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.

"British author Tallis (Love Sick) sets his intelligent murder mystery in the stormy, atmospheric Austrian capital at the turn of the 20th century. Psychoanalyst Max Lieberman, a contemporary of Freud's, takes time out of his busy schedule treating hysterics to help his friend Det. Oskar Rheinhardt solve the perplexing case of a beautiful medium found dead in a locked room on the day of her weekly seance. She's left a suicide note and died of a gunshot to the heart, but there's no weapon or bullet in her body. Rheinhardt is certain she's been murdered, and as he interviews each of her clients, he uncovers a number of potential suspects with motive enough for murder-but without the know-how to accomplish this impossible deed. Midway through the investigation, one of the medium's clients is bludgeoned to death in his sleep-also inside a locked room. Despite Rheinhardt's superior sleuthing and Lieberman's keen observational and analytical abilities, the murderer and the key to his modus operandi elude them until help comes from an unlikely source. Tallis convincingly animates Lieberman and Rheinhardt in a picturesque Vienna roiling with cultural and intellectual change." Publishers Weekly (Copyright Reed Business Information, Inc.)

"Provocative and deeply satisfying....A Death in Vienna isn't just a masterfully constructed tale of memory and revenge, it demonstrates that thrillers can be more than entertainment." Detroit Free Press

"British psychologist Tallis deftly brings to life a city of contrasts, caught between polite manners and virulent anti-Semitism." Library Journal

"Immensely entertaining, and very clever indeed." Kirkus Reviews

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-siecle 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 emigre 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

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 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.

Frank Tallis is a writer and practicing clinical psychologist. He has published seven non-fiction works (including Changing Minds: The History of Psychotherapy as an Answer to Human Suffering; and Hidden Minds: A History of the Unconscious.) His new novel, Lovesick, is also published by Century.