RHEINHARDT STARED INTO THE mirror. In the reflected distance stood a short man wearing a soft cap and a paint-spattered smock.
“And how, Herr Olbricht, does one become a member of the Eddic Literary Association?”
“You are invited.”
“By whom?”
“The president, Baron von Triebenbach. Any member can nominate interested parties; however, it is the president who has the final say. It is he who extends the invitation.”
Rheinhardt turned. “And who nominated you, Herr Olbricht?”
“I am proud to say that it was none other than the president himself.”
The artist was unable to suppress a self-satisfied smile. Two rows of stunted uneven teeth made a brief appearance. Rheinhardt approached a large unfinished canvas that was leaning up against the wall. It showed a man with long yellow hair, plunging a sword into the neck of a dragon. Red-black blood spurted out between broken metallic scales.
“Siegfried?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Of course.”
The inspector twisted the points of his mustache and tested their sharpness with the soft pad of his forefinger.
“How did you and the baron become acquainted?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Through the kind intercession of my patron, Baroness Sophie von Rautenberg. She was of the opinion that I would be inspired by the poetry and stories of the Edda.”
“And were you?”
“Most certainly. Immersion in the Eddic tradition has completely revitalized my art.”
“Did you study at the academy, Herr Olbricht?”
Olbricht's face tightened. Rheinhardt noticed that the lines around his mouth were particularly marked.
“No, I didn't. They…” He seemed flustered for a moment and his eyes searched the room nervously. “I am self-taught.” Then, somewhat defensively, he added, “There has always been a demand for my work.”
“Do you have a dealer?”
“Yes. Ulrich Lob; however, his gallery is quite small and he's only interested in architectural drawings-St. Stephen's, the Hofburg, the town hall, that sort of thing. Almost all my substantial works have been commissioned by my patron's circle of friends.”
“You are most fortunate, Herr Olbricht. There must be very few artists in Vienna who have the support of such a devoted champion.”
“That is very probably true. Nonetheless…” Olbricht paused. “There are also few artists in Vienna to whom their patrons owe such a debt of gratitude.” Rheinhardt inspected the artist's face more closely. It was distinctly batrachian. His nose seemed unfinished, and his eyes were set too far apart.
“Oh?”
With what appeared to be genuine reluctance, Olbricht muttered, “When I was a young man, I… saved Von Rautenberg's life.”
“Did you really?” said Rheinhardt, nodding to encourage further disclosure. But the artist did not respond. Instead, he wiped some brushes on his smock and dropped them into a bottle of turpentine. “You are too modest, Herr Olbricht. Other men would seize such an opportunity for self-aggrandizement.”
“It was many years ago.”
“How many?”
“Twenty or so.”
“And what were the circumstances?”
The artist chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “Bosnia-Herzegovina-the campaign of 1878. In those days I was a foot-rag Indian.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“An infantryman. Von Rautenberg was our commanding officer.”
“And how did you come to save his life?”
“There had been some skirmishes with small groups of insurgents. Not very well organized. Even so, it was necessary to undertake daily patrols. It was early evening and we were in woodland going down to a river.” Olbricht indicated the gentle gradient in the air with a movement of his hand. “The baron insisted that he should lead the party. A more junior officer could have done the job-but that was what Von Rautenberg was like: never one to shirk responsibility-a military man of the old school. If only we had more men like Von Rautenberg today, this empire of ours would be a power to be reckoned with.” Olbricht crossed his arms with unusual vehemence. “I noticed some movement among the trees and acted-more from nerves, or instinct perhaps, than intention. I can't honestly say I was being courageous. Still, I was very young-eighteen or thereabouts. I can remember pushing the baron down, the sound of gunfire and losing consciousness. When I awoke, I was being attended by the doctor. A bullet had grazed my head.” Olbricht raised his hand and stroked his right temple to show the bullet's trajectory. “It went straight into a silver birch-just where the baron had been standing. I thought I'd be in a military hospital for a few days and then back with my regiment. But it wasn't to be… I suffered from dizziness, nausea, and headaches-terrible, blinding headaches.” He winced at the recollection. “Sometimes my vision blurred. It was impossible to continue. In due course I was discharged on medical grounds.”
“You returned to Vienna?”
“Yes. While convalescing, I had formed the habit of sketching-pen-and-ink drawings of men in the infirmary. The doctors said I had a talent.”
Rheinhardt returned his attention to the unfinished canvas of Siegfried slaying the dragon. A subtle change in his expression indicated that he found the image quite pleasing.
“It needs much more work, of course,” said the artist.
“Yes,” said Rheinhardt, nodding his head and pulling at his chin. “Even so, an arresting image.”
“There is something about Siegfried's posture that is not quite right,” said Olbricht. “It does not suggest sufficient strength and power… the way his left knee is buckling. I thought that this detail would make the figure seem more animated, but I fear that it has only succeeded in making him appear weak.”
“No, not at all,” said Rheinhardt. “Fafner is a terrible adversary. One would expect even the greatest hero to falter during such an encounter.”
Olbricht was flattered by the inspector's evident pleasure. “I will be including this work in my next exhibition, Inspector. If you wish to come, you would be most welcome. It opens next week.” Olbricht walked over to a battered chest, his feet sounding a hollow knock on the bare floorboards. He lifted the lid and removed a small poster, which he handed to Rheinhardt.
The image was simple: an ancient Germanic god, most probably Wotan, holding his spear aloft. Heavy Gothic script set large announced the title of the exhibition: Olbricht-Our Heroes and Legends. “It will be at the Hildebrandt Gallery on Karntner Strasse,” the artist added.
“Thank you,” said Rheinhardt. “May I bring a friend?”
“Of course.”
Rheinhardt folded the poster and slid it gently into his breast pocket.
“I cannot help but notice, Herr Olbricht, that you are very fond of operatic subjects.”
“The baroness has many friends in the Richard Wagner Association.”
“Are you ever asked to paint scenes from operas other than those by Wagner?”
“Some: Der Freischutz and Euryanthe. And earlier this year a concert violinist wanted a scene from Fidelio as a present for his wife.”
“Have you ever been asked to depict any scenes from Mozart?” asked Rheinhardt.
“No,” Olbricht replied. The syllable dropped into a pool of silence. Their stares locked together but Olbricht's blank expression showed no sign that he understood why Rheinhardt had asked him that particular question. Gradually his features softened. “No,” he said again, with a minute shake of the head. “No one has ever asked. Although I doubt that I would enjoy such a commission. I am convinced that German opera is most successful when it addresses romantic or epic themes.”
Rheinhardt had been ready to observe some small sign: a flinch, a blink, a pause-restless, fidgeting fingers. The kind of sign that his friend, young Doctor Liebermann, was in the habit of identifying as significant. But there was nothing unusual about Olbricht apart from his amphibian-like features.
Reverting to more traditional methods of investigation, with which he felt more comfortable, Rheinhardt patted his coat pocket and withdrew a small notebook and a stub of pencil.
“I wonder, Herr Olbricht,” he began. “Can you remember what you were doing on the morning of Monday the sixth of October?”