In the center of the room was a massive circular table. Spread-eagled across its surface was the body of a man, whose skin was the color of a brauner coffee. Liebermann had seen pictures of black men in books, and had even seen one or two real black men on the Prater. This man, however, looked rather different. He had long curly hair and his features were sharper, his lips and nose being not so full and wide. His head was thrown back, exposing a deep cut that had opened the trachea and severed both carotid arteries and jugular veins. In the magnesium glare the gaping wound looked as bright and moist as the flesh of a watermelon. His arms were outstretched, hanging lifelessly over the edge of the table. He was wearing a loose, collarless cotton shirt (that might once have been white but that now was drenched in blood) and a small embroidered vest. His trousers were loose, like pantaloons, and were made of cotton.
Where his legs met, the material had been torn away, and a ragged, pulpy cavity occupied the place where his manhood should have been. In a dark pool of blackening blood on the floor, an assembly of fleshy parts revealed the magnitude of the perpetrator's malevolence and perversity.
Rheinhardt walked over to welcome his friend, but when they shook hands, all that he could utter was, “I'm sorry.” He rested a hand on Liebermann's shoulder and guided him into the hallway, calling back as he did so, “Haussmann-the floor plan, if you will.”
The two men retired to an adjacent room, smaller than the first though more comfortably furnished. They sat down on a large, low sofa.
“The same monster-undoubtedly,” said Rheinhardt. “There are no obvious oddities like the Sanskrit symbol, but he may have tampered with the body again-which will, of course, be for Professor Mathias to discover. But we did find this outside.” Liebermann was still so overwhelmed by the crime scene that he had not noticed that his friend was holding a large paper bag. Rheinhardt tilted it toward Liebermann. Inside was a bundle of green and yellow material. “It's a gentleman's scarf. Notice, there are no bloodstains. It was either dropped by someone else entirely, or the perpetrator must have changed his clothes before leaving.”
“Who is the victim?” asked Liebermann.
“We don't know-that's why I needed you here.”
“Oskar, I'm a psychiatrist. I can't commune with the dead!”
“You won't have to-well, not exactly. The murder was reported by a businessman from Trieste-Signore Borsari. He arrived on the late train just after eleven. As he was passing this building, the front door was flung open and he was confronted with the sight of an elderly gentleman in an evening suit, who pleaded with him for help. When the Italian saw the body, he was understandably fearful and made a swift exit. As luck would have it, he bumped into a constable from the local police station and the crime was registered at the security office by twenty past eleven. We have been able to establish-from papers found on the premises-that the old gentleman who hailed Borsari was Professor Moritz Hayek, an archaeologist of some repute. But we don't have a clue who that unfortunate next door is.”
“Where is Professor Hayek now?”
“In a bedroom upstairs.”
“Then why don't you ask him?”
“I have.”
“And…”
“He doesn't reply.”
“What, he refuses to speak?”
“No, Max. He can't speak.”
40
PROFESSOR HAYEK'S BEDROOM WAS a shadowy cavern, the air of which was tainted with a pungent, musky fragrance. Like all olfactory sensations it provoked and teased memory. Liebermann had certainly smelled it before, but it was a few seconds before he remembered where-a rather sordid club in Leopoldstadt that he had once frequented as a medical student. The source of the smell was hashish.
On a bedside cabinet a single candle burned with a steady yellow flame. It illuminated the figure of a man in full evening dress, seated on the mattress. Professor Hayek had distinctive features. His skin was brown and leathery, with deep vertical creases scoring his cheeks, but his beard and mustache were short, neatly trimmed, and pure white. The professor's hair was white too, but it was also comically horripi-lated. There were frequent convulsive tic-like movements of his face and the muscles of his neck. His eyes were open, green like emeralds, and staring blankly into his lap, where his fingers coiled around one another with the slow sinewy movements of a nest of serpents.
Liebermann pulled up a chair and sat down directly in front of the aged archaeologist.
“Professor Hayek?”
There was no response.
“Can you hear me?”
Liebermann passed his hands in front of the professor's eyes. Hayek did not blink.
“What's wrong with him, Max?”
Rheinhardt was standing patiently by the door.
“Severe trauma can sometimes produce a dissociative hypnoid state-a narrowing of consciousness. He has also developed a tic affecting the right sternocleidomastoid.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He's in shock, Oskar.”
“Indeed… But can you do anything to help him?”
The young doctor passed his hands in front of the patient's eyes again.
“I don't know-but I'm perfectly willing to try.”
With that, Liebermann stood up and eased the professor's coat and jacket from his shoulders. Then he unbuttoned the professor's vest. With great care, he loosened the old man's necktie and removed the stiff collar. Taking the candle from the bedside cabinet, he returned to his seat in front of the professor and swung the flame from side to side over the old man's lap. The solitary miniature beacon flared with each oscillation.
“Watch the flame, Professor,” said Liebermann. “Watch it carefully. Concentrate on the light. See how it dances. See how it burns. How beautiful it is-see how the flame conceals patterns. The more closely you attend, the more obvious they become.”
Liebermann continued talking in this manner, gently but insistently, and as he did so the professor's head began to dip and swing with a distinct pendular motion. The young doctor lifted the candle, and the professor's head began to rise so that he could follow it with his stare. Rheinhardt was reminded of an Indian snake charmer coaxing a cobra out of a basket.
“Observe the flame,” continued Liebermann. “Its light is now very strong, and your eyes are tired. Your eyelids are becoming heavier… heavier and heavier… and soon you will fall into a deep, comfortable sleep. A special sleep, in which you will still be able to hear my voice and answer my questions.”
The professor's eyelids began to flicker.
“It is almost impossible to keep your eyes open. On the count of three you will close your eyes, on the count of three you will sleep. One… two…” Liebermann threw a quick triumphant glance at Rheinhardt. “Three.”
The professor's eyelids fell.
“Can you hear me, Professor Hayek?”
“Yes,” came the reply. A dry, parched voice.
“I must ask you some questions. And you must reply with absolute honesty. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Liebermann leaned back in his chair. “Where have you been this evening, Professor?”
“I went to the opera.”
“On your own?”
“Yes.”
“Was it a pleasant evening?”
“Delightful.”
“And what did you do after the performance?”
“I had coffee at the Imperial-as is my custom-before returning home.”
A muscle on the professor's neck stood out and he grimaced.
“No harm can come to you now,” said Liebermann encouragingly.
“I knocked on the door,” the professor continued. “Expecting Ra'ad to answer.”
“Ra'ad?”
“My servant.”
“The black man?”
“Yes. I took out my key and entered the house. The door of the reception room was open. I called out, ‘Ra'ad, where are you, my boy?’ But there was no reply. There was a strange smell in the air… I knew that something was wrong. I stepped into the reception room and saw…” Again the professor's face and neck went into a rigid spasm.