Free Mortal Mischief by Frank Tallis

her hitherto dead hand had come to life, and was twitching furiously.

10
A BOVE THE HEAD of Commissioner Manfred Brügel hung a huge picture of the Emperor, Franz Josef. It was a portrait that could be found in most homes and in virtually every public building. The imperial patriarch, seemingly eternal, was an inescapable and watchful presence. Like many senior officials, Brügel had chosen to affirm his support for the Habsburgs by growing an exact copy of the monarch's oversized mutton-chop whiskers.
Brügel examined the first of several photographs: Fräulein Löwenstein, reclining on the chaise longue, the bloodstain clearly visible over her heart.
'Pretty girl.'
'Yes, sir,' said Rheinhardt.
'Do you have any idea what happened to the bullet?'
'No, sir.'
'Well, do you have any theories?'
'None as yet, sir.'
'What about Mathias? What does he think?'
'Professor Mathias could not explain his findings.'
Brügel dropped the first photograph and picked up a second: a head-and-shoulders portrait of the victim. She looked like a sleeping Venus.
'Very pretty,' Brügel repeated. After further contemplation of Charlotte Löwenstein's image, the Commissioner raised his blockish head and fixed his subordinate with a sullen stare.
'Do you believe in the supernatural, Rheinhardt?'
The Inspector hesitated.
'Well?'
'I believe,' said Rheinhardt, selecting his words with utmost care, 'we should only consider a supernatural explanation when all other explanations have been eliminated.'
'Indeed . . . but I asked whether or not you believed in the supernatural?'
Rheinhardt changed his position to ease the discomfort of the Commissioner's scrutiny.
'It would be presumptuous to suppose that we have a complete understanding of the world in which we live. I dare say there are many phenomena that have not ceded their secrets to science. But with the greatest respect, sir . . . I'm a policeman, not a philosopher.'
Brügel smiled: an enigmatic half-smile – opaque and saline.
'This business is going to attract a lot of attention, Rheinhardt. You do realise that, don't you?'
'The facts of the case that we have gathered to date are . . . intriguing.'
'Intriguing?' The Commissioner puffed as though the word was goose down and he was trying to dislodge it from his upper lip. 'The facts are not intriguing , Rheinhardt – they are extraordinary! I imagine our friends at the Zeitung will sensationalise every detail. And do you know what that means, Rheinhardt?' The Commissioner's question was rhetorical. 'Expectations!'
Brügel picked up the third photograph: a close-up of the bullet wound. Next to the ragged crater was a metal ruler. The hand of whoever was holding the ruler appeared in the bottom right-hand corner.
'Such cases shape public opinion, Rheinhardt,' continued Brügel. 'Solve a mystery like this and the Viennese security office will be lauded from here to the furthest outposts of His Majesty's Empire.' As he said this, his thumb jerked back at the painting of Franz Josef. 'Fail, and . . .' The Commissioner paused. 'Fail . . . and we run the risk of becoming a laughing stock. I can see the headline now: Leopoldstadt Demon Foils Viennese Detectives . We don't want that, now, do we, Rheinhardt?'
'No, sir.'
Brügel pushed the photographs of Charlotte Löwenstein across the table.
'Keep me informed, Rheinhardt.'
The interview was over.

11
W HILE O SKAR R HEINHARDT turned the pages of his songbook, Liebermann amused himself by improvising a simple chord sequence on the Bösendorfer. On repeating the sequence, he realised that he had unconsciously chosen the basic harmonies of Mendelssohn's bridal march. Looking up at Rheinhardt – the happiest of husbands – he experienced a curious sense of camaraderie. Soon, he too would be joining the fraternity of married men. Liebermann was impatient to share the news of his engagement with Rheinhardt, but recognised that it would be somewhat improper to inform his friend before he had told his own