Liebermann changed position and as he did so Freud pushed the cigar box towards him. The young doctor declined.
‘This Sophocles syndrome...’ said Liebermann tentatively. ‘When unresolved, does it always produce neurotic disturbances? Or do you think it might also be associated with more severe forms of mental illness, for example dementia praecox?’
‘It is impossible — as yet — to say.’
‘And how is the syndrome resolved?’
‘The process of resolution must require the detachment of sexual impulses from the mother and the forgetting of jealousy for the father. But how this is achieved and by what mechanism I cannot say. The dissolution of this syndrome presents us with complex problems, and our burgeoning science has yet to furnish us with a comprehensive answer.’
Liebermann smiled inwardly. The professor had exhibited a peculiarity of speech with which he, Liebermann, was now very familiar. Whenever Freud could not explain something he tended to blame psychoanalysis for the deficiency — never himself.
On his way home Liebermann thought deeply about his conversation with Professor Freud. Had he ever hated his father as a rival? Hate was too strong a word. No, he had never hated his father; however, he had to admit that their relationship had never been entirely satisfactory. He had always been a little uneasy in his father’s presence and this subtle underlying tension — which had no obvious cause — had persisted, taking different forms, throughout his entire life. Did this underlying tension have an Oedipal origin? Although Liebermann was prepared to accept Freud’s theory — at least provisionally — with respect to his father, he just couldn’t do the same with respect to his mother. He had never loved his mother in that way!
Suddenly, he was disturbed by a realisation that the converse might be true. His mother adored him, of that there could be little doubt …
The dramatis personae abruptly changed position, discovering — in the process of reconfiguration — a new way in which their emotions could be triangulated.
An uneasy question rose up into Liebermann’s mind.
What if his father, Mendel, secretly hated him for stealing his wife’s love? What if his father had an unresolved Cronos syndrome and, like the mighty Titan, wanted to kill his usurping child? If such a desire was lurking in his unconscious, was it any wonder that they had never been entirely comfortable in each others’ company?
A carriage passed and the curtain was drawn aside by a gloved hand. Liebermann glimpsed the face of a stunning young woman who was wearing a tiara. The vision of her beauty rescued him from the quagmire of his own self-inquiry.
He had never intended to consider the personal relevance of Freud’s theory. He had only wished to discuss the Sophocles syndrome with Freud for one reason. Liebermann had sensed that within the tortured family dynamics of the Greek drama was the key to understanding Norbert Erstweiler.
44
The carriage followed the Ringstrasse around the western edge of the Innere Stadt before turning into Rennweg and heading south towards Simmering. Rheinhardt opened his bag and handed Liebermann an envelope. The young doctor tipped the contents out onto his lap.
‘She was discovered in the gardens of the Belvedere Palace,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘in the early hours of Monday morning.’
Liebermann studied the first photograph: a long shot of a woman lying in the middle of a sunken lawn.
‘Who found her?’
‘The head gardener. He was out early collecting slugs and snails.’ Liebermann sifted through the photographs until he came across a close-up of the woman’s face. ‘She was stabbed with a hatpin,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘just like Frauleins Zeiler and Babel. In the relative isolation of the Belvedere gardens the fiend was once again emboldened to use his preferred technique. Remarkably, when Haussmann arrived he was able to identify the body.’
‘They were acquainted?’ said Liebermann, surprised.
‘No,’ said Rheinhardt, shaking his head. ‘He had seen her performing at Ronacher’s. She’s a variety singer. Cacilie Roster.’
Liebermann noticed the beauty spot under her eye and the dimple on her chin. He imagined the sound of her laughter — loud and life-affirming.
‘Haussmann and I went to interview the theatre manager, who suggested that Fraulein Roster was an inveterate flirt. He also directed us to one of her haunts, Loiberger’ s, a coffee house patronised mostly by actors and poets and which is situated a short distance from the theatre. Herr Loiberger remembered serving Fraulein Roster on Sunday night. She was in the company of a gentleman with black hair and blue eyes. It must have been Griesser.’
‘Did Herr Loiberger smell anything on the gentleman’s clothes?’
‘No.’ Liebermann slipped the photographs back into the envelope and handed it back to Rheinhardt. ‘Professor Mathias,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘with Miss Lydgate’s assistance made an interesting discovery. He found a black hair on Roster’s body. Under the microscope, it proved to be a blond hair that had been dyed. Of course, we don’t know that it belongs to Griesser …’
‘But it seems likely.’
‘Indeed. The combination of blue eyes and black hair is rather unusual.’ Rheinhardt dropped the envelope into his bag. ‘If the hair does belong to Griesser, I wonder why he does it — dyeing? He isn’t assuming a disguise to avoid recognition. Vanity, perhaps?’
‘Nothing so mundane,’ said Liebermann. ‘By dyeing his hair black he is associating himself with darkness, oblivion. It is a psychological phenomenon that Professor Freud calls identification.’
Rheinhardt considered his friend’s comment and frowned. He did not ask Liebermann to elaborate. He had already heard enough of Liebermann’s psychoanalytic theories at the start of their journey.
‘Haussmann is going back to Ronacher’s today,’ said Rheinhardt, returning the conversation to routine police work. ‘I’ve asked him to interview some of the performers, people who were acquainted with Roster.’
Liebermann nodded and turned to look out of the carriage window.
‘You should probably be there too.’
‘Well, not necessarily. If you are correct …’
‘Yes, if I am correct, then you will be able to justify deserting Haussmann. But I can see that you are far from convinced that my speculations have a legitimate basis. Moreover, I appreciate that, given how matters stand with you and Commissioner Brugel, I cannot make excessive demands on your patience.’
‘Forgive me, Max, but all your talk of doppelgangers, dreams, and Sophocles was a little confusing. How was Herr Erstweiler this morning?’
‘His condition is unchanged. I’ve told my colleague Kanner to medicate him if he becomes agitated.’ Still looking out of the window, Liebermann asked: ‘What was Miss Lydgate doing at the morgue?’
‘Professor Mathias and Miss Lydgate seem to have developed some form of …’ Rheinhardt’s hand revolved in the air as he searched for the right words, ‘… serviceable relationship. He refers to her as if she is his protegee. I would never have predicted it. Would you?’
The streets outside were beginning to look shabby. Liebermann recognised the factory chimney, belching its black smoke into the sky, the railings, and the pile of rubble in the road. On this occasion there were no children scrambling up its sides. The carriage turned sharply into the adjoining avenue and came to a halt outside Erstweiler’s residence.
They disembarked and Liebermann noticed that the house looked exactly as it did before: ground-floor curtains drawn, upper-floor curtains set apart. It was just as he had expected.
Liebermann crossed the pavement and grasped the knocker. His three strikes were comfortably absorbed by a yawning silence.
‘Are you going to try again?’ asked Rheinhardt.