A Death in Vienna: A Novel (Mortalis) (Paperback)

by Frank Tallis (Author)
Key Phrases: Miss Lydgate, Amelia Lydgate, Herr Schelling (more...)

Editorial Reviews

Product Description
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.

“An engrossing portrait of a legendary period as well as a brain teaser of startling perplexity . . . In Tallis’s sure hands, the story evolves with grace and excitement. . . . A perfect combination of the hysterical past and the cooler–but probably more dangerous–present.”–Chicago Tribune

“[An] elegant historical mystery . . . stylishly presented and intelligently resolved.”
–The New York Times Book Review

“[A Death in Vienna is] a winner for its smart and flavorsome fin-de-siècle portrait of the seat of the Austro-Hungarian empire, and for introducing Max Liebermann, a young physician who is feverish with the possibilities of the new science of psychoanalysis.”–The Washington Post

“Frank Tallis knows what he’s writing about in this excellent mystery. . . . His writing and feel for the period are top class.”
–The Times (London)
__________________________________________________________

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.
Sometimes 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.
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 Me...

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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.”
“...

Product Details

• Paperback: 480 pages
• Publisher: Random House Trade Paperbacks (May 8, 2007)
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 0812977637
• ISBN-13: 978-0812977639
• Product Dimensions: 7.9 x 5.2 x 1.1 inches
• Shipping Weight: 12 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)
• Average Customer Review: 4.2 out of 5 stars See all reviews (11 customer reviews)
• Amazon.com Sales Rank: #36,356 in Books (See Bestsellers in Books)

  Popular in this category: (What's this?)

  #62 in

  Books > Mystery & Thrillers > Mystery > Historical

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

15 of 15 people found the following review helpful:

4.0 out of 5 stars Murder Mystery in the Age of Freud, August 4, 2007

By	Christine Zibas "AnythngArt" (Just Outside Chicago, IL USA) - See all my reviews

This murder mystery is as charming as Vienna itself. Like the city's famed waltz, Frank Tallis moves his book, "A Death in Vienna," along at the perfect tempo. The year is 1902, and Vienna is at its height of social and scientific development. Tallis uses all the history and social background of the city to infuse his story and characters with a historical interest that at times makes the central murder almost secondary to the setting. Almost...for the twists and turns and inscrutable details of the murder are never too far from our minds, whether we are sitting with the characters in a Viennese cafe enjoying its famous coffees and pastries or sitting in a darkened room for a seance with the dead medium.

Ultimately, the story rests on not only this fantastic setting, but also all of the strong characters that Tallis has created here: the dead medium, Fraulein Lowenstein; the detective, Oskar Rheinhardt; the psychologist, Max Liebermann, follower of none other than Sigmund Freud, who makes his appearance here too, albeit briefly. This story captures the tug of war between criminology and psychology, between the paranormal and the scientific, between the old and the forces of change that have engulfed the city during this time frame. They are all played out through the mysterious circumstances of Lowenstein's death and the subsequent investigation by Rheinhardt, aided by his good friend Herr Doctor Liebermann.

The beautiful Lowenstein's prime suspects are her seance circle, an unusual group of people who reflect a wide range of personalities and quirks. Through Tallis's story, we see a complete society of Vienna, the triumphs of the new century and the social problems yet to be resolved. This is a period setting rich in appeal, and where other stories may be dragged down by historical detail, this one thrives because of it. Tallis uses every bit of Viennese familiarity to draw us in, and then uses the mystery to keep us going. We become engaged with the charming Rheinhardt-Liebermann duo as they follow the leads, using every "modern" method to discern the truth about the murder. In the end, the answers to the murder mystery come from a most unlikely source.

Unlike many of the thrillers of today, this book relies on character development and setting to build a strong story, showing just how unnecessary the technology of the day is to creating and solving a good mystery. The book is easy to follow, interesting, and well told. That we come away smarter than we began is just an added bonus.

7 of 7 people found the following review helpful:

4.0 out of 5 stars A fascinating portrait of a complex era, February 19, 2008

By	P. Lozar "plozar" (Santa Fe, NM USA) - See all my reviews (TOP 1000 REVIEWER)    (REAL NAME)

In general, I greatly enjoyed this book, both as a character study and as a portrait of a fascinating time and place. The author knows turn-of-the-(20th)-century Vienna well, both the social and political issues that people were dealing with and the nitty-gritty details of daily life, but he uses his knowledge to create a believable setting for the story rather than becoming pedantic. His understanding of the cross-currents in the nascent psychoanalytic movement gives the story depth. Dr. Max Liebermann is an intriguing character because he embodies many of the contradictions of that time and place: he's a rebel in his profession, and his artistic tastes run to the avant-garde; but he's also a member of a prosperous Jewish family and community to whom he's strongly loyal. The detective Rheinhardt is less complicated, but his friendship with Dr. Liebermann is based on a shared love of music as well as their fascination with the human mind, so it rang true to me. I felt that the mystery itself wasn't all that strong: any reader who's familiar with the genre could figure out the disappearing bullet and the locked room rather easily, although the author did a good job of dropping hints and red herrings to keep you guessing who done it. I quibbled with some of the psychoanalytic material, e.g., multiple personalities usually develop from a long history of abuse, not ... well, the way it happens here. And I concur with other readers that the author's use of short chapters became confusing -- I disagree that there are "too many characters," but the choppy narrative made it hard to remember what X was doing the last time we met him. All in all, however, it's a good story, well written, and I'm hooked enough now to read the next novel in the series.

12 of 14 people found the following review helpful:

4.0 out of 5 stars Buyer beware . . ., December 10, 2007

By	Jane Q. Doe (The Hague) - See all my reviews

This is a well-written and interesting mystery, but be aware that "Mortal Mischief" and "A Death in Vienna" are the same book! One is the British title, the other the title used in the States. Don't buy both.