Decidedely ungripping, quite damning, of course, for a mystery, at least to page 233. Set in Vienna in 1902, heroed by a student of Freud, a series of related murders occurs, requiring psychiatry to unravel. Murders on an unlikely Mozartian theme. Lots of boring period detail, and to my utmost exasperation it all comes down to a Nazi theme, even though set in 1902. Will those dang Europeans...
more Decidedely ungripping, quite damning, of course, for a mystery, at least to page 233. Set in Vienna in 1902, heroed by a student of Freud, a series of related murders occurs, requiring psychiatry to unravel. Murders on an unlikely Mozartian theme. Lots of boring period detail, and to my utmost exasperation it all comes down to a Nazi theme, even though set in 1902. Will those dang Europeans EVER get over the Nazis? I had specifically confirmed the earliness of the setting, so as to avoid any possible dwelling on the master race, Wagner, and Jews, but I got 'em anyway. Swastikas painted in blood. Plotting and prose are both prosaic, all-in-all not particularly worth reading.
Excerpts:
A few years ago he began to complain of feeling like death. His wife arranged for him to stay in a sanitorium -- Bellevue, I think -- which made him feel better, but after returning to Vienna he became very depressed. He has since been under the care of a general physician. Recently he caused his wife and children considerable alarm when he claimed that he not only felt like death but actually was
dead. A few days ago he requested burial.
Mathias inserted the forceps into Vanek's mouth and tutted a few times, seemingly frustrated by the complexity of the action he was trying to perform. After a few abortive attempts, his expression relaxed and he began to withdraw the instrument. "Extraordinary," said Mathias, raising the forceps up to the light. Rheinhardt blinked. He could not have been more surprised. Not even if he had been standing in a marquee on the Prater bearing witness to a particularly impressive piece of pretidigitation. For there, gripped between the closed bills of Professor Mathias's forceps, was a common padlock.
In due course, common sense would prevail, public opinion would rally in his support, and the dean -- obsequious lickspittle hypocrite that he was -- would be obliged to resign. This plan of action had been slowly solidifying as it curdled in the gentle but persistent heat of his own ruminative malice.
He knew that this time Brother Francis was really dead -- as dead as the Hapsburg emperors and empresses in their caskets of bronze.... --"Did he say anything?" --"Yes, he did." --"What, my son? What did he say?" Rheinhardt's face shadowed with uncertainty. --"I asked him who did this..." Rheinhardt was speaking more to himself than his companion. "And he replied -- well -- at least I believe I heard him reply -- a cellist." --"I beg your pardon?"
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