“And there is to be another murder-a double murder?” said Kanner. “On the twelfth? But that is tomorrow.”
“Almost certainly,” said Liebermann.
The atmosphere in the room had become muted. Kanner seemed unusually meditative and subdued.
“And you are of the opinion that…” Kanner took a box of Egyptian cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. “That this Olbricht character will try to murder an aristocrat and the chief Freemason of Vienna-on the same day?”
“I cannot be certain. But it is a reasonable hypothesis.”
Kanner took out a cigarette and tamped it on the side of the box.
“Inspector Rheinhardt spoke to the head Freemason yesterday afternoon,” Liebermann added. “But I understand that he didn't seem to take the threat very seriously. Rheinhardt suspected that the gentleman believed his warning was some kind of security office deception: relations between the police and the Freemasons are not good. Inspector Rheinhardt considered it prudent to have the gentleman followed but to his great consternation found that by yesterday evening he had completely vanished.”
Kanner lit his cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring that rose up and hovered above his head, creating the illusion of a disintegrating halo.
“And you're quite sure it isn't a police trick?”
Liebermann's expression conveyed his incredulity. “Of course it isn't a trick!”
Kanner pulled at his chin and grimaced. “In which case, I have a confession to make.”
Liebermann inspected his friend closely. Kanner's blue eyes were startlingly bright. “You do?”
“Yes. I am a Freemason: and tomorrow, on the twelfth of December, Prince Ambrus Nadasdy of Hungary will be initiated as an entered apprentice at a secret temple known as Elysium. The ceremony will be presided over by the head of our fraternity, Venerable Grand Master Losch-the gentleman who has so successfully evaded your friend Rheinhardt.”
Liebermann stared at Kanner, dumbfounded. “Then we know where Olbricht's going to strike!”
“Max.” Kanner's expression was grave. “What I have just told you must not be revealed to anyone.”
“But the police… I have to.”
“It would be utterly pointless. No member of the craft in Vienna would ever disclose the location of Elysium. We are acting illegally.”
“But Stefan, Prince Nadasdy and Herr Losch could be killed!”
“Perhaps, with your assistance, we will be able to prevent such a catastrophe. Now swear! Swear to me that you will say nothing of this to the police.”
Liebermann swallowed. “I will not betray your trust, Stefan. I swear.”
“Good. Now, where is that waiter? We must settle our account at once and leave.”
“Leave? Where are we going?”
“Elysium!”
81
Professor Foch took the volume from the shelf and examined the spine: The Relationship Between the Nose and the Female Sexual Organs by Wilhelm Fliess. It was utter nonsense-everything that one might expect from an associate of Freud. The only sensible thing in the entire book was the finding that labor pains could be ameliorated by the application of cocaine to the nose. But as for the rest… mystical nonsense and gobbledygook! There were indeed certain similarities between nasal and genital mucosae, but the edifice that Fliess had constructed on such flimsy foundations was far too ambitious-too expansive, too grandiose. It would soon be consigned to the midden heap of otorhinolaryngology-and rightly so.
Professor Foch's mood suddenly darkened.
Fliess was based in Berlin.
This did not bode well.
Were his ideas accepted there?
Fliess had proposed that the nasal membranes and bones were of etiological significance with respect to a range of medical conditions: migraine headaches; pains in the abdomen, arms, and legs; angina pectoris; asthma; indigestion-and disturbances of sexuality. The last condition, of course, was of considerable interest to that reprobate Freud. Indeed, he had defended Fliess's opus when it had been criticized by members of the faculty. But then again, what was one to expect? That was how they worked, these Jews. They stuck together… polluting the discipline with their sexual preoccupations, filth, and nonsense.
Professor Foch tossed the book into his packing case, where it landed on three huge yellow Kaposi atlases on syphilis and diseases of the skin.
Berlin.
That it should come to this.
Damn them all.
He had been summoned to the dean's office on Thursday afternoon-for an informal, friendly discussion on a professional matter.
Your article in the Zeitung… The obsequious lickspittle hypocrite had shifted in his chair as if he were sitting on a hot plate. You have made it very difficult for us. Very difficult indeed… He had wrung his hands, sighed, and equivocated. But in the end he had arrived at the nub. Your intention was to reach a wide audience and, my dear fellow, you certainly succeeded. It was read by one of His Majesty's advisers… The word displeasure was repeated with some frequency thereafter.
He had not been dismissed-as such. But rather, he had been permitted an opportunity to make a discreet exit.
A friend of mine, Lehmann-perhaps you've heard of him? Wrote a fine paper on the vestibular system a few years back. The dean had smiled unctuously. Well, as luck would have it, he's looking to fill a post at the General Hospital-a specialist in nasal surgery, no less. Of course, I would be more than happy to provide you with a glowing reference.
There had been little point in protesting. If it were true-and the signal of disapproval had been issued from the Hofburg itself-then his career in Vienna was over. Even his most trusted colleagues would begin to avoid him. Their gazes would not meet his. Invitations would be declined. There would be whispering in the corridors. He had seen it happen to others.
Damn them all.
He looked up at his print of The Wounded Man. He found the image curiously uplifting. The black mood lifted a little.
Berlin.
It might not be so bad. Things in Vienna had gone too far-and his shabby treatment by the faculty of medicine was just another symptom of its decline into a quagmire of decadence and depravity. It would take not one but a hundred-no, a thousand-Primal Fires to purify this doomed city. Perhaps in Berlin they would appreciate a man like him-a man with good honest German values.
82
Liebermann took his seat in the cab, from where he could hear the muffled voice of his friend talking to the driver. The vehicle was a rickety affair, with worn seats and sconces holding stubs of candles. Liebermann lit a match and held it to the nearest wick.
When Kanner entered, he drew the curtains, making sure that every part of the window was properly covered.
“Where are we going?” Liebermann asked.
“I am afraid I cannot say. The location of Elysium is a closely guarded secret.”
The cab began to move.
“But why are we going there now? The initiation is tomorrow.”
“It is where our venerable has gone into hiding.”
After they had been traveling for some time, Kanner lifted the curtain and peeped out.
“Maxim, I am sorry. But I must blindfold you.”
“What!”
“We shall be arriving at our destination soon-and it is strictly forbidden for non-Masons to know the whereabouts of Elysium. If you do not comply, we cannot proceed. I am obliged to do this.”
Liebermann rolled his eyes. “Very well.”
Kanner produced a dark handkerchief from his coat pocket and tied it around his friend's head.
“I'm sorry,” Kanner muttered.
“Yes,” said Liebermann, unable to disguise his irritation.
The cab drew to a halt. Kanner leaped out and spoke to the driver, who responded with a cry of satisfaction and profuse thanks. He had been encouraged to exercise discretion with a very large gratuity.