Earlier that evening the warm, dry fohn wind had descended from the mountains, melting all the snow and ice in a matter of hours. The air was filled with the sound of trickling and dripping as rivulets of running water sought out drains. This freakish meteorological phenomenon could raise the temperature by more than twenty degrees Reaumur.
Liebermann opened his coat and loosened his necktie. “It's associated with insanity, you know.”
“What? The fohn?” Rheinhardt responded.
“Yes. Ask any hospital psychiatrist. The patients get restless and there are always more admissions.”
“How does it have its effect?”
“We have absolutely no idea.” The young doctor sighed. “It's not a good omen.”
“I thought you didn't believe in omens.”
“Salieri is disturbed enough as it is-without the fohn making his mental state worse. Did you bring your revolver?”
“Of course,” said Rheinhardt.
They were concealed in a deep doorway. Rheinhardt leaned out and looked up at a row of blank, black windows.
“Still nothing… He's not in.” Rheinhardt puffed out his cheeks. “You do realize, Max, that if you're wrong about this-and if we get caught-then I will be severely reprimanded by Commissioner Brugel.” The young doctor gazed out across the damp cobbles. “And to be frank,” Rheinhardt continued, “you haven't been very forthcoming about your method of deduction.”
“I will provide you with a full explanation in due course.”
Rheinhardt twisted the points of his mustache. “He isn't a librarian.”
“I know.”
“You and Miss Lydgate can't both be right.”
Liebermann shrugged.
The inspector tutted but did not press his friend. He was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, being familiar with the young doctor's habit of appearing at his most enigmatic when his deductions were correct. Be that as it may, Rheinhardt reflected, his mannerisms can be most irritating.
“It may be possible to enter and leave the property without damaging anything,” said Rheinhardt. “In which case, no one need ever know we've been there. On the other hand, if we discover anything incriminating, I shall have to wait here in order to make an arrest. You must not feel obliged to stay. Indeed, it would be better, perhaps, if you went to get help.”
“And leave you to face the monster alone? That is out of the question.”
Rheinhardt smiled. “You wait here. Call out if you see him coming.” He then crossed the street and began inspecting a plain wooden door. Liebermann could see that his friend was busying himself with the lock, which rather surprised him. To his knowledge, the inspector had no special understanding of lock mechanisms. But after a few minutes Rheinhardt beckoned, scooping the air in wide arcs with his hand. Liebermann crept out from his hiding place and hurried across. As he arrived, Rheinhardt turned the door handle and pushed it open.
“How did you do that?” asked Liebermann, thoroughly impressed.
Rheinhardt held up a bunch of curious-looking rods with spindly protrusions.
“Skeleton keys,” said Rheinhardt. “They don't always work-but this time we were lucky.”
He produced an object that Liebermann had never seen before: a short cylinder, not unlike a telescope, encircled by several silver hoops.
“What on earth is that?”
“A flashlight.”
“A what?”
“It's from America. Watch. I slide this bridge switch…” Rheinhardt pushed a raised metal bar forward with his thumb and a pulse of light illuminated the hallway. It lasted for a few moments before fading.
“Remarkable,” exclaimed Liebermann. “A portable electric lightbulb!”
“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. “It'll revolutionize police work: the incendiary risk associated with conducting nighttime investigations is now a thing of the past!”
They closed the door behind them and ascended steep stairs that led to a small landing. To one side was a small, sparsely furnished room containing a camp bed, stove, wardrobe, and bookcase.
“In here,” said Rheinhardt.
They entered the room and began a systematic search, starting with the wardrobe. It contained nothing exceptional and smelled strongly of mothballs. Under the bed they found a half-full chamber pot. The bookcase was filled with predictable titles: Carnuntum, Deutsch-mythologische Landschaftsbilder, Der Unbesiegbare, Pipara, and other volumes by Guido List. There were also works by the Englishman, Houston Stewart Chamberlain: a biography of Richard Wagner and his famous history, Die Grundlagen des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts.
Their investigation was slow, its pace dependent on the brief periodic illumination of the flashlight. After a time, though, both men fell into the rhythm dictated by the device's limitations. It became almost hypnotic.
Flash-fade-darkness. Flash-fade-darkness.
Move-stop, move-stop.
Liebermann glanced anxiously through the open door. “Come on,” he said. “There's nothing in here. We must hurry.”
“Well, there's not much in there, either,” Rheinhardt answered, directing a burst of luminescence across the landing.
“Oh, there will be-I can assure you.”
Rheinhardt recognized a new note of confidence in Liebermann's voice.
“You've seen something, haven't you?”
“Later, Oskar,” Liebermann hissed.
Rheinhardt silently endured another wave of irritation.
The two men cautiously entered the studio.
It was much the same as Rheinhardt remembered: a battered chest, a small table, wooden frames, and a full-length mirror against the wall. The only significant difference was the absence of paintings.
Liebermann walked ahead, his shoes making a hollow noise against the floorboards. The sound suddenly changed as something began to crunch underfoot.
“Oskar…”
Rheinhardt lowered the flashlight to reveal a mass of glittering fragments. Liebermann crouched down. Reaching out, he touched one of the bright points of light.
“Glass.”
As Liebermann stood up, he accidentally kicked something hard. It rolled across the floor, making a curiously loud rumble, which for a brief moment rose to a higher pitch.
Flash-fade-darkness. Flash-fade-darkness.
The sound had been made by an empty bottle that had come to rest against one of the legs of an easel. Liebermann picked it up and read the label. “Vodka,” he muttered. His attention was then drawn to what was left of the painting. Red strips of canvas hung in tatters from the frame.
“It's been cut to pieces,” he whispered.
“Why would he do that?”
“Because of his reviews. Did you read any of them?”
“Yes, a few. They were all terrible. Rather unfair, I thought-he's not that bad.”
“He got drunk to deaden his pain, threw a glass against the wall in a rage, and then, overcome with despair, destroyed his latest work. I wonder what it was.”
Rheinhardt opened the battered chest and directed the flashlight's beam inside.
Flash-fade-darkness. Flash-fade-darkness.
Some dirty smocks, a plaster-cast torso, and a few exhibition posters.
“Well, we won't get a conviction on the basis of what's in here.”
Rheinhardt lowered the lid of the chest and stopped working the bar of his flashlight. The room dissolved into dark nothingness. Outside, the gentle music of trickling water could still be heard-and in the distance the clop of hooves and the jangling of a carriage horse's harness.
The inspector sighed. “You were certain that we would find evidence.” The young doctor was silent. “Well,” Rheinhardt continued, at last unable to disguise his irritation, “where is it?”
“Did you notice the sound that the bottle made as it rolled across the floor?” The change in pitch?”