Fatal Lies Read online

  “Drexler, wake up!”

  His neighbor moaned.

  “Drexler, wake up, will you!”

  “Wolf?”

  “Wake up, Drexler. I can't sleep.”

  “Oh, for God's sake, Wolf,” said Martin Drexler.

  “I'm going for a smoke. Are you coming?”

  The boy sleeping in the bed on the other side of Wolf began to stir. “What…” His voice was thick with sleep. “What's happening?”

  Wolf's fist swung out with ruthless ferocity, slamming into the boy's stomach. The youngster let out an agonized cry.

  “Shut up, Knackfuss!” Wolf hissed. “Just shut up!”

  The boy began to whimper.

  “Oh, for God's sake, Wolf!” It was Drexler again. “What's the matter with you!”

  “I'm going upstairs. I'm going to the lost room.”

  Wolf got out of bed, felt for his clothes, and slipped on his jacket and trousers. He did not bother with his shoes.

  “Well, Drexler? Are you coming or not?”

  Wolf heard Drexler turn over, grumbling into his pillow.

  “Sleep, then!” said Wolf angrily. “You… you baby!”

  Wolf groped his way into the central aisle and—orienting himself by touching the bedsteads—took short steps toward the door. Turning the handle very slowly, he pushed it open and peered through the narrow gap. The corridor was empty. Slipping out of the dormitory and closing the door quietly behind him, Wolf took one of the paraffin lamps from the wall and tiptoed off into the shadows. He had not gone very far when he heard something: footsteps, rushing up the stairs, and voices.

  Damn! Damn! Damn!

  Wolf sprinted to the end of the corridor and, skillfully negotiating a sharp corner, pressed his back against the wall. He held his breath and listened. He could hear a man's voice (speaking very quietly) and then a woman's voice.

  Nurse Funke?

  He had no intention of waiting there long enough to find out. He hurried off.

  On one side of the corridor were windows overlooking a courtyard, and on the other side was a row of empty classrooms. At the end of the corridor was a wooden staircase that rose in a series of right angles and small landings. A further staircase ascended to a locked iron door.

  Wolf paused—and listened.

  Apart from the sound of tiny claws behind the baseboard, there was silence.

  The upper level of the school had—over a period of many years—been subject to a series of eccentric modifications and revisions. Thus, the partitioning of spaces around the attic had led to the creation of many architectural anomalies: redundant corners, blind alleys, pointless niches, and steps that led nowhere at all. Among these architectural anomalies was the lost room—a neglected cavity that existed between the attic and the third story of the building.

  Wolf crept underneath the final staircase and, crouching down, ran his hand over the floorboards. The tips of his fingers soon found the edge of a trapdoor, which he lifted gently. He sat on the edge of the hole, dangling his legs in the cold emptiness. Then, lowering himself, he eventually found support on a crate that had been positioned there especially for the purpose. Reaching up, he grabbed the paraffin lamp and then leaped down. He landed with a hollow, dusty thud. Wolf hung up the lamp on an overhead beam and made his way to an old leather suitcase in which he (and his small circle of associates) retained a cache of recreational aids: cigarettes, matches, brandy, some games, and a modest collection of pornographic postcards.

  Wolf immediately lit a cigarette and began pacing around the room. He was annoyed with Drexler. Why hadn't he come? He wasn't the same, these days. Something in his character had changed. He was becoming more contrary, obstructive, less willing to go along with things.…

  Wolf sucked on his cigarette and blew the smoke out through his nostrils.

  He didn't really want to confront Drexler; however, if he had to, he would. Wolf slumped down on a pile of cushions, and dragged a blanket over himself. Then, reaching into the suitcase, he pulled out a volume of philosophy that Professor Gärtner had given him. It was titled Beyond Good and Evil, and it contained a passage that had played on his mind. He didn't quite understand it, but he felt that repeated readings might reveal its secret—some special truth that resided just beyond the literal meaning of the printed words.

  Wolf lengthened the wick of the paraffin lamp and opened the book at the correct page. He read the passage aloud: “There are no moral phenomena at all, only a moral interpretation of phenomena.…”

  Wolf stubbed the cigarette out on the floor.

  Yes, this was true—and so, by implication, one could never really go too far.

  4

  RHEINHARDT WONDERED WHETHER HE had treated the driver's remarks too flippantly. The woodman was indeed a strange one. Might such a man purposely instruct strangers to follow a dangerous road? Were they—at that very moment—blithely rolling toward some fatal precipice?

  Again, he was reminded of the old stories: wolves, witches, and supernatural beings whose appearance invariably presaged death. To dispel his unease, he began humming Rosen aus iem Süien. His thoughts returned to the ball. What would the orchestra be playing now? Künstlerlehen, perhaps—or Wein, Weft uni Gesang?

  After some time had passed, the driver let out a cry. “Inspector! Inspector! This must be it!”

  Rheinhardt opened the window. They were passing between two cast-iron gates set in a crumbling high wall. The fog was less thick, and in the distance, across a flat expanse of land, he could see illuminated windows. Rheinhardt sighed with relief.

  The carriage rattled down a long drive and finally stopped. The inspector and his assistant jumped out and took stock of their surroundings. They were standing next to a weather-beaten statue, the features of which had been worn smooth; however, it was still possible to identify a bearded warrior holding a lance, with one foot raised on what appeared to be a tub.

  “Saint Florian,” said Rheinhardt.

  “He looks more like a Roman soldier,” said Haussmann.

  “Well, that's because he was a Roman soldier—a military administrator, posted here, in Austria. But that, alas, is the limit of my knowledge.”

  Rheinhardt faced the school.

  The building was Gothic in design, possessing three rows of triple lancet windows and four octahedral spires. A cloistered courtyard could be seen through a central stone arch. Rheinhardt and Haussmann entered the courtyard, and as they did so, a door opened through which an elderly man appeared. He was clearly a servant, but he wore a military decoration on his jacket.

  “Gentlemen!” the old man cried.

  Rheinhardt and Haussmann stepped forward, but as they did, the veteran's expression changed from eagerness to disappointment.

  “Oh dear—very sorry—I mistook you for someone else.”

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “The headmaster is expecting two gentlemen from the security office.”

  “Indeed. I am Inspector Rheinhardt and this is my assistant, Haussmann.” The old man narrowed his eyes. “Yes,” Rheinhardt continued, recognizing that their appearance might require an explanation. “We are somewhat overdressed, but it was our misfortune to be called here directly from a ball.”

  “Ball, you say?”

  “Yes,” said Rheinhardt, adding emphatically, “The detectives’ ball.”

  The old soldier mumbled something to himself and then, pulling himself up, said: “Humbly report—this way, please.”

  He guided them to a door beneath the cloisters, and they entered a long, shadowy corridor. At its end, in a pool of blue light cast by suspended paraffin lamps, stood two men in academic gowns.

  “Headmaster,” the old man called out. “They're here, sir. The gentlemen from the security office. Inspector Rheinhardt and his assistant.”

  “Thank you, Albert,” said one of the men. “Dismissed.”

  The old soldier stamped his feet, saluted, and shuffled away. Catching Rh
einhardt's eye, the headmaster whispered. “A good fellow— saw action in ‘48. The Budapest siege.”

  The headmaster was a man in his late fifties, with gray, almost white, hair. A snowy thatch had been raked over his head to conceal a thinning crown. Although his cheeks were ruddy and plump, he possessed an alert, severe face, with high, arched eyebrows. A small triangle of hair curled outward from his chin. He executed a perfunctory bow. “Professor Julius Eichmann, school superintendent.” He gestured toward his companion. “And my deputy, Dr. Bernhard Becker.”

  The deputy headmaster inclined his head.

  “Thank you for coming, Inspector,” Eichmann continued. “And from a social engagement, it seems.” He scrutinized the policeman from head to toe, his expression souring slightly at the sight of Rheinhardt's muddy shoes and splashed trousers.

  “An accident,” said Rheinhardt.

  The headmaster nodded sharply and said: “Well, Inspector, this is a most unusual circumstance. We are entirely in your hands. How do you wish to proceed?”

  “I would like to see the…” He hesitated before choosing to say “boy” instead of “body.”

  “Very well. We will take you to the infirmary.”

  Rheinhardt frowned. “What? He's been moved?”

  “Yes,” said the headmaster.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” repeated the headmaster. “Why?” His voice suddenly changed, climbing in pitch and volume. “What was I supposed to do? Leave him in the laboratory?” His rhetorical sarcasm revealed years of experience in the classroom. He glanced at his deputy, and something passed between them. When the headmaster resumed, his voice was more steady. “I feared the worst, but was reluctant to pronounce the boy dead. I am not a medical man, Inspector. I thought it best to get him to the infirmary and send for Nurse Funke; however, as I suspected, she could do nothing for him.”

  Rheinhardt automatically reached for his notebook but then, suddenly remembering that he was wearing his tails, allowed his hand to drop. The headmaster's expression declared—quite clearly—that he believed Rheinhardt was an idiot. The inspector took a deep breath and continued his questioning.

  “And after sending for Nurse Funke?”

  “I telephoned Dr. Kessler and the police. Some constables arrived within the hour. They are still here—one is standing outside the infirmary; the other is in the laboratory. I have no idea where Kessler is!”

  “Kessler is the school doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did he set off from, do you know?”

  “His apartment in the sixteenth district.”

  “The main road above Aufkirchen is impassable—a fallen tree, apparently. He may have been delayed, as we were.”

  The headmaster tutted, almost as if Rheinhardt were a schoolboy presenting a weak excuse for not having completed his homework.

  “The infirmary is upstairs, Inspector,” said the headmaster. He then walked off at a brisk pace, calling back, “This way.”

  Rheinhardt and Haussmann followed the headmaster and his deputy down an adjoining corridor. They began ascending a narrow staircase. When Rheinhardt caught up with the headmaster, Eichmann proceeded to give an account of the evening's events.

  “The deputy headmaster and I were in my office. We had barely begun our meeting when Professor Gärtner appeared at the door. He was evidently distressed. He had seen a light on in the laboratory and had entered, expecting to find the deputy headmaster.”

  “Science is my discipline,” Becker interjected.

  “Gärtner,” the headmaster continued, “had found the boy, Zelenka, slumped over a workbench.”

  “At what time?”

  “It must have been…” The headmaster glanced at his deputy for confirmation. “Just before seven?”

  Becker agreed.

  “What was Zelenka doing in the laboratory?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “An assignment,” said Becker.

  “Which, presumably, you had set him?”

  “Yes,” Becker replied. “A simple inquiry into the effects of vinegar on certain compounds.”

  Rheinhardt studied Becker more carefully. He was Eichmann's junior by a decade or so. His hair was relatively long, but receding, which had the effect of increasing the salience of his high, domed forehead. This feature, taken together with his perceptive eyes and gold-rimmed spectacles, conveyed a strong impression of superior intellectual endowment. His mustache was stiff and straight, projecting outward beyond his jawline, and his thick beard was unusually styled, the tip having been clipped to achieve a forked extremity.

  “Why was he doing this assignment on his own? Was he being punished?”

  “No,” said Becker, “not at all. Zelenka was one of our keener students. He was always requesting additional work.”

  “The deputy headmaster and I…” Eichmann resumed his story with renewed firmness of purpose, and his raised voice suggested he was a little piqued that Rheinhardt s attention had shifted to his junior. “The deputy headmaster and I hurried down to the laboratory, accompanied by Professor Gärtner. We tried to rouse the boy… but our ministrations had no effect. I returned to my office and made the telephone calls I referred to earlier, to the police and Herr Dr. Kessler. The deputy headmaster went to get Nurse Funke—she lives in one of the lodges.”

  “The lodges?”

  “Accommodation for the staff: built on our grounds and mostly occupied by masters. Nurse Funke has rooms in the building nearest the school.”

  “And what did Professor Gärtner do?”

  “He organized the transfer of Zelenka from the laboratory to the infirmary with the help of Albert and two prefects.”

  The mention of prefects made Rheinhardt ask: “Where are the boys? I haven't seen one of them.”

  “Asleep, of course,” said the headmaster. “In the dormitories. They have to get up early for drill.”

  “And Professor Gärtner? Where is he?”

  “I believe he is resting in the common room. I suggested he retire there with a brandy. He was very upset.”

  As they ascended the staircase, Rheinhardt noticed that the walls were very bare: blank expanses of grubby whitewash, no regimental photographs, trophies, or flags—in fact, nothing to please the eye. He also noticed the smell. A musty institutional smell—redolent of boiled vegetables, poor ventilation, and latrines. It was a smell that permeated virtually all official buildings in Austria, and had attracted its own special appellation: the “treasury” smell. It was one that had followed Rheinhardt throughout his life. Sometimes, even outside on a cold, clear day, he could smell that distinctive cloying odor in his nostrils.

  They arrived at the top floor and the infirmary. A constable was standing outside.

  “Security office?” asked the constable.

  “Yes, yes,” said the inspector, now becoming rather irritated by the effect of his clothes. “Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt— and my assistant, Haussmann. You will kindly open the door, please.”

  The constable, detecting both tetchiness and authority in Rheinhardt s voice, clicked his heels and meekly did as he was told.

  Rheinhardt entered a stark, featureless room, painted over in the same monotonous whitewash. The ceiling was low, and four beds occupied most of the space. A tin sink was fixed to the wall, into which a dripping tap was reproducing the rataplan of a snare drum. On one of the beds was the body of the boy, Zelenka. A sheet had been thrown over him.

  Sitting at a small desk, next to the door, was a middle-aged woman in a nurse's uniform. She stood up as the men entered. The headmaster thanked her for waiting, and introduced Rheinhardt and his assistant. She then went to the nearest bed and gently pulled at the cover. It slipped away, revealing the face of a young boy.

  “Thomas Zelenka,” said the nurse.

  “How old was he?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “I see.”

  As far as Rheinhardt could make out, the boy was of medium build. He had a hand
some, stoic face: a square chin and full, sensuous lips. His light brown hair—which originally must have been closely cropped—had grown out a little, producing a covering of dense bristles.

  “What happened?” Rheinhardt asked, puzzled.

  “I don't know,” said the nurse, shaking her head. “He was already dead when I arrived. I tried to resuscitate him—but there was little point in trying.”

  “And the cause of death?”

  “I am afraid you will have to ask Dr. Kessler when he arrives. I have no idea.”

  Rheinhardt leaned forward and examined Zelenka's head. As he did so, he registered a light dappling of juvenile freckles on the boy's cheeks.

  “No bleeding? No signs of the boy having been struck?”

  “No,” said the nurse, sounding a sudden note of surprise.

  Rheinhardt looked into her eyes. They were gray and watery.

  “Did you know the boy?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Nurse Funke replied. “I knew Thomas Zelenka very well.” She blinked a tear from her eye. “He was always catching colds.… I used to give him a balsam inhalation to help him breathe.”

  “Did he suffer from any serious ailments?”

  “No—not to my knowledge. Although you had better ask Dr. Kessler.”

  Rheinhardt turned to face the headmaster.

  “I would be most grateful if you would allow my assistant to call for a mortuary van. There will have to be an autopsy, and it is my preference that this be conducted at the Physiological Institute.” He then turned to Haussmann. “See if you can speak to Professor Mathias. I'd like him to perform an autopsy as soon as possible.”

  “Tonight, sir?”

  “Yes. Why not? Professor Mathias is a famous insomniac and is always happy to assist. And while you're at it, see if you can get a photographer… but tell him to get a driver who is familiar with the woods around Aufkirchen. Otherwise they'll never get here!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You will then meet me in the laboratory, equipped with pencils, paper, a notebook, and…” He broke off to address Eichmann. “Is art taught in this school, headmaster?”