Fatal Lies Read online

“Yes,” Eichmann replied. “We have a drawing and calligraphy master—Herr Lang.”

  “Good,” said Rheinhardt, before continuing to address Haussmann: “Some clean paintbrushes—preferably unused—and about twenty stiff isinglass envelopes. I am sure that the deputy headmaster will help you to find these items. You, headmaster, will kindly escort me to the laboratory.”

  For the first time, the headmaster and his deputy were looking at Rheinhardt with something approaching respect.

  “Well?” said Rheinhardt, his voice rising in a fair imitation of the headmaster's earlier reproach. “What am I supposed to do—find it myself?”

  5

  LIEBERMANN HAD HAILED A CAB for Else Rheinhardt and was about to do the same for Amelia when she surprised him by saying:

  “No, Dr. Liebermann. I would very much like to walk home. I am still excited and will not sleep. A walk will do me good.”

  “Very well,” said Liebermann. “You will, of course, permit me to escort you?”

  Amelia offered the young doctor her arm, and they set off in the direction of Alsergrund. At first, their conversation was given over entirely to the subject of Fasching. Amelia showed a keen interest in the historical origins of the ball season; however, in due course, Liebermann inquired how her studies at the university were progressing and she began to speak of more serious matters: microscopy, anatomy, diseases of the blood. She had also chosen to attend a course of philosophy lectures and had become very interested in the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche.

  “Are you familiar with his works, Dr. Liebermann?”

  “No, I'm afraid not.”

  “A pity. As a devotee of Professor Freud, you would appreciate his thoughts on the importance of unconscious mental processes. I have been somewhat preoccupied of late by his notion of eternal recurrence.”

  “Oh? And what is that, exactly?”

  “The idea that we are destined to repeat our lives again and again—in perpetuity.”

  Liebermann was taken aback by Amelia's comment. She possessed a very logical mind, and he could not understand why such a whimsical notion had captured her attention.

  “As in reincarnation?” said Liebermann disdainfully. “The transmigration of souls?”

  Amelia shook her head.

  “No, Herr Doctor—not at all. Nietzsche's proposal is rather different, and should not be confused with Pythagorean or Hindu doctrines.”

  She had turned her face toward him. Beneath the brim of her feathered hat, Amelia's expression was typically intense. A silver ribbon had loosened and was dangling past her ear.

  “If my understanding of Nietzsche is correct,” continued Amelia, “then he is suggesting something much more plausible… something that—unlike comparable religious ideas—does not contradict science. Perhaps this is why I have been so preoccupied. I have had to reevaluate a notion that I had previously rejected. Nietzsche seems to have provided a perfectly rational explanation for a supposedly metaphysical phenomenon.”

  “But how?”

  Amelia's forehead creased.

  “If time is infinite and there is also a limited amount of matter in the universe, then past configurations of matter must eventually recur. Is that not so?”

  As Liebermann considered the argument, Amelia pressed on: “Imagine, if you will, that the world in which we live is analagous to a game of chess. Because of physical limitations—for example, the number of pieces, the number of squares, and so forth—there are only so many games possible. Therefore, if two immortal adversaries were locked in competition forever, at some point the precise sequence of moves that constituted a previous game must necessarily be repeated. And so it must be with atoms and the universe.”

  “Well,” said Liebermann, slightly perplexed. “That is indeed a fascinating argument. If one accepts that time has no end and that matter exists in only finite quantities, then one is also bound to agree with Nietzsche; however, I find the idea of my own personal reconstitution vaguely depressing. It makes me think of all the mistakes I have made.”

  “Nietzsche hoped,” Amelia continued, “that contemplation of eternal recurrence would inspire humanity to make wiser choices. If we are trapped in an infinitely repeating cycle of existence, then we should make every effort to live our lives to the full.”

  Their destination came into view: a substantial town house, where Amelia occupied rooms on the top floor.

  Liebermann had been so absorbed by Amelia's conversation that their walk across the city seemed to have taken no time at all. Reluctantly, he released her arm.

  “Thank you so much for inviting me to the detectives’ ball,” said Amelia.

  “I am delighted you enjoyed it.”

  “It is such a shame that Inspector Rheinhardt was called away.”

  “An occupational hazard, I fear.”

  “And thank you also for your invaluable guidance on the dance floor.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  Neither of them moved. The subsequent silence became awkward, and they both began to speak at once. Liebermann gestured that Amelia should continue.

  “If I am to stay in Vienna, I must take lessons. Can you recommend a teacher?”

  “Herr Janowsky. He instructs my younger sister. But you must not judge yourself unkindly. You did very well… considering.”

  They were still standing close together. Amelia's face was tilted upward—the silver ribbon reflecting the yellow lamplight.

  Liebermann's fingertips were troubled by memories of the ball. The warmth of Amelia's body—flesh, shifting beneath velvet. There had been so many accidental brushes, touches, inadvertent intimacies. Now these memories were crowding back, accompanied by turbulent feelings that he had hitherto sucessfully repressed.

  “Dr. Liebermann.” Amelia said his name softly—so softly that it was as though she had merely inflected a sigh. The exhalation carried a faint note of inquiry.

  He could smell her perfume—a heavy, soporific lavender.

  He felt curiously dissociated—Too much champagne?—and became aware that he was leaning forward.

  He stopped himself.

  The moment passed.

  Amelia was raising her hand.

  He continued moving forward, bending low until his lips were pressed against the silk of her glove.

  “Good night, Dr. Liebermann.”

  “Good night.” His voice was strained. “Good night, Miss Lyd gate.”

  The Englishwoman found her keys and opened the door. She paused for a moment on the threshold, and then stepped into darkness.

  Liebermann did not go home. He felt far too agitated. Instead, he walked to the Josephinum, where he paused to gaze at the statue of Hygeia—the goddess of healing. He lit a cigarette, and addressed the deity directly: “Well, if old Nietzsche was right, I've just missed an opportunity: an opportunity that I shall continue to miss for all of eternity.”

  6

  RHEINHARDT, THE HEADMASTER, and Professor Klodwig Gärtner were standing together in the laboratory. It was an ugly, dilapidated room. Exposed water pipes followed the wall just below the ceiling, and from these oversize conduits brownish stains of varying intensity dribbled to the floor. A constant hissing sound filled the air.

  “I thought he'd fallen asleep,” said Gärtner. “ ‘Wake up, Zelenka,’ I said. ‘Wake up, boy!’ But he didn't stir, so I said it again ‘Come on, boy, wake up!’ And I clapped my hands, loudly. Still—nothing. So I walked over and shook him.”

  Gärtner was an old master—almost completely bald, except for two tufts of silver hair that sprouted above his ears. His eyebrows had the consistency of wire wool and curled up at the ends, giving his face a curious, demonic cast. This effect was assisted by a sharp pointed beard and a thin mustache. His nose was long and bent slightly to one side, suggesting that he might have been a pugilist in his youth.

  “Was he breathing?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “I don't know—I don't think so.”

  Rheinhardt co
uld smell alcohol on Gärtner's breath. He had clearly drunk more than was strictly necessary to steady his nerves.

  “To be honest, Inspector,” Gärtner continued, “I didn't think to check. I simply ran to get the headmaster.”

  Rheinhardt peered into one of several large glass-fronted display cabinets. It contained geological exhibits. Most of the collection was uninspiring. He studied the labels: slate with pyrites, basalt, flint, red sandstone. The only thing that captured his interest was a shiny black trilobite with large protruding eyes.

  “Go on,” said Rheinhardt, “I'm listening.”

  “We laid him out on the floor,” Gärtner continued, “but it was obvious something very bad had happened.”

  Rheinhardt turned. “Where did you lay him out, exactly?”

  “There, Inspector,” interrupted the headmaster, pointing between the two front benches where the high wooden stools had been pushed aside to accommodate a supine body.

  The surface of the first bench was scattered with the paraphernalia of experimentation: labeled bottles with glass stoppers, small dishes filled with powders, a pipette, a rack of test tubes, a small burner, and a flask of brown liquid. Rheinhardt lifted the flask and swirled it under his nose. It was vinegar.

  Zelenka's notebook was still open. Various chemical formulae were scrawled across the page, some supplemented with modest observations: bubbling, unpleasant smell, evaporation.

  Gärtner addressed the headmaster: “You examined the boy with Becker, and then you told Becker to fetch Nurse Funke.”

  “Thank you, Professor Gärtner,” said Eichmann. The sharpness of his tone indicated that such assistance was unwelcome. He could remember perfectly well what had happened—and did not need Gärtner to remind him.

  Next to the notebook was a small pastry on a plate. It was untouched. Rheinhardt felt a sudden pang of pity—a tightening in his chest. He imagined Zelenka purchasing the cake from the canteen, saving it as a special treat to be consumed at the end of the day. It seemed unjust that the boy should have been deprived of this one last innocent indulgence.

  On the floor were some fragments of glass and scattered white granules.

  “Do you see that broken dish, Professor Gärtner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it there when you arrived?”

  Gärtner looked at the headmaster. “I suppose it must have been. We didn't knock it off the bench when we were moving Zelenka, did we?”

  “No,” said the headmaster.

  At that moment, the deputy headmaster returned with Haussmann.

  “Ahh… there you are, Haussmann,” called Rheinhardt. “Everything in hand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now, I would like a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a clean brush, please.”

  Rheinhardt squatted on the floor and gently swept some white granules onto the paper. He then folded the sheet into a flat packet and slipped it into the envelope, which he sealed. Haussmann handed him a pencil, and the inspector wrote on the upper right-hand corner: Sample 1. Saint Florian's—Contents of broken dish. Laboratory floor. Fri, 16th Jan, 1903.

  “Inspector,” said the headmaster. “Would I be correct in assuming that you are treating Zelenka's death as suspicious?”

  Rheinhardt looked at Haussmann, whose usually impassive face showed the ghost of a smile.

  “Yes, Headmaster,” said Rheinhardt. “That would be a very reasonable assumption.”

  7

  PROFESSOR MATHIAS was seated on a wooden stool, staring at the corpse of a young woman. An incision had been made from her larynx to her abdomen, and the skin and superficial layers of tissue had been peeled back. The expression of concentration on the professor's face, and the peculiarity of the woman's condition, suggested to the onlooker the more familiar sight of an avid reader poring over the pages of an open book. Above the body was an electric light, the beam of which shone down into the raw, empty cavity of the woman's torso. A collection of glistening organs—heart, liver, lungs—were strewn across a nearby table. The stench was overwhelming.

  Haussmann covered his mouth and looked beseechingly at his superior.

  “All right,” said Rheinhardt, “go outside and have a cigarette. I'll join you shortly.” His assistant nodded and made an undignified exit.

  “Professor?”

  Mathias's gaze seemed to be fixed on the woman's pudendum.

  “Professor?” Rheinhardt called more loudly.

  Mathias cleared his throat. “A man who had lost his axe suspected his neighbor's son of stealing it. Observing the boy, the man discovered that everything about him—his gait, narrow features, speech, et cetera—declared the boy a thief; however, the following day the man discovered his axe beneath a sack in his own cellar. When he encountered his neighbor's son again, he no longer saw anything unusual about the boy's appearance.” The professor paused for a few moments. Then he added: “Well, Rheinhardt?”

  “I really have no idea,” said the inspector.

  “No, I didn't think you would. It is by an ancient Chinese author. I have been making a study of their literature—and very interesting it is too.”

  Mathias stood up and rolled a mortuary sheet up to the dead woman's neck. Before covering her face, he gently touched her hair.

  “So very beautiful,” he said softly.

  “Yes,” Rheinhardt agreed. “How did she die?”

  “Natural causes—a congenital defect of the pulmonary semilunar valve.” Mathias wiped his hands down the front of his brown apron. “We are advised,” he continued, “to be cautious in our judgments. Yet… yet…”

  He suddenly fell silent.

  “Yet what?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “I strongly suspect that the last time this woman received her husband, she had already been dead for some time.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The gentleman exercised his conjugal privilege post-mortem.”

  “Dear God,” gasped Rheinhardt.

  Mathias shrugged. “I cannot share your disgust, Inspector. It is my understanding that what passes for sexual relations in most Viennese marriages is essentially necrophilic.” The old man began to chuckle. “Only joking, Rheinhardt. Now, who have we here?”

  Professor Mathias shuffled past a metal bucket in which a length of colon was coiled like a sleeping serpent.

  “Thomas Zelenka,” said Rheinhardt.

  The boy was laid out—like the eviscerated and misused hausfrau— on a brightly illuminated table. The brilliance of the electric light beam showed his freckles more clearly. They were more numerous than Rheinhardt remembered, and their ginger dappling had the effect of making Zelenka look much younger than his fifteen years.

  A child, thought Rheinhardt. Still only a child.

  “Inspector?” Mathias's voice sounded querulous.

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you wearing tails?”

  Rheinhardt sighed. He gave an account of the evening's events while Mathias pulled a cart of surgical tools over to Zelenka's table.

  “Help me get his clothes off, will you?”

  Rheinhardt baulked.

  “Oh, come now, Inspector!” Mathias reprimanded. “Your coyness with the dead is becoming quite tiresome!”

  The old man tutted and began to undo the buttons on Zelenka's woolen shirt. Rheinhardt reluctantly manipulated the boy's stiffening arms, and the shirt came off without too much difficulty. He then removed the boy's vest. Rheinhardt placed each article of clothing in a paper bag and sealed it. When he turned to assist Professor Mathias again, he found that the old pathologist was standing very still, staring at the body with intense interest.

  “The trousers, Professor?”

  Mathias grunted—but it was evident that the meaning of Rheinhardt s words had not registered.

  “The trousers?” Rheinhardt repeated.

  “Shh,” said the pathologist, waving his hand in the air. He then moved forward, his stealthy gait and purposeful gaze remindi
ng Rheinhardt of a predatory animal. Suddenly, Mathias pounced. He lowered his head—his nose almost touching Zelenka's body. He then snatched a magnifying glass from the cart and began to examine the boy's chest.

  “Professor?”

  “Extraordinary.”

  “What is?”

  “Come here. Take a look at this.”

  Rheinhardt could not see anything at first. But as he drew closer he saw that there was something unusual about the boy's skin: a patch, about the size of a five-krone coin, just above the right nipple, that seemed to be reflecting the light differently. As Rheinhardt lowered his head, he detected a lattice of faint white lines.

  “Here,” said Mathias, handing Rheinhardt the magnifying glass.

  The lens showed that the white lines were in fact tiny weals: raised ridges of pale flesh.

  “What is it? A dermatological disease?”

  “No, Rheinhardt. It's scar tissue. The skin has been slashed with a razor. The wounds have healed over now—but the manner in which they have healed suggests they were repeatedly reopened.” Mathias's magnified finger appeared beneath the glass. “The uppermost incision was once infected.”

  “Could these cuts have been self-inflicted? I have heard of prisoners injuring themselves to relieve boredom.”

  “Only if he is left-handed—a right-handed person would instinctively cut contralaterally thus inflicting wounds on the left pectoralis major.”

  “I'm afraid I do not know which was his preferred hand.”

  Mathias examined the boy's thumbs and then squeezed Zelenka's upper arms.

  “He was right-handed,” Mathias said with absolute certainty. “His right thumb is slightly larger than the left, and his right biceps is more developed.”

  “Very impressive, Herr Professor.”

  Mathias did not acknowledge Rheinhardt's compliment, and his expression suddenly changed from one of confidence to one of perplexity. He lifted Zelenka's left arm and allowed it to swing out over the edge of the table.

  “I thought I could feel something odd.”

  A few centimeters below the boy's armpit was a square of bloody gauze. Mathias eased the dressing away revealing another network of cuts. Unlike those on Zelenka's chest, these had not healed. The lines of the crisscross pattern were black and scabby. Mathias closed his eyes and explored the wounds with his fingertips. They trembled over each crusty laceration, like those of a blind man reading braille. He then pressed the flesh until one of the cuts opened.