Fatal Lies Page 10

  “And the subsequent games of chess?” asked Rheinhardt. “Why were they necessary? If you were attempting to instill in the boy a sense of mastery, why on earth did you allow him to lose the second game? Isn't that a contradiction?”

  “By beating Perger, I did indeed run the risk of reviving his anxieties; however, it was a risk I was prepared to take, but only in order to secure a further advantage. After his defeat, I was able to alert him to a specific and deadly maneuver that he was thereafter obliged to watch for. This possibility occupied his thoughts during the third game, to the extent that he was less able to monitor his speech. It was under these conditions that he mentioned Frau Becker, a person whose name has—for some reason—never appeared in connection with Zelenka before.”

  Liebermann scratched the words “Distraction” and “Less Guarded Replies” on the blackboard. He then tossed the chalk in the air, caught it, and tapped the woodwork.

  “I hope you've been listening carefully, Rheinhardt. There will be a test later!”

  21

  THE BECKER RESIDENCE was a large house occupying the summit of a gentle rise that swept up from Aufkirchen. From the garden gate, looking toward the village, the onion dome and spire of the Romanesque church was just visible over the trees. Rheinhardt and Liebermann paused to admire the view before following the gravel path toward their destination.

  Their approach disturbed a sleek fat crow. Flapping its wings, the bird took off, a worm wriggling in its closed beak. Two more crows were circling the chimney, cawing loudly. The combination of their plaintive cries, the moribund garden, and a low, oppressive sky created an atmosphere of sinister melancholy.

  The door was answered by a Czech housemaid, who escorted Rheinhardt and Liebermann into a spacious parlor, where they were asked to wait. A few minutes later a striking woman appeared in the doorway. She was young, blond, probably in her early twenties, and extremely attractive: earnest eyes complemented a wide sensual mouth and a petite retroussé nose. At first Rheinhardt thought that there might have been some mistake, and that this woman was, in fact, Becker's daughter; however, her identity was confirmed as soon as she spoke.

  “Inspector Rheinhardt, my husband didn't tell me you would be coming here today. Forgive me.… You find us unprepared for guests.”

  If the first surprise was Frau Becker's appearance, then the second was her accent. It was distinctly provincial.

  The inspector introduced his colleague and said: “Frau Becker, it is I who must apologize. Your husband did not know that we intended to visit. And please, do not concern yourself with hospitality—a few minutes of your time is all we ask.”

  “The least I can do is offer you some refreshments, Inspector. Shall I ask Ivana to make some tea?”

  “That is most kind—but no, thank you.”

  “Please—Herr Doctor, Inspector…” She indicated some chairs. “Do sit.” And she perched herself on the edge of a chaise longue.

  “I would like to ask you,” said Rheinhardt, “some questions about the boy Zelenka.”

  Frau Becker required little prompting. She spoke of how the news of Zelenka's death had shocked her; how her thoughts had gone out to his parents, and how she would miss their conversations. The fluency and urgency of her speech declared the authenticity of her feelings—as did the sudden halting pauses, during which her eyes glistened.

  “Imagine,” she said, shaking her head and dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “To lose a son—and only fifteen years old.”

  “How was it that you became acquainted?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “The masters at Saint Florian's—particularly those with wives— often invite boys to their houses. It is encouraged here. Although the boys look like men, in many ways they are still children. They miss their families, ordinary things… sitting in a garden, a glass of raspberry juice with soda water, home baking. Zelenka always wanted me to make spiced pretzels. I have a special recipe—given to me by my grandmother.”

  “How often did you see Zelenka?”

  “He used to come at my husband's invitation with other boys, and sometimes he would come on his own. I think he enjoyed my company—felt comfortable. You see, his family is poor, and I…” Frau Becker hesitated for a moment, and blushed. “I also come from a poor family. We had this in common.”

  Rheinhardt found himself glancing down at the young woman's blouse. It was made of black lace and lined with flesh-colored silk, a combination that created a tantalizing illusion of immodesty. A gentleman's eye was automatically drawn down to the transparent webbing, which promised the possibility of indecent revelation.

  “What was Zelenka like?” said Rheinhardt, forcing himself to look up, and loosening his collar.

  “A kind, intelligent boy. But…”

  Frau Becker paused, her expression darkening.

  “What?” Rheinhardt pressed.

  “Unhappy.”

  “Because of the bullying—the persecution?”

  Frau Becker looked surprised. “You know about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “He never told me what happened—what they did to him—but I could tell that it was bad.”

  “Did he ever mention any names?”

  “No. And when I asked, he refused to answer. He said it would only make things worse. He would get called a squealer, a snitch, and other horrible names—they would pick on him even more.”

  “Did you speak to your husband?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He told me that unless boys like Zelenka are prepared to name their tormentors, nothing can be done. The whole school can't be watched every hour of the day. And I suppose that's true—isn't it?”

  “May I ask a question?” said Liebermann. Frau Becker assented. “May I ask whether or not you had any dreams last night?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Frau Becker looked at the doctor in surprise.

  “Did you have any dreams—last night?”

  “Yes,” she said, tentatively. “Yes, I did.”

  “Would you be kind enough to tell me what occurred in your dream?”

  Frau Becker shrugged. “I could… but it's nonsense, Herr Doctor.”

  “Please.” Liebermann urged her to continue.

  “Very well,” said Frau Becker. “I dreamed that I went to the theater with my husband.… One side of the stalls was empty. My husband told me that Marianne and her fiancé had wanted to go too—”

  “Marianne?”

  “A friend.”

  “An old friend?”

  “Yes, we grew up together. As a matter of fact, I got a letter from her yesterday, which contained some very important news. She has just got engaged to a lieutenant in the uhlans.”

  “Go on.”

  “Where was I? Oh yes… Marianne and her fiancé had wanted to go too, but only cheap seats—costing eight hellers—were available, so they didn't take them. But I thought it wouldn't have been so bad if they had.” Frau Becker looked at Liebermann. She seemed confused, and faintly embarrassed. “That's it. That's all I can remember.”

  Liebermann leaned back in his chair and allowed his clenched fist to fall against his right cheek. The index finger unfurled and tapped against his temple.

  “Did the empty half of the stalls that you saw in your dream remind you of anything?”

  Frau Becker paused and gave the question serious consideration. Her lips pursed, and a thin horizontal line appeared on her brow.

  “Now that you mention it, yes. Just after Christmas, I wanted to see a play—a comedy—at the Volkstheatre. I had bought tickets for this play very early. So early, in fact, that I had to pay an extra booking fee. When we got to the Volkstheatre, it turned out that I needn't have bothered—one side of the theater was half empty. My husband kept on teasing me for having been in such a hurry.”

  “And the sum of eight hellers—is that associated with some memory of a real event?”

  Frau Becker toyed with her
brooch, a thin crescent of garnets.

  “Not eight hellers but eight kronen. The maid was recently given a present of eight kronen by an admirer. She immediately rushed off to Vienna in order to buy some jewelry.”

  “Thank you,” said Liebermann. “Thank you,” he repeated, nodding his head. “You have been most helpful.”

  Frau Becker looked from Liebermann to Inspector Rheinhardt, her expression inviting an explanation. But the inspector merely thanked her for being so cooperative.

  On leaving the house, Liebermann and Rheinhardt discovered that the garden was no longer empty. A man in muddy overalls and boots was kneeling next to a flower bed, tugging coils of dead creeper from a thorny bush.

  “Good afternoon,” said Rheinhardt.

  The man stood up, drew his sleeve across his nose, and uttered a greeting. Rheinhardt introduced himself and showed the gardener a photograph of Zelenka—the one that he had had copied after visiting the boy's parents.

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “Yes, I recognize him.”

  “He came here often?”

  “Some would say too often.” The man's lips suddenly parted. He began to chuckle, revealing a mouth full of yellow carious teeth.

  “What do you mean, ‘too often’?”

  The gardener made a lewd gesture with his hand, winked, and, without excusing himself, stomped off.

  Liebermann and Rheinhardt watched him recede.

  “Just a moment,” Rheinhardt called.

  The man accelerated his step and disappeared behind the house.

  “When our great poets versify about the rustic charm of country folk,” said Rheinhardt, “what do you think they mean, exactly?”

  Liebermann stared out of the carriage window at the passing woodland.

  “So,” said Rheinhardt. “What did you make of Frau Becker?”

  “She is very much regretting her marriage.”

  “If that really is the case, then I'm not surprised—I can't think of a more ill-matched couple. However, given that you have never laid eyes on Herr Becker, I must assume that you have determined this by interpreting her dream.”

  “Professor Freud has explained that dreams are often a reaction to events that occur on the preceding day. This certainly seems to be the case with Frau Becker, who only yesterday received a letter from Marianne, an old friend, containing news of her engagement to an excellent prospective husband—a dashing young officer. A common factor linking much of the material that surfaced in her dream— albeit in the form of distortions—was haste. You will recall that Frau Becker purchased her theater tickets far too early, and the maid hurried into town to spend her eight kronen. Taken together, I would suggest that these elements express the following sentiment: ‘It was stupid of me to marry in a hurry. I can now see from Marianne's example that I could have got a better husband if I had waited.’ “

  Liebermann raised a hand in the air and then let it drop, as if tired of the sheer predictability of human affairs.

  “I suspect that Frau Becker's story,” he continued, “is one with which we are all very familiar. An attractive provincial girl, desiring a better life, encounters an older man of means. She beguiles him with her youthful good looks, but after they are married, she discovers that the life of a schoolmaster's wife is not what she'd expected. She is bored, stranded on a lonely eminence in the woods, trapped in a big empty house, miles away from the delightful shops on Kärntner Strasse, Kohlmarkt, and the Graben, where she once imagined herself purchasing beautiful, expensive things for her home and wardrobe. Her erotic instinct is frustrated, and she envies her friend, Marianne, who will almost certainly find satisfaction—if she hasn't already— in the arms of her handsome young cavalryman. Such a woman might well find solace in the company of boys like Zelenka: intelligent, sensitive boys, approaching manhood. And such is her appetite that even the gardener is conscious of her misconduct. I cannot believe that the extraordinary properties of Frau Becker's blouse escaped your attention.”

  Rheinhardt coughed into his hand and his cheeks became flushed. “I did not know where to look!”

  “Do you know something, Oskar?” said Liebermann, rubbing his hands together. “I'm beginning to think that there is something quite odd going on at Saint Florian's.”

  “Ha!” exclaimed Rheinhardt.

  “Zelenka appears to have died naturally… but the more your investigations proceed, the more you seem to uncover conditions and circumstances that one would ordinarily associate with murder. Sadistic persecution… and now the possibility of an illicit sexual liaison. What if Zelenka had threatened to expose Frau Becker? What if he had asked her for money? The boy was very poor and hated Saint Florian's. It might have been his only way out.”

  “Well,” said Rheinhardt, “our opinions seem to be converging at last. You have a strong sense of something being wrong, but you can't quite put your finger on it. In other words, you have a feeling. Isn't that so?” Liebermann raised his chin and looked down his nose at his friend with haughty displeasure. “I only hope,” Rheinhardt continued, his voice becoming more reflective, “that I am given an adequate opportunity to get to the bottom of it.”

  Liebermann caught the change of register. “Why shouldn't you be?”

  “Oh,” grumbled Rheinhardt, “some business of von Bulow's.”

  “Ordinarily I would ask you the nature of that business, but I know there is little point. You have been ordered to keep it a secret.”

  Rheinhardt emitted a cry of surprise and demanded: “How on earth did you know that?”

  Liebermann closed his eyes and an enigmatic smile played about his lips. “Perhaps I had a feeling,” he said softly.

  Rheinhardt burst out laughing. “Sometimes,” he said, shaking his head, “you can be quite insufferable!”

  22

  “YOU WANTED TO SEE ME, headmaster?”

  “Yes indeed, Wolf. Please sit.”

  Professor Eichmann was signing and dating documents. On Eichmann's desk was a photograph of himself looking considerably younger and dressed in the uniform of an artillery officer. The headmaster glanced up from his paperwork.

  “How is your father?”

  “Very well, headmaster.”

  “You will be kind enough to include my salutations when you next write home.”

  “Of course, headmaster.”

  Professor Eichmann signed and dated one more document, and said: “You will be wondering why I wanted to see you today.” He did not pause for a reply, but instead made some polite inquiries after Wolf's health. He then congratulated Wolf, first for winning a bronze medal in the school shooting competition, and second for having been invited by Professor Gärtner to join his special tutorial group.

  “He is very particular about who he accepts,” said the headmaster. “Such an invitation is extended to only the most promising pupils—boys with the right attitude.”

  When their gazes met, they did so with mutual understanding. They had had similar discussions in the past.

  The headmaster toyed with his pen, and spoke for some time about the values of the school and about how, for generations now, Saint Florian's had been producing soldiers of the highest quality. “Men who appreciated the importance of loyalty, fidelity, and obedience— men of honor.”

  He put his pen down and made some minor adjustments to its position.

  “Of course,” continued the headmaster, “lately Saint Florian's has been forced to accept a number of boys who do not share our values. Boys who object to our methods, find fault with our principles— and whose families are not acquainted with our traditions. This saddens me, because if an outside party were to question these boys, I fear they would misrepresent us. They do not seem to appreciate that we are—as it were—a family. Loose talk damages the school's reputation—and what damages the school's reputation damages all of us.”

  Eichmann's voice was persuasive, reasonable—but it was also troubled by a trace of anger. The headmaster sigh
ed, smiled, and said: “I understand that Professor Gärtner has recently introduced you to the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche.”

  “Yes,” said Wolf. “We have been reading Beyond Good and Evil.“

  “A very stimulating work,” said Eichmann. “Although when Professor Gärtner introduces you to Thus Spake Zarathustra, you will discover even greater riches.” The headmaster stood up and walked over to the lancet windows. He reached out his right hand and, resting it against the stone casement, leaned forward, allowing his arm to support his pitched body. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and rivers of darkness had begun to appear between the hills. “The police were here again today.” His voice was even.

  “I know, headmaster.”

  “Something must be done.”

  “Yes, headmaster.”

  “Something decisive.”

  “Of course, headmaster.”

  23

  LIEBERMANN WAS SITTING at the table of an inauspicious coffeehouse in Landstrasse with Signor Barbasetti, his fencing master, and two other pupils with whom he was moderately acquainted: Brod and Lind. They had just taken part in a competition. However, none of the three aspirants had performed very well.

  Signor Barbasetti concealed his disappointment with a lengthy and somewhat philosophical disquisition on the art of fencing, the conclusion of which was that much could be learned from the close examination of small errors.

  Yes, like psychoanalysis, thought Liebermann.

  Unfortunately, Barbasetti chose to demonstrate the truth of this maxim by recounting and itemizing the failings of his students in such detail that any bonhomie slowly ebbed away, leaving in its place an intransigent atmosphere of gloom and despondency. Earlier than antici pated, the men rose from their seats, enacted the requisite courtesies, and parted company.

  Liebermann was not familiar with the city's third district—and because his mind was still occupied by his mentor's excoriating critique, it took him some time to register that he had strayed from his intended route and was now hopelessly lost. He had wandered into an area consisting mainly of building sites and decrepit terraces: squat buildings with ruined stucco and rotten window frames. The air smelled damp, tainted with a trace of stagnancy (not unlike sewage). At the end of the road a mangy dog was standing beneath a streetlamp, feeding on something in the gutter. As Liebermann approached, the dog stopped eating and gazed up at him with minatory pale lupine eyes: it emitted a cautionary growl, and then began to gnaw on an object that cracked loudly in its mouth. Liebermann turned the corner, and peered down another poorly lit road.