He had not been dressed in his sombre work clothes. Instead, he had been wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, pale flannel trousers, and a red-striped jacket. A pair of binoculars hung from his neck and in his hand he carried a stylish ebony cane. He hardly recognized himself. And more peculiar still, his companion was not Archduchess Marie-Valerie but Frau Friedmann-a typist who occupied one of the three desks in his small office.
He closed his eyes and tried to recover the dream world.
The horses assembled at the gate-nostrils flaring, flanks glossy and shimmering in the sunshine.
Which is yours?
The black-brown stallion.
Their arms were linked and Frau Friedmann's body was pressed against his. As he remembered the sensation, he felt an unfamiliar stirring in his loins.
The red flag lowered and the stallion broke away, taking the lead at once. It surged forward-ten, fifteen, twenty lengths.
If Apollo wins, I'll take you out to dinner at Leidinger's. And afterward, we'll get orchestra seats at the Weidner Theater. Front row.
Herr Beiber opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
Frau Friedmann.
He had hardly noticed her at work. She was simply part of the office furniture. But now that he thought about her, it occurred to him that she was a pleasant enough woman. A plump red-cheeked widow, who had a sweet, kindly smile. And-yes-he could recall that she had once complimented him on his choice of neckties.
Because of her ample figure, Frau Friedmann's dresses were always rather tight. When she sat, the stretched material revealed little ridges of folded flesh.
Again, the unfamiliar stirring.
He would be seeing Doctor Liebermann later that morning. He would tell him all about the dream. It was the sort of thing that the young doctor would be interested in.
Herr Beiber sat up.
He felt strangely altered. In fact, he was feeling rather well. Perhaps all this talking to Doctor Liebermann was doing him some good after all.
Frau Friedmann.
“Now, why didn't I notice her before?” he whispered into the crisp bedsheets.
79
On Herr Losch's desk was a small ornament made of silver and gold: compasses, opened over the arc of a circle inscribed with strange letters. It was the only item in the room that suggested the significance of their whereabouts. As for Herr Losch himself, he reminded Rheinhardt of nothing more subversive than a bank manager or tutor. It was difficult to believe that he was the most senior Freemason in Vienna: Venerable Losch-Grand Master of Humanitas.
“I am most grateful for your consideration, Inspector,” said Losch, “and I can assure you that I will take the utmost care.”
The cadence suggested that the audience had come to an end.
Rheinhardt wondered whether his explanation had been adequate.
“He is an extremely dangerous man,” said Rheinhardt. “And quite mad.”
“Indeed,” said Herr Losch, stroking his white Vandyke beard. His gaze flicked away to register the time on the table clock.
“I would be happy,” Rheinhardt persisted, “to provide you with police protection on the twelfth.”
Herr Losch smiled and said, “Thank you. But that won't be necessary.”
The smile faded and the pulse on his temple suggested that he was becoming annoyed by Rheinhardt's continued presence.
The inspector sighed.
“Herr Losch, the palace is treating this matter very seriously. My superior was received by the court high commissioner this morning.”
“And that is how it should be. Now, if you will excuse me, Inspector, I have some business to attend to.”
Herr Losch rang for his servant and the double doors opened.
Rheinhardt rose from his chair.
“Ah, Hugo,” said Losch. “Would you be so kind as to accompany Inspector Rheinhardt to the door?” The servant bowed. “Good day, Inspector.”
“Good day, Herr Losch. Should you change your mind with respect to my offer, I can be contacted at the Schottenring station.”
“Of course. Thank you again.”
When Rheinhardt had left the room, Herr Losch removed some notepaper and a pen from his desk. In a hurried hand he began to write: The security office may be on to us. I suspect that they have heard something about the twelfth. I think they will try to follow me. Must go into hiding. Elysium is the only safe place now. Let others know. He scratched a symbol in lieu of a signature, folded the paper, and slid it into a plain envelope.
80
The first course of cabbage and raisin soup had been very filling, but not sufficiently so to deter Stefan Kanner from insisting that the waiter should bring large helpings of Wiener schnitzel, Brussels sprouts, baked breaded tomatoes, and innviertler speckknodel (diced bacon mixed with chopped parsley, wrapped in dough and cooked in salted water). He also ordered two bottles of a rough local wine that since his student days had always been jovially referred to by young medical men as atropine.
“The guilt is intolerable,” said Liebermann. “I can hardly bear to think about it.”
“It had to be done,” said Kanner, spearing a bacon dumpling. “You did the right thing. Clara will get over it-and it'll be for the best. Now, stop punishing yourself and have some more atropine.” Liebermann mechanically did as he was told, gulping down the astringent liquid. “Of course, what you really need right now,” Kanner continued, “is the company of a sweet girl with whom you have an understanding. My own melancholy mood has much improved thanks to such an arrangement.”
Kanner popped the dumpling into his mouth.
“I beg your pardon?” said Liebermann.
“Her name is Theresa,” said Kanner. “She's the cashier at a little coffeehouse in Mariahilf. I go there sometimes to play billiards in the afternoon-and cards at night. I suspect that she is having some sort of liaison with the pay waiter-a roue who looks more elegant than most of his customers. One afternoon I happened to meet Theresa just as she was leaving. We conveyed to each other what was on our minds, achieved a perfect understanding, and drove in a closed fiacre to a secluded spot on the Prater, where we spent a very merry evening. She is extraordinarily pretty-eyes like saucers-although she's in the habit of humming an old operetta song more times than I consider strictly necessary: Love requires endless study, who loves but once is a fuddy-duddy…” Kanner paused and shrugged. “And-as is the way with such things-thoughts of my dear Sabina soon faded.”
“Mmm,” said Liebermann.
“You don't approve?”
“It's not a question of approval, Stefan. One's treatments should meet the specific needs of the patient. And I fear, Herr Doctor, that in my particular case at least, such a cure will only exacerbate the illness. My guilt will not be relieved by taking a turn around the Prater with a cash girl.”
“Then what is your solution?” asked Kanner, looking a little miffed at Liebermann's gentle rebuff.
“Industry.” Liebermann was aware that he was sounding pompous even as the word escaped from his lips.
“Maxim, you sound like my father!”
Liebermann made an appeasing gesture with his hands and smiled.
“I'm sorry, Stefan. What I meant to say was-I have, of late, found my police work with Inspector Rheinhardt very…” He paused to find the correct word. “Diverting. I really must tell you about it. There have been some quite extraordinary developments.”
Liebermann proceeded to give Kanner an account of his recent adventures: the discovery of the cello case and the pursuit of Olbricht through the sewers-the sabre, and the contents of Olbricht's notebook. Kanner listened carefully.