Fatal Lies Page 15

  They followed the landing until they reached the pitch-black space beneath an ascending staircase. Wolf pushed Perger away and crouched down, feeling for the ridge of the trapdoor.

  “Wait here. If you try to run away you'll regret it. Do you understand?” Perger didn't reply. “Do you understand?” repeated Wolf, emphatically.

  “Y-y-yes,” stuttered Perger.

  Wolf lowered himself into the lost room, lit the paraffin lamp, and hung it on the nearest beam.

  “Perger?”

  A terrified face appeared in the square aperture.

  “Get down here—No. Not like that, you fool. Sit on the edge and push yourself off.”

  The younger boy dropped onto the crate but immediately lost his balance and toppled off. He did not attempt to get up but remained very still, sprawled out on the floor.

  “You clumsy idiot.”

  Wolf trod on Pergers buttocks, using the springiness of the flesh to add lift to his step. He got back onto the crate, reached upward, and pulled the trapdoor closed.

  “Now… get up.”

  Perger tried to stand, but before he could get to his feet, Wolf jumped off the crate and delivered a kick to his ribs. Perger rolled over, groaning.

  “I said, get up.”

  Perger looked at his tormentor, his eyes wide with fear.

  “W-W-Wolf… I can't get up. I c-c-can't—not if you won't let me.”

  “I swear to God, Perger…”

  The boy scrambled to his feet while Wolf strolled over to the suitcase and rummaged through the contents. He returned, smoking a cigarette.

  “Stand beneath the lamp.”

  The boy obeyed, and Wolf slumped back in the old wicker chair. He said nothing, but simply watched—and smoked. The thin line of his mouth and the enamel glaze of his stare betrayed no emotion. Only the sound of Perger's heavy breathing broke the cruel and protracted silence.

  “Take your clothes off.”

  “W-what?”

  “You heard.”

  Wolf leaped up and jabbed the burning end of his cigarette at Perger's face. The younger boy jerked back to avoid contact and immediately began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. When he had finished, he stood naked, his body trembling and his gaze lowered to the floor.

  Returning to the wicker chair, Wolf sat down and stubbed out his cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. Without pause, he lit another and resumed his relaxed but attentive attitude. The point at which his foot had made contact with Perger's chest was now marked on the boy's skin by a red circle, which promised to mature into a livid bruise. Wolf found the injury curiously satisfying—not merely because it represented the exercise of power, the making of his own morality, but also because of an elusive aesthetic quality. The expected transformation of hue (through scarlet, yellow, purple, and black) was comparable, in Wolf's estimation, to the seasonal transformation of leaves between summer and autumn—only more exciting. Why did poets make so much of one but not the other? A thought came into his mind, an abridgement of the aphorism from Beyond Good and Evil that had made such a deep impression on him: Perhaps there are no phenomena, only interpretations of phenomena.

  Wolf sucked on his cigarette and blew out a steady stream of smoke.

  “What did you tell him?” he asked.

  Perger looked up, his features blending confusion with fear.

  “Who?”

  “The fat policeman—the detective.”

  Perger shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Oh, but you did,” said Wolf. “I know you did.”

  “I didn't,” cried Perger. “I didn't tell him anything… not the first time. I didn't say a thing. And the s-s-second time, he came with a doctor…. He played chess with me—and showed me p-p-patterns… inkblots… and asked me what I could see in them… and he asked me about the bakery… and t-t-ticks… and… and…”

  “Enough,” shouted Wolf, stamping his foot. “Talk sense! You're gibbering like a lunatic!”

  Perger emitted an odd whimpering sound, and pulled frantically at his short hair.

  “I didn't s-s-say anything, Wolf. I swear… I swear on my mother's life.”

  “Ha!” said Wolf. “Swearing on the life of a Galician whore is hardly a warrant of honor. That won't save you.”

  “I s-s-swear… I didn't say anything.”

  “Then why did the fat policeman want to speak to me—after he had spoken to you?”

  “He didn't speak to me. It was the doctor. He spoke to me, but about chess, and his seeing game.… He showed me p-p-patterns, inkblots, and asked me if I could see anything in them… and he asked me about Zelenka.… I said Thomas was my friend, and that Thomas liked Frau Becker… but nothing else.”

  “That's it. I've had quite enough of your slippery answers, Perger!”

  Wolf flicked his cigarette across the floor. It rolled away, trailing orange sparks. Then he stood up and marched over to his victim. He was carrying a revolver. The younger boy cringed as Wolf pressed the gun's barrel against his temple.

  “What… did… you… say?”

  Wolf pronounced each word emphatically, and underscored each syllable by pushing the gun hard against Perger s head.

  “I don't think you understand the gravity of your situation,” said Wolf. Then, letting his tongue moisten his upper lip, he added: “Kneel.” He angled the revolver so that it exerted a downward pressure, and pushed Perger to his knees.

  “Please… I beg you,” sobbed Perger. “I'll do anything… anything you want.… Please don't kill me.”

  The thrill of prepotency coursed through Wolf's veins, swelling his heart and galvanizing his loins.

  I'll do anything… anything you want.

  Wolf stared down the length of Perger's back, at the pale, unblemished planes of skin sloping away and curving out of sight. His gaze followed the descending vertebrae, and lingered on Perger's tense calf muscles. The soles of the boy's small feet were slightly wrinkled. To his great embarrassment, Wolf found that it was not only his victim who was shaking—he himself had begun to shake too.

  “I know what you used to do for Zelenka,” he said softly. “He told me. And now… now you'll do it for me.”

  With his free hand, Wolf began to loosen his belt.

  33

  THE CARRIAGE TURNED OFF the Schottenring at the university and rattled down a long road that took them through the ninth and seventeenth districts.

  “Herr G's article in the Arbeiter-Zeitung,” said Rheinhardt, “came to the attention of one of the aides in the education department. He wanted to make sure that if His Majesty got to hear about it, Minister Rellstab could inform him that something was being done, that the matter was being properly dealt with. Brügel—with typical bad grace—performed a volte-face, and I was told, somewhat obliquely, to resume the investigation.”

  Liebermann polished his fingernails on his coat sleeve and examined them closely.

  “How did Eichmann react when you questioned him?”

  “He said that it was all nonsense: that Pikler suffered from constitutional melancholy and had obviously killed himself, that he had never heard of the ‘night watch’… and he said these things with absolute conviction. He didn't look like a worried man—someone trying to keep secrets.”

  “Are you trying to discover who ‘Herr G.’ is?”

  “I've assigned Haussmann to the task.” Rheinhardt squeezed one of the horns of his mustache and checked the revived point for sharpness with his forefinger. “I also asked Eichmann about Frau Becker.”

  Liebermann looked up, his eyebrows elevated in interest.

  “He described her,” Rheinhardt continued, “as gullible, naïve, and indulgent—inclined to believe the claims of any boy seeking attention and sympathy. In addition, she seems to have made little or no effort to be accepted by the headmaster's wife and her circle. Indeed, I suspect that Frau Becker might have been quite outspoken— openly criticizing the school and Frau Eichmann's opinions.”

&nb
sp; The carriage halted in order to let some traffic pass at a crossroads. Looking out of the window, Liebermann observed a Coptic priest standing on a corner. He had a long black beard and was wearing a mitre. A purple waist band was wrapped around his long dark green cassock. The driver cracked his whip, and the priest slowly slipped from view.

  “Later the same day,” Rheinhardt continued, “I interviewed some of the schoolboys. You know, the ones who had names suggestive of hunting and predation.”

  “And… ?”

  “Well, I must be candid with you, Max. At first, I had my doubts. That test of yours, the inkblots you showed Perger… The entire enterprise seemed very fanciful.” Rheinhardt reached into his pocket and produced a small box of slim cigars. He offered one to his friend, which Liebermann took. “And to make things worse,” he continued, “the first few boys were amiable, good-natured, harmless fellows.” Rheinhardt struck a vesta and lit Liebermann's cigar, and then his own. “However…” Rheinhardt leaned back and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I then questioned a boy called Kiefer Wolf and… well, there was definitely something about him.”

  “What do you mean, ‘something’?”

  “He was insolent, rude, supercilious… but that wasn't it. No… it was when he smiled. I thought…”

  “What?”

  The inspector shook his head. “Oh, what's the use! I can't explain—and you are sure to say something disparaging about policeman's intuition.”

  “Not necessarily. I must confess that I am developing a grudging respect for your clairvoyance!”

  “See? I knew it!”

  “Oh, Oskar, you are being oversensitive. Please continue.”

  “All right, then, I'll say it plainly: he gave me a bad feeling. In fact, he gave me such a bad feeling that I somewhat rashly accused him of torturing Zelenka. I wanted to see how he would react.”

  Rheinhardt looked troubled, and drew on his cigar. “He was very calm… just sat looking at me with dull gray eyes. He pointed out that I had made a very serious and unsubstantiated allegation. Then he advised me that he was going to tell his uncle.”

  Liebermann smiled. “Commissioner Brügel?”

  Rheinhardt puffed out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly. “How did you know that?”

  “A slip of the tongue that you made earlier.” Liebermann made a dismissive gesture. “But it is no matter.… I wonder why Brügel never mentioned that he had a nephew boarding at Saint Florian's.”

  “I don't know.”

  “And has the boy written or spoken to his uncle?”

  “It's difficult to say. I haven't seen Brügel since Wednesday.”

  Liebermann tapped his cigar above the ashtray set in the carriage door.

  “But you didn't do anything very wrong, Oskar.”

  “No, that's true. But it complicates matters, doesn't it? Brügel is always irascible. He's hard enough to deal with at the best of times. When he discovers that I have accused his nephew of torturing Thomas Zelenka…” Rheinhardt's sentence trailed off, his head shaking from side to side.

  “Perhaps Brügel has some inkling of his nephew's character,” continued Liebermann. “Which would explain why he attempted to stop your investigation.… Is it possible that he was protecting his family's interests? Their reputation?”

  Rheinhardt considered the young doctor's insight—but did not see how it helped him very much.

  “I am in a rather difficult position now. Even if Wolf did torture Zelenka, it doesn't get us very much further with respect to explaining the boy's death.”

  “Well, this is what we find when we follow hunches instead of reasoning things out.”

  “See?” said Rheinhardt. “You can't stop yourself from mocking me! I have something to show you.” Rheinhardt handed Liebermann a mathematics exercise book. “This was Zelenka's—it was returned to his parents with his other effects. Although…”

  “What?”

  “There was one item missing. A dictionary.”

  “Is that important?”

  “I don't think so—but Zelenka's parents do. They said it was very expensive. They had to save up for it. Anyway…” Rheinhardt pointed at the exercise book. “You will see that there are columns of paired numbers on the pages designated for rough work. Similar pairs can be found in the marginalia—written in the master's hand.”

  “Herr Sommer?”

  “Herr Sommer. I am no mathematician, but these numbers seem to have nothing to do with the surrounding calculations.”

  “You think they are… what? Coded messages?”

  Rheinhardt nodded.

  “Oskar,” said Liebermann, sitting forward, “may I have your notebook and a pencil?”

  His expression was eager.

  “Of course.”

  Liebermann stubbed out his cigar and folded the exercise book so that it would remain open. He then transcribed some of the number pairs into the notebook, and next to these wrote some letters of the alphabet. He repeated the process several times, before flicking over a page and starting again. This time, he constructed an alphanumeric table. He soon became completely engrossed in his task, and Rheinhardt—deprived of conversation—stared out the window.

  The rumbling of the carriage wheels on cobblestones was shortly accompanied by noises indicative of frustration. Liebermann shifted his position, tutted, grumbled under his breath, and tapped the pencil against his teeth. His crossings-out became more violent, the flicking of pages more frequent, and eventually he declared: “Impossible… nothing works. I thought it was going to be a simple substitution cipher!”

  Rheinhardt turned to face his friend.

  “I asked Werkner to take a look—he's one of our laboratory technicians at Schottenring. He's usually quite good at this sort of thing. But he didn't get very far either. Indeed, he was of the opinion that I might be mistaken.”

  Liebermann bit his lower lip, and his brows knitted together.

  “I wonder,” said Rheinhardt. “Do you think we should consult Miss Lyd gate? She is a woman of such remarkable intelligence—and she has helped us before.”

  The young doctor's posture stiffened.

  “She is indeed very gifted… but I do not know whether her talents extend to cryptography.”

  Liebermann handed the notebook and pencil back to Rheinhardt.

  “Yes,” said the inspector. “But it is permissible—is it not—to request her assistance again?”

  Rheinhardt looked at his friend quizzically.

  “You may do as you wish,” said Liebermann, picking a hair from the fabric of his trousers.

  34

  BERNHARD BECKER sat behind his desk, gazing uneasily at his two guests. His pupils were enlarged and his fingers were drumming on his blotting paper.

  “Inspector,” said Becker, “you must understand, my dear wife is a very sensitive woman. She is compassionate and easily moved to sympathy. I believe that Zelenka took advantage of her…” He hesitated for a moment and added, “Kind nature.” Becker peered over his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Of course bullying takes place at Saint Florian's. I don't deny it. But such behavior is commonplace in military schools, and it is no more a problem for us than it is for Karlstadt or Saint Polten. Zelenka led my wife to believe that terrible things happen here… extraordinary things. But this is simply untrue.”

  “Did you read Herr G.'s article in the Arbeiter-Zeitung?”

  Becker smiled—a haughty, disparaging smile.

  “Yes. The headmaster showed it to me.”

  “And?”

  “It is utterly absurd,” said Becker. His tightly compressed lips suggested that he was disinclined to elaborate. For a moment he toyed with a spoon, which was standing in an empty glass on his desk.

  “When we spoke last,” said Rheinhardt, “you did not mention that Frau Becker had a particular fondness for Thomas Zelenka.”

  The deputy headmaster's expression became severe.

  “Why should I have? It's entirely relevant.” From the
tone of his voice it was clear that Becker had meant to say the exact opposite. He maintained his defiant expression for a few moments, but this gradually softened into doubt as he recognized his error. “Irrelevant!” He blurted out the correction as if emphasis and volume would negate his blunder. “Let me be candid, Inspector,” Becker continued. “I knew that Zelenka's death would cause Poldi much distress—and I saw no purpose in bringing her to your attention.”

  “You wished to spare her a police interview?”

  “Yes, Inspector, I did. And I believe I was correct to do so. Your surprise visit achieved nothing—as far as I can see—save to remind Poldi of Zelenka's demise, which made her tearful all week!”

  “I am sorry,” said Rheinhardt. “Obviously, this was not our intention.”

  “Well,” said Becker, harrumphing as he stroked his forked beard.

  “I trust,” interjected Rheinhardt, “that you will convey our sincere regrets to Frau Becker.”

  Becker grumbled an assent and added: “If you intend to interview my wife again, you would perhaps be courteous enough to request my permission first?”

  “Of course,” said Rheinhardt.

  At that point there was a knock on the door, and Professor Gärtner appeared.

  “Ahh,” said the old man, with timorous uncertainty. “Deputy Headmaster, Inspector Rheinhardt.” He did not acknowledge Liebermann. “I am sorry to interrupt, but could I have a quick word— Deputy Headmaster? It's about my report to the board of governors.”

  “Excuse me,” said Becker, rising from his chair and leaving the room.

  As soon as the door closed, Liebermann reached forward and snatched the empty glass from Becker's desk.

  “What are you doing?” asked Rheinhardt.

  The young doctor did not reply. Instead, he sniffed the contents, and held the glass up to the window. The weak sunlight revealed a viscous puddle of liquid at the bottom. He then ran a finger around the inside of the glass, collecting a patina of white residue, which he licked off.

  “Bitter—followed by the slow emergence of aromatic flavors…”