Mortal Mischief Read Free

bustling Ringstrasse crowd. A gust of wind reminded him that – unlike Mendel – he was not carrying an umbrella. Fortunately, a cab was waiting just outside The Imperial. There was another rumble of thunder – the growl of a discontented minor god. It made the cab horse toss its head, jangle its bridle, and stroke the cobbles with a nervous hoof.
'Easy now,' called out the driver – his voice barely audible above the rattling of the carriages. Across the road a loose café awning snapped like a sail.
Liebermann looked up at the livid millstone sky. Ragged tatters of cloud blew above the pediment of The Imperial like the petticoats of a ravished angel. The air smelled strange – an odd, metallic smell.
Liebermann raised his hand to catch the cab driver's attention but was distracted by a familiar voice.
'Max!'
Turning, he caught sight of a sturdy man approaching. His coat was undone and flapping around his body as he walked into the wind – a precautionary hand kept his hat from flying off his head. Liebermann immediately recognised his good friend Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt, and smiled broadly.
'Oskar!'
The two men shook hands.
'Max, you will think this a dreadful impertinence, I know,' said Rheinhardt, pausing to recover his breath. 'But would you mind awfully if I took your cab?'
The Inspector possessed a face that suggested weariness. The skin under his eyes sagged into discoloured catenated pouches. Yet he had grown a miraculously trim moustache, the turned-up extremities of which tapered to form two sharp points.
'An incident?' asked Liebermann.
'Indeed,' said Rheinhardt, puffing. 'A matter of some urgency, in fact.'
'Then please be my guest.'
'Thank you, my friend. I am much indebted.'
Rheinhardt opened the door of the cab and as he climbed up, called out to the driver: 'The market square – Leopoldstadt.' The driver responded by touching his forelock with a gloved finger. Before closing the cab door, Rheinhardt addressed Liebermann again: 'Oh, and by the way, the Hugo Wolf songs are coming along nicely.'
'Until Saturday, then?'
'Until Saturday.'
With that, Rheinhardt pulled the door shut and the cab edged out into the noisy traffic.
A sheet of white lightning transformed the Ringstrasse into a glaring monochrome vision. Moments later a great ripping sound opened the heavens, and the first heavy drops of rain detonated on the paving stones.
Liebermann looked around for another cab – knowing already that the attempt would be futile. He sighed, good-naturedly cursed Rheinhardt, and stomped towards the nearest tram stop.

2
R HEINHARDT PRESSED HIS shoulder against the locked door and pushed. It didn't budge.
A blast of wind rattled the windows and unholy-sounding voices wailed in the chimney flues. A shutter was banging – again and again – like an impatient revenant demanding entry, and all around was the inescapable sound of rain: a relentless artillery. Teeming, drenching, torrential. Drumming on the roof, splashing from the gutters and gurgling out of drains. The deluge had finally come.
Rheinhardt sighed, turned, and looked directly at the young woman sitting in the dingy hallway. She was slight, wore an apron over a plain dress, and was very nervous. Her fingers fidgeted on her lap, a mannerism that reminded him of his daughter Mitzi. The young woman stood up as Rheinhardt approached.
'Please,' said Rheinhardt, 'stay seated if you wish.'
She shook her head. 'Thank you very much, sir, but I think I'd rather stand.' Her voice shook a little.
'I'd like to ask you a few questions, if I may?'
She mouthed the words 'Yes, Sir' – but no sound escaped.
Having determined the girl's name – Rosa Sucher – Rheinhardt asked: 'What time did you arrive today?'
'My usual time, sir. Nine o' clock.'
'And is Fräulein Löwenstein usually up by then?'
'Usually, but not always. As you can see – the bedroom door is open.' Rheinhardt responded politely by looking across the hallway. The corner of a drab counterpane was