“I noticed that his fingers had closed around the hilt of his sabre.”
“He was wearing a sabre?” Rheinhardt cut in again.
“I hope that I am not betraying the trust invested in me by the Masons-”
“Heaven forfend!”
“If I disclose to you that they were all wearing sabres.”
“Were they indeed,” said Rheinhardt, nodding with interest.
“At which point…”
The inspector lifted his hand.
“One moment, please! What was Olbricht doing at this secret meeting? How did he get in?”
“Isn't it obvious?”
Rheinhardt's eyebrows knitted together. “Surely not…”
Liebermann pressed his lips together and jerked his head forward.
“He is a Mason. And not only that, he is a librarian! He has been engaged for many months in the arduous task of cataloguing a vast collection of Masonic literature. Several of the books he has handled are very ancient in origin-guides to arcane rites and rituals.”
“So Miss Lydgate was right after all.”
“Of course-she is a remarkable woman.” Liebermann paused for a moment.
“Max?”
Liebermann coughed, a little embarrassed by his momentary lapse of concentration.
“I am of the opinion that Olbricht entered the craft as a kind of spy. One can imagine such an infantile act of daring, such a caper, earning him the respect of his friends at the Eddic Literary Association. As you know, nationalists despise Masons. In my ignorance I have often wondered why. I had attributed their hostility to some species of paranoia; however, the answer is very simple. At the heart of Masonry is a belief in universal fraternity and equality-a belief that stands in stark opposition to the exclusive, supremacist philosophy of Guido List. As a Mason, Olbricht was known as Brother Diethelm. Gunther Diethelm. Interesting, don't you think, that he should choose that as his nom de guerre?”
Rheinhardt looked puzzled.
“Gunther,” Liebermann continued, “means ‘warrior’ and Diethelm means ‘protector of the folk or people.’ All of which suggests to me a powerful identification with the legendary Unbesiegbare-The Invincible, or strong one from above, the Teutonic savior.”
Rheinhardt sipped his slivovitz.
“He played a perilous game. What if a Mason with whom he was acquainted had come to one of his exhibitions? His masquerade would have been discovered immediately.”
“It wasn't such a risk. First, Olbricht rarely had his work shown in galleries. He was never good enough, and without Von Rautenberg's patronage he would never have exhibited at all. Second, German nationalists and Freemasons occupy very different worlds and those worlds rarely touch. It is a peculiarity of our city that different peoples can coexist and live in close proximity but never meet.”
Rheinhardt grumbled his assent. The memory of the sewer people was all too vivid.
“I do not imagine,” Liebermann continued, “that Olbricht joined the Masons intending to murder any of their number. Rather, the possibility presented itself as his curious program for murder-and the disease process- progressed.”
“Disease process?”
“Forgive me-I am racing ahead of myself.” Liebermann tasted his slivovitz and looked mildly startled by its potency. “Where on earth did you get this from?”
“A Croatian scissors-grinder.”
“That doesn't surprise me. Now, where was I?”
“You saw Olbricht's hand on his hilt.”
“Ah yes.” Liebermann disdainfully placed the glass back on Rheinhardt's desk and leaned back in his chair. “I challenged him, and he immediately made a dash for the door, escaped from the temple, and made his way to the library, which was situated at a lower level. I can remember feeling uneasy. Clearly, someone meaning to escape would have run up the stairs, not down; however, somewhat overexcited by the chase, I pursued Olbricht without thinking and so fell into his trap.”
“Trap?”
“He had concealed himself behind the library door and, after locking us both in, drew his sabre. From the moment our blades touched it was obvious that he was the superior swordsman. My only chance of survival was to ward him off until the Masons broke the door down and came to my rescue.”
Rheinhardt peered at the slashed material over Liebermann's heart.
“Looks like he almost killed you.”
“He almost did. He had me pinned to the wall. All he had to do was push.”
“What stopped him?”
“I surprised him-shocked him, even-by making some observations which, given his reaction, I have every reason to believe were correct: and while he was distracted, I made my escape.”
Rheinhardt leaned forward. “Observations? What observations?”
“That his mother was a prostitute who entertained men of many different nationalities, that they had a room close to a folk theater where The Magic Flute was often performed, and that Olbricht has always been-and continues to be-tormented by dreams of animals.”
Rheinhardt shook his head. “But how could you possibly…”
“Know? I didn't. I was simply making some educated guesses.”
“On what basis?”
“His appearance.”
“But you have always told me never to judge a man by his appearance.”
“That is true. And in almost all cases nothing can be deduced from the shape of someone's nose, the slope of his forehead, or the thickness of his lips!”
“So what was it about Olbricht's appearance that permitted you to make such bold and seemingly accurate assertions?”
Liebermann placed his long fingers together.
“His face, his distinctive features. They are a form of stigmata… but stigmata that have nothing whatsoever to do with Lombroso's speculations about the relationship between physiognomy and criminality.”
Rheinhardt was beginning to lose patience again. “Max, I haven't a clue what you're talking about. Please speak plainly.”
“The sunken bridge of his nose, the creases around his mouth, his odd teeth. It was only when I was up close that I realized their significance. They are all symptoms. Herr Olbricht has congenital syphilis.”
Liebermann paused, allowing Rheinhardt to absorb his revelation.
“What? He was born… syphilitic?”
“Indeed, and once I had established this fact, I immediately grasped the nature of his history. What kind of mother might have syphilis? A prostitute! Why might Olbricht despise other nationalities so much? Because these were her clientele: down-at-heel Hungarians, Poles, Czechs, and Jews, newly arrived in Vienna. These were the men who took her away from him. Why had The Magic Flute acquired such special significance for Olbricht? He had heard it being sung incessantly as a child-how could anyone forget those glorious melodies? And how might the son of a prostitute get to hear opera? His mother must have rented a room next to a folk theater. The German nationalist doctrine of race hate provided the adult Olbricht with a rationale for many of his attacks, but his real motivation was much deeper. An angry, jealous child was still raging silently in the darkest recesses of his psyche.”
Rheinhardt twirled his mustache. “All of this suggests that he loved his mother. Yet he chose to attack women who suffered the same fate, those poor Galician girls.”
“Ambivalence, Oskar! Professor Freud has taught us that the roots of motivation are profoundly deep and hopelessly tangled. In the unconscious, love and hate coexist, as comfortably as sewer people and archdukes in our beloved city! Olbricht loved his mother-but hated her at the same time. Hated her for being a prostitute, hated her for neglecting him… and most of all, I suspect, hated her for not being Aryan. It would not surprise me in the least if
