Liebermann sipped his slivovitz and his face clouded with dissatisfaction. “What troubles me, however, is that I cannot explain why he chose to initiate his campaign when he did. Something must have acted as a trigger, but I cannot say what. I strongly suspect that the answer may be connected with the location of the Eddic Literary Association: Mozartgasse. One day, I hope, the answer will present itself, and we shall be able to add a little footnote of explanation to this most interesting case.”
The two men shared a moment of silence before Rheinhardt said, “You have yet to finish your story.”
“There is little more to tell. I managed to hold off Olbricht's final attack until the door was broken down and I was saved by my friend and his Masonic brothers. Had my rescue been delayed a moment longer…” Liebermann smiled. “Well, perhaps it is best not to dwell on such things.”
Rheinhardt shook his head and the rings under his eyes seemed deeper, darker, and heavier. The simple gesture communicated much: reprimand, disapproval, admiration, and concern. There was something distinctly parental about Rheinhardt's mien. The sad resignation of fathers who-motivated by love-must admonish their foolish, headstrong, exuberant sons, and who know, at the very same time, that their words are wasted, having been young once themselves.
“I trust that you now have enough for your report,” said Liebermann.
Rheinhardt looked mournfully at his blank sheet of paper.
“I daresay that I shall be able to produce something by the time Commissioner Brugel arrives.”
“And I sincerely hope you will respect my wishes concerning my promise to the Masons.”
Rheinhardt nodded.
Looking up at the clock, Liebermann added, “I am expected at the hospital at eight o'clock and would very much like to go home. I must change out of these ridiculous clothes and get a few hours’ sleep.”
“You are free to leave, Herr Doctor.”
Liebermann placed his unfinished glass of slivovitz on Rheinhardt's desk, stood up, and walked to the door.
“Oh, I forgot to mention,” he said as he took his top hat from the stand. “Some time ago I ordered several volumes of Russian songs from a publisher in Moscow. They never came, and to tell the truth, I'd quite forgotten about it. Well, that is, until last week, when they actually arrived.”
“My Russian isn't very good.”
“Nonsense. When we performed those Tchaikovsky romances, I thought that Fyodor Chaliapin himself had stolen into the room! Perhaps your dear wife would be willing to forgo your company tomorrow evening?”
“With respect to tolerating my absences, she is nothing less than a saint.”
“Good. Tuesday, then.”
Before Liebermann could close the door, Rheinhardt called out, “Oh, and Max.” Liebermann halted, expecting the inevitable debt of gratitude. “If you ever act on your own like this again, so help me God, I'll…” The inspector mimed the violent strangulation of a young doctor, his jowls wobbling as he throttled the column of air beneath his desk lamp, creating a whirlpool of starry motes.
Liebermann feigned indignation and, placing the top hat on his head at a decidedly impudent angle, made a swift exit.
88
Liebermannfound his mind occupied by thoughts of Miss Lydgate. The image of her seated, reading her book in the Natural History Museum, returned to interrupt his concentration throughout the day: a vaporous impression of her flame hair, burning like a beacon. While undertaking his medical duties, he had silently acknowledged his need to see her, and resolved to visit the university. He suspected that he was more likely to find her there than at home. His decision to see her was not without a convenient justification.
I must tell her that her microscopy results were correct. Yes, it is only right that she should know.
But even as the justification presented itself, Liebermann found it unconvincing. The words were hollow and the sentiment disingenuous. The undercurrent of desire was too strong to ignore. It flowed through his being like an electric charge, thrilling his nerves and heightening his senses.
The memory of Olbricht's blade still exerted a ghostly pressure over his heart, reminding him that nothing in life should be taken for granted and no opportunity should be ignored. It would be unforgivable, he mused, to die harboring regrets.
Liebermann promptly placed his case files in his drawer, turned the key, and left the hospital.
The fohn was still having its curious effect on the climate. It wasn't like a winter's evening at all. Indeed, it was more like early spring. Chairs and tables had been put out in front of the coffeehouses, most of which were already decked with seasonal lights and decorations. The streets vibrated with laughter and conversation. On Alserstrasse a group of singers were caroling, accompanied by cymbolom and a rustic violin. The air was fragrant with an intoxicating heady mixture of roast chestnuts, honey, and cigar smoke. The whole city seemed to be in a festive mood: middle-aged men with short gray beards, women in long dresses and feathered hats, soldiers, street vendors, artists- fashionably wearing their coats loosely draped over their shoulders- students, businessmen, bohemians-with thick hair and purposeful, glowing eyes-light-footed teachers from the dancing academy, priests, lawyers, and chorus girls. Liebermann inhaled the air and felt a thrill of excitement. It was wonderful to be alive.
Outside the university he stopped under a streetlamp and waited. As the students began to spill out beneath the massive triple-arched entrance and descend the wide stone stairs, he willed Miss Lydgate to be among them. She would be easy to identify-a woman, among so many men.
The streetcar to the Kahlenberg was pulling away, its overhead cables flashing like lightning. When it had passed, he could see Miss Lydgate standing beneath the central arch, investigating the contents of her reticule. It seemed to Liebermann that although she was surrounded by people, she was somehow alone. A hazy light seemed to collect around her, making her stand out from the crowd.
“Miss Lydgate!”
The Englishwoman raised her head and peered down the stairs. Something of the cable flashes seemed to have inexplicably remained in her eyes. It made her look wild, elemental-almost mythic. For a moment she showed no sign of recognition, but then, quite suddenly, her features softened, and she smiled.
I would like to thank Hannah Black and Oliver Johnson, and my agent, Clare Alexander, for their editorial comments, interest, and enthusiasm; Nick Austin for a thoughtful copyedit; Paul Taunton, Jennifer Rodriguez, and Bara MacNeill for their assistance in preparing the U.S. edition. Steve Mathews for the loan of his invaluable critical faculties; and Raymond Coffer for pointing me in the right direction with respect to numerous obscure issues pertinent for my research. Martin Cherry of the Library and Museum of Freemasonry, London, for being so very helpful with respect to my questions concerning the history of Freemasonry and Masonic symbols, and Dr. Otto Fritsch of the Grand Lodge of Austria for his scholarly letter concerning the practice of Freemasonry in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Helmut Portele of the Tram Museum, for answers to questions concerning the electrification of the Viennese streetcar system, Frauke Kreutzler of the Wien Museum for finding out where the Mozart monument was in 1902, and Mirko Herzog of the Technisches Museum for alerting me to the existence of the Illustrierte Kronen-Zeitung. Nathalie Ferrier and Luitgard Hammerer for invaluable help with translations (and Bernardo for being patient while said translations were being undertaken). Clive Baldwin, for being generally knowledgeable on all things Austro-Hungarian, Dr. Julie Fox for advising me on the precipitin test and the symptoms and course of congenital syphilis. Finally, Nicola Fox, for accommodating Max into our lives since 2003-and for so much more. I quote directly from Charles Darwin's The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex (1871) and an article from The Lancet written in 1886. Foch's open letter to the Zeitung is a bowdlerization of Science Proves Women Inferior by Dr. Charles H. Heydemann, from Ives Scrapbook. All of these can be found in the excellent anthology 1900 (edited by Mike Jay and Michael Neve), published by Penguin in 1999. I also quote directly from Rituals of the Masonic Grand Lodge of the Sun, Bayreuth, translated from the German by Art deHoyos. All of Guido (von) List's works are real, with the exception of the pamphlet On the Secret of the Runes-A Preliminary Communication, which is loosely based on his book The Secret of the Runes (1907/1908). Frank Tallis London, December 2005