Fatal Lies Read online

  As he prepared to retreat, Liebermann noticed something odd about Frau Rubenstein's expression—a puckering of her lineaments indicative of concern. She seemed about to offer an afterthought, but instead shrank back into herself.

  “Frau Rubenstein?” Liebermann enquired. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” said the old woman. “It's just…” Liebermann encouraged her to continue with a hand gesture. “Perhaps I am mistaken—but Amelia seemed… not herself.”

  “Not herself?” Liebermann's soft repetition created a flat echo.

  “A little upset, perhaps.”

  Liebermann nodded. “Thank you. I will…” His sentence trailed off. What would he do? What could he do? “I am sure there is no cause for concern.”

  He bid Frau Rubenstein good evening and set off down the road—his previously purposeful stride reduced now to a despondent shamble.

  Miss Lyd gate's visitor was probably a foreign associate of her academic mentor, Landsteiner. In all likelihood, there was nothing to worry about. She had offered to show the gentleman a local coffeehouse, and he had agreed to the plan. Yet, as Liebermann made his way toward his apartment, he could not let the matter rest. He continued to ask himself questions, and in due course became increasingly uneasy. Why had Miss Lyd gate appeared upset? Frau Rubenstein was not confident in her judgment, but what if she was correct? What if Miss Lyd gate had left the house while distressed and in the company of a stranger?

  Liebermann changed direction and headed off toward Café Segel.

  His route took him across a busy thoroughfare where he dodged between carriages—and earned himself an imprecation from an angry driver. A tram rolled by, delaying him once again, before he reached the other side. Entering a warren of connected backstreets, he finally emerged opposite Café Segel—which occupied a whole corner.

  Beneath a striped awning, tables and chairs had been placed outside. At one of these sat Miss Lyd gate, with a young man whose dress was somewhat irregular. The cut of his clothes was distinctly foreign—and the broad brim of his hat curled upward at the sides.

  Miss Lyd gate was smiling at him. They were talking, intimately, with their heads bent forward. The man stood. He offered Miss Lyd gate his hand, which she took without hesitation. They were facing each other, and both remained curiously still—as if magically transfixed—staring with wonderment into each other's eyes. The man's arms rose and he embraced Miss Lyd gate, pulling her toward him—gathering her in, tenderly. He held her close, and planted kisses in the abundance of her hair. She offered no resistance: her surrender was voluntary—and total.

  Liebermann raised the collar of his coat, turned away, and vanished into the shadows, reeling like a drunkard, inebriated by the potency of his own emotions—a heady concoction of disappointment, jealousy, and rage.

  28

  BERNHARD BECKER HELD HIS GLASS up to the light and stared into the vortex of dissolving crystals. Through the cloudy elixir, he could see the book-lined walls of his study. The entire room seemed to expand and contract in synchrony with his thumping heart. He threw his head back and poured the liquid down his throat, wincing at the astringency of the alcohol. Numbness spread around his mouth and lips.

  He found himself thinking of something his wife had said about the young doctor, the one who had accompanied Rheinhardt a few days earlier.

  Tall, handsome—with kind eyes. Yes, that was how she had described him.…

  Becker experienced a flash of anger.

  They had knowingly visited his wife behind his back. It was completely unacceptable.

  Dishonest, improper, disrespectful!

  And why had they asked Leopoldine about her dreams? Why did they want to know about her dreams!

  Becker pressed his thumbs against his temples and made small circular movements with them.

  His wife had been wearing her lace blouse, the one with the flesh-colored silk lining. He had told her more than once that he did not like this item of clothing—that it did not suit her. In fact, he thought it vulgar, cheap, and immodest. But he could hardly say so (she was oversensitive about such things, quick to take offense). It was typical, absolutely typical, that Leopoldine should have been wearing that blouse on the very day when Inspector Rheinhardt chose to call, with his tall, handsome colleague.

  Becker was seized by the “urge” again—its arrival attended by a vague sense of guilt. A part of his mind, a very small part (no more than a token gossamer conscience) resisted—raising a faintly articulated objection. However, this inner voice of reason was soon silenced by a tidal flood of emotions: hurt, fury, and, most of all, burning, insatiable curiosity. He left his study and tiptoed across the landing, positioning himself next to the banisters. He leaned over the polished wooden handrail, listening intently. The distinctive whisper of a turning page informed him of the whereabouts of his wife. She was sitting in the parlor, reading one of her inane romantic novels. He nodded to himself, emitted a soft grunt of approval, and crossed the landing, before quietly turning the handle of their bedroom door. Once inside, he lit three paraffin lamps.

  Becker paused and looked at Leopoldine s dressing table. The surface was littered with circular baskets overflowing with ribbons and hairpins, an assortment of brushes, and numerous unguents and perfumes. A gauzy nightgown was draped over the oval mirror—and an item of underwear had been discarded on the floor.

  The word “slattern,” declaimed with biblical authority, sounded in Becker's head. He picked up the drawers—and tested the sensuous viscosity of the material with the tips of his fingers. His body trembled with desire and resentment. Throwing the garment aside, he edged toward the bed. He glanced once at the door—anxious not to be discovered. It reminded him of his adolescence, the perpetual stealing away, the fearful intensity of his need—and his immoderate indulgence in the solitary vice.…

  Was it true? he wondered. What the doctors said about self-pollution? Did it really unhinge the mind?

  Breathing heavily he reached for the eiderdown and ripped it back. Then, grabbing a paraffin lamp, he held it over the bedsheet and examined the stretched, taut linen with forensic scrupulosity. He pressed his nose into the fabric and sniffed, with fevered canine excitement.

  Nothing different. Nothing strange. Only a familiar muskiness, the barely perceptible olfactory signature of their connubial mattress.

  Becker walked around the bed, still swinging the lamp close to the white sheet, his eyes performing watchful oscillations. No traces. Thank God. No traces.

  He felt relieved, and his shoulders relaxed. But his reprieve was short-lived. At once, he realized his error. Reaching down, he ran his hand across the crisp sheet. It had only recently been changed. Of course there would be no traces on this sheet!

  He pulled at the tapering points of his beard: he noticed that his hand was trembling. In his head, he could hear the marrowless voice of his insubstantial conscience: this is madness. This is madness. Becker silenced it with a clenched fist, brought violently against his heart.

  29

  “OUTRAGEOUS,” SAID EICHMANN. “Absolutely outrageous! It's shocking that Austerlitz should have consented to printing it. But I suppose it's what we have come to expect from the Arbeiter-Zeitung… always trying to stir up dissent. They call themselves socialists but really they're just troublemakers!”

  The headmaster shook his head with such violence that the artfully placed strands of hair raked across his crown were unsettled, revealing the baldness beneath.

  “Do you remember Domokos Pikler?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “Of course I do… a strange, solitary boy. Hungarian. And wouldn't you know it! They say that Hungarians are a melancholic race—have you heard that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Pikler was a typical Magyar. I don't think I ever saw him smile. He killed himself, Inspector. He killed himself because he was afflicted with a profound constitutional melancholy.”

  “What about this punishment? ‘Doing the night
watch?’ “

  “I've never heard of it. The product of a fevered imagination, as were the author's other wild—and frankly ludicrous—allegations.”

  “Do you have any idea who this Herr G. might be?”

  “No. Pikler's death was almost ten years ago. Long enough for me to forget which pupils were here at that time. I could go through the old registers, if you wish? Seeing the names of former pupils sometimes jogs my memory.”

  “I saw Frau Becker recently” said Rheinhardt. “On Saturday, in fact.” The headmaster raised his eyebrows, inquisitively. “She is of the opinion,” Rheinhardt continued, “that Thomas Zelenka was bullied—and that such behavior is commonplace at Saint Florian's.”

  “Yes… Frau Becker,” said Eichmann, leaning back in his chair and smiling. “Well, if I may be blunt, Inspector, you shouldn't treat anything she says too seriously.” He then adopted a more complicit tone of voice. “I trust you are a discreet man, Inspector? This is a delicate matter, and I would be mortified if my deputy were to discover that I had been less than complimentary about his wife.”

  Rheinhardt nodded.

  “In spite of her…” Eichmann searched for a word that might serve as a diplomatic substitute for the several pejoratives that had obviously just occurred to him. But, failing, he was forced to declare, “In spite of everything about her”—when he said the word ‘everything,’ he traced an annulus in the air, implying some vague and disagreeable totality—”my dear wife, Ursula, did all that she could to welcome Frau Becker into our small but vitally important community of masters’ wives. However, it was soon evident that Frau Becker did not enjoy the company of her peers. She found Ursula and the other wives… old-fashioned. The girl means well—I have no doubt—but her attitude to the boys was hopelessly naïve. She would have believed anything Zelenka told her—and would have lavished sympathy when a reprimand for disloyalty or unmanly conduct would have been much more appropriate.”

  This last sentence was said with an air of finality. Eichmann picked up a little bell on his desk and rang it loudly. The door opened and Albert entered.

  “Permission to report—ready to escort the inspector, sir.”

  “Thank you, Albert,” said the headmaster. Eichmann then turned to Rheinhardt and said: “I am sorry to say that—once again—you will be unable to interview Herr Sommer. He has still not recovered from his accident.”

  “I see,” said Rheinhardt.

  “Even so, Herr Sommer has written to me, and I understand that he intends to return by the end of the week.” The headmaster reached for a sheet of paper on which were listed several names. “Now… the boys you wished to interview. They are all waiting upstairs. I must confess to being more than a little intrigued by this request—and I wonder why, exactly, you believe that these particular pupils will be able to assist you with your investigation?”

  Rheinhardt did not respond.

  The headmaster continued, “But of course, I understand that it is not for me to question your methods.”

  Rheinhardt rose from his seat, bowed, and joined Albert by the door.

  “Inspector?” Eichmann called out. Rheinhardt stopped and turned to face the headmaster. “How long do you intend to continue this investigation? Another week? Another month?”

  Rheinhardt shrugged. “Until I am satisfied.”

  Eichmann was clearly irritated by Rheinhardt's abstruse answer. Dispensing with any further courtesies, he dropped his gaze, signaling that the audience was now over.

  Rheinhardt set off with his guide. The old soldier chose an extremely convoluted route—descending a floor before rising two floors in a different part of the building. Eventually, they began to ascend a familiar-looking staircase that disgorged them in front of the disused classrooms. Rheinhardt could hear youthful voices emanating from one of the half-open doors. He looked in and saw a dozen boys lounging around in an atmosphere of relaxed, carefree disregard. Some were leaning back on chairs with their feet up, others were playing cards; two were arm wrestling, and a few others were standing suspiciously by an open window. Although none of the boys were smoking, the air was hazy and smelled of tobacco. As soon as they noticed the inspector, they all fell silent, put on their shakos, and stood to attention.

  “At ease,” said Rheinhardt, amused by their reaction.

  He introduced himself and explained that he wished to speak to them individually and that in due course he would summon them one at a time. Then, instructing Albert to sit in the corridor (where the old veteran would no doubt fall asleep), he entered the same classroom that he had made use of on his previous visits. Settling himself at the teacher's table, he took out his notebook and examined his list of names, all of which were associated—to a greater or lesser extent—with the idea of hunting or predation.

  Jäger, Fuchs, Falke, Wolf…

  Prior to that moment, Rheinhardt had been excited by the prospect of conducting these interviews. Yet, now that he was sitting there, about to proceed, he felt a certain uneasiness that shaded into despondency. The boys next door had all been selected because of Isidor Perger's responses to Liebermann's inkblots. The young doctor's rationale had sounded very persuasive at the time—his vocabulary carrying with it the imprimatur of scientific authority: projection, involuntary imagination, the unconscious. All very impressive; however, in the absence of Liebermann's advocacy, the whole enterprise seemed less certain, its suppositions wanting, the outcome more uncertain. Thus, when Rheinhardt went to call the first boy, he was feeling far from optimistic and, perhaps, faintly ridiculous.

  Rheinhardt s despondency deepened over the course of the first four interviews. The two Fuchses on his list—Ferdinand and Lear— were big, gangly, amiable fellows. They were respectful, quick to smile, and completely devoid of vulpine cunning. Penrod Falke turned out to be a rather small, and frankly effeminate, first-year student, and Moritz Jäger was an unlikely persecutor of scholarship boys—being one himself. None of them had known Zelenka very well, all denied the existence of bullying at Saint Florian's, and all shook their heads—apparently mystified—when Rheinhardt asked them about “doing the night watch.”

  The fifth boy, Kiefer Wolf, was quite different.

  At first he behaved impeccably, but very soon he began to show signs of boredom and impatience—he sighed, toyed with his sabre, and looked around the room in a distracted fashion.

  “Did you know Thomas Zelenka?”

  “No.”

  “You must have spoken to him.”

  “No—I don't think so.”

  “But he was in your year.”

  “There are many people in my year whom I don't speak to.”

  “Why's that?”

  “I don't know. I just don't.”

  “Perhaps there is something about them?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Perhaps you feel that you have nothing in common?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “That they do not come from very good families?”

  “Their origins are of no consequence to me.”

  “Then why don't you speak to them?”

  “One cannot be familiar with everyone.”

  “You don't dislike them, then?”

  “Dislike them? I am indifferent to them.…”

  There was nothing particularly incriminating about the boy's answers, except a general evasiveness; however, his facial expressions were becoming increasingly provocative. An ugly smirk occasionally disturbed the neutrality of his thin mouth, and his declarations of ignorance were delivered in a tone rich with sarcasm. It was an accomplished performance, in which tacit mockery never quite amounted to insult—but came very close.

  The boys who were still waiting in the next room had been getting progressively louder. Rheinhardt could hear squeals of delight, the sound of scraping chairs, and running. They seemed to be playing a game of some kind. Strange, thought Rheinhardt, that those same young men (who only an hour before had been smoking and playing cards like ha
rdened campaigners) were now enjoying the infantile pleasures of tag. Such was the peculiarity of their age.

  Wolf raised his hand to his mouth as if politely covering a yawn— but his steady gaze and relaxed neck muscles showed that the gesture was pure artifice.

  “Are you tired?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “Yes,” Wolf replied, without inflection. “We were practicing drill—at sunrise.”

  The boy smiled.

  Rheinhardt watched the bloodless lips curl, and, as they twisted, he observed in their convolution, in their counterfeit charm, something unsettling.

  Policeman's intuition…

  He had trusted his instincts before, and he must trust them again.

  This was not an ordinary smile. This was a cruel smile, a malignant smile. This was the smile of a sadist.

  “You tortured Zelenka, didn't you?” said Rheinhardt softly. “You and your friends. You held that poor boy down, and you cut him.”

  A peal of good-humored laughter sounded through the walls.

  Wolf's smile did not vanish—if anything, it intensified.

  “That is a very serious allegation,” he said calmly.

  “I know,” said Rheinhardt.

  “The kind of allegation,” Wolf continued, “that one should make only when one has sufficient evidence. And I know for a fact, Inspector, that you have nothing of the kind.”

  Rheinhardt was unnerved by the boy's confidence. By his steady, silky delivery.

  “My uncle,” added Wolf, “will be most aggrieved when he hears about your conduct.”

  “Your uncle?”

  “Yes. My uncle Manfred.”

  “What has your uncle got to do with this?”

  “A great deal.” Wolf's lips parted, showing his even teeth. “He is not only my uncle but your superior. He runs the security office: He is Commissioner Manfred Brügel.”

  30

  LIEBERMANN SAT, HIS CLENCHED FIST against his cheek, his forefinger extended, tapping his temple, while the old jurist again discoursed at length on the principle of plurality as revealed to him by the angelic being from Phobos. But the young doctor was not really listening. His mind was wholly occupied by the events of the preceding evening. A monochrome re-creation of Miss Lyd gate repeatedly surrendering herself to the mysterious stranger's embrace flickered in his head like the moving images of a kinetoscope. This harrowing, cruel coup de théâtre was accompanied by an interminable torrent of inner speech: Why didn't she tell me about him? Why should she? She was not obliged to tell you anything! Her private life is no concern of yours.… But she must have known that I… that I… You were indecisive—you dithered and procrastinated. Unforgivable. And so it continued throughout the morning—an endless stream of questions, remorse, and self-recrimination.