Chapter OneLiebermann crouched beside the open door and examined the lock. It was still working, and he turned the key a few times to test it. The lock worked perfectly. Liebermann allowed the thick metal bolt to slide out of its casing and press against his palm.
"So ..." he said, thinking out loud. "What are we supposed to believe? That Fraulein Lowenstein was expecting some form of supernatural retribution? She composed her note and, recognizing that there would be no escape, lay back on the chaise longue where she patiently awaited her transport to hell. Like Faust, Fraulein Lowenstein had benefited from forbidden knowledge, the price of which was eternal damnation?"
It was clear from Liebermann's tone that he found the idea entirely ridiculous.
"Yes," said Rheinhardt. "It is absurd-but unfortunately there are no alternative explanations."
Liebermann walked over to the shelves and picked up the ceramic hand, showing palpable disdain.
"Do you have any suspects?"
Rheinhardt threw his arms up in the air and looked despairingly around him.
"Suspects? Do impossible murders have suspects? To be honest, Max, I haven't really given the matter of suspects much consideration."