was beating a little too fast. Count Záborszky's words – like an auditory hallucination – entered his mind: I smell evil .
'Professor?' Rheinhardt called into the void.
The humming stopped.
'Oh, it's all right, Inspector, the light usually comes on again after a few minutes – probably something to do with today's storm. Personally, I think we should have stuck to gas.'
There was a small movement, and the clatter of metal on tiles. Rheinhardt felt something hit his foot.
'Oh dear,' said Mathias. 'I seem to have disturbed one of my instruments.'
There was a loud click, and suddenly the light came on again.
'There we are,' said the professor. 'Told you so.'
Rheinhardt looked down and saw a scalpel on the floor by his foot. He crouched down and picked it up.
'Your scalpel, Professor?'
'Just put it back on the trolley for the moment – not with the others, though. Bottom shelf, in the glass retort.' As he said this, Mathias was removing a large piece of bloody matter from Fräulein Löwenstein's chest. Rheinhardt quickly looked away, bowing his head. To distract himself, he turned the blade idly in his hands and let it flash a few times as it caught the light. Rheinhardt noticed that the scalpel was engraved with a cursive script: Hans Bruckmüller and Co.
'Professor?'
'Yes, what is it?'
'Does the name Hans Bruckmüller mean anything to you?'
'Yes, of course. Bruckmüller's. It's the surgical-instrument shop near the university.'
'Do you know Herr Bruckmüller?'
'No. Why do you ask?'
'He was an acquaintance of Fräulein Löwenstein.'
'Really?' said the professor – although it was clear that he wasn't paying much attention. Rheinhardt placed the scalpel in the glass retort. It rang like a bell.
As Rheinhardt stood behind Mathias, he couldn't help but notice that, in spite of the old man's earlier exhortations concerning haste, he was working much faster now. He was employing different instruments, one after the other, and tutting loudly. Indeed, he was looking increasingly agitated – if not actually annoyed. Rheinhardt thought it best not to interfere and waited patiently.
After several minutes Mathias wiped the blood from a long pair of tweezers and, displaying an uncharacteristic lack of care, tossed them on to the trolley. Rheinhardt was startled. The old man then stared directly at Rheinhardt, saying nothing. His expression was far from friendly.
'Professor?' ventured Rheinhardt.
'What is the meaning of this?' asked Mathias, gesturing towards the corpse.
'I beg your pardon, Professor?'
'Was it Orlov? Or was it Humboldt? Did they put you up to this?'
Rheinhardt raised his hands.
'I'm sorry, Herr Professor, but I haven't a clue what you're talking about.'
Mathias grunted, took off his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. Rheinhardt wondered whether Mathias's eccentricity wasn't, after all, something very close to madness. The old man replaced his spectacles and undid his apron with a decisive tug. He lifted the collar over his head, rolled the apron up, and placed it on the bottom shelf of the trolley. He then began to fidget with his instruments, moving them around as though they were the pieces in a bizarre chess game.
'Professor,' said Rheinhardt. 'I would be most grateful if you would explain yourself.'
Mathias looked up from his instruments. Again, he stared at Rheinhardt, his enlarged eyes swimming behind their lenses. Rheinhardt endured the silence for as long as he could before finally losing his patience.
'Herr Professor, I have had a long and difficult day. I have not eaten since this morning, and I am tired. I would very much like to go home. Now, for the last time, I would be most grateful if you would explain yourself!'
The professor snorted, but a fog of doubt passed across his face, softening his angry pout.
'This isn't a joke?' he said in a neutral voice.
Rheinhardt shook his head.
'No, Professor, this isn't a joke.'
'Very well,' said Mathias warily. 'I will explain my findings, and if you can make any
'Professor?' Rheinhardt called into the void.
The humming stopped.
'Oh, it's all right, Inspector, the light usually comes on again after a few minutes – probably something to do with today's storm. Personally, I think we should have stuck to gas.'
There was a small movement, and the clatter of metal on tiles. Rheinhardt felt something hit his foot.
'Oh dear,' said Mathias. 'I seem to have disturbed one of my instruments.'
There was a loud click, and suddenly the light came on again.
'There we are,' said the professor. 'Told you so.'
Rheinhardt looked down and saw a scalpel on the floor by his foot. He crouched down and picked it up.
'Your scalpel, Professor?'
'Just put it back on the trolley for the moment – not with the others, though. Bottom shelf, in the glass retort.' As he said this, Mathias was removing a large piece of bloody matter from Fräulein Löwenstein's chest. Rheinhardt quickly looked away, bowing his head. To distract himself, he turned the blade idly in his hands and let it flash a few times as it caught the light. Rheinhardt noticed that the scalpel was engraved with a cursive script: Hans Bruckmüller and Co.
'Professor?'
'Yes, what is it?'
'Does the name Hans Bruckmüller mean anything to you?'
'Yes, of course. Bruckmüller's. It's the surgical-instrument shop near the university.'
'Do you know Herr Bruckmüller?'
'No. Why do you ask?'
'He was an acquaintance of Fräulein Löwenstein.'
'Really?' said the professor – although it was clear that he wasn't paying much attention. Rheinhardt placed the scalpel in the glass retort. It rang like a bell.
As Rheinhardt stood behind Mathias, he couldn't help but notice that, in spite of the old man's earlier exhortations concerning haste, he was working much faster now. He was employing different instruments, one after the other, and tutting loudly. Indeed, he was looking increasingly agitated – if not actually annoyed. Rheinhardt thought it best not to interfere and waited patiently.
After several minutes Mathias wiped the blood from a long pair of tweezers and, displaying an uncharacteristic lack of care, tossed them on to the trolley. Rheinhardt was startled. The old man then stared directly at Rheinhardt, saying nothing. His expression was far from friendly.
'Professor?' ventured Rheinhardt.
'What is the meaning of this?' asked Mathias, gesturing towards the corpse.
'I beg your pardon, Professor?'
'Was it Orlov? Or was it Humboldt? Did they put you up to this?'
Rheinhardt raised his hands.
'I'm sorry, Herr Professor, but I haven't a clue what you're talking about.'
Mathias grunted, took off his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. Rheinhardt wondered whether Mathias's eccentricity wasn't, after all, something very close to madness. The old man replaced his spectacles and undid his apron with a decisive tug. He lifted the collar over his head, rolled the apron up, and placed it on the bottom shelf of the trolley. He then began to fidget with his instruments, moving them around as though they were the pieces in a bizarre chess game.
'Professor,' said Rheinhardt. 'I would be most grateful if you would explain yourself.'
Mathias looked up from his instruments. Again, he stared at Rheinhardt, his enlarged eyes swimming behind their lenses. Rheinhardt endured the silence for as long as he could before finally losing his patience.
'Herr Professor, I have had a long and difficult day. I have not eaten since this morning, and I am tired. I would very much like to go home. Now, for the last time, I would be most grateful if you would explain yourself!'
The professor snorted, but a fog of doubt passed across his face, softening his angry pout.
'This isn't a joke?' he said in a neutral voice.
Rheinhardt shook his head.
'No, Professor, this isn't a joke.'
'Very well,' said Mathias warily. 'I will explain my findings, and if you can make any
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