Mortal Mischief (45 page)

'Yes. I never get bored of it.'

'Many people – especially young women – find it frightening.'

'I don't. I find it—' Suddenly, Clara stopped speaking.

'What?'

'I find it . . .' Her brow furrowed with concentration. 'Dreamy.'

'Dreamy? In what sense?'

'It's such an unusual experience. You know, like when you find yourself flying in a dream. Do you ever dream of flying, Max?'

'I think everybody does.'

'And what's it supposed to mean – when you fly in a dream?'

'It doesn't mean anything – specifically. Its meaning will depend on the person's character and circumstances. However, such dreams probably derive from very early memories. Professor Freud says that there cannot be a single uncle who hasn't shown a child how to fly . . .'

'That's interesting.'

'What is?'

'I think Aunt Trudi used to do that with me. She used to pick me up and rush around the room. I used to scream with laughter.'

'Well, there you have it. Perhaps, when you ride on the Riesenrad, you are unconsciously recreating the happy experiences of childhood. Perhaps that is why the Riesenrad doesn't frighten you.'

Clara paused for a moment and then said, with naive wistfulness, 'She's fun – Aunt Trudi – and so generous. She bought me some perfume and two boxes of sugar candy.'

Before Clara could continue, Liebermann interrupted.

'That reminds me. I have something for you too.'

Clara broke away and faced him, her cheeks red with excitement.

'A gift?'

'Yes.'

'Where is it?'

She pressed her hands against Liebermann's coat.

'Not in there . . .'

'Show me!'

'Just wait a minute.'

Liebermann winkled the ring from the fob-pocket of his waistcoat and held it up for her to see. Clara looked at it for a moment, somewhat bemused.

'Give me your hand,' said Liebermann softly.

Clara, suddenly silenced, offered him a slim white finger.

Liebermann slid the ring over her knuckle and kissed her forehead.

She stretched out her arm and rocked her hand from side to side. The movement was gauche but endearing. The diamonds flashed and glinted around the sapphire heart-stone, making Clara laugh with innocent pleasure.

'It fits perfectly,' she gasped.

And it did.

Clara threw her arms around Liebermann's waist and pressed her face into his chest. His arms closed around her and he gazed across the gardens, beyond the brooding, melancholy sphinxes and out over the city towards the distant blue hills.

73

A
SCABROUS CHIN
, bloodshot eyes, and a necktie hanging from his trouser pocket all suggested that Heinrich Hölderlin had spent an uncomfortable and sleepless night in his cell. The banker's former gravitas had deserted him. He no longer appeared dignified and well groomed but shabby and irresolute. Even though Rheinhardt accepted that this pathetic figure just might be a ruthless and brutal murderer, his miserable countenance evoked only pity.

At Liebermann's request, Hölderlin had been removed from his cell and escorted to a room with a divan. This was not to von Bulow's liking but the Commissioner had overruled his objections. Hölderlin was now supine, staring at the ceiling with hollow, frantic eyes.

Liebermann had assumed his usual position, seated at the head of the divan just beyond Hölderlin's view.

'I swear to you,' said Hölderlin, 'I met with her once – and once only. I was a fool, I admit it, a stupid fool. She made an appointment at the bank – declared that she would soon be receiving a large inheritance and asked if I would be willing to give her some financial advice. She was a cunning little minx, believe me. She said things calculated to flatter my vanity. Things about my office, my position and—'

'Yes?'

'My appearance.' Hölderlin sighed. 'As if a young woman like her . . . it's ridiculous, I know. What an idiot! Yet at the time I didn't so much as pause to question her motives. When she suggested that we should meet for lunch on the Prater the following day I agreed. You must understand this was most irregular. Exceptional, in fact. I'm not like
that
at all. I have never had such an assignation before. But Fräulein Löwenstein . . .' He shook his head. 'When she offered me her hand, I was powerless to resist . . . I felt . . . I felt bewitched.'

He glanced at Rheinhardt.

'The other Inspector, von Bulow, he's wrong, I tell you. We weren't lovers. The babies she was carrying – they weren't mine! And before yesterday, I'd never seen those dreadful photographs. She hadn't threatened me with blackmail – I don't know what she was up to.'

'Did you see Fräulein Löwenstein again, after that meeting on the Prater?'

'No, it was the last time I saw her. Within the week she was dead.'

The banker suddenly fell silent, but his breathing was loud and wheezy.

'And anyway,' he began again. 'Even if she had threatened me – I wouldn't have killed her, for God's sake. I'm not insane.'

Liebermann crossed his legs and sat back in his chair.

'Why did you interrupt Madame de Rougemont, Herr Hölderlin?'

'Isn't it obvious?'

Liebermann remained silent.

'I didn't believe I was going to be accused of murder – if that's what you're thinking. However, I did believe it possible that Madame de Rougemont might receive a flirtatious or affectionate communication from Fräulein Löwenstein. Something that might arouse my wife's suspicion. That de Rougemont woman was uncanny . . .'

'But your relationship with the Fräulein had not become very intimate?'

'No, Herr Doctor, it hadn't. But if your conscience is ordinarily clear, then even a relatively minor transgression acquires considerable significance. Please, Herr Doctor, I beg of you, make sure that my wife hears nothing about this. She is a good woman and it would break her heart. She is beside herself already.'

Liebermann pressed a crease from his trousers and made a steeple with his fingers.

'Herr Hölderlin, how did you sleep last night?'

'Not very well – as you can imagine.'

'And did you dream?'

Hölderlin paused for a moment.

'Yes . . .' he said, slowly and uncertainly.

'What did you dream?'

Hölderlin looked towards Rheinhardt quizzically. The Inspector responded with a polite, muted smile but he stopped smiling when he noticed Liebermann frowning and shaking his head.

'Herr Hölderlin?' asked Liebermann, raising his voice slightly.

The banker rolled his head back and said: 'You want to know what I dreamt? Last night?'

'Yes.'

'I don't know – some nonsense about my mother.'

'Go on . . .'

Hölderlin sighed, too exhausted to quibble.

'I was in a nursery – on a rocking horse.'

'Were you a child in this dream?'

'Yes, I suppose I must have been.'

'Was the nursery real? Did you recognise it?'

'Yes, it was in the house where I grew up: a big house in Penzing. I was on my rocking horse – pretending to race – and I noticed a box on the floor.'

'What kind of box?'

'It belonged to my mother.'

'A jewellery box?'

'Yes. Ivory – with mother-of-pearl inlay. I remember that when it was opened it played a tune.
Für Elise
– or something like it.'

'What happened next?'

'I got off the horse, picked up the box and tried to open it. But the lid was stuck. Then my mother appeared and – and reprimanded me – scolded me. Are you sure you want to hear all this rubbish, Herr

Doctor?'

'Very sure.'

'Even though the box was in my hands, I protested. Which seems absurd now – but in the dream it seemed to make sense, seemed reasonable. Then I woke up.'

Liebermann paused for a moment. Then, turning to Rheinhardt, he said: 'That will be all, Inspector.' Gently touching Hölderlin's shoulder, he added: 'Thank you, Herr Hölderlin.'

The banker sat up.

'We're finished?'

'Yes.'

Hölderlin got off the divan and took a few uncertain steps into the middle of the room. He looked feeble and confused. The necktie fell out of his pocket and Liebermann picked it up for him.

'Thank you,' Hölderlin whispered, looping the tie loosely around his neck.

Rheinhardt opened the door and ushered him into the corridor, where two constables were waiting for him.

'Well?' said Rheinhardt. 'What do you think?'

'He's telling the truth.'

Rheinhardt returned to his chair and Liebermann lay down on the divan. 'How do you know that?' 'His fluency. The absence of significant hesitations. He made no slips or errors. And the dream – the dream was extremely interesting.'

'Was it?'

'Oh yes – it was entirely consistent with his story, and the unconscious never lies.'

'Perhaps you could explain?'

'With pleasure, Oskar. In order to preserve sleep, the mind must work certain transformations on the content of dreams, particularly if the dream is likely to promote anxiety. Otherwise that anxiety would constantly wake us up, which would not be very good for our general health. Thus the dream that we remember is an adulterated version of an original. Think of it as a coded message, a language of symbols in which relatively innocuous images replace those of a more challenging or disturbing nature. Herr Hölderlin found himself in a nursery – which suggests a wish to return to the world of childhood. A simple world, free from sexual intrigue. Most dreams conceal a wish of sorts . . .' As Liebermann spoke, he addressed the ceiling, punctuating his explanation with expressive hand gestures. 'But his assignation with Fräulein Löwenstein is still very much on his mind and his mental defences could not keep her out of the idyllic world of the nursery in Penzing.'

'Max, he didn't mention her once!'

'No, but she is still the principal subject of the dream. Take the rocking horse, for example . . .'

'What about it?'

'Are not horses a symbol of potency? Stallions and suchlike?' Liebermann's clenched fists closed around the imaginary reins of an equally imaginary galloping steed.

'They are, but—'

'And where do horses race in Vienna?'

'The Prater.'

'Which was where—?'

'He had his assignation.'

'Very good, Oskar.' Liebermann let his hands drop. 'And at that time, he would no doubt have been excited by the prospect of enjoying Fräulein Löwenstein's sexual favours. I hope that I don't need to spell out the obvious associations between Herr Hölderlin's expectations, connections with riding, and the motion of a nursery horse.'

Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows.

'He observed,' Liebermann continued, 'a jewellery box on the floor.'

'Which belonged to his mother.'

'One step at a time, Oskar. Can you think of what a jewellery box might represent?'

'I know that the term is sometimes used by uncouth individuals to mean . . .'

'Indeed. There is no need to be coy, Oskar. It is a common term, a slang word for the female reproductive organ. Now, in the dream Hölderlin is discovered attempting to gain entry into the box, which is more or less what actually transpired. He was discovered during an assignation. However, the dream tells us that his sexual exploits were frustrated. He didn't get very far. He may have propositioned Fräulein Löwenstein – in fact, he probably did – but she refused him. Thus, in the dream, the lid remains closed.'

Liebermann glanced at his friend. Observing an expression closer to horror than surprise, he added: 'Oskar, if you think this a little farfetched, you might want to take another look at those photographs. The box was ivory, with mother-of-pearl inlay. Fräulein Löwenstein was wearing a white dress and a double string of pearls. I am absolutely convinced that Hölderlin is telling the truth about his relationship with Fräulein Löwenstein. He did not make her pregnant – they were not lovers.'

Liebermann's tone was positive.

Rheinhardt grunted his assent, and the young doctor continued his analysis.

'Herr Hölderlin described himself protesting, even though he had been discovered with the box in his hands. I think it safe to assume, given his mother's reprimand, that he was doing something that was supposed to be wrong. At first sight, this seems to make little sense. How could he justify himself when he had been discovered – and I use these words knowingly –
in flagrante delicto
? But in dreams, meanings are conflated. He was not protesting about the assignation. His protest concerned the more significant accusation of murder. That is why the inconsistency of his position aroused no emotional conflict. His denial was experienced in the dream as acceptable. Which would suggest that, with respect to the allegation of murder at least, he is indeed innocent.'