A log on the fire suddenly blazed up and a fierce shower of sparks erupted onto the hearth. The inspector squeezed his lower lip and appeared to descend into a meditative state. After a considerable length of time had elapsed, Rheinhardt stirred. He cleared his throat, hummed, and finally spoke.
“First of all, Max, I hope that you will accept my most sincere commiserations. I had no idea that you were so very racked with doubts, and if I had, perhaps my advice to you would have been different. Second, I have every confidence in your character. I cannot claim to have any special knowledge of the human mind-I am no psychiatrist-but I am a fair judge of men, and I understand you well enough to appreciate that your intentions were honorable. You did not want to enter upon a sham marriage-that much is clear. To do so would have been bad for you, and even worse for Clara. Finally, I have always found you to be a man of singular courage. In my small estimation-for what it is worth-this act is perhaps the bravest I have ever known you to perform. The right course of action is rarely the easiest, and to have proceeded with an insincere marriage, for the sake of maintaining appearances, would have been morally reprehensible. As a man whose calling… no, whose very reason for existence is to alleviate human suffering, the events of last week must have cost you dearly. I am so very sorry. Be that as it may, I suspect that this trial need not prick your conscience forever. Given time, they will all come to realize the propriety of your decision-your family, the Weisses, and, most important, your dear Clara.”
Liebermann turned slowly, and looked at his friend's world-weary face: the sagging pouches of skin beneath his eyes, the heavy jowls, and the incongruously jaunty pointed mustache. And as he did so, he felt a wave of affection that brought him close to tears. What a great and generous soul this man possessed, he thought.
“Oskar, I don't know what to say. You are too kind. I do not deserve such-”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” cried the inspector.
“No-I really don't deserve-”
“Enough!” Rheinhardt raised his hand. “The quality of your character is not in question. You have nothing to thank me for.” Then, unexpectedly, he stood up to leave. “As you know, there were many things that I wished to discuss with you this evening concerning Salieri… but let us instead postpone. I do not wish to burden you with the concerns of the security office at this difficult time. We shall meet again in due course-when your spirits have rallied.”
“But, Oskar,” Liebermann protested, “my spirits have already rallied. Your kind words have acted as a restorative. Moreover, I can think of no better remedy than to make myself useful to the security office. Now, please, do sit down!”
Rehinhardt's eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The inspector smiled. “Excellent.”
Rheinhardt opened his bag and produced a stack of photographs. Then, returning to his seat, he handed them to Liebermann.
The young doctor looked at the first image: a dark, grainy impression of a hooded figure lying on a stone floor.
“Another Salieri killing?”
“I'm afraid so.”
“When did he strike?”
“Thursday.”
“Has the murder been reported?”
“In the Zeitung, the Freie Presse, and that dreadful new rag, the Illustrierte Kronen-Zeitung.”
Liebermann began working through the pile of prints. Each image showed the body from a different perspective. Close-up, long view, looking down from above.
“His name is Brother Francis,” Rheinhardt continued. “A Capuchin monk. His body was discovered by one of his confreres, Brother Ignaz, in the crypt of the Kapuzinerkirche. In Salieri's scheme, his corresponding character in The Magic Flute must be one of the many priests.”
“Or the Speaker of the Temple, perhaps-who is a kind of high priest.”
“Indeed. Professor Mathias ascribed the cause of death to loss of blood, resulting from a sabre wound.”
“The same sabre?”
“That, he couldn't say.” Rheinhardt shifted in his chair and leaned closer to Liebermann. “When I descended into the crypt, several monks had stationed themselves by the body and were reciting offices for the dead. Naturally, I assumed that Brother Francis was no longer with us. But I was very wrong.”
“He was still alive!”
“Yes. The poor fellow had certainly arrived at death's door, but he was yet to step over the threshold. He managed a few desperate gasps, and seemed to regain consciousness. I immediately asked him who had performed the dastardly deed. His reply was… intriguing. He said, ‘A cellist.’ Then he passed away.”
Liebermann examined a close-up photograph of the dead monk's face. A hooked nose projected out from between two sunken eyes.
“Extraordinary,” said Liebermann, working down to the last of the shots. It showed the royal tomb, emerging out of the darkness like a galleon crewed by ghosts. “The crypt was not desecrated with symbols?”
“No.”
“Professor Mathias did not discover any objects concealed in the Capuchin's corpse?”
“No.”
“And no mutilations?” Liebermann tapped the pile of photographs.
“Salieri was disturbed by the arrival of Brother Ignaz. I imagine that he did not have time.”
“Which would also explain why he did not deliver an efficient sabre blow.”
“Indeed, he must have been distracted at the key moment.”
“ ‘A cellist.’ ” Liebermann rotated his glass. The rainbows broke and re-formed. “What are we to make of that? Salieri couldn't have been sitting in the crypt, playing a Bach sonata. So, did Brother Francis recognize him? Is he an artist of some renown? A virtuoso? Or perhaps some rank-and-file orchestral player who participated in a recent religious concert?”
“All are possible.” Rheinhardt smiled grimly. “And are we to suppose that in styling the murderer ‘Salieri’ our choice of name was more apposite than we could possibly have imagined?”
“I believe that the real Salieri studied the harpsichord and violin rather than the cello. Whatever, the evidence gathered so far certainly suggests that our quarry is a musician.”
“Aschenbrandt?”
“He is the only musician to be counted among your suspects-and he is also a cellist. I saw the instrument leaning against the wall when I visited his apartment.”
“Yes. Aschenbrandt-could he be the killer? I read your report with great interest. But I found it rather… perplexing.”
“Oh? Why?”
“You draw several conclusions, Max-but were they really merited by that interview? I take it that your transcript is faithful and nothing more was said?”
“That is correct.”
“Perhaps my memory is at fault, but was it not the case that you talked to him about a single topic only? That is to say, music.”
“What did you expect me to do? Raise the subject of murder?”
“Well… under the circumstances…”
“Oskar, what is the point of such questions? People lie, misdirect, and make up alibis that are subsequently confirmed by confederates. I am interested only in the truths that people reveal about themselves inadvertently: a raised eyebrow, a hesitation, a slip of the tongue- subtle reactions. These are far more valuable. They are authentic communications, emanating from the unconscious. Had I mentioned murder, it would almost certainly have put Aschenbrandt on his guard.”