Fatal Lies Read online

  He rapped on von Bulow's door, waited an inexcusably long time for permission to enter, and found von Bulow hunched over his desk, writing a report with a gold fountain pen. The supercilious inspector did not look up. His bald pate shone like a billiard ball.

  “Von Bulow?”

  “Ah, Rheinhardt, I'm glad you're here.… There's something I need you to do this afternoon.”

  Von Bulow kept his head bowed and continued with his task.

  “I'm afraid,” said Rheinhardt, “that you'll have to get your assistant to do it.”

  The shiny bald pate was suddenly replaced by von Bulow's angry face.

  “What did you say?”

  “You'll have to get your assistant to do it,” Rheinhardt repeated, enunciating each syllable as if he were talking to someone who was partially deaf.

  “That isn't possible,” said von Bulow coldly. “He's otherwise engaged.”

  “Then you'll have to do it.”

  Von Bulow's eyes narrowed as he grasped the significance of Rheinhardt's airy insolence.

  “What… what's happened?”

  “I've been reassigned to the Saint Florian investigation.”

  “Who has reassigned you?”

  “Commissioner Brügel, of course.”

  “But that's not—”

  “Possible?” Rheinhardt smiled. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to collect Herr Kiss's photograph later this morning? I will have no further use for it.”

  The look of shocked bemusement on von Bulow's face gave Rheinhardt inestimable pleasure.

  On returning to his office Rheinhardt sat at his desk, where he found a note from Haussmann: Fanousek Zelenka would like to see you.

  25

  STEININGER, FREITAG, AND DREXLER were playing cards on the floor. They were sitting cross-legged on an old blanket that had been spread out for their comfort. The tableau they created recalled the Middle East: they might have been gamesters at a bazaar. Wolf was lying on some cushions a short distance away reading Beyond Good and Evil. They were all smoking, and the lost room was filled with gently undulating hazy veils of cigarette smoke.

  “I'd like to get into the cavalry” said Steininger. “I have a cousin in the cavalry. He wears a very handsome uniform. He told me to join because you get to ride spirited horses and attract the attention of girls.”

  “My father disapproves,” said Freitag.

  “What? Of girls?” said Steininger, grinning.

  “No, of the cavalry,” said Freitag. “He says it's corrupt. Who do you want to join, Drexler?

  Freitag swigged some slivovitz from a bottle and handed it to Steininger.

  “I haven't decided yet,” Drexler replied.

  “You're not thinking of the civil service, are you?” said Freitag indignantly. “I can't think of anything more dull.”

  Drexler looked over his spectacles. “I haven't decided yet,” he repeated calmly.

  Steininger belched.

  “Must you be so disgusting?” asked Wolf, without taking his eyes from his book.

  Steininger shrugged, and, ignoring Wolf, said: “What about the infantry, Freitag?”

  “The foot rags?” Freitag replied. “Possibly.”

  Wolf tutted.

  “What?” said Freitag.

  “I suppose the infantry are all right,” said Wolf sarcastically. “If you want to die an utterly pointless death defending Greeks from Turks and Turks from Greeks.”

  Steininger and Freitag looked puzzled.

  “He's talking about Crete,” said Drexler.

  “Crete?” said Steininger. “What about Crete?”

  “That's where the Eighty-seventh were sent,” said Wolf. “The Christians rebelled against the Muslims, and the Greeks landed two thousand soldiers to help them overthrow the Ottoman sultan. The Eighty-seventh were sent over to separate the opponents—and they were given excellent new white uniforms so that they would be especially conspicuous in the bright sun and easy for agitators to pick off! Yes, you two join the infantry.… I can't think of anything more noble, can you, than to selflessly lay down one's life for one's Greek and Turkish brothers? Your parents will be most proud.”

  Steininger pushed out his lower lip. “Well, it's easy for you to criticize us, Wolf. But you haven't told us where you're going.”

  “Yes, Wolf, where are you going?” Freitag repeated, the pitch of his voice raised slightly in irritation.

  Wolf sighed and—still without turning to look at them—said in pointedly weary tones: “I do not intend to prance around on a horse in order to attract the attention of witless females. Nor do I intend to waste my life in some garrison town—where the only person who can read without moving his lips is the local doctor. I do not intend to meet a premature end trying to suppress some meaningless peasants’ revolt in Transylvania, and I most certainly don't intend to stand between two barbarian races hell-bent on each other's annihilation, thousands of miles away from home. No… I have other plans.”

  “What plans?” asked Freitag.

  “Oh, do shut up, Freitag,” said Wolf. “Can't you see that I'm trying to read?”

  26

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when Rheinhardt arrived in Land-strasse. He had not forewarned the Zelenkas of his intention to visit; consequently, he was not surprised to find the bungalow empty. Removing a box of cigars from his coat, he passed the time puffing contentedly and contemplating the gasworks through a trail of rising smoke. Perhaps, on account of his elated state, these bleak edifices no longer looked ugly. They appeared romantic—like the dolmen tombs of mythic warriors, or the watchtowers of Valhalla.

  Meta was the first to return. She immediately apologized—for no obvious reason—and ushered Rheinhardt through the door. The cramped living space was just as he remembered it: shadowy and claustrophobic. After offering him a chair, she began making tea.

  “Your husband left a message—you wanted to see me?”

  “Yes,” said Meta. “It's about Thomas's things.”

  “Things?”

  “His possessions.… We received a parcel from the school, yesterday morning.” She paused, and struggled to control a sudden swell of grief that made her chest heave. “His clothes, a little money… his schoolwork and some books. But something was missing. His dictionary.”

  Meta came to the table and placed a cracked cup in front of the inspector. He thanked her, and indicated that she should continue.

  “It was very expensive… Hartel and Jacobsen: bound in green leather, with gold lettering. Fanousek worked very hard to get the extra money we needed. We thought Thomas should have something like that—so that he wouldn't stand out so much. We thought the other boys would have such things.”

  Meta sat down opposite Rheinhardt and searched his face for a response. He felt vaguely disappointed. His expectation had been that the Zelenkas would have something interesting to tell him— something that would help him solve the mystery of their son's premature demise. The loss of the boy's dictionary however valuable the book might have been, seemed rather trivial under the circumstances.

  “Are you suggesting that it has been stolen?”

  Meta shrugged. “We just want it back.”

  Rheinhardt nodded. “I will make some inquiries.”

  “Thank you, Inspector.”

  His promise to make some inquiries was hollow, disingenuous. He might ask one or two questions, he supposed, but that was all.

  Rheinhardt sipped his tea.

  There was nothing more to say—and the silence became increasingly brittle. Yet the inspector was reluctant to leave. He did not want to depart under a pall of disappointment, feeling that his earlier high spirits had been dissipated and that he had wasted his time.

  “You said that there were other things in the parcel. May I see them?”

  “Yes,” said Meta. “Everything we received is in Thomas's room. I put the clothes in the chest—the other things are on top of it.”

  She gestured toward the closed do
or. As before, she was disinclined to follow.

  Rheinhardt entered the boy's room and was struck by its terrible stillness—more so than before. He recalled sitting in his parlor, listening to Therese playing the piano and Mitzi humming, he recalled contemplating the horror of being predeceased by one's own children, and as he recalled these things, he felt as if the back of his neck was being chilled by an icy exhalation. He turned around nervously, half expecting to see the Erlkönig.

  The strange presentiment passed, and Rheinhardt was visited by a sad realization. Fanousek and Meta did not want Thomas's dictionary back in order to sell it. They wanted it back because it was Thomas's—and everything that Thomas had owned was here. This was all they had left of their son.

  Rheinhardt knelt by the chest and began to flick through the boy's exercise books. The margins were filled with teachers’ comments— most were helpful, but a significant number were merely sarcastic. Beneath these exercise books was a much larger volume with hard cloth covers and thick yellow paper. It contained sketches: a vase, naked bodies in various Olympian poses, and a seated woman. They were not very accomplished works of art—the athletic figures in particular were flawed by errors of proportion. However, the seated woman was executed with just enough proficiency to suggest the distinctive lineaments of Frau Becker.

  The next exercise book was full of numbers and algebraic equations. Throughout, the left page had been used for rough work and was a chaotic mess of scribbled operators and products. The opposite page, however, was much neater, showing, step by step, the precise method employed to calculate answers.

  Something caught Rheinhardt's attention: a systematic regularity among the rough work—number pairs, arranged in neat columns of varying length. Rheinhardt had forgotten most of his school mathematics. Even so, he was reasonably confident that these pairings had nothing to do with Zelenka's calculations. Moreover, although some were in Zelenka's hand, most of them were in someone else's— someone whose numerals were much smaller. Inspection of the marginalia soon established that the additional number pairs had been produced by the mathematics master, Herr Sommer.

  What did they mean?

  Rheinhardt remembered that Liebermann—for reasons the young doctor had not cared to disclose—was of the opinion that Herr Sommer should be closely questioned. Liebermann's penchant for mystification was extremely irritating, but Rheinhardt could not suppress a smile, impressed as he was by his friend's perspicacity.

  27

  LIEBERMANN HAD SPENT MUCH of the afternoon conversing with a patient who had once been a distinguished jurist and who now suffered from dementia praecox. One of the symptoms of the old lawyer's illness was incontinence of speech. He had expounded upon a bizarre but entirely cohesive philosophical system that had been revealed to him—so he claimed—by an angelic being (ordinarily resident on Phobos, a satellite of the planet Mars). It was the jurist's intention to record this new doctrine in a volume that he maintained would one day become the scriptural foundation of a new religion.

  The old lawyer's speech was ponderous, and after the first hour Liebermann's concentration began to falter. An image of Miss Lyd -gate insinuated itself into his mind, and, as was usually the case whenever he thought of the Englishwoman, he found himself wanting her company and conversation.

  The jurist droned on, speaking of circles of influence, Platonic ideals, and the progress of souls; however, Liebermann had disengaged. The jurist's words carried no meaning and became nothing more than a soporific incantation.

  Miss Lyd gate.

  Amelia…

  What an extraordinary woman she was. How different from all the other women he had met in his life. Liebermann thought of his adolescent infatuations, the dalliances of his university years—and Clara Weiss, to whom he had once been engaged: beautiful, amusing, and from a family much like his own. Yet he had not really enjoyed her company. Clara was too superficial, preoccupied as she was with fashion and society gossip. Unable to sustain a meaningful conversation, she was the very opposite of Amelia.

  Liebermann whispered her name: the weak syncopation of the A followed by the subtle lilt of the last three syllables. The second of the four, he noticed, required him to bring his lips together—as in a kiss.

  Amelia, Amelia…

  How he wanted to see her, to sit with her in her modest parlor, breathing the subtly scented sweet must of old volumes, drinking tea, and listening to her precise and ever so slightly accented German. Something inside him, something profoundly deep, altered—an inner movement or shifting. The sensation was impossible to describe, but a memory came to his aid that captured—at least in part—the quality of his experience. Once, in the Tyrol, he had watched a great lake thawing. He had listened to the groaning sounds emanating from the frozen-solid surface—a doleful music reminiscent of human lamentation. Then, quite suddenly, the keening had been silenced by a thunderous crack. A jagged black rift had appeared, and two massive ice floes slowly drifted apart. This was how he felt now. As if something locked—something frozen—had suddenly been released.

  It was a moment of revelation, every bit as mysterious as those described by the jurist.

  He wanted to see Miss Lyd gate, not only because her conversation was stimulating, but also—more truthfully—because he was haunted. Yes, haunted! By the redness of her hair, the gleaming whiteness of her shoulders, the intensity of her pewter eyes, and the memory of her waist—held close—as they'd danced; by the precious rarity of her smile, the accidental touching of hands, and the ghostly imaginings that anticipate the transformation of sensual dreams into reality. In short, he wanted to see Miss Lyd gate because he was in love with her. He had never permitted himself to use that word before in relation to Miss Lyd gate, but as he did so now, he recognized that it possessed the authority of an indisputable diagnosis.

  “Thank you,” said Liebermann, interrupting the jurist's disquisition. “Most interesting. We shall continue our discussion tomorrow.”

  “But I have only just begun to explain the principle of equivalence,” protested the jurist.

  “Indeed.”

  “An essential teaching, particularly if you are to appreciate fully the moral implications of the principle of plurality.”

  “Very true—I'm sure; however, regretfully, I really must draw our meeting to a close.”

  Liebermann summoned a nurse and instructed her to escort the old jurist back to his bed. He returned to his office, where he made some perfunctory notes. Then, grabbing his new coat (another stylish astrakhan), he departed the hospital with long, purposeful strides.

  Unexpectedly, the weather had become more clement. The air was warmer, and carried with it a foretaste of distant spring—the promise of renewal.

  Liebermann felt elated, relieved of the onerous burden of pretence and self-deception. He would arrive at Amelia Lyd gate's door unencumbered by excuses or insincere justifications. It was not his intention to declare his love, but rather to initiate a process of change. His intercourse with Miss Lyd gate had always been formal. This was attributable, in part, to the Englishwoman's character (the famed reserve of that indomitable island race); but it was also due to their shared history, their past roles as doctor and patient, something of which had persisted well beyond the termination of Miss Lyd gate's treatment. If their relationship could be placed on a different footing, then perhaps there was hope.… She was a thoroughly undemonstrative person, yet he had reason to believe that honesty would now prevail. In the minutiae of her behavior, he had more than once observed—so he flattered himself—evidence of a burgeoning attachment. His love would be reciprocated! And if he was wrong? Well, so be it! At least, in Nietzsche's eternally recurring universe, the dissatisfaction, frustration, and pain arising from his inauthentic existence would be short-lived.

  The young doctor had become so preoccupied by his racing thoughts that his journey through Alsergrund seemed to take no time at all. Suddenly, Frau Rubenstein's house reared up in front of him
. He paused, collected himself, took a deep breath, and raised the knocker. Three decisive strikes announced his arrival.

  What should I say to her?

  On such occasions, it was usually Liebermann's custom to rehearse a speech of some kind—to decide upon a few ready phrases. But he had been too agitated to discipline his thoughts to this end, and he now found his head filled with a yawning emptiness.

  He waited… and waited.

  Perhaps… I shall invite her to the opera—or another ball?

  More time passed—and he knocked again.

  The door opened, and he drew back in surprise. It was not Miss Lyd gate's face that had appeared but the wrinkled visage of Frau Rubenstein.

  “Herr Dr. Liebermann.”

  “Frau Rubenstein.” He bowed and took her hand.

  “I am afraid that Amelia is not here,” said the old woman. “She left about an hour ago.” After a slight pause, she added, “With a gentleman.” This addendum was colored by a frown and a note of disapproval.

  “From the university?”

  “No… no, I don't think so. His German wasn't very good.” Again, Frau Rubenstein hesitated before continuing. “And his English… There was something about it.… It sounded strange.”

  But she never receives visitors, thought Liebermann. She never entertains.

  “Was he a young gentleman?”

  “Yes… about your age, I imagine.” The old woman's eyes narrowed. “Do you know him?”

  Liebermann tried to conceal his unease with a smile.

  “No.” He felt awkward—his arms seemed to stiffen in unnatural positions. “Did she say where they were going?”

  “Yes,” Frau Rubenstein replied. “Café Segel.”

  “I see. My apologies for disturbing you, Frau Rubenstein. When Miss Lyd gate returns, please tell her that I called. It was not a matter of”—his chest tightened—”importance.”