A Death in Vienna

In 1902, elegant Vienna is the city of the new century, the center of discoveries in everything from the writing of music to the workings of the human mind. But now a brutal homicide has stunned its citizens and appears to have bridged the gap between science and the supernatural. Two very different sleuths from opposite ends of the spectrum will need to combine their talents to solve the boggling crime: Detective Oskar Rheinhardt, who is on the cutting edge of modern police work, and his friend Dr. Max Liebermann, a follower of Sigmund Freud and a pioneer on new frontiers of psychology. As a team they must use both hard evidence and intuitive analysis to solve a medium’s mysterious murder–one that couldn’t have been committed by anyone alive.

__________________________________________________________

THE MORTALIS DOSSIER- PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLERS: THE CURIOUS CASE OF PROFESSOR SIGMUND F. AND DETECTIVE FICTION

Summertime–the Austrian Alps: A middle-aged doctor, wishing
to forget medicine, turns off the beaten track and begins a strenuous
climb. When he reaches the summit, he sits and contemplates the distant
prospect. Suddenly he hears a voice.
“Are you a doctor?”
He is not alone. At first, he can’t believe that he’s being addressed.
He turns and sees a sulky-looking eighteen-year-old. He recognizes
her (she served him his meal the previous evening). “Yes,” he replies.
“I’m a doctor. How did you know that?”
She tells him that her nerves are bad, that she needs help.
S ometimes she feels like she can’t breathe, and there’s a hammering in
her head. And sometimes something very disturbing happens. She sees
things–including a face that fills her with horror. . . .
Well, do you want to know what happens next? I’d be surprised if
you didn’t.
We have here all the ingredients of an engaging thriller: an isolated
setting, a strange meeting, and a disconcerting confession.
So where does this particular opening scene come from? A littleknown
work by one of the queens of crime fiction? A lost reel of an
early Hitchcock film, perhaps? Neither. It is in fact a faithful summary
of the first few pages of Katharina by Sigmund Freud, also known as
case study number four in his Studies on Hysteria, co-authored with Josef
Breuer and published in 1895.
It is generally agreed that the detective thriller is a nineteenthcentury
invention, perfected by the holy trinity of Collins, Poe, and
(most importantly) Conan Doyle; however, the genre would have
been quite different had it not been for the oblique influence of psychoanalysis.
The psychological thriller often pays close attention to
personal history–childhood experiences, relationships, and significant
life events–in fact, the very same things that any self-respecting
therapist would want to know about. These days it’s almost impossible
to think of the term “thriller” without mentally inserting the prefix
“psychological.”
So how did this happen? How did Freud’s work come to influence
the development of an entire literary genre? The answer is quite simple.
He had some help–and that help came from the American film
industry.
Now it has to be said that Freud didn’t like America. After visiting
America, he wrote: “I am very glad I am away from it, and even more
that I don’t have to live there.” He believed that American food had
given him a gastrointestinal illness, and that his short stay in America
had caused his handwriting to deteriorate. His anti-American sentiments
finally culminated with his famous remark that he considered
America to be “a gigantic mistake.”
Be that as it may, although Freud didn’t like America, America
liked Freud. In fact, America loved him. And nowhere in America was
Freud more loved than in Hollywood.
The special relationship between the film industry and psychoanalysis
began in the 1930s, when many émigré analysts–fleeing
from the Nazis–settled on the West Coast. Entering analysis became
very fashionable among the studio elite, and Hollywood soon
acquired the sobriquet “couch canyon.” Dr. Ralph Greenson, for
example–a well-known Hollywood analyst–had a patient list that
included the likes of Marilyn Monroe, Frank Sinatra, Tony Curtis,
and Vivien Leigh. And among the many Hollywood directors who
succumbed to Freud’s influence was Alfred Hitchcock, whose thrillers
were much more psychological than any that had been filmed before.
In one of his films Freud actually makes an appearance–well, more or
less. I am thinking here of Spellbound, released in 1945, and based on
Francis Beedings’s crime novel The House of Dr. Edwardes.
T he producer of Spellbound, David O. Selznick, was himself in
psychoanalysis–as were most of his family–and so enthusiastic was
he about Freud’s ideas that he recruited his own analyst to help him
vet the script. Hitchcock’s film has everything we expect from a psychological
thriller: a clinical setting, a murder, a man who has lost his
memory, a dream sequence, and a sinewy plot that twists and turns
toward a dramatic climax. That this film owes a large debt to psychoanalysis
is made absolutely clear when a character appears who is–in
all but name–Sigmund Freud: a wise old doctor with a beard, glasses,
and a fantastically hammy Viennese accent.
Since Hitchcock’s time, authors and screenwriters have had much
fun playing with the resonances that exist between psychoanalysis and
detection. This kind of writing reached its apotheosis in 1975 with the
publication of Nicholas Meyer’s The Seven-Per-Cent Solution, a novel in
which Freud and Sherlock Holmes are brought together to solve the
same case.
The relationship between psychoanalysis and detection was not
lost on Freud. In his Introductory Lectures, for example, there is a passage
in which he stresses how both the detective and the psychoanalyst depend
on accumulating piecemeal evidence that usually arrives in the
form of small and apparently inconsequential clues.

If you were a detective engaged in tracing a murder, would you expect to find that the murderer had left his photograph behind at the place of the crime, with his address attached? Or would you not necessarily have to be satisfied with comparatively slight and obscure traces of the person you were in search of? So do not let us underestimate small indications; by their help we may succeed in getting on the track of something
bigger.

Later in the same series of lectures, Freud blurs the boundary between
psychoanalysis and detection even further. He goes beyond pointing
out that psychoanalysis and detection are similar enterprises and suggests
that psychoanalytic techniques might actually be used to aid detection.
Freud describes the case of a real murderer who acquired highly
dangerous pathogenic organisms from scientific institutes by pretending
to be a bacteriologist. The murderer then used these stolen cultures
to fatally infect his victims. On one occasion, he audaciously wrote a
letter to the director of one of these scientific institutes, complaining
that the cultures he had been given were ineffective. But the letter
contained a Freudian slip–an unconsciously performed blunder.
Instead of writing in my experiments on mice or guinea pigs, the murderer
wrote in my experiments on men. Freud notes that the institute director–
not being conversant with psychoanalysis–was happy to overlook
such a telling error.
In a little-known paper called Psychoanalysis and the Ascertaining of
Truth in Courts of Law, Freud is even more confident that psychoanalytic
techniques might be used in the service of detection. He writes:
In both [psychoanalysis and law] we are concerned with a
secret, with something hidden. . . . In the case of the criminal it
is a secret which he knows he hides from you, but in the case of
the hysteric it is a secret hidden from himself. . . . The task of
the therapeutist is, however, the same as the task of the judge;
he must discover the hidden psychic material. To do this we
have invented various methods of detection, some of which
lawyers are now going to imitate.
It is interesting that criminology and forensic science emerged at exactly
the same time as psychoanalysis. In 1893, Professor Hans Gross
(also Viennese) published the first handbook of criminal investigation,
a manual for detectives. It was the same year that Freud published
(with Josef Breuer) his first work on psychoanalysis: a “Preliminary
Communication,” On the Psychical Mechanism of Hysterical Phenomena.
Freud, largely via Hollywood, wielded an extraordinary influence
on detective fiction. But to what extent is the reverse true?
We know that Freud was very widely read–and that he had
and Vivien Leigh. And among the many Hollywood directors who
succumbed to Freud’s influence was Alfred Hitchcock, whose thrillers
were much more psychological than any that had been filmed before.
In one of his films Freud actually makes an appearance–well, more or
less. I am thinking here of Spellbound, released in 1945, and based on
Francis Beedings’s crime novel The House of Dr. Edwardes.
The producer of Spellbound, David O. Selznick, was himself in
psychoanalysis–as were most of his family–and so enthusiastic was
he about Freud’s ideas that he recruited his own analyst to help him
vet the script. Hitchcock’s film has everything we expect from a psychological
thriller: a clinical setting, a murder, a man who has lost his
memory, a dream sequence, and a sinewy plot that twists and turns
toward a dramatic climax. That this film owes a large debt to psychoanalysis
is made absolutely clear when a character appears who is–in
all but name–Sigmund Freud: a wise old doctor with a beard, glasses,
and a fantastically hammy Viennese accent.
Since Hitchcock’s time, authors and screenwriters have had much
fun playing with the resonances that exist between psychoanalysis and
detection. This kind of writing reached its apotheosis in 1975 with the
publication of Nicholas Meyer’s The Seven-Per-Cent Solution, a novel in
which Freud and Sherlock Holmes are brought together to solve the
same case.
The relationship between psychoanalysis and detection was not
lost on Freud. In his Introductory Lectures, for example, there is a passage
in which he stresses how both the detective and the psychoanalyst depend
on accumulating piecemeal evidence that usually arrives in the
form of small and apparently inconsequential clues.
If you were a detective engaged in tracing a murder, would
you expect to find that the murderer had left his photograph
behind at the place of the crime, with his address attached? Or
would you not necessarily have to be satisfied with comparatively
slight and obscure traces of the person you were in
search of? So do not let us underestimate small indications; by
their help we may succeed in getting on the track of something
bigger.
Later in the same series of lectures, Freud blurs the boundary between
psychoanalysis and detection even further. He goes beyond pointing
out that psychoanalysis and detection are similar enterprises and suggests
that psychoanalytic techniques might actually be used to aid detection.
Freud describes the case of a real murderer who acquired highly
dangerous pathogenic organisms from scientific institutes by pretending
to be a bacteriologist. The murderer then used these stolen cultures
to fatally infect his victims. On one occasion, he audaciously wrote a
letter to the director of one of these scientific institutes, complaining
that the cultures he had been given were ineffective. But the letter
contained a Freudian slip–an unconsciously performed blunder.
Instead of writing in my experiments on mice or guinea pigs, the murderer
wrote in my experiments on men. Freud notes that the institute director–
not being conversant with psychoanalysis– was happy to overlook
such a telling error.
In a little-known paper called Psychoanalysis and the Ascertaining of
Truth in Courts of Law, Freud is even more confident that psychoanalytic
techniques might be used in the service of detection. He writes:
In both [psychoanalysis and law] we are concerned with a
secret, with something hidden. . . . In the case of the criminal it
is a secret which he knows he hides from you, but in the case of
the hysteric it is a secret hidden from himself. . . . The task of
the therapeutist is, however, the same as the task of the judge;
he must discover the hidden psychic material. To do this we
have invented various methods of detection, some of which
lawyers are now going to imitate.
It is interesting that criminology and forensic science emerged at exactly
the same time as psychoanalysis. In 1893, Professor Hans Gross
(also Viennese) published the first handbook of criminal investigation,
a manual for detectives. It was the same year that Freud published
(with Josef Breuer) his first work on psychoanalysis: a “Preliminary
Communication,” On the Psychical Mechanism of Hysterical Phenomena.
Freud, largely via Hollywood, wielded an extraordinary influence
on detective fiction. But to what extent is the reverse true?
We know that Freud was very widely read–and that he had
lished a memoir in 1971, which contains a very interesting aside. The
two men had been discussing literature, and Freud had expressed his
admiration for several writers, most of them acknowledged masters
and writers of the first magnitude, such as Dostoevsky. However, by
the Wolfman’s reckoning at least, a lesser talent seemed to have gatecrashed
Freud’s literary pantheon.
Once we happened to speak of Conan Doyle and his creation,
Sherlock Holmes. I had thought that Freud would have
no use for this type of light reading matter, and was surprised to
find that this was not at all the case and that Freud had read
this author attentively. The fact that circumstantial evidence
is useful in psychoanalysis when reconstructing a childhood
history may explain Freud’s interest in this type of literature.
The Wolfman’s final observation is clearly correct. Crimes are like
symptoms, and the psychoanalyst and detective are similar creatures.
Both scrutinize circumstantial evidence, both reconstruct histories,
and both seek to establish an ultimate cause.
If we broaden our definition of what might legitimately be called
detective fiction and permit ourselves to consider works written even
before Hoffmann’ s Mademoiselle de Scudéry, then we encounter a story
that, without doubt, exerted a profound influence on Freud and the
development of psychoanalysis. It is a story that British writer Christopher
Booker has called the greatest “whodunit” in all literature. It is
one of the earliest stories of murder and detection ever recorded and
has a twist in the tale that still has the power to shock: Oedipus Rex by
Sophocles.
When we meet Oedipus, there is a curse on his country. He is told
that this curse will not be lifted until he has discovered the identity of
the man who murdered his predecessor: King Laius, the former husband of Oedipus’s new wife, Jocasta. Oedipus follows clue after clue until his investigation leads him inexorably to a terrible conclusion.
It was he, Oedipus, who killed the king. Laius was his father and
Oedipus is now married to his own mother.
This classic tragedy is also an ancient detective story and gave its
name to the cornerstone of psychoanalytic theory–the much mooted
(and even more misunderstood) Oedipus complex–a group of largely
unconscious ideas and feelings concerning wishes to possess the parent
of the opposite sex and eliminate the parent of the same sex.
I think there is something very satisfying about the relationship
between psychoanalysis and detective fiction. Freud influenced the
course of detective fiction, but by the same token, detective fiction (in
its broadest possible sense) also influenced Freud. And at a deeper
level, psychoanalysis–a process that resembles detective work–
discovers a “whodunit” buried in the depths of every human psyche.

Part One

The God of Storms

I
It was the day of the great storm. I remember it well because my
father—Mendel Liebermann—had suggested that we meet for
coffee at The Imperial. I had a strong suspicion that something
was on his mind. . . .

A roiling mass of black cloud had risen from behind the Opera
House like a volcanic eruption of sulphurous smoke and ash. Its dimensions
suggested impending doom—an epic catastrophe on the
scale of Pompeii. In the strange amber light, the surrounding buildings
had become jaundiced. Perched on the rooftops, the decorative
statuary—classical figures and triumphal eagles—seemed to have
been carved from brimstone. A fork of lightning flowed down the
mountain of cloud like a river of molten iron. The earth trembled and
the air stirred, yet still there was no rain. The coming storm seemed to
be saving itself—building its reserves of power in preparation for an
apocalyptic deluge.
The streetcar bell sounded, rousing Liebermann from his reverie
and dispersing a group of horse-drawn carriages on the lines.
As the streetcar rolled forward, Liebermann wondered why his father
had wanted to see him. It wasn’t that such a meeting was unusual;
they often met for coffee. Rather, it was something about the manner
in which the invitation had been issued. Mendel’s voice had been curiously
strained—reedy and equivocal. Moreover, his nonchalance
had been unconvincing, suggesting to Liebermann the concealment of
an ulterior—or perhaps even unconscious—motive. But what might
that be?
The streetcar slowed in the heavy traffic of the Karntner Ring, and
Liebermann jumped off before the vehicle had reached its stop. He
raised the collar of his astrakhan coat against the wind and hurried
toward his destination.
Even though lunch had already been served, The Imperial was
seething with activity. Waiters, with silver trays held high, were
dodging one another between crowded tables, and the air was filled
with animated conversation. At the back of the café, a pianist was
playing a Chopin mazurka. Liebermann wiped the condensation off
his spectacles with a handkerchief and hung his coat on the stand.
“Good afternoon, Herr Doctor.”
Liebermann recognized the voice and without turning replied,
“Good afternoon, Bruno. I trust you are well?”
“I am, sir. Very well indeed.”
When Liebermann turned, the waiter continued. “If you’d like to
come this way, sir. Your father is already here.”
Bruno beckoned, and guided Liebermann through the hectic
room. They arrived at a table near the back, where Mendel was concealed
behind the densely printed sheets of the Wiener Zeitung.
“Herr Liebermann?” said Bruno. Mendel folded his paper. He was
a thickset man with a substantial beard and bushy eyebrows. His expression
was somewhat severe—although softened by a liberal network
of laughter lines. The waiter added, “Your son.”
“Ahh, Maxim!” said the old man. “There you are!” He sounded a
little irritated, as though he had been kept waiting.
After a moment’s hesitation, Liebermann replied, “But I’m early,
Father.”
Mendel consulted his pocket watch.
“So you are. Well, sit down, sit down. Another pharisäer for me
and . . . Max?” He invited his son to order.
“A schwarzer, please, Bruno.”
The waiter executed a modest bow and was gone.
“So,” said Mendel. “How are you, my boy?”
“Very well, Father.”
“You’re looking a bit thinner than usual.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. Drawn.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Are you eating properly?”
Liebermann laughed. “Very well, as it happens. And how are you,
Father?”
Mendel grimaced.
“Ach! Good days and bad days, you know how it is. I’m seeing that
specialist you recommended, Pintsch. And there is some improvement,
I suppose. But my back isn’t much better.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
Mendel dismissed his son’s remark with a wave of his hand.
“Do you want something to eat?” Mendel pushed the menu
across the table. “You look like you need it. I think I’ll have the topfenstrudel.”
Liebermann studied the extensive cakelist: apfeltorte, cremeschnitte,
truffeltorte, apfelstrudel. It ran on over several pages.
“Your mother sends her love,” said Mendel, “and would like to
know when she can expect to see you again.” His expression hovered
somewhere between sympathy and reprimand.
“I’m sorry, Father,” said Liebermann. “I’ve been very busy. Too
many patients . . . Tell mother I’ll try to see her next week. Friday, perhaps?”
“Then you must come to dinner.”
“Yes,” said Liebermann, suddenly feeling that he had already committed
himself more than he really wanted. “Yes. Thank you.” He
looked down at the menu again: dobostorte, guglhupf, linzertorte. The
Chopin mazurka ended on a loud minor chord, and a ripple of
applause passed through the café audience. Encouraged, the pianist
played a glittering arpeggio figure on the upper keys, under which he
introduced the melody of a popular waltz. A group of people seated
near the window began another round of appreciative clapping.
Bruno returned with the coffees and stood to attention with his
pencil and notepad.
“The topfenstrudel,” said Mendel.
“The rehrücken, please,” said Liebermann.
Mendel stirred the cream into his pharisäer—which came with a
tot of rum—and immediately started to talk about the family textile
business. This was not unusual. Indeed, it had become something of a
tradition. Profits had risen, and Mendel was thinking of expanding
the enterprise: another factory, or even a shop, perhaps. Now that
the meddling bureaucrats had lifted the ban on department stores, he
could see a future in retail—new opportunities. His old friend Blomberg
had already opened a successful department store and had suggested
that they might go into partnership. Throughout, Mendel’s
expression was eager and clearly mindful of his son’s reactions.
Liebermann understood why his father kept him so well informed.
Although he was proud of Liebermann’s academic achievements, he
still hoped that one day young Max would step into his shoes.
Mendel’s voice slowed when he noticed his son’s hand. The fingers
seemed to be following the pianist’s melody—treating the edge of the
table like a keyboard.
“Are you listening?” said Mendel.
“Yes. Of course I’m listening,” Liebermann replied. He had become
accustomed to such questioning and could no longer be caught
out, as was once the case. “You’re thinking of going into business with
Herr Blomberg.”
Liebermann assumed a characteristic position. His right hand—
shaped like a gun—pressed against his cheek, the index finger resting
gently against the right temple. It was a “listening” position favored by
many psychiatrists.
“So—what do you think? A good idea?” asked Mendel.
“Well, if the existing department store is profitable, that sounds
reasonable enough.”
“It’s a considerable investment.”
“I’m sure it is.”
The old man stroked his beard. “You don’t seem to be very keen on
the idea.”
“Father, does it matter what I think?”
Mendel sighed. “No. I suppose not.” His disappointment was palpable.
Liebermann looked away. He took no joy in disappointing his
father and now felt guilty. The old man’s motives were entirely
laudable, and Liebermann was perfectly aware that his comfortable
standard of living was sustained—at least in part—by Mendel’s exemplary
management of the family business. Yet he couldn’t ever
imagine himself running a factory or managing a department store.
The idea was ludicrous.
As these thoughts were passing through his mind, Liebermann noticed
the arrival of a gentleman in his middle years. On entering the
café, the man removed his hat and surveyed the scene. His hair was
combed to the side, creating a deep side parting, and his neatly
trimmed mustache and beard were almost entirely gray. He received a
warm welcome from the head waiter, who helped him to take his coat
off. He was immaculately dressed in pin-striped trousers, a widelapeled
jacket, and a “showy” vest. He must have made a quip, because
the head waiter suddenly began laughing. The man seemed in no
hurry to find a seat and stood by the door, listening intently to the
waiter, who now appeared—Liebermann thought—to have started
to tell a story.
Mendel saw that his son had become distracted.
“Know him, do you?”
Liebermann turned. “I’m sorry?”
“Dr. Freud,” said Mendel in a flat voice.
Liebermann was astonished that his father knew the man’s identity.
“Yes, I do know him. And it’s Professor Freud, actually.”
“Professor Freud, then,” said Mendel. “But he hasn’t been a professor
for very long, has he?”
“A few months,” said Liebermann, raising his eyebrows. “How did
you know that?”
“He comes to the lodge.”
“What lodge?”
Mendel scowled. “B’nai B’rith.”
“Oh yes, of course.”
“Although God knows why. I’m not sure what sort of a Jew he’s
supposed to be. He doesn’t seem to believe in anything. And as for his
ideas . . .” Mendel shook his head. “He gave us a talk last year.
Scandalous. How well do you know him?”
“Quite well. . . . We meet occasionally to discuss his work.”
“What? You think there’s something in it?”
“The book he wrote with Breuer on hysteria was excellent, and
The Interpretation of Dreams is . . . well, a masterpiece. Of course, I don’t
agree with everything he says. Even so, I’ve found his treatment suggestions
very useful.”
“Then you must be in a minority.”
“Undoubtedly. But I am convinced that Professor Freud’s system—
a system that he calls psychoanalysis—will become more widely accepted.”
“Not in Vienna.”
“I don’t know. One or two of my colleagues, other junior psychiatrists,
are very interested in Professor Freud’s ideas.”
Mendel’s brow furrowed. “Some of the things he said last year
were obscene. I pity those in his care.”
“I would be the first to admit,” said Liebermann, “that he has become
somewhat preoccupied—of late—with the erotic life of his patients.
However, his understanding of the human mind extends well
beyond our animal instincts.”
The professor was still standing by the door with the head waiter.
He suddenly burst out laughing and slapped his companion on the
back. It was clear that the head waiter had just told him a joke.
“Dear God,” said Mendel under his breath, “I hope he doesn’t
come this way.” Then he sighed with relief as Professor Freud was ushered
to a table beyond their view. Mendel was about to say something
else but stopped when Bruno arrived with the cakes.
“Topfenstrudel for Herr Liebermann and rehrücken for Herr Doctor
Liebermann. More coffee?” Bruno gestured toward Mendel’s empty
glass.
“Yes, why not? A mélange, and another schwarzer for my son.”
Mendel looked enviously at his son’s gâteau, a large glazed chocolate
sponge cake shaped like a saddle of deer, filled with apricot jam
and studded with almonds. His own order was less arresting, being a
simple pastry filled with sweet curd cheese.
Liebermann noticed his father’s lingering gaze.
“You should have ordered one too.”
Mendel shook his head. “Pintsch told me I must lose weight.”
“Well, you won’t lose weight eating topfenstrudel.”
Mendel shrugged and took a mouthful of pastry but stopped chew-
ing when a loud thunderclap shook the building. “It’s going to be a bad
one,” said Mendel, nodding toward the window. Outside, Vienna had
succumbed to a preternatural twilight.
“Maxim,” Mendel continued, “I wanted to see you today for a reason.
A specific reason.”
At last, thought Liebermann. Finally, he was about to discover the
true purpose of their meeting. Liebermann braced himself mentally,
still unsure of what to expect.
“You probably think it’s nothing to do with me,” Mendel added.
“But—” He stopped abruptly and pushed the severed corner of his
topfenstrudel around the plate with his fork.
“What is it, Father?”
“I was speaking to Herr Weiss the other day and . . .” Again his
sentence tailed off. “Maxim.” This time he returned to his task with
greater determination. “You and Clara seem to be getting along well
enough and—understandably, I think—Herr Weiss is anxious to
know of your intentions.”
“My intentions?”
“Yes,” said Mendel, looking at his son. “Your intentions.” He carried
on eating his cake.
“I see,” said Liebermann, somewhat taken aback. Although he had
considered many subjects that his father might wish to discuss, his relationship
with Clara Weiss had not been one of them. Yet now the
omission seemed obvious.
“Well,” replied Liebermann. “What can I say? I like Clara very
much.”
Mendel wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned forward.
“And?”
“And . . .” Liebermann looked into his father’s censorious eyes.
“And . . . I suppose that my intention is, in the fullness of time to—”
(Now it was his turn to hesitate.)