Liebermann lit another cigar.
“Aschenbrandt,” he continued, “is definitely a disturbed young man. An anti-Semite who entertains semi-delusional beliefs about a Teutonic Messiah whose destiny it is to save the German-speaking peoples. It is possible that he has surrendered himself to this potent mythos, and it has now taken hold of his mind like a possessing demon. He may even see himself as ‘the Invincible’ of his string quintetwhose mission it is to rid Vienna of enemy nomads, Slavs, Negroes, and even, perhaps, representatives of the old order-a corrupt Catholic Church. But as to whether he is Salieri… Well, I have my doubts. When we were discussing The Magic Flute, Aschenbrandt seemed unperturbed. The Magic Flute is Salieri's organizing principle-the channel through which he expresses all his hate and violence. If Aschenbrandt is Salieri, there should have been more signs. He was angry, of course-angry about being interrupted, angry that I called Wagner's music bombastic-and he found my delight in Mozart extremely irritating. But at no time did discussion of The Magic Flute produce a discernible change in his demeanor. He seemed quite comfortable debating a subject that should have stirred up the most powerful emotions; emotions that he should have struggled to conceal.”
“That's all very well, Max,” said Rheinhardt.” But I am still minded to launch a full investigation into Aschenbrandt's musical activities. If we discover that he has participated in any chamber concerts in the Kapuzinerkirche, or any other church for that matter
…”
“Of course,” said Liebermann, “I offer you only an opinion-and Salieri might be such an exceptional creature that his mental processes might not even obey the laws of psychoanalysis.” He knocked the ash from his cigar. “Now, tell me, what of the other suspects?”
“I went to see the artist, Olbricht. What a peculiar fellow.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Something about his expression.”
“I do hope you are not going to invoke Lombroso again. Once and for all, Oskar, there is no relationship between a man's appearance and his nature.”
“Yes, you're quite right. Curiously enough, Olbricht is something of a war hero. He saved his commanding officer's life in the Bosnia-Herzegovina campaign of 1878. And-for a military man-he was rather reticent about the whole affair. He invited me to the opening of his next exhibition. It's at the Hildebrandt Gallery-on Karntner Strasse. Other members of the Eddic Literary Association are bound to be there. Would you be interested in coming along?”
“Very much so.”
“Excellent.”
“And what of Lieutenant Hefner?”
Rheinhardt's features contracted into a small circle of disgust. “Haussmann spent some time in Cafe Haynau, a sordid little place much frequented by military men. It is also a hotbed of gossip. Hefner is rumored to have killed more than a dozen men in duels-probably an exaggeration, but if it proves true, it wouldn't surprise me. His name was recently linked with that of Lemberg, the industrialist's son. The young man is supposed to have died after sustaining a fatal wound in a shooting accident.”
Liebermann sank lower down in his chair. “It seems that killing is Hefner's sport.”
“And they say he is a stranger to fear. Always keeps his nervealways the second to shoot in a barrier duel.”
“Cold, calculating… and arrogant?”
“Insufferably.”
“There is a professor in Berlin who has described a certain pathological ‘type,’ characterized by blunting of the emotions, self-obsession, and lack of conscience. He attributes this syndrome to a disease process affecting the frontal lobes of the brain.”
Both men stared into the flames. The gas lamps hummed harmoniously on a major third.
“The thing is,” said Rheinhardt, not wishing to be drawn into a technical discussion on an arcane branch of medicine, “neither Hefner, nor Aschenbrandt, nor Olbricht, nor any member of the Eddic Literary Association-to my knowledge-is a librarian, or a seller of antiquarian books.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Liebermann. Rheinhardt suspected that his friend was still occupied with thoughts of frontal lobes.
“While you were”-Rheinhardt smiled-”absent, I took the liberty of calling upon Miss Lydgate again to analyze samples of dust found close to the Capuchin's body.”
“Oh?” Liebermann sat up.
“She occupied the Schottenring laboratory for almost two whole days.”
“And what did she conclude?”
“She concluded that the dust from the crypt contained particles of leather, glue, and cloth that were identical to those found in her previous analysis-although they were present in much smaller quantities. She even went so far as to say that one kind of leather-of reddish hue-appeared in both samples, and very likely came from the same book.” Rheinhardt poured himself another brandy. “We have interviewed most of the city's librarians and antiquarian book dealers. None of them could possibly be Salieri. Moreover, her evidence is inconsistent with the rest of the investigation: none of our suspects are librarians. I hesitate to say this, because I am very fond of this remarkable lady, but could it be that Miss Lydgate is simply mistaken?”
“No, Oskar,” said Liebermann solemnly. “I think there is very little chance of that.”
“In which case,” said the inspector, taking a sip of brandy, “we are still utterly lost.”
67
THE EXHIBITION WAS WELL attended, providing Liebermann and Rheinhardt with a degree of anonymity. Somewhere behind the milling crowd a string quartet was playing a gentle landler.
Occasionally Rheinhardt leaned closer to his friend and pointed out a particular individual.
“That fellow there-the distinguished-looking gent-that's Von Triebenbach. And the woman he's talking to is Baroness von Rautenberg-Olbricht's patron.”
They stood in front of a full-length portrait of Wagner's Brunhilde.
Rheinhardt nodded toward the entrance. “Plump fellow with the ruddy complexion-Counselor Hannisch. He's talking to-”
“Professor Foch,” Liebermann interrupted.
“Of course, you know him.”
The counselor and the professor made an odd couple. Foch wore his usual funereal garb, and Hannisch was dressed in a green suit with a bright blue cravat.
“I know of him,” Liebermann said, correcting Rheinhardt.
Liebermann resumed his scrutiny of the Valkyrie. She wore the horned headdress of a Viking, thick furs, and her spear was tipped with a daub of red paint. Rheinhardt's head swiveled around.
“No Aschenbrandt.”
The general hubbub rose in volume, swelling with the sound of jovial greetings and cries of satisfaction. Close by, the crowd parted, affording Liebermann and Rheinhardt a glimpse of a short man whose hand was being squeezed by a colonel of the infantry.
“The artist,” whispered Rheinhardt.
Olbricht was delayed for a few moments before continuing his tour of the room. Seeing Rheinhardt, he smiled, revealing his stunted teeth.
“Ah, Inspector, I am so glad you came.”
Rheinhardt gestured toward his companion. “My friend, Dr. Max Liebermann.”
Olbricht acknowledged the younger man's presence but did not bow.
At that moment a very attractive young woman, her hair fashioned in dangling coils of gold, broke through a drab wall of suited figures.
“You will excuse me,” said Olbricht.
“Of course,” said Rheinhardt.
“Herr Olbricht,” cried the young woman. “There you are! I promised my father I would find you-he wishes to introduce you to Hofrat Eggebrecht.”
“Of course, Fraulein Bolle-I am yours to command.”
They linked arms and vanished behind two chattering dowagers whose bony fingers sparkled with diamonds.
The young doctor looked a little perplexed.
“What is it, Max?”
Liebermann lowered his voice. “His face…”
“What?”
“There is something about it…”
“Ha! Didn't I say so! And wasn't it you who scolded me! What was it you said? You went on about Lombroso again!”