‘Once again, Herr Erstweiler, I must ask you to consider the evidence.’
‘Oh, believe me — I have.’ Erstweiler was clearly not referring to the medical investigations.
‘I cannot make a full assessment of your mental state,’ said Liebermann. ‘Unless you make me party to the facts. All of them. You say that a declaration of insanity would ease your suffering; however, I am in no position to provide you with such relief — albeit irregular — if you refuse to take me into your confidence.’
Erstweiler pulled at his bristly chin. A long silence ensued. Eventually he spoke.
‘The first time it happened — I wasn’t sure …’ Erstweiler swallowed and his Adam’s apple bounced up and down. ‘I was walking on the Graben when a fiacre passed. I only caught a glimpse of the passenger — and thought it was my brother. We are of the same build and share many characteristics — particularly those typical of my father’s side of the family. He was wearing a fedora hat. I should have realised.’
‘You should have realised what?’
‘We are very similar, physically, but we have always dressed quite differently. Unlike me, he has never — to my knowledge — worn a fedora hat. Besides, he rarely comes to Vienna. It couldn’t have been him.’
‘I am not altogether sure-’
‘Please, Herr doctor,’ Erstweiler interrupted. ‘Let me continue. Now that I have started I wish to finish … That evening, I was quite restless. I couldn’t sit down. I tried to read my book but found concentrating impossible. My table is close to the window and — for no particular reason — I pulled the curtain aside and looked out. My room is on the first floor and I found myself looking down at a gentleman standing beneath a gas lamp. He was wearing a fedora.’
Liebermann looked down at his notes again, smiled inwardly and underlined dementia paranoides.
‘You were being followed?’
Erstweiler rocked his head from side to side. His expression was pained.
‘There was something odd about him. I knew that immediately — but it wasn’t until I had observed him standing there for a minute or more before I was really able to identify the cause of my disquiet.’
‘Which was?’
‘He did not cast a shadow. And it was at that moment — the precise moment when I realised he had no shadow — that he raised his head and looked up at my window. My heart was beating wildly and my bowels turned to water. His face …’ Erstweiler’s head rocked more violently. ‘It was me, my doppelganger — my double.’
‘Could you have been mistaken? You were excited, night had fallen …’
‘He was standing directly beneath the gas lamp!’ For the first time a note of frustration had entered Erstweiler’s voice.
‘What did you do?
‘What could I do? I poured myself a slivovitz and huddled on my bed until morning. I passed the night in a state of fearful agitation. You know what it means, Herr doctor, surely, when a man sees his doppelganger? I am going to die — and nothing can save me.’
2
Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt stepped down from his carriage just outside the Court Theatre entrance of the Volksgarten. Two constables wearing long blue coats and spiked helmets stood either side of the gate. They recognised the inspector and clicked their heels as he passed. Hurrying along, Rheinhardt searched his jacket for a box of cigars and sighed when he found the pockets empty. He had left his Trabucos, he realised, on the desk in his study. Above the Hofburg, long flat clouds hung motionless in a temperate sky, the early-morning colours soft and muted.
Rheinhardt had not progressed very far when he heard the sound of someone running up the path behind him. He turned and saw his assistant.
‘Sir!’
The youth’s long legs carried him forward with a steady, confident momentum.
Ah, to be young again, thought the inspector (although, in truth, his own youthful athletic accomplishments had never been particularly noteworthy).
‘Good morning, Haussmann.’
The young man slowed and came to a halt. He stooped, clasping his knees with his hands. When he had recovered his breath, they proceeded along the path until a grey stone edifice with triangular pediments and Doric columns came into view. More constables could be seen in its vicinity.
‘Have you ever wondered,’ said Rheinhardt, casually, ‘why we have a Greek temple in the middle of our Volksgarten?’
‘No, sir. I haven’t.’ There was a slight fall in Haussmann’s voice. He knew from experience that such a question was usually followed by a didactic answer. His superior seemed to enjoy caricaturing the speech and manner of a schoolmaster.
‘Well, my boy,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘It was built to house a famous statue — Theseus and the Centaur — by the great Italian sculptor Antonio Canova. That is why we call it the Theseus Temple. In fact, the building is a replica of an original that stands in Athens: The Temple of Hephaestus.’
‘Hephaestus?’
‘The god of fire and crafts, particularly those crafts which use fire — metalwork, for example.’
‘Is the statue still inside, sir?’ asked Haussmann, feigning interest.
‘No, it was moved to the Kunsthistorisches Museum about ten years ago. It’s on the main staircase — about halfway up. Have you never seen it?’
‘I’m not a great lover of art, sir.’
‘You’ve never been to the Kunsthistorisches Museum?’
‘No, sir. I find old paintings …’
‘Yes?’
‘Depressing.’
Rheinhardt shook his head and dismissed Haussmann’s remark with a wave of his hand.
‘It’s a fine statue,’ Rheinhardt continued, undeterred by his assistant’s philistinism. ‘The mighty hero, Theseus, his club raised, ready to strike.’ Rheinhardt suddenly looked anxious. ‘I take it you know who Theseus is?’
‘Yes, sir. I have a volume of the Greek legends at home. I won it in a poetry competition at school.’
Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows.
‘I didn’t know you wrote poetry.’
‘I don’t, sir. Not now. But at school I did.’
Their conversation was brought to a premature close when a constable, stout and with glowing cheeks, separated from his companions and came to greet them. He introduced himself as Constable Badem.
‘Ah yes, Badem,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘It was you who discovered the body.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The constable’s chest expanded and he stood erect, as if about to receive a medal. Rheinhardt, touched and amused by the young man’s pride, reached out and gripped his shoulder.
‘Well done! The security office is indebted.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Badem, his eyes glinting with emotion. Then, assuming a more detached attitude, the young man added: ‘She’s over there, inspector.’ He raised his hand and pointed towards a row of bushes where his colleagues had assembled.
Rheinhardt left the footpath to investigate.
The woman was lying flat on the grass. Her hair pins had fallen out and dark, abundant tresses framed her face. The disposition of her limbs — legs apart, arms thrown wide — suggested abandonment. Her dress had ridden up over her knees, revealing a pair of striped stockings. Rheinhardt noticed that the soles of her ankle boots were almost transparent and closer examination revealed the presence of a small hole. Her coat was correspondingly threadbare, with frayed cuffs and the tattered remnants of a lining that had long since been removed. She was young, perhaps no more than eighteen, and the whiteness of her pale skin emphasised, by contrast, the artificiality of the carmine powder on her cheeks.
It was an interesting face, sensuous and attractive, but not conventionally beautiful. Her expression in deathly repose suggested disdainful indifference — perhaps even cruelty. Her lips were slightly uneven, twisted, and her nose was too generously proportioned. Yet there was something about these flaws that combined to create an arresting totality.