Fatal Lies Page 11

  Even though a few windows showed signs of occupancy, most were dark. Indeed, since leaving the coffeehouse Liebermann had not encountered another human being. It was unnaturally quiet, suggesting abandonment and dereliction. He glanced at his watch—and discovered that it was much later than he had thought.

  Liebermann halted to consider his position. If he had been going toward the canal, then he would be able to follow its course into town. If, on the other hand, he had been traveling in the opposite direction, he was sure to come across a train line—which would serve the same purpose.

  As he contemplated his options, the oppressive silence was broken by a scream—a woman's voice, crying for help. The volume and shrillness of the sound startled Liebermann, who spun around, trying to determine where it was coming from. He then sprinted toward the source, his footsteps sounding loud on the cobbled street. But he had not gone very far when the cries faded. His pace slackened.

  An upstairs window flickered into life, its luminescent rectangle inhabited by the silhouette of a man in his nightshirt. The dog began to bark. Ahead, the road curved into darkness.

  Where is she?

  Liebermann was breathing hard.

  The screams had sounded very close. Yet the arc of doors that lay ahead revealed nothing more than the reflected glimmer of a second streetlamp.

  Liebermann had no choice but to continue. He quickened his pace and almost missed an opening between two houses—a narrow alleyway. Skidding to a halt, he wheeled around. He could hear scuffling—movements and a whimper. Treading softly he ventured into the passage. His foot made contact with something soft and yielding. Reaching down, he discovered a woman's bag.

  Suddenly, voices. Rough-edged voices, speaking in a harsh working-class dialect.

  Liebermann edged forward, taking great care not to make a sound. The alleyway led to a walled yard, dimly lit by a streetlamp located on the other side of the enclosure. The yard was strewn with crates, bottles, and other detritus. A woman was struggling to free herself from a broad-shouldered man who, standing behind her, had clamped a hand over her mouth and wrapped an arm around her waist. Another two men stood in front of the captive, jeering and making obscene remarks. It was obvious what they intended to do.

  Liebermann stepped out of his tenebrous hiding place and called out: “Let her go.”

  The leering duo turned. It was impossible to see their faces in the half-light.

  “Let her go,” Liebermann repeated.

  One of the men laughed.

  “What are you gonna do about it?”

  “I must insist that you let her go.”

  A stream of profanities ended in humorless guffaws.

  “Leave us alone,” the other man said. “Leave us alone, all right? Or you're gonna get hurt. Badly.”

  “Yeah, run along—college boy.” This came from the man who was restraining the woman. She began to wriggle. “Keep still, you Gypsy bitch,” he hissed. The woman groaned as the villain tightened his grip.

  Liebermann stood firm.

  “Right,” said the nearest man. Liebermann saw him make a swift movement—and the glint of a blade flashed in the man's hand. He began to move forward. “Let's see if I can change your mind.”

  “As you wish,” Liebermann replied.

  The young doctor had been holding his sabre under his arm. Grabbing the hilt, he pulled it from the scabbard—producing as he did a satisfying ring of resonant steel—and held the sword aloft. Its appearance was greeted with a gasp and another stream of profanities. However, the man with the razor continued his approach, and his companion followed.

  Liebermann could now see his adversary's features. He was bald, with swollen ears, a snout nose, and a scar that crossed his lips, disfiguring his mouth. It was a brutish countenance, suggesting the haphazard adhesion of lumps of clay. Liebermann searched the eyes for signs of intelligence but found only savage stupidity and an appetite for mindless violence.

  The man jumped forward with surprising speed, swiping his razor close to Liebermann s face. But Liebermann had the superior weapon. Before the man could retreat, the young doctor's sabre had slashed through his forearm. The thug cried out, dropping the razor and falling to his knees. His companion, however, had armed himself with a large plank of wood, from which projected several nails. He was taller than the bald man, and more agile. Dodging Liebermann s first lunge, he swung the plank hard against the doctor's side. It was not a painful blow, but had sufficient force to make Liebermann stumble.

  While Liebermann was trying to right himself, the tall man landed a second blow on his shoulder. This time it was extremely painful—sharp and searing. A nail had penetrated his skin, and as he pulled away, he heard the sound of ripping.

  “Again,” the bald man shouted.

  His companion raised his makeshift club, but on this third occasion he lifted it too high, exposing his torso and conceding the vital second that Liebermann required. The young doctor swung his sabre horizontally, creating a glimmering semicircle, the edge of which, if it had been displaced by another two inches, might well have proved fatal. The tall man buckled over—a torrent of blood gushing from his abdomen.

  Liebermann waited until the tall man's rapidly weakening legs gave way, and then marched over to the woman and her captor.

  “Release her,” he ordered.

  The broad-shouldered man looked over in the direction of his accomplices, both of whom were now cursing and crawling toward the alleyway. He swore, and pushed the woman forward with such force that she crashed into Liebermann, making him reel back. However, the maneuver was not a continuation of the fight. The coward simply ran off, and the wretched trio disappeared, yelling florid imprecations.

  “You had better sit down,” said Liebermann.

  He gestured toward a crate. “Are you hurt?”

  The woman shook her head.

  Liebermann bent down and examined her face. She pulled back a little, alarmed at the sudden proximity.

  “I'm sorry, do forgive me. Your face… Your face is grazed.… I'm a doctor.” Liebermann touched her cheek gently. He could smell her perfume—a distinctive combination of fragrances. “There may be some swelling there tomorrow.”

  He withdrew and stood up straight.

  “Thank you,” the woman said. “Thank you, Herr Doctor… ?”

  “Liebermann.”

  “Liebermann,” she repeated. There was something odd about her intonation, as if she had expected his name to be Liebermann and was satisfied that the expectation had been confirmed.

  “My pleasure,” said the young doctor, bowing.

  She glanced toward the alleyway.

  “We shouldn't stay here.” She spoke with a slight Magyar accent. “They could come back… and with more of their friends.”

  “But are you recovered?” said Liebermann. “Perhaps a few more minutes—to compose yourself?”

  “Herr Doctor, I am perfectly capable of walking.”

  There was a note of indignation in the woman's voice, a note of pride. It was almost as if she had construed Liebermann's solicitous remarks as a slur—an imputation of weakness. Liebermann also noticed that, for someone who had just survived such a terrible ordeal, she was preternaturally collected.

  She stood up, straightened her head scarf, and adjusted her clothing. She was wearing the short jacket favored by Hungarian women and a long, richly embroidered skirt. Liebermann offered her his arm, which she took—naturally and without hesitation.

  On entering the alleyway, Liebermann picked up the bag he had discovered earlier. It was remarkably heavy.

  “This must be yours.”

  “Yes, it is. Thank you.” She took it, and they proceeded to the street.

  “Well, Herr Dr. Liebermann.” The woman halted and released his arm. “I am indebted… a debt, I fear, that it will be impossible for me to repay. You have shown uncommon courage and kindness.” She took a step backward. “Good night.”

  “A moment, please,�
�� said Liebermann. “If you mean to walk these streets unaccompanied, I cannot allow it. I am obliged—as a gentleman—to escort you home.”

  “That will not be necessary.”

  Liebermann was dumbfounded. “But… but I insist!”

  She smiled, and the proud light in her eyes dimmed a little.

  “I have already caused you enough trouble.” She reached up and gently brushed his shoulder, where a hank of silk lining sprouted from the torn astrakhan.

  “Think nothing of it,” said Liebermann, crooking his arm. “Now, where do you live?”

  “Near the canal.”

  “Then you must show me the way. I am not familiar with the third district and—to be perfectly honest—I was quite lost when I heard your cries.”

  She nodded—and there it was, again. A curious, fleeting expression, as if his words had merely confirmed something that she knew already.

  The woman set off, taking them through a maze of empty back-streets.

  “What happened?” asked Liebermann, flicking his head back in the direction from where they had come. “How did you get into that…” He paused before adding “Predicament?”

  “I had been to visit a friend,” said the woman “And was simply walking home. When I passed that alleyway, those… animals jumped out and grabbed me.”

  Liebermann felt her shuddering.

  “Did you not know that it is unwise for a woman to walk the streets at this time?”

  “I am new to Vienna.”

  “Well, one should be very careful.”

  “I will be in the future.”

  “It was most fortunate that I was carrying my sabre.”

  “Yes, I was wondering—”

  “A fencing competition,” Liebermann interjected. “Earlier this evening.”

  “Did you win?”

  “No, I lost. And quite ignominiously”

  Liebermann asked the woman a few polite questions about her origins (she was indeed Hungarian) and expressed an earnest hope that the evening's events would not prejudice her opinion of Vienna and its inhabitants. She responded by saying that nowhere could ever displace Budapest in her affections—but that she would make every effort to comply with his request.

  “What is your specialty, Herr Doctor?”

  “Psychiatry.”

  The majority of people reacted quite warily to this admission, but the Hungarian woman responded as though she thought his branch of medicine worthy of the utmost respect. “And where do you work?”

  “The General Hospital.”

  She urged him to continue, and he spoke for some time about his duties, the new science of psychoanalysis, and the patients in his care. She was very attentive, and asked him some extremely intelligent questions about the causes of hysteria.

  “Yes,” said the woman pensively. “To study the human mind—a privilege—and endlessly fascinating.”

  They arrived at their destination—a small apartment building at the end of a gloomy cul-de-sac. The woman did not have to wake a concierge to gain admittance—the door was standing wide open. A tiled arcade led to a courtyard, on the other side of which was a short iron staircase leading to a sheltered landing. A solitary gas lamp agitated the flagstones with a muted yellow lambency.

  The woman stopped and—looking toward the stairs—said, “I think I can manage the remainder of the journey on my own.” The statement was nuanced with a hint of dry humor.

  Liebermann found himself looking at the woman properly for the first time. She was very beautiful—but not in the sense that her features conformed to a classical ideal. Her beauty was less conventional—less finished, less tame. She had long dark hair tied up loosely in a head scarf. Her mouth was generous, and her long straight nose gave her face unusual strength. The arch of her eyebrows was gentle—the extremities rising rather than falling at the temple. This peculiarity created the illusion of otherworldliness, recalling storybook illustrations of elves and sprites. From her ears dangled two ornate silver earrings, encrusted with black stones. Liebermann remembered the way she had been insulted—Gypsy bitch— and there was indeed something Romany, something exotic about her appearance.

  Hungarian women were reputed to possess a unique and potent beauty, and in her case the reputation was clearly merited.

  Liebermann bowed and pressed his lips against her hand. Rising, he said: “I don't know your name.”

  “Trezska Novak,” she replied.

  Liebermann suddenly felt awkward. “Well, Fräulein Novak… good night.”

  “Good night, Herr Dr. Liebermann.” She took a few steps, and then stopped and, looking back, added, “I am indebted—truly.”

  He watched her cross the courtyard, ascend the stairs, and unlock the door of her apartment. Before she entered, she waved. Lieber-mann returned the gesture, again feeling awkward—as if his arm had become a cumbersome appendage. He heard the sound of a bolt engaging but did not move to leave. Instead, he continued to stare at the empty landing. The gas lamp sputtered.

  Quite suddenly, Liebermann was overwhelmed with curiosity: he wanted to know more about Trezska Novak and regretted not having asked her more questions. He had talked too much about himself—the hospital, hysteria, Professor Freud. What was she doing in Vienna? And why was an educated woman living in such a district? Shaking his head, he rebuked himself—it was none of his business. He should be getting home.

  Reluctantly, Liebermann made his way back to the street, where he became aware that his shoulder was hurting badly and that he was extremely tired (almost to the point of exhaustion). He set off toward the canal, praying that he would find a cab.

  24

  “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, RHEINHARDT?”

  “Following Herr Kiss, sir—as instructed by Inspector von Bulow. I began my surveillance outside his apartment in Landstrasse at six-thirty this morning and—”

  Brügel shook his bovine head. Evidently he did not want to hear about Herr Kiss.

  “Have you seen this?” The commissioner was holding a folded newspaper in his hand.

  Rheinhardt shook his head.

  Brügel handed him the Arbeiter-Zeitung.

  “Do you know it?”

  “Yes, a socialist daily—isn't it?”

  “Sit down, Rheinhardt… and turn to page ten.”

  An article had been circled in red ink.

  The recent death, of a young cadet at Saint Florian's oberrealschule— reported in the Neue Freie Presse on the 19th of January—served to re-mind me of my own school days, spent at that very same educational establishment.…

  Rheinhardt read on, his heart accelerating as his eyes were drawn down the page by words that seemed to stand out from the text in bold relief.

  Sadism… cruelty… torture…

  He made a supreme effort to calm himself, returned to the beginning, and attempted to read the article without skipping.

  I was a pupil at Saint Florian's from 1893 to 1896 and can say, without fear of exaggeration, that these were the most unhappy years of my life.

  The writer went on to describe a culture of violence, which he claimed was tacitly endorsed by the headmaster and senior members of staff. His most startling assertion, however, was that the suicide of a boy reported in 1894 was, in fact, a case of manslaughter, being the direct result of a heinous practice known as “doing the night watch.” This was a form of punishment meted out by older boys, in which the victim was made to stand on a dormitory window ledge from “lights out” until dawn. Sadly for Domokos Pikler a nocturnal cloudburst made the ledge slippery, and he fell to his death.

  Rheinhardt drew the paper closer.

  I hope that the authorities—such as they are—will be mindful of this, my candid and truthful revelation. Alas, for personal reasons my identity must remain undisclosed. Sincerely, Herr G., “Vienna.

  When Rheinhardt had finished reading, he placed the newspaper on Brügel s desk.

  “Pikler… Pikler,” said Rheinhardt. “I don't remember the nam
e.”

  “One of old Schonwandt's cases. He retired the following year… not a very competent detective.” The commissioner said nothing for a few moments—and his habitual scowl became even darker and heavier than usual. “This afternoon,” he continued, “I received a telephone call from one of the education minister's aides. He discoursed—at some length—on the importance of maintaining public confidence in Austria's military schools and hoped that, should the article you have just read come to the emperor's attention, Minister Rellstab will be able to assure His Majesty that the security office treats such accusations very seriously and that any fatalities occurring in military schools are always thoroughly investigated. I explained that you were still in the process of making inquiries… and that you would be submitting a final report on the death of Thomas Zelenka in due course.”

  “But, sir… I can't possibly proceed with my pursuit of Herr Kiss and continue investigating Zelenka's death. Saint Florian's is situated in the woods: a long drive from the center of Vienna. It would take me—”

  “You are no longer operating under Inspector von Bulow's command,” the commissioner interrupted.

  “I have your permission to return to Saint Florian's?”

  Brügel nodded dismissively He did not have the good grace to articulate an affirmative response.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Rheinhardt, suppressing the urge to leap from his chair and exclaim with delight.

  For once, Rheinhardt left the commissioner's office in a happy mood. He swaggered down the corridor, humming the ebullient victorious theme from the final movement of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.