Fatal Lies Read online

  The man bowed, although the movement seemed to involve nothing more than a pained hunching of his shoulders.

  Beyond the table was a sideboard on which stood a devotional candle and a crucifix.

  “Forgive me for intruding on your grief,” said Rheinhardt.

  Fanousek lowered himself back into his chair, and Meta drew up a seat beside him. Her slender hand traveled across the surface of the table until it reached her husband's, whereupon his long fingers opened and closed tightly around hers.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” said Rheinhardt, sitting opposite the couple. “And please accept my heartfelt condolences.”

  “What do you want, Inspector?” said Fanousek. Like Metas, his German was accented; however, the question—although blunt— was not discourteous, merely direct.

  “Information. About yourselves—and about Thomas.”

  “Why?”

  “I must complete a report. For the commissioner.” It was not the precise truth—but it was true enough. Rheinhardt couldn't very well declare, I'm here because of a presentiment, a feeling…

  Rheinhardt took out his notebook.

  “You are both Czech?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how long have you been living in Vienna?”

  “Ten years.”

  Theirs was a typical story—of hardship in rural Bohemia, the promise of prosperity in Vienna, then factory work, and finally disappointment. Fanousek worked in a warehouse. Meta sold cheap rye bread imported from Hungary at a Saturday market.

  “With respect,” asked Rheinhardt hesitantly, “how could you afford to send your son to Saint Florian's?”

  “We couldn't,” said Meta. “Thomas was awarded a scholarship.”

  “Really? How did that happen?”

  “Thomas spent a great deal of time in the company of our priest, Father Hanak. He encouraged Thomas, gave him books, even gave him free lessons at the presbytery: Latin, calligraphy, mathematics.… Then the good father found out that one of the breweries, one of the Czech breweries, sponsored a place at the oberrealschule for a boy born in Bohemia and”—Meta swallowed her pride and continued— “from an impoverished household.”

  Rheinhardt gestured to indicate that the Zelenkas’ pecuniary circumstances, however straitened, were of little consequence as far as he was concerned.

  “Was Thomas happy at Saint Florian's?”

  “Yes, as far as we know. He enjoyed his studies—particularly the scientific subjects. He did complain once or twice about having to do drill every day, but that was all.”

  “What about the other boys? Did he say anything about them?”

  “No.”

  “He must have mentioned his friends?”

  “Thomas was a quiet boy. Thoughtful. He didn't say much.” She glanced at her husband and produced a gentle smile. “Like his father.”

  Through a square window, Rheinhardt saw sheets of rain blowing across the bleak industrial landscape.

  Meta opened a drawer in the table and removed a photograph. She looked at it for a moment and said: “He was so handsome in his uniform.” She pushed it across the table. “A fine-looking young man: a soldier.”

  The photograph had been taken in a studio. The boy was wearing a low shako with a leather peak, a tunic with stiff high collars, trousers, and boots. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sabre. He was standing in front of a painted backdrop of giant fern leaves and exotic creepers. Unfortunately, the photographer's tropical tableau was spoiled somewhat by a strip of patterned carpet in the foreground.

  “May I take this?” asked Rheinhardt. Metas expression became anxious—almost fearful. “I promise to return it later today. I would like to make a copy for submission with my report.”

  Metas eyes softened.

  “Yes… you can take it.”

  “Thank you,” said Rheinhardt. “Thomas appears so… so very healthy. Had he suffered from any illnesses in the preceding year?”

  “No,” said Fanousek. “And he was as strong as an ox. He used to help me down at the warehouse, lifting heavy crates. The men used to comment on it.”

  Rheinhardt remembered what Nurse Funke had said about Thomas always having colds: he slipped the photograph into his notebook.

  “Where did Thomas sleep?”

  Fanousek jerked his head back toward a closed door.

  “Would you object to me taking a look?”

  “No,” said Meta. “But we cannot come with you. It is too distressing. We have left things… as they were.”

  “Of course,” said Rheinhardt.

  The boy's room was very small, with most of the floor space taken up by a low bed, a washstand, and a chest. On the windowsill was an orderly row of books, arranged according to size. Rheinhardt examined some of the titles: Homer's Odyssey, Ranke's History of the Popes, a Latin primer, and a well-thumbed edition of Les Tentations de Saint Antoine. Above the bed was a garish print of Christ on the cross—a close-up portrait, showing the Messiah's anguish in dreadful detail, blood streaming from his wounds.

  Rheinhardt knelt down and opened the chest. It contained some old clothes, which he carefully removed and laid out on the bed. Beneath these he discovered a penknife, some old exercise books, a bottle of ink, a pack of playing cards, and two letters. Both were addressed to Thomas Zelenka and were written in the same scrawly hand.

  Dear Friend,

  The letter had been written the previous summer, and the correspondent was a boy called Isidor Perger. He was, evidently, another pupil at Saint Florian's, who—at the time of writing—was holidaying on the Traunsee with his family.

  Thank you for your assistance with the Latin.

  I don't know what I would have done without you.…

  Rheinhardt skipped over a paragraph in which the author lamented his poor mathematics results, and then another in which he described walking along the esplanade at Gmunden.

  Suddenly a sentence seemed to resolve itself more sharply against the yellow background.

  Needless to say, I do not want to go back.

  Rheinhardt peered at the jagged script, trying to decipher its violent oscillations.

  I swear, I would run away if you said you would come with me. We could travel the world—go to South, America, India, or China. However, I know that you think such talk is foolish. Sometimes I wonder whether I should tell my father what is happening. But what good would that do? He would say I am being unmanly. He doesn't care—no one does.

  Rheinhardt stood up.

  I care, he thought. I care very much.

  10

  LIEBERMANN HAD DECIDED TO BUY himself a new fountain pen. He drifted through Alsergrund, inspecting the displays in stationery shop windows, until a distinctive line of town houses came into view. He found himself standing on a corner, looking up a very familiar road—the road where Miss Lyd gate lived.

  At that moment it occurred to him that, perhaps, he had never really intended to a buy a new pen. Indeed, it seemed just as likely that his need to make such a purchase had been a convenient fiction, permitting him to draw ever closer to a woman for whom his complex feelings were becoming increasingly troublesome.

  Liebermann's impromptu self-analysis was confirmed when the justification for knocking on the Englishwoman's door presented itself with minimal effort. Miss Lyd gate had asked him to recommend a dancing teacher, and he had replied: Herr Janowsky. It would be perfectly reasonable for him to call on Miss Lyd gate, in order to give her Herr Janowsky s address.

  “Dr. Liebermann,” said Amelia. Her greeting was accompanied by a transient smile that reminded Liebermann of wind on water—a sudden perturbation, followed by stillness.

  “Miss Lyd gate, I was just passing… and I wondered if you still wanted Herr Janowsky s details?”

  “Herr Janowsky?”

  “My sister's dancing master? I have his address.”

  Amelia's face registered mild surprise.

  “It is very kind of you to have reme
mbered, Dr. Liebermann. Please, do come in.”

  While Amelia prepared tea, Liebermann was obliged to pay his respects to Frau Rubenstein—a sweet-natured widow and friend of his father. Liebermann had brought Amelia and Frau Rubenstein together, knowing that both women were in need of what the other possessed: the old woman, companionship, and the younger one, a place to live. After a few polite exchanges, Liebermann ascended several flights of stairs leading to Amelia's rooms on the top floor. He was invited to sit and was subsequently plied with Earl Grey and wiener vanillekiipferl—sweet crescent biscuits made with ground almonds and vanilla sugar.

  Liebermann gave Herr Janowsky's address to Amelia, which prompted her to thank him, once again, for inviting her to the detectives’ ball. She then asked how Inspector Rheinhardt had fared after his departure. Liebermann explained that the inspector was investigating the death of a young man at a military school—but he did not elaborate.

  On the table was a volume bound in scuffed leather and with a blank spine. Others like it were stacked in a neat pile by the hearth. These were the private journals of Amelia's German grandfather, Dr. Ludwig Buchbinder: confidant of Prince Albert, Physician-in-Ordinary to the queen of England, and scientific visionary.

  Liebermann picked up the book and allowed the covers to fall open. The pages released a distinctive, ripe odor—an evocative quintessence of time, scholarship, and decay.

  “Do you still intend to edit these journals for publication?” he asked.

  “Indeed,” said Amelia. “I was only recently considering that very volume—which contains a remarkable section on the history of automata.”

  “It is not a subject I know very much about,” said Liebermann, hoping that she would rectify his ignorance.

  “The creation of automata has always been associated with medicine… and particularly with doctors who have an interest in blood.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes—my grandfather has written that the first working model of the circulatory system was devised by a German physician, who announced his success in the Journal des Savants in 1677.”

  Amelia halted—suddenly self-conscious.

  “Please, do go on…”

  “Many more doctors embarked on similar projects—and the eighteenth century witnessed the creation of numerous ‘blood machines’ of increasing sophistication. These ‘philosophical toys’ caused much consternation among religious thinkers, who were concerned that, by making manikins that actually bled, doctors were engaged in a Promethean labor—and that their real intention was to create artificial life.” Amelia's hair caught the light and, for a brief moment, became incandescent—a shimmering haze of red and gold. “Eventually,” she continued, “even the most adventurous members of the scientific community were frightened by the implications of their work, and in due course artificial men became an increasing rarity in medical schools. In time, of course, they vanished altogether.”

  “How very interesting,” said Liebermann, still distracted by a residual image of her sudden ignition—a vague, haunting impression of flame and the colors of autumn. “One is reminded of your countrywoman, Mary Shelley—her cautionary tale of Frankenstein, or the modern Prometheus.”

  “She was—I believe—aware of the work of several German physiologists, which she mentions in her preface.”

  Amelia's talk of artificial men reminded Liebermann of something he had once heard, about a chess-playing automaton that had been built in Vienna for the amusement of the empress Maria Theresa.

  “It might have been the brainchild of Maelzel,” he added.

  “The inventor of the metronome?”

  “Yes.… But I can't be sure. I have only the dimmest recollection of what is supposed to have transpired.”

  Miss Lyd gate was extremely interested in this historical vignette; however, she concluded that, even if the story were true, the automaton itself must have been nothing more than a clever deception.

  Liebermann always enjoyed such conversations with Miss Lyd gate. She was an unconventional woman, yet her peculiarities possessed a certain charm: her pedantic speech, her stiff deportment, and the quite extraordinary intensity of her facial expressions.

  He was a psychiatrist, and something inside him—some nameless but essential part of his being—was irresistibly drawn to the unusual.

  They continued their conversation until the sky darkened and it was no longer permissible for Liebermann to stay. He rose from his chair, exchanged a few pleasantries, and kissed Amelia's hand. On the landing he insisted that she stay upstairs—he did not expect her to show him out.

  As he made his descent, Liebermann became acutely aware of the physical and mechanical properties of his body: locomotion—the movement of joints—his lungs expanding and contracting, his spine resisting gravity. Propriety and apprehension had turned him into an automaton—an artificial man, in every sense. Contrived, inauthentic, affected: a blood machine.

  11

  IT WAS MIDMORNING when Rheinhardt's carriage drew up alongside the wind-scoured statue of Saint Florian. The Gothic façade of the military academy looked much larger than Rheinhardt remembered, and where there had previously been nothing but darkness he now saw wide, flat exercise areas. Ranks of uniformed boys were practicing their rifle drill, responding to the abrupt commands of a burly Tyrolean infantryman.

  Rheinhardt passed under the central arch, where he spied Albert—the old soldier—dozing in the cloisters. He shook the veteran's shoulder, gently.

  “Permission to report,” mumbled Albert before his bloodshot eyes opened. He pulled himself up and croaked: “Ah, Inspector… Permission to report: I was asleep.”

  “And I trust you are now refreshed,” said Rheinhardt. “I believe the deputy headmaster is expecting me.”

  “He is, sir. This way, sir, this way.”

  The deputy headmaster ushered Rheinhardt into his office and immediately apologized on behalf of Professor Eichmann. The headmaster had been called to an emergency meeting of the board of school governors; Becker hoped, however, that he would be equal to the task of assisting the inspector with his investigation.

  Rheinhardt asked Becker to recapitulate the events surrounding the discovery of Zelenka's body. The deputy headmaster's account was entirely consistent—and delivered with calm authority. When pressed for more information about Zelenka's character, he simply repeated what he had said the previous Friday: he had known Zelenka quite well; the boy frequently asked for extra assignments; he was an enthusiastic student. Rheinhardt made a note, more out of politeness than necessity.

  “Who else taught Zelenka?”

  Becker went through the papers on his desk and consulted a timetable.

  “Lieutenant Osterhagen, gymnastics. Herr Lang, drawing and calligraphy. Dr. Kloester, geography. Herr Sommer, mathematics…”

  There were ten names in total.

  A soft knock heralded the arrival of a maid who was carrying a silver tray.

  “Your medicine, sir.”

  She deposited the tray on Becker's desk and made a diffident departure. The deputy headmaster picked up a piece of folded paper and, holding it over a small glass of clear liquid, tapped the side gently. A line of white powder fell out, the tiny grains dissolving as they sank in the liquid. Becker finally stirred the concoction with a spoon.

  “Excuse me,” he said to Rheinhardt, touching his temple. “I suffer from headaches.” He threw his head back and swallowed the liquid as if it were schnapps.

  “Are all of these masters here today?” asked Rheinhardt, looking down into his open notebook.

  “All of them except Sommer,” Becker replied. “He fell down the stairs yesterday and injured his leg.” The tone of Becker's voice was unsympathetic, almost dismissive. “He's gone off somewhere to convalesce.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “I'm afraid not. But the headmaster will know.”

  “I would like to conduct some interviews.”

  Becker looked
at the timetable again and pulled at his forked beard. “You wish to interview all of Zelenka's masters?”

  “As many as I can, and I would also like to interview one of the boys.”

  Becker tilted his head. The lenses of his gold-rimmed spectacles became white circles of reflected light.

  “Isidor Perger,” said Rheinhardt.

  “Perger, Perger,” repeated the deputy headmaster, straining to put a face to the name. He crossed his legs and drummed the desk with spidery fingers, making his hand crawl forward. Suddenly the drumming stopped and he called out.

  “Ah yes, Perger!”

  “I have reason to believe that he and Zelenka were close friends.”

  “Very well. I'm sure that can be arranged. Will you be needing a room in which to conduct these interviews?”

  “The provision of a room would be much appreciated.”

  “There are some disused classrooms upstairs. Not very comfortable, but sufficiently removed from the general hubbub to ensure peace and quiet.”

  Becker subsequently called for Albert, relieved him of his existing duties, and instructed him to act as Rheinhardt's adjutant for the day. However, when Rheinhardt left the deputy headmaster's office— with the shuffling old soldier at his side—he felt as if he were being indulged rather than assisted.

  Rheinhardt followed Albert up a tightly curving spiral staircase, which eventually joined a long corridor with a vaulted ceiling. The space reverberated with the sound of treble voices conjugating a Latin verb by rote. Four boys were walking toward them, all dressed in the uniform with which Rheinhardt was becoming increasingly familiar: low shako, gray tunic, and trousers. Each was equipped with a full-size sabre (one of the boys had his weapon slung too low, and the tip of its scabbard scraped noisily along the floor behind him). Although Rheinhardt knew they must be fifteen or older, their small stature and wide, suspicious eyes suggested a more tender age.

  “Good morning,” said Rheinhardt.

  The boys halted, bowed, clicked their heels—and proceeded in the same tight and disconcertingly silent formation.