Fatal Lies Read online

  Albert ascended yet another staircase—this time wider—and escorted Rheinhardt to a musty, remote corner of the building where a row of half-open doors created wedges of ghostly light among the shadows. The “treasury smell” was particularly strong, having matured, like a piece of ripe cheese, in the undisturbed air.

  “You can use any of these, sir,” said the old man, struggling to catch his breath.

  The classrooms were strangely melancholy: abandoned desks, a waste bin on its side, scattered paper, and a blackboard on which algebraic symbols constituted only half of an incomplete equation. Rheinhardt selected the least cluttered interior and asked Albert to fetch the first master on his list.

  Lieutenant Osterhagen was a tall broad-shouldered man with ruggedly handsome features. His blond hair was cropped short, and a deep cleft was visible in the middle of his clean-shaven chin. Remarkably (for a gymnastics master) he walked with a limp. When he sat down, with evident discomfort, he made a passing reference to the “old Transylvanian complaint.”

  “Transylvanian complaint?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “Nationalists,” said Osterhagen. “I took one of their bullets when my regiment was sent to deal with a situation—if you know what I mean?”

  Rheinhardt wasn't sure that he did know what the lieutenant meant. Nevertheless, he thought it wise to nod politely and proceed with the interview.

  “I'm not surprised he dropped dead,” said Osterhagen. “It was obvious there was something wrong with him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He was never well… always suffering from colds, always wrapped up in a scarf and wearing gloves, always clutching an exemption certificate from the infirmary.”

  “He wasn't, then, in your opinion, a very strong boy?”

  The lieutenant laughed with savage contempt.

  “Good God, no. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “I was told that he used to help his father—lifting heavy crates in a warehouse.”

  “He might have swept the floor, perhaps,” said Osterhagen, twisting his mouth to one side in a sarcastic grin. When the inspector did not smile back, Osterhagen added with indifference, “The boy was destined for a career in the civil service. Not the army.”

  Osterhagen typified a certain type of military man. Blustering, bombastic, and appallingly insensitive. When the interview ended, Rheinhardt was relieved to bid the lieutenant good day.

  The next two masters had very little to say about Zelenka. Neither of them had known him very well. Indeed, one of them, Dr. Kloester, confused Zelenka with another Czech boy called Cervenka. Consequently, Rheinhardt had to cross out all Kloester's answers and start the interview again.

  Herr Lang—the drawing and calligraphy master—was a more promising informant.

  “I was in my rooms when I heard. The headmaster came to the lodges on Saturday morning to tell us all personally. I couldn't believe it… such a terrible tragedy. Do you know what happened, Inspector? Do you know how Zelenka died?”

  Rheinhardt shook his head.

  Lang was in his late twenties. His hair was parted at the side and drawn in thick wavy strands across his head. A wildly undulating forelock occasionally fell forward and had to be pushed back again. His nose was long and straight, and his large, implacable eyes were arresting. The ensemble, however, was mitigated by the lower half of his face, which comprised a thin mustache, an incongruously tight mouth, and a soft, rounded chin. It was these weaker elements, however, that imbued his expressions with an unusual degree of humanity. He was dressed in a navy jacket, the lapels and cuffs of which were decorated with parallel lines of yellow stitching, and pale blue trousers with a prominent pinstripe. His cravat was green and matched a silk handkerchief that burst, rather too abundantly, from his breast pocket.

  “He wasn't a talented artist,” Lang continued, “but he was an intelligent, attentive boy. I remember showing him some illustrations in Ver Sacrum, the periodical of the Secession. He asked me some very astute questions about the artist's purpose—questions concerning symbolism and meaning. I was impressed. One wouldn't have got that kind of response—a mature response—from his comrades. They would simply have smirked and made lewd remarks.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Nudity. Even a line drawing of the female form…” Lang's sentence trailed off in exasperation.

  “I see,” said Rheinhardt, inwardly reflecting that the minds of schoolboys had not changed very much since his own youth.

  “Zelenka was different,” said Lang. “Very self-possessed for his age. A little shy, perhaps, but he was growing out of it. I was very fond of him.”

  The young master blinked rapidly, and Rheinhardt wondered if he was about to cry.

  “Was he happy here, do you think?”

  Lang changed position and made a plosive sound that managed to combine incredulity with indignation. His features hardened.

  “He was a scholarship boy.”

  “What of it?”

  “I don't think anybody from his background could possibly be happy in a place like Saint Florian's!”

  Rheinhardt allowed the subsequent silence to build until Lang felt compelled to justify his expostulation. “Historically, Saint Florian's has always welcomed boys from a particular kind of family. The headmaster doesn't agree with the new egalitarianism that the emperor is trying to promote in our schools and universities.”

  “Are you suggesting that boys like Zelenka, boys from poor backgrounds, are treated badly?”

  Lang got up from his chair and walked to the door. He opened it a fraction and looked through the crack. The sound of Albert's stertorous breathing could be heard outside. Satisfied that there were no eavesdroppers, he closed the door quietly and returned to the table. He did not sit down.

  “Look, Inspector.” He appeared slightly agitated. “I know that for boys like Zelenka this school is purgatory. I talk to them while they're drawing. I can see it in their eyes—the sadness, the fear. And sometimes they say things.”

  “What do you mean, ‘say things?’ “

  “I've been to see the headmaster, but, between you and me, Professor Eichmann is only interested in the welfare of boys from good families. As for the rest…”

  “Have you considered discussing your concerns with the board of governors?”

  “I have… but I won't now. It's too late.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I'm leaving. I intend to hand in my resignation at the end of term.”

  “Do you have another position to go to?”

  “No. I intend to join the Secessionists. You will, I trust, treat what I have said—all that I have said—as strictly confidential?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  It was evident from their further discussion that Lang was, and had always been, unhappy at Saint Florian's. He did not enjoy the company of his colleagues, and he found the general atmosphere intolerably oppressive.

  “Do you know Isidor Perger?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “Yes, he's another scholarship boy.”

  “I was hoping to interview him this afternoon.”

  Lang's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile.

  “You won't get much out of him.” Lang glanced at his watch and edged toward the door. “If you'll excuse me, Inspector, I have a class.”

  Rheinhardt thanked Lang for his assistance, made a few notes, and walked over to the windows. Peering out of the central lancet, he saw some terraced brick houses (perhaps the “lodges” that Eichmann and Lang had referred to), a stable, and an equestrian enclosure—the outer edge of which was being circumambulated by a troop of boys on horseback. His gaze was drawn upward, toward the fir-covered hills that rolled out into the milky distance.

  Rheinhardt felt a curious sense of satisfaction. He was glad that he had come back to the school.

  There's something wrong here.

  His intuition had been correct.

  12

  LIEBERMANN HAD L
EFT THE HOSPITAL early in order to visit his older sister, Leah. He also expected to see Hannah—their younger sister. Only rarely did the three siblings meet in this way and such meetings were always planned well in advance, and under a shroud of secrecy. This was necessary in order to stop their parents, Mendel and Rebecca, from taking control of arrangements and turning what would otherwise be a relaxed, informal gathering into a major family event.

  Hannah was seated on a sofa, reading a book to Daniel, Leah's son. The little boy was dressed in red lederhosen, a white shirt, long socks, and soft leather shoes. He was also wearing an Alpine hat—which served no real purpose other than to amuse the adults. Occasionally Daniel would laugh, which, in Hannah's company, was a perilous activity. The sound of happy gurgling invariably prompted the youthful aunt to tickle his stomach until his face went red and he was begging for mercy.

  Ordinarily, Leah would intervene. But on this occasion, she allowed the mêlée to continue in order to have an intimate word with her brother. She poured him some tea, leaned closer, and said:

  “Have you seen Father?”

  “Yes, last week. We went for coffee at the Imperial.”

  “And how was he?”

  “Still very angry. Even so, we managed a civil—if rather uncomfortable—conversation.”

  Relations between Liebermann and his father had become particularly strained since Liebermann had broken his engagement with Clara Weiss—the daughter of one of Mendel's oldest and closest friends.

  “Did he mention… ?”

  “Clara? No.”

  Leah offered Max a slice of guglhwpf, which he declined.

  “I hear that she's met someone. A cavalry lieutenant.”

  “Good. I hope they are happy together.”

  “And you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Have you met anyone special yet?”

  Liebermann paused long enough for his sister to raise her eyebrows.

  “Who?”

  Liebermann smiled and shook his head. “No one… not really.”

  Leah drew her head back and looked at him askance. It made her appear just like their mother.

  Daniel's shrieking became louder. His head was thrown back, only the whites of his eyes were showing, and his cheeks were turning puce.

  “That's enough,” Leah called. “Really!”

  Hannah withdrew her hand and looked up guiltily. “We're only playing.”

  “You're supposed to be reading!”

  Liebermann stood up and walked across the room. He sat down next to Hannah and took Daniel, bouncing him a few times on his knee.

  “He's getting so heavy!”

  “I know,” said Leah, sighing wearily.

  “What have you got there?” Liebermann asked Hannah.

  “Daniel's klecksography book,” Hannah replied.

  “Klecksography?”

  Hannah opened the book and held it in front of Daniel. The child leaned forward, stretching his hand out toward a striking image—a large symmetrical pattern: as if ink had been spilled on a page, and then the page had been folded along a central vertical crease. It was accompanied by a fanciful verse about a troll, which Hannah read out in a theatrical contralto. The later pages were filled with similar images—symmetrical inkblots, all vaguely resembling the spread wings of a butterfly.

  “Are the patterns supposed to represent the characters in the verses?” Liebermann asked.

  “Yes,” said Hannah. “You look at the shapes… and try to see things. Trolls, fairies… it's like… like a game.”

  “How very interesting,” said Liebermann. “What's it called?”

  “Klecksography.”

  “Leah?” Liebermann's expression became oddly serious. “Where did you get this book from?”

  “Oh, I don't know, Max,” Leah replied. “But you can get klecksography books anywhere—they're very popular. Why?”

  “It's an interesting concept, that's all.”

  Leah looked at Daniel and shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder whether your uncle has spent too much time with mad people.”

  13

  AFTER LEAVING LEAH'S APARTMENT Liebermann traveled into town to collect a long-standing order from Schott's—Schumann's Twelve Poems by Justinus Kerner, opus 35, a little-known song cycle that Rheinhardt was keen to try.

  On the streetcar home, Liebermann became engrossed in the prefatory notes. He discovered that Justinus Kerner, a physician and poet from Ludwigsburg, was also the author of a posthumous work, Klecksographien, which was (by the strangest of coincidences) the progenitor of his nephew's klecksography book and its many variants. Liebermann read that while suffering from depression, Kerner had seen ghosts and monsters in his symmetrical inky creations—and had ascribed for them a place in Hades.

  Rheinhardt arrived shortly before eight o'clock, and the two friends began their music-making immediately. They performed Franz Lachner's Sängerfahrt, some atmospheric songs by Men dels sohn, and Zelter's Der König von Thule. When Liebermann produced the Schumann songs from behind the music stand, Rheinhardt was delighted.

  “Excellent, excellent,” he cried. “What a pleasant surprise!”

  The Twelve Poems were a strange cycle—having no unifying theme or coherent key sequence—yet it was their eccentricity that Liebermann found attractive. One of the settings, Auf das Trinkglas dues verstorhenen Freunies, was at the same time a lament for a departed friend and a panegyric to German wine. However, it also managed to subsume a meditation on the ineffable bond between the living and the dead.

  Rheinhardt clasped his hands in front of his chest and sang the poetry with tender grace:

  “Dock wird mir klar zu dieser Stund,

  “Wie nichts den Freund vom Freuni kann trennen.”

  Yet at this hour I realize

  How nothing can part friend from friend.

  “Leer Steht das Glasl Der heil'ge Klang

  “Tönt nach in iem kristall'nen Grunde.”

  The glass stands empty! The sacred sound

  Still echoes in its crystal depths.

  As Liebermann played the final cadence, he could see that the deeper meanings of the text had affected Rheinhardt. A detective inspector would appreciate, even more than a physician-poet, perhaps, how the dead—in some sense—are never truly departed. They always leave something of themselves behind.

  When Liebermann and Rheinhardt retired to the smoking room, they took their customary places, lit cigars, and contemplated the fire.

  “So,” said Liebermann, reaching for the brandy. “You are still preoccupied by the death of Thomas Zelenka.”

  Rheinhardt continued to look at the flames.

  “Yesterday I went to Saint Florian's and interviewed—with one exception—all of his masters.”

  “Why one exception?”

  “His mathematics master has had an accident. He fell down the stairs and injured his leg.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  Liebermann handed Rheinhardt a glass of brandy.

  “When I went to see Zelenka's parents, they said he was a strong, healthy boy. Yet his gymnastics master and Nurse Funke said he was sickly—that he always had colds.”

  “Perhaps Zelenka feigned illness in order to avoid gymnastics.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  “The boys probably do their physical training bare-chested.”

  “Which would have necessitated exposure of the cuts?”

  “Indeed. He might have wished to keep them concealed.”

  “But why?”

  “Embarrassment, shame… However, there is a much simpler explanation. He avoided gymnastics because any form of vigorous exercise was painful.”

  Rheinhardt took Perger's letter from his pocket and pushed it across the table.

  “I found this in Zelenka's bedroom—there were two letters, actually, but this is the most interesting.”

  Liebermann put on his spectacles and unfolded the paper. He read in silence, until he rea
ched the salient passages: “Needless to say, I do not want to go back.… Sometimes I wonder whether I should tell my father what is happening. But what good would that do?… He doesn't care—no one does.”

  Rheinhardt sipped his brandy, and summarized his encounter with Lang.

  “Why didn't you interview Perger?” asked Liebermann.

  “I did,” Rheinhardt replied. “And Lang was right—he wouldn't cooperate. I told Perger what I thought: that he and other boys— particularly from poor backgrounds—were being persecuted, and that if he told me who was responsible I would see to it that they were punished. He pretended not to know what I was talking about.… So then I showed him his own letter to Zelenka. I could see he was shocked, but to his credit the boy managed to sustain his subterfuge. He insisted that I had misunderstood the contents—it meant nothing. It was a joke, of course—particularly the part about running away. He said that he and Zelenka were always joking about doing such things.”

  Liebermann lifted the letter and tilted it in the light.

  “At that point—where he mentions running away—it is possible to detect a faint tremor in the script. He was terrified. Whatever he was hoping to escape from, it made his hand shake.”

  Rheinhardt leaned across the table and looked at the letter more closely.

  “It all looks the same to me.”

  “There is a definite tremor.”

  Rheinhardt sat back in his chair, a mote of skepticism still glimmering in his eye.

  “I thought about interviewing some of the other boys—but there are more than three hundred of them. It would be pointless to select names randomly from the register. Do you think you could persuade Perger to disclose the identity of his persecutors?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Would you hypnotize him?”

  Liebermann shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  The young doctor's economic response—combined with his arch expression—suggested to Rheinhardt that he had already thought of a possible solution.

  Liebermann lit a cigar and exhaled a large nimbus of smoke.