Excerpt
Fatal Lies
1
The baroque ballroom was filled with flowers. Beneath three radiant chandeliers more than a hundred couples were rotating in near-perfect synchrony. The men were dressed in black tails, piqué shirts, and white gloves, the women in gowns of tulle and crêpe de chine. On a raised platform a small orchestra was playing Strauss’s Rosen aus dem Süden, and when the waltz king’s famous heartwarming melody was reprised, a number of onlookers began a sympathetic humming chorus—smiling with recognition and benign sentimentality.
Liebermann felt Amelia Lyd?gate’s right hand tighten with anxiety in his left. A vertical line appeared on her forehead as she struggled to follow his lead.
“I do apologize, Dr. Liebermann. I am such a poor dancer.”
She was wearing a skirted décolleté gown of green velvet, and her flaming red hair was tied up in silver ribbons. The pale unblemished planes of her shoulders reminded the young doctor of polished Italian marble.
“Not at all,” said Liebermann. “You are doing very well for a novice. Might I suggest, however, that you listen more carefully to the music. The beat.”
The Englishwoman returned a puzzled expression. “The beat,” she repeated.
“Yes, can you not”—Liebermann paused, and made an effort to conceal his disbelief—“feel it?”
Liebermann’s right hand pressed gently against Amelia’s back, emphasizing the first accented beat in each bar. However, his guidance had no noticeable effect on her performance.
“Very well, then,” said Liebermann. “Perhaps you will find the following useful: the natural turn consists of three steps in which you move forward and rotate clockwise by one hundred and eighty degrees, followed by three steps in which you move backward and rotate again by one hundred and eighty degrees. For the forward turn you move forward on your right foot, rotating it to the right by ninety degrees, followed by your left foot, rotated another ninety degrees so that it is now facing backward. . . .”
Amelia stopped, tilted her head to one side, and considered these instructions. Then, looking directly into Liebermann’s eyes, she said plainly: “Thank you, Dr. Liebermann, that is an altogether superior explanation. Let us proceed.”
Remarkably, when they began to dance again, Amelia’s movements were considerably more fluid.
“Excellent,” said Liebermann. “Now, if you lean back a little, we will be able to go faster.” Amelia did as she was instructed, and they began to revolve more rapidly. “I believe,” continued Liebermann, “that the optimal speed of the Viennese waltz is said to be approximately thirty revolutions per minute.” He saw Amelia glance at his exposed wristwatch. “However, I do not think it will be necessary for us to gauge our performance against this nominal ideal.”
As they swung by the orchestra, they were overtaken by a portly couple who—in spite of their ample physiques—danced with a nimbleness and grace that seemed to defy gravity.
“Good heavens,” said Amelia, unable to conceal her amazement. “Is that Inspector Rheinhardt?”
“It is,” said Liebermann, raising an eyebrow.
“He and his wife are very . . . accomplished.”
“They are indeed,” said Liebermann. “However, it is my understanding that Inspector Rheinhardt and his wife are more practiced than most. During Fasching not only do they attend this—the de- tect?ives’ ball—but they are also regular patrons of the waiters’ ball, the hatmakers’ ball, the philharmonic ball, and, as one would expect”—Liebermann smiled mischievously—“the good inspector has a particu?lar fondness for the pastry makers’ ball.”
As they wheeled past a pair of carved gilt double doors, Liebermann saw a police constable enter the ballroom. His plain blue uniform and spiked helmet made him conspicuous among the elegant tailcoats and gowns. His cheeks were flushed and he looked as though he had been running. The young man marched directly over to Commissioner Brügel, who was standing next to the impeccably dressed Inspector Victor von Bulow and a party of guests from the Hungarian security office.
Earlier in the evening, Liebermann had tried to engage the Hungarians in some polite conversation but had found them rather laconic. He had ascribed their reserve to Magyar melancholy, a medical peculiarity with which he, and most of his colleagues in Vienna, were well acquainted.
Liebermann lost sight of the group as Amelia and he continued their circumnavigation of the ballroom. When they had completed another circuit, he was surprised to see Else Rheinhardt standing on her own and looking toward her husband—who was now talking to Commissioner Brügel and the breathless young constable. Liebermann’s observation coincided with the brassy fanfares that brought the waltz to its clamorous conclusion. The revelers cheered and applauded the orchestra. Liebermann bowed, pressed Amelia’s fingers to his lips, and, taking her hand, led her toward Else Rheinhardt.
“I think something’s happened,” said Else.
Manfred Brügel was a stocky man with a large, blockish head and oversize muttonchop whiskers. He was addressing Rheinhardt, while occasionally questioning the young constable. Rheinhardt was listening intently. In due course, Rheinhardt clicked his heels and turned to find his wife and friends.
“My dear,” said Rheinhardt, affectionately squeezing Else’s arm, “I am so very sorry . . . but there has been an incident.” He glanced briefly at Liebermann, tacitly communicating that the matter was serious. “I am afraid I must leave at once.”
“Isn’t there anyone on duty at Schottenring?” asked Else.
“Koltschinsky has developed a bronchial illness, and Storfer—on being informed of the said incident—rushed from the station, slipped on some ice, and cracked his head on the pavement.”
“What extraordinary bad luck,” said Liebermann.
“Why is it always you?” said Else. “Can’t somebody else go? What about von Bulow?”
“I believe he has some important business to discuss with our Hungarian friends.” The air suddenly filled with the shimmering of tremolando violins, against which two French horns climbed a simple major triad. Nothing in the whole of music was so artless, yet so distinctive. “Ah,” said Rheinhardt, “what a shame . . . The Blue Danube.” He looked at his wife and his eyes filled with regret.
“Oskar,” said Liebermann. “Can I be of any assistance? Would you like me to come with you?”
Rheinhardt shook his head.
“I would much rather you kept my dear wife and Miss Lyd?gate entertained. Now, where’s Haussmann?” The Inspector looked around the ballroom and discovered his assistant standing with a group of cavalrymen, gazing wistfully at a pretty young debutante in white. Heavy blond coils bounced against her cheeks. Haussmann, having clearly been engaged in a protracted surveillance operation, was about to reveal himself. He was clutching a single red rose. “Oh, no,” said Rheinhardt under his breath.
The inspector kissed his wife, apologized to Amelia, and clasped Liebermann’s hand. Then, moving quickly, he managed to intercept the rose just before Haussmann had reached his quarry.
