Death and the Maiden (21 page)

Freud shook his head. The old man’s expression was not disapproving, but full of pity. ‘A doctor with too many scruples can’t make a decent living. And a Jewish doctor must be especially resourceful.’ His face brightened with mischief. ‘Have you heard the one about Kaplan? No? Good. So Kaplan goes to see his doctor, Birnbaum, for a check-up. After examining his patient, Birnbaum says, “
I’m sorry, Herr Kaplan, but I have bad news. You only have six months to live
.” Kaplan is horrified. He buries his head in his hands and replies,
“That’s terrible. Moreover, I have a confession to make: I can’t afford to pay your bill.”
Birnbaum responds immediately:
“Very well, Herr Kaplan, I’ll give you a year to live
.”’

Freud fixed his inquisitorial gaze on Liebermann. An opinion was required.

‘Yes,’ said Liebermann. ‘Most amusing.’ But he was unable to give his mentor a sincere smile.

When Liebermann returned to his apartment he found a letter waiting for him from Gustav Mahler. The director had managed to obtain an original piece of writing by the author of the scurrilous
Deutsche Zeitung
article and wanted Liebermann to examine it as a matter of urgency. Liebermann sighed and composed a brief apologetic response. The earliest he could keep an appointment at the
opera house would be the following Monday. He knew that the director would not like this, but there was nothing he could do. Reluctantly, he sealed the envelope and left it on the bureau for his serving man to post in the morning.

‘W
ELL, HERE WE ARE
,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Are you ready?’

‘I think so,’ said Liebermann.

‘Then let us proceed.’

They turned onto the wide boulevard, their heels hitting the asphalt in unison.

The town hall was a grand edifice of pale stone, with a soaring central clock tower flanked by two shorter spires on either side. It was a building rich in Gothic detail, rising up in several layers: columns and arches, mullioned windows, a clerestory and, finally, a pitched grey roof. The long approach gave Liebermann ample time to consider his destination.

In spite of its venerable appearance, the town hall was not an old building. It had been officially opened in eighteen eighty-four, a mere nineteen years earlier. The anachronistic façade was a conceit, designed to evoke a sense of the past, an idealised late Middle Ages in which benign Bürgermeisters protected the rights and privileges of the people, and stalwart, honest guildsmen made the city wealthy with their skill. The town hall was festooned with sculpted figures, denizens of this fabled and prosperous medieval world.

Professor Freud had shown that dreams and fantasies often conceal a darker truth. This civic dream, rendered in stone, was no exception. The mayor did not protect the people of Vienna. Indeed, for those citizens who could not lay claim to an Austrian Catholic
pedigree, he was a brooding potentate, surveying the city with malign intent from his high tower. And the townsfolk were not carpenters, furriers and clockmakers, but bureaucrats, speculators and factory workers. Among the statues on the upper parapet, Liebermann did not see any clerks, capitalists, labourers or shop girls.

Liebermann and Rheinhardt ascended the stairs and passed beneath a great archway. On entering the building they were welcomed by a functionary who escorted them through a series of corridors, galleries and shadowy chambers. The interior of the town hall seemed impervious to light. On the first floor the functionary placed them in the custody of a low-ranking official who neglected to introduce himself and recorded their names in a large book before leading them to a spartan waiting room. Half an hour elapsed and another gentleman arrived, this time dressed in the distinctive green tailcoat of a Lueger ‘courtier’. He marched them into what appeared to be an antechamber and, gesturing at a pair of double doors, whispered that the mayor would be receiving them in his private apartment. Another half-hour passed before these doors opened, revealing a thickset man, also dressed in green, who beckoned them with a curling finger.

The mayor looked impressive for his age, his lineaments conforming to the classical paradigm of nobility. He was seated behind his desk, writing, and the scratching of his pen nib was clearly audible. The Persian rug which covered the floor was intricately patterned and its fibres were strong enough to add a disconcerting buoyancy to each step. This peculiar sensation, combined with the exceptional nature of the occasion, made Liebermann feel light-headed. Mayor Lueger rose to greet them. He was dressed in an expensive suit and his abundant jewellery glittered as he moved.

‘Good morning, gentlemen.’

‘Good morning, Mayor Lueger,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘I am Inspector

Oskar Rheinhardt and this is my colleague Doctor Max Liebermann. Thank you, most kindly, for permitting us to interrupt your busy day. The security office is indebted.’

Rheinhardt and Liebermann bowed together.

‘Please sit,’ said the mayor. He clearly felt under no obligation to exchange pleasantries. After first consulting what must have been an itinerary, he came directly to the point with alarming bluntness. ‘You wish to ask me some questions concerning Fräulein Ida Rosenkrantz?’

‘That is correct, sir,’ said Rheinhardt. Glancing over at Lueger’s servant, he added, ‘Some of the questions I must ask you are of a private and personal nature.’

‘Pumera,’ said the mayor, without turning. ‘I’ll ring the bell if you’re needed.’ Making his exit through a door situated behind the mayor’s desk, the bodyguard directed a disapproving glance at Liebermann. Had his upper lip risen a fraction more, disapproval would have become contempt. ‘Inspector,’ continued Lueger, ‘it is the duty of every citizen, myself included, to assist the police in their investigations; however, if I am to divulge details of my private life, then I must be confident of your discretion.’

‘You have my word,’ Rheinhardt replied.

‘And what about you, Herr Doctor?’

‘You have my word also,’ said Liebermann.

‘Good,’ said the mayor. ‘Needless to say, in due course, should I discover that my confidence in you was misplaced …’

He paused, allowing his visitors to contemplate the varied forms of retribution that a Lord-God might have at his disposal.

‘The office of mayor,’ said Rheinhardt, speaking with exaggerated solemnity, ‘commands our
complete
respect.’

Liebermann thought that his friend’s declaration was too theatrical, too obviously insincere. He was surprised, therefore, to see a muted
but satisfied smile appear on Lueger’s face. The vanity of a demagogue could never be overestimated.

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ said the mayor, turning his hands outward and extending his arms. ‘I am at your service.’

Proximity did not flatter the mayor. Close up, he cut a less dignified figure. His skin was weather-beaten and wrinkled and one of his eyes showed an alarming independence of movement. He had the yellow fingers of a chain-smoker.

‘Mayor Lueger,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘I understand that you were well acquainted with Fräulien Rosenkrantz.’

‘She sang at my birthday celebrations, rather beautifully, I recall – and soon after we became friends.’

‘Friends? When you say
friends
, do you mean …?’ Lueger’s frown stopped Rheinhardt mid-sentence. ‘My apologies, sir,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘An insolent question, but it is one that I am required to ask.’

The mayor took a cigarette from a silver box. ‘We enjoyed a brief association. What of it?’

‘Brief?’

‘A few months, that is all. Our liaisons ceased in the spring.’

‘March, April?’

‘March, although we continued to meet occasionally. Fräulein Rosenkrantz wished that we should remain friends.’

The mayor lit his cigarette.

‘And this was not satisfactory?’

‘I was very fond of Ida; however, the desire to maintain social intercourse was greater on her part. How did you find out about us?’

Ignoring the mayor’s question, Rheinhardt asked solicitously, ‘Why did the relationship come to an end?’

Lueger drew on his cigarette and allowed a ribbon of smoke to escape from the side of his mouth.

‘I do not see how such information is relevant to your investigation, Inspector.’

Liebermann shifted position to attract the mayor’s attention. ‘With the greatest respect, Mayor Lueger, in my capacity as medical consultant I must beg to differ. It is vital that we determine Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s state of mind in the days preceding her death.’

The mayor’s wayward eye found an object of interest some distance above Liebermann’s head.

‘The liaison ended in March. It is now September.’ The tone of Lueger’s voice had become brittle.

‘In matters of the heart,’ Liebermann continued, smiling wistfully, ‘the passage of time is no guarantee of recovery.’

The mayor drew on his cigarette, a deep inhalation that expanded his chest. He released the smoke slowly, then shrugged. ‘The relationship ended because we were … incompatible. She was an artist and, although I enjoy the company of artists, Ida could be very demanding. She wanted us to spend more time in each other’s company, more time than I could possibly devote to what was, after all, only a …’ the mayor’s unsteady eye invested his final choice of word with careless disregard ‘… dalliance.’

‘Did you quarrel?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘Towards the end, all too frequently, I’m afraid. She was remarkably insecure for a creature of such great beauty and talent. I was deeply saddened to learn that she had taken her own life, but I was not, if I am honest, wholly surprised.’

‘The precise nature of her death,’ said Rheinhardt, constructing a sentence of cunning ambiguity, ‘is, as yet, undetermined.’

‘Her death could have been accidental,’ continued the mayor, ‘but I believe suicide much more likely. She was fragile and prone to illnesses. I was forced to conclude that some of these problems might have originated in her mind.’

‘Oh?’ said Liebermann, tilting his head.

‘She used to complain about food getting stuck in her throat. But there was never anything there. She used to imagine it.’

‘When was the last time you saw Fräulein Rosenkrantz?’ asked Rheinhardt.

Lueger nodded and said, ‘She wanted me to marry her. She wanted to be the first lady of Vienna. But Vienna is the only bride I shall ever have.’

He glanced at a picture standing on his desk. It was placed at an oblique angle and Liebermann was able to see the image: an old woman with white hair.

‘Mayor Lueger?’ Rheinhardt persisted. ‘The last time you saw Fräulein Rosenkrantz? Can you recall when it was?’

The mayor stubbed out his cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray until none of the flakes of tobacco were glowing. His expression was neutral, jaw set, lips pursed, but there was something playing about his eyes which suggested calculation.

‘I can’t remember, exactly.’

‘A general indication would serve our purpose. Was the occasion recent?’

‘No,’ said Lueger, raising his chin up, defiantly. ‘It must have been sometime in July.’

‘Where did you meet?’

‘A private dining room close to the Josefstadt theatre.’

‘What was her mood like?’ asked Liebermann.

‘She wasn’t very happy. Throughout the meal she complained about life at the opera house. Although that wasn’t so unusual, I’d heard much of it before: how Director Mahler drilled the orchestra like a duty-sergeant and the singers were perpetually plotting against each other.’

‘Did she mention any of the singers by name?’ said Rheinhardt.

‘On that occasion? Yes. Amsel. She claimed that Arianne Amsel had claqueurs in the audience who tried to put her off. It might have been true. It was difficult to determine whether the conspiracies Ida spoke of were real or imagined. Like the lump in her throat.’ There was a knock on the door and the mayor called out, ‘Enter.’

A ‘courtier’ opened one of the double doors and, poking his head through the gap, said, ‘Mayor Lueger, Herr Steiner has arrived. He wishes to see you with respect to a matter of utmost urgency.’

‘Tell him to wait. I won’t be very much longer.’ The ‘courtier’ bowed and stepped backwards into the antechamber, closing the door. Looking at Rheinhardt and Liebermann, Lueger said, ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. I’m afraid I must bring this interview to a close.’

‘If I could ask just one more question?’ said Rheinhardt.

‘Very well, but my answer will have to be short.’

‘We have learned …’ Rheinhardt faltered. ‘Forgive me, but the matter I must raise is rather delicate. It seems improper to broach such a sensitive subject in so perfunctory a fashion.’

‘Please, Inspector,’ said the mayor, impatiently shaking his watch chain.

‘We have learned,’ Rheinhardt began again, ‘that Fräulein Rosenkrantz became pregnant, in the first quarter of this year.’

‘What?’

‘The pregnancy was terminated.’

Lueger waved his hand in the air, attempted to speak, but failed to produce anything approximating language. Taking a deep breath, he recovered his composure and said, ‘Terminated? When?’