebermann turned slowly, and looked at his friend's world-weary face: the sagging pouches of skin beneath his eyes, the heavy jowls, and the incongruously jaunty pointed mustache. And as he did so, he felt a wave of affection that brought him close to tears. What a great and generous soul this man possessed, he thought.
“Oskar, I don't know what to say. You are too kind. I do not deserve such-”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” cried the inspector.
“No-I really don't deserve-”
“Enough!” Rheinhardt raised his hand. “The quality of your character is not in question. You have nothing to thank me for.” Then, unexpectedly, he stood up to leave. “As you know, there were many things that I wished to discuss with you this evening concerning Salieri… but let us instead postpone. I do not wish to burden you with the concerns of the security office at this difficult time. We shall meet again in due course-when your spirits have rallied.”
“But, Oskar,” Liebermann protested, “my spirits have already rallied. Your kind words have acted as a restorative. Moreover, I can think of no better remedy than to make myself useful to the security office. Now, please, do sit down!”
Rehinhardt's eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The inspector smiled. “Excellent.”
Rheinhardt opened his bag and produced a stack of photographs. Then, returning to his seat, he handed them to Liebermann.
The young doctor looked at the first image: a dark, grainy impression of a hooded figure lying on a stone floor.
“Another Salieri killing?”
“I'm afraid so.”
“When did he strike?”
“Thursday.”
“Has the murder been reported?”
“In the Zeitung, the Freie Presse, and that dreadful new rag, the Illustrierte Kronen-Zeitung.”
Liebermann began working through the pile of prints. Each image showed the body from a different
