Vienna Secrets (30 page)

I have to hold on
.

Priel clawed at Liebermann’s face. His nails found flesh, and Liebermann felt searing pain as his cheek was stripped of skin. The professor’s fingers, crooked into bony talons, then sought out Liebermann’s eyes. The young doctor jerked back and pulled harder. It was an extraordinary effort, and it made Priel repeat his original bid for survival. Once again, the professor tried to get his fingers beneath the rope, tried to pry it away from his throat—and once again he did not succeed. Desperate, Professor Priel pushed the heel of his palm against Liebermann’s chin and landed an ineffectual blow on Liebermann’s thigh.

The young doctor held fast.

More punches. A weak kick…

As before, Liebermann experienced a curious illusion of suspended time, accompanied by the heightened perception of detail. He became acutely aware of Priel’s eyes. The fear had gone, and in its place something much more difficult to define had appeared: an eloquent sorrow—disappointment? It might even have been pity. The professor’s eyelids descended, and the flow of time resumed. His body went limp.

Suspecting a ruse, Liebermann did not let go of the rope. But Priel’s final tacit communication had been peculiarly poignant, and Liebermann let the cord become slack. Immediately, Professor Priel began to cough. He rolled over onto his back, groaning and gasping for air.

Liebermann untied his feet and crawled to the workbench. He picked up the bottle of chloroform and knelt next to the professor. He checked the man’s pulse and waited for his breathing to become regular. Then he soaked the sponge and pressed it against Priel’s face. Liebermann stayed in that position, occasionally pouring more chloroform onto the sponge, until he was satisfied that the professor was unconscious. Then he stood up, righted the chair, and sat down. The fumes had made him feel light-headed, and he reached out to touch the workbench. The solidity of the wood made him feel a little better.

In due course he rose again and crossed to the barrel organ. He opened the doors and examined the interior. No bellows, no pipes—but two leather-covered discs and an array of cogwheels, pulleys, and chains. The discs were parallel and set apart but could be brought closer together, like the plates of a vise. Liebermann turned the crank handle, and the discs began to rotate. In his mind, he could hear Schubert’s mesmeric semiquavers, the ghost of Rheinhardt’s mellifluous baritone entering at the end of the second bar:

My peace is gone,
My heart is heavy;
I shall never
Ever find peace again.

The door was locked, and Liebermann had to search through the unconscious professor’s pockets for the key. He found it among a bunch of other keys linked together on a ring. The door opened into a dingy lightless corridor that led to a steep stone staircase. At the top of the stairs was another door. This too was locked. He found the correct key, pushed the second door open, and sniffed the night air. It was fresh and cold. He emerged into an alleyway in which a horse and carriage were waiting. Turning around, he locked the door, tested it, and walked toward the tethered animal.

“God bless you, Professor Klammer,” he said. “God bless you!”

78

S
OMEWHERE IN THE
S
CHOTTENRING
station a clock struck five.

Rheinhardt was seated behind his desk, writing the concluding sentences of Liebermann’s statement. When he had finished, he sat back in his chair, yawned, and offered Liebermann a cigar. Then he poured two glasses of slivovitz.

“The thing that I don’t understand,” said Rheinhardt, “is this: How is it that you managed to escape those bindings? You said…” Rheinhardt consulted the statement. “‘I discovered that the bindings were loosely tied and managed to free my hands.’ But that strikes me as rather peculiar, that a man of Professor Priel’s intelligence, a thorough man, should make such a fundamental error.”

Liebermann sighed. “Well, I don’t suppose it was quite as simple as that, but I think that my statement is perfectly adequate for administrative purposes.”

“That may be so,” said Rheinhardt. “However, you have now succeeded in arousing my curiosity, and if there
is
an explanation, I would be most interested to hear it.”

Liebermann exhaled a cloud of smoke and sampled the slivovitz. “Do you still get this brandy from the Croatian scissors grinder?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“We have an arrangement. He gives me information and I buy his slivovitz. It’s actually from his brother’s market stall.”

“I see.”

Rheinhardt assumed an expression of patient suffering. The pouches of discoloration under his eyes were more marked than usual. He looked a little like a bloodhound.

“The explanation, Max?”

Liebermann took another slug of the slivovitz. “I must begin with Professor Freud.”

“Freud? What has he got to do with it?”

“Overdetermination.”

“What?”

“I’m sure I must have mentioned the concept before.”

“I’m sure you have. Even so, would you care to refresh my memory?”

Liebermann tapped the ash from his cigar.

“A symptom is said to be
overdetermined
if it has more than one cause. The ease with which I was able to escape Professor Priel’s bindings can be explained by the happy coincidence of three contributory factors—two of them physical, and a third that was psychodynamic. First, the muslin that Professor Priel had placed between the rope and my wrists—to stop my skin from chafing—allowed me to move my hands. It was a limited degree of movement, but considerably more than would have been possible otherwise. The second contributory factor, or cause, comes in the shape of Professor Willibald Klammer, a hand surgeon who currently resides in Munich.”

“Max, you are being purposely obtuse—almost provocative.”

Liebermann shrugged and continued. “Professor Klammer is the author of
The Klammer Method
, a system of piano exercises devised to enhance strength and flexibility: finger stretches, wrist rotations, and the like.” Liebermann demonstrated. “I am a recent convert, and my Chopin Studies are much improved as a consequence. You should hear my Number Twelve now. The position changes in the left hand are seamless.” He reached forward and played a few bars on the inspector’s desk. “It would seem that the physical advantages conferred by The Klammer Method are not merely beneficial to students of the keyboard. They are, I have discovered, of equal benefit to would-be escapologists.”

“And the third contributory factor?”

“Professor Priel’s conscience, or at least that part of his conscience that operates below the threshold of awareness. Although he had identified me as a potential threat to his ambitious plans, he did not count me among the true enemies of Jewry. In truth, he did not want to kill me. Indeed, in order to perform the
unconscionable
act of my murder, he had to repress strong feelings of guilt. Professor Freud has proved that repressed material is rarely dormant. It always continues to exert a subtle influence on behavior, finding expression in slips of the tongue and trifling errors. I believe that Professor Priel did not tie the knots as hard as he might have on account of his unconscious guilt.”

Rheinhardt smiled. “Well, Max. That is the most orotund explanation I have ever heard in my life.” Rheinhardt opened his drawer and produced a paper bag full of
wiener vanillekipferl
biscuits. “Would you like one of these?”

“No, thank you.”

“They’re from Demel!”

The inspector looked at Liebermann as if his refusal to accept a biscuit from the imperial and royal confectioners were a sign of madness. He picked out one of the yellow crescents and was about to bite into it when he suddenly stopped.

“What’s troubling you?” asked Liebermann.

“The kabbalist’s lair,” Rheinhardt replied. “How did Professor Priel manage to get all those things up into the attic room of the Alois Gasse Temple without being seen? We haven’t really found an answer—which will be a significant omission in my final report.”

“He bribed Rabbi Seligman’s caretaker.”

“How do you know that?”

“I asked Professor Priel and he told me.”

Rheinhardt looked impressed. “And do you think this man, the caretaker, was in any way party to the murders?”

“No. His only involvement was with respect to creating the illusion of the kabbalist’s workplace. Well, at least that is what I concluded from the way in which Priel spoke of their relationship.”

Rheinhardt bit into his biscuit, and a shower of crumbs rained down on Liebermann’s statement.

There was a knock on the door, and Rheinhardt called out, “Enter.” Haussmann appeared with Professor Priel’s barrel organ hanging from his shoulders.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir. But what should I do with this?”

Liebermann stood up, crossed to Haussmann, and inspected the painted exterior of the instrument.

“Ingenious.” Liebermann opened the doors to reveal the leather-covered discs he had observed earlier and, winding the crank handle, watched them turn for the second time. In motion, the mechanism produced a sound reminiscent of a giant cicada.

“These upholstered plates are adjustable and close against the sides of the victim’s face. A complex system of cogs and pulleys creates mechanical advantage, the factor by which a machine amplifies the force put into it. By means of a simple principle of engineering, Professor Priel became endowed with the strength of a golem.” The young doctor pushed back a slat of wood on the upper surface of the box, creating a semicircular indentation. “This aperture is for the neck. After Professor Priel had concussed his victims, he rested the barrel organ on the ground, doors open, so that the head he intended to remove was covered. During decapitation, jets of blood issued from the major vessels, jets that would possibly have reached the professor had they not been contained within the barrel organ’s casing. Once his monstrous work was done, Priel was at liberty to return to his carriage in the person of a poor itinerant organ-grinder, a
type
with whom we are all so familiar in Vienna. His presence would have aroused little suspicion, even in the early hours of the morning.”

Liebermann reached into the barrel organ and wiped his finger across one of the wheels. He then raised his hand to display a red-black residue.

“Do you think he made this device himself?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Very probably. The means by which mechanical advantage can be achieved must be detailed in even the most rudimentary textbooks of engineering.”

“Put it over there,” said Rheinhardt to his assistant, indicating the far corner of the room. “And then I’m afraid I must ask you to go to Leopoldstadt.”

“Why, sir?” asked Haussmann.

“To arrest Rabbi Seligman’s caretaker.” Rheinhardt turned to address Liebermann. “I will have to speak to Commissioner Brügel about the management of Professor Priel’s trial. His intention to radicalize the Jews of Vienna must never be reported. I am thankful that Priel chose Sachs as his last victim. At least this will make it easier for us to ascribe his behavior to lunacy, and disguise his political objectives.” Rheinhardt swallowed and added, “Although, of course, that may not be
so
far from the truth. His plan was absurd, wasn’t it? Are stories and symbols so very potent? Could they really be used to unite and mobilize a whole people?”

“The Pan-Germans make much of their folklore…”

“Yes, but
really
, Max.” Rheinhardt pushed the remains of his biscuit between his lips. While chewing he added, “Priel
must
be unbalanced—surely?”

Liebermann walked to the window. The sky was beginning to lighten. He caught his reflection in the glass and touched the scabs on his cheek.

“Look at me!” he exclaimed. “I’ve got to go before the hospital committee in a few days. I look as though I’ve been brawling in a beer cellar!”

79

H
ERR
P
OPPMEIER WAS SUPINE
, looking up at the ceiling with a vacant expression on his face.

“You will recall that we were discussing your wife’s second pregnancy.” Liebermann spoke softly. “You said that you had traveled to Steyr on a work assignment, and it was while you were there that you received the telegram containing news of the stillbirth. But I could not help noticing, Herr Poppmeier, a small speech error that you made. When I asked you where you were when the telegram arrived, you started to say Linz, but you corrected yourself and said Steyr instead. This is very strange, because people tend to remember exactly where they were at the time when they first received momentous news. I am sure, for example, that you could tell me where you were when the empress Elisabeth was assassinated. Think, Herr Poppmeier. Think very carefully. Were you really in Steyr?”

“You know,” Herr Poppmeier replied, “now that you mention it, my memories of that trip are a little vague. I’ve always put it down to shock. The news was so unexpected. Even so, I’m reasonably confident that I was in Steyr.”

“No, Herr Poppmeier. You were not in Steyr. Your wife informs me that you were staying in Linz.”

“Well, there you are,” said Poppmeier. “My mind is playing tricks on me.”

“And the question is, why should it be playing tricks on you? I would suggest that your memory has been distorted by a powerful wish. At the time when you received the telegram, you wished that you were not in Linz. You wished that you were in Steyr, and that is still the case.”

“Why should I have wanted to be in Steyr? I had no friends there to comfort me, no special affection for the place.”

“Then let me express the wish differently. It wasn’t that you wanted to be in Steyr. Rather, you wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else other than Linz. You chose Steyr simply because it was one of your usual destinations.”

“Herr Doctor, this isn’t helping me very much.” Poppmeier scratched his head, and some flakes of dandruff fell onto the pillow. “This is all very confusing.”

“Then let us consider again your recurring dream, which will—I believe—clarify matters. The action of the dream takes place in a hotel that you likened to the Kaiser in Steyr. Once again, note the desire to be away from Linz. You appear in the dream as a priest, which reveals the presence of another wish, a wish that you had been celibate.”

“Ah yes,” said Poppmeier. “I see what you mean. The dream is an expression of regret. If I had been celibate, if I hadn’t made my wife pregnant in the first place, then the terrible confinement—and the baby’s death—might have been avoided.”

Liebermann tapped his pen on the chair arm.

“I favor another interpretation. After receiving news of your wife’s fateful confinement, you wished you had been celibate…”—Liebermann hesitated before adding—“not back in Vienna, but in Linz.”

Poppmeier rocked his head from side to side. “I’m not really following this. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“In your dream,” Liebermann persisted, “you were asked by a pretty nurse to give a dying child the last rites, and you refused. The dying child is, of course, your own stillborn child, and your refusal to administer the last rites represents the understandable difficulty you experienced in accepting what had transpired. Denial. A very common response when—”

“Yes, yes,” Poppmeier interrupted. “But what you said before. What did you mean, exactly? That I’d wished I’d been celibate in Linz?”

“You wished that you had not been conducting an assignation, Herr Poppmeier.” The jewelry salesman gasped. “I suspect,” Liebermann continued, “that the pretty nurse in the dream was your lover. When you read the telegram, you were horrified—not only by the news it contained but by your own iniquity, the extent of your betrayal. While you and your lover had been enjoying illicit pleasures, your wife had been suffering the agonies of a protracted labor, and had almost died attempting to bring your heir into the world. Subsequently, the memory of your dalliance in Linz was repressed. However, nothing in the unconscious is forgotten. The truth always asserts itself, if only when the censorship of the conscious mind is relaxed during sleep.”

Liebermann leaned back in his chair and observed the effect of his pronouncements on his patient. Poppmeier’s eyes were now glassy and unfocused.

“One must suppose,” Liebermann added, “that your guilt was amplified by some residue of childhood. Your promised siblings did not arrive, and you may have concluded at that tender age that their advent was being prevented magically by your own desire to retain the exclusive attention of your mother. It is possible that a trace of this magical thinking still survives. Thus, somewhere in the depths of your mind you harbor a belief that your assignation exercised a malign influence on your wife’s confinement.”

Liebermann wondered what Herr Poppmeier was thinking, whether repressed memories of Linz were now rising up and breaking into awareness.

“You wanted to make amends. You wanted to atone. And for you, that atonement has taken the form of symptoms. They are a compensation for your prior neglect. They are a means of sharing the burden of your wife’s current pregnancy. In effect, they are an apology and a reaffirmation of your love.”

“Dear God,” said Poppmeier hoarsely. “The train journey, the hotel bedroom… the woman. I had given her a ring from the Prestige range as an enticement. A heart-shaped ring—dear God—with an opal set in a decoration of perpendicular bars.” Poppmeier’s eyes closed tightly. His expression became anguished, and his lower lip trembled like a child’s. Tears trickled down his cheeks. “What am I to do, Herr Doctor?” he groaned. “Must I tell Arabelle? Confess?”

Liebermann sighed. “That is for you to decide. Our work is done now. I would be very surprised if your symptoms persist.”

The young doctor stood up, squeezed the jewelry salesman’s shoulder, and quietly left the room.