Fatal Lies Page 8

  “How did you know that?”

  “Throat specialists always have a large number of famous actors and singers among their patients. They are frequently invited to first nights, gala performances, and other glamorous occasions. Among the medical specialities, throat specialists are by far the most well connected with respect to the arts. Subsequently, they are common prey to a particular type of young woman: pretty, intelligent, coquettish, of slender means, and with theatrical ambitions.”

  “Jeanette.”

  “Quoi erat demonstrandum.”

  “Yes,” said Kanner. “You know, for a psychiatrist, I can be a remarkably poor judge of character.” Kanner stared glumly into the ruby bowl of his wineglass before adding: “Shame about old Professor von Krafft-Ebing.”

  In his inebriated state, Liebermann accepted the sudden change of subject as though it were entirely logical.

  “Yes, he will be sadly missed.”

  “I used to enjoy his public lectures.”

  “They were very entertaining,” said Liebermann, “but I always found them weak, theoretically.”

  Kanner shrugged again. “People will be reading his Psychopathia Sexualis for centuries. What a collection of cases! And what a fine eye for detail! Do you have a favorite? I have always been rather fond of case fifty, Herr Z., the technologist who was only satisfied by women wearing high heels and short jackets, Hungarian fashion.”

  Liebermann shook his head. “That one escapes me.…”

  “He was particularly partial to ladies’ calves,” Kanner continued, “but only when the ladies concerned wore elegant shoes. Nude legs—or nudity in general—did not arouse his interest. I was always amused by Krafft-Ebing's somewhat irregular inclusion of the fact that Herr Z. had a weakness for cats—and that simply looking at a cat could lift him from the deepest depression.”

  Kanner raised his bloodshot eyes. He scratched his head, leaving a tuft of oiled hair standing on end.

  “I too,” he said in a distant, somewhat bewildered voice, “am partial to women in short jackets… and to be perfectly honest, my spirits have often been lifted by the antics of a cat.”

  “Well, Stefan,” said Liebermann, “perhaps you would benefit from one of the late professor's cures. I would be happy to prescribe regular cold baths and monobromide of camphor, if you wish?”

  Kanner made a dismissive gesture.

  “Baths are ineffective. When I was a student, I spent a summer in Bad Ischl, where I allowed a retired opera singer to believe she was seducing me. She frequently took a beauty treatment that involved immersion in a tub filled with crushed ice; however, this had no effect on her libido whatsoever. Her sensual appetite was just as keen whether she had had the treatment or not.” Kanner swayed in his chair. “Be that as it may”—his delivery had become comically pompous—”it is our duty to honor the memory of a great man.” He raised his glass. “To Professor Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing… rest in heavenly peace.”

  “No, no, no,” said Liebermann, banging his fist on the table. “May he go to hell. Surely.”

  “What?”

  “The author of Psychopathia Sexualis would be bored to tears among the heavenly hosts—angels, seraphim, and cherubim, et cet era, et cetera.” Liebermann yawned, patting his open mouth. “Clearly, Krafft-Ebing would prefer hell, where he would find the company much more stimulating—lust murderers, necrophiliacs, and sadists— why, he could start work on the next edition of the Psychopathia immediately on arrival!”

  Kanner raised his glass again.

  “To Professor Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing… may you go to hell—and thoroughly enjoy eternal damnation!”

  Liebermann reached across the table and touched Kanner's glass with his own, producing a chime that sang with a bell-like clarity. Outside, a woman passed their dining room, laughing loudly. It was a young voice—that of a shop girl, no doubt, who was being entertained by a “respectable” bourgeois husband. The grumble of the man's bass produced a lascivious counterpoint to the girl's contrived gaiety.

  “Stefan,” said Liebermann, “do you think it would be permissible to have relations with a patient?”

  This thought, which had arisen in his mind apropos of nothing, had been translated into speech without conscious effort. Liebermann found himself listening to his own voice as if it belonged to a stranger.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Not a patient in treatment, of course,” said Liebermann, now obliged to continue. “But a former patient—assuming that she was fully recovered and that a significant period of time had elapsed since her discharge.”

  “No. I can't see anything wrong with that.… In fact…”

  “Yes?”

  “In fact, I did have a little tryst once, with a former patient.” Kanner toyed with his necktie. “We arranged to meet a few times in the Volksgarten, but the erotic frisson that had enlivened our conversations in the hospital was curiously absent. I suspect that it was only because we were forbidden to embrace there that the prospect seemed so alluring. Once the prohibition was lifted, there was nothing left to excite our imaginations. Or perhaps…” Kanner swirled the wine and examined the translucent liquid more closely. “Perhaps once removed from the hospital, and deprived of the emblems of power—my black bag, my stethoscope, my potions and elixirs—my imperfections were more readily observed. I was no longer the great healer and became just another philanderer—indistinguishable from all the others, going about their tawdry business behind the bushes.”

  Liebermann was thinking of Miss Lyd gate. Her supine body on a hospital bed: a plain white gown—the rise and fall of her breasts. Her copper hair, pulled back tightly, aflame in a ray of sunlight.

  “Why?” said Kanner. “Is there someone at the hospital who has taken your fancy?”

  Liebermann shook his head—and as he did so, the room began to rotate. Slowly at first, but then gathering momentum—like the carousel on the Prater.

  “Stefan… I have drunk far too much.”

  Kanner picked up the bottle and filled Liebermann s empty glass: “Maxim, we haven't even started!”

  17

  VON BULOW was immaculately dressed in a dark frock coat, gray striped trousers, and patent leather shoes. A beautifully folded blue cravat was held in place by a diamond tie pin, and his starched cuffs (which protruded from beneath the sleeves of his coat) were fastened with matching studs. Merely looking at von Bulow made Rheinhardt feel slovenly and unkempt.

  His old rival was seated opposite the commissioner. Two empty teacups on Manfred Brügel's desk and a shallow bowl containing a solitary Manner Schnitten wafer biscuit suggested that the two men had been in conversation for some time.

  Although Rheinhardt and von Bulow were both detective inspectors, von Bulow had always been treated as Rheinhardt's superior— largely on account of his privileged background. The practices of preferment and favor were commonplace in Viennese organizations, and the commissioner, being a highly ambitious man, was mindful that von Bulow hailed from an elevated family. The man had relatives in the upper house and in the Hofburg. Informed by the notion that goodwill was often reciprocated, the commissioner frequently afforded von Bulow special treatment—usually at Rheinhardt's expense. However, given that this odious situation was entirely unremarkable, and that there was no obvious person to whom a complaint could be directed (other than to the commissioner himself), Rheinhardt had no choice but to tolerate this indignity.

  “Come along, Rheinhardt,” said the commissioner, beckoning him in with an impatient hand gesture. “Don't just stand there.”

  Von Bulow stood up—as if in readiness to leave—and then, to Rheinhardt's surprise, sat down again. The commissioner registered Rheinhardt's perplexity and grumbled: “Von Bulow will be staying— there is a matter concerning his current investigation that we need to discuss with you. All will be explained in due course. Now… where did I put them?” Brügel sifted through the papers scattered on his desk and found a
wad of forms under a jug of milk. “I've read your reports, and everything seems to be in order. Although in the future, Rheinhardt, I'd appreciate it if you could do something about the quality of your handwriting.”

  Rheinhardt squirmed with embarrassment. It was obvious that Commissioner Brügel had only recently compared Rheinhardt's hurried script with von Bulow's elegant copperplate.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The commissioner tossed the reports aside and picked up a photograph of Thomas Zelenka's body in the mortuary. Then he selected another, which showed the lacerations under the boy's arm.

  “Peculiar,” said the commissioner. “Very strange… but I see no reason for maintaining security office involvement. Do you?” Brügel lifted his head, and his eyebrows drew closer together: “Well?”

  “Sir, we've hardly—”

  “These reports are perfectly adequate,” said Brügel, allowing his palm to come down heavily on the papers and thereby underscoring the finality of his decision.

  “Sir,” Rheinhardt protested. “The wounds on Zelenka's body, Perger's letter…”

  “What about them? I'm perfectly satisfied with your explanation… the persecution of scholarship boys. It's a sorry situation, but there we are. We all know what goes on in military schools. I went to Saint Polten, you know.”

  “But it's not just a case of bullying, sir. A boy died!”

  “Yes, of natural causes.”

  “Indeed, but I have—” Rheinhardt stopped himself.

  “You have what?” asked the commissioner.

  There it was again: I have a feeling… a feeling, a feeling.

  “I have…,” Rheinhardt blustered “yet to interview the mathematics master—Herr Sommer. He may have some important information that, I believe, will shine new light on Zelenka's fate.” Rheinhardt was playing a perilous game—and he hoped that the commissioner would not press him.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “It is not my opinion, as such.”

  “Then whose?”

  “Dr. Liebermann's.”

  Von Bulow shifted in his chair and made a disparaging noise.

  “With respect, von Bulow,” said Rheinhardt, “may I remind you that Dr. Liebermann's methods have proved very effective in the past—as you well know.”

  “He's been lucky, that's all,” retorted von Bulow.

  “No one could possibly be that lucky.”

  “Well,” said von Bulow, “there's no other explanation, is there?”

  “Psychoanalysis?”

  “Jewish psychology! I think not!”

  “Gentlemen!” Brügel growled.

  The two men fell silent under the commissioner's fierce glare.

  Rheinhardt seized the opportunity to continue his appeal. “Sir, I have already arranged for Dr. Liebermann to interview the boy Perger on Saturday. The mathematics master, Herr Sommer, is expected to return to Saint Florian's very soon—”

  “Enough, Rheinhardt,” said the commissioner, raising his hand. “Enough.” Brügel examined the photograph of Zelenka again and mumbled something under his breath. He tapped the photograph and grimaced, as if suffering from acute dyspepsia. “Very well, Rheinhardt,” he continued. “You may continue with your investigation.”

  “Thank you, sir,” cried Rheinhardt, glancing triumphantly at von Bulow, whose expression had become fixed in the attitude of a sneer since he'd uttered the words “Jewish psychology.”

  “But not for long, you understand?” the commissioner interjected. “Another week or so, that's all—and then only if you can get out to Saint Florian's without compromising the success of your new assignment.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Rheinhardt. “I understand.”

  “Good,” said the commissioner. “Now, let us proceed.… What I am about to reveal, Rheinhardt, is classified information. You must not breathe a word of it to anyone—not even to your assistant.” He paused to emphasize the point, and then continued: “Inspector von Bulow is currently overseeing a special operation—a joint venture with our colleagues from Budapest—the outcome of which is of paramount importance. The very stability of the dual monarchy is at stake. Needless to say, we are directly answerable to the very highest authority.”

  Brügel leaned back in his chair and tacitly invited Rheinhardt to inspect the portrait hanging on the wall behind his desk: the emperor, Franz Josef, in full military dress.

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Rheinhardt.

  “We want you to follow someone,” said von Bulow.

  “Who?”

  Von Bulow reached down and picked up a briefcase. He released the hasps and produced a photograph, which he handed to Rheinhardt—a head-and-shoulders portrait of a young man with black curly hair, a long horizontal mustache, and a pronounced five o'clock shadow.

  “His name?”

  “Lázár Kiss.”

  It was a brooding, unhappy face, and the young man's eyes had the fiery glow of a zealot's.

  “A nationalist?” Rheinhardt ventured.

  Von Bulow did not reply. His jaw tightened.

  “Rheinhardt,” said Brügel, stroking his magnificent muttonchop whiskers. “Given the sensitive nature of this operation, we are not at liberty to disclose any more information than we have to. I must ask you to desist from asking further questions. You will receive your instructions—and you will carry them out. You need not concern yourself with anything more. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know the restaurant called Csarda?” said von Bulow.

  “On the Prater?”

  “It is where Herr Kiss dines. He is a creature of habit, and arrives there shortly after one o'clock, every day. Follow him until late afternoon—then deliver a written report of his movements to my office by six o'clock. You will repeat the exercise on Sunday and Monday, and I will then issue you further instructions on Tuesday morning.”

  So this was the sorry pass he had come to, thought Rheinhardt— reassigned to do von Bulow's footwork!

  “May I ask…,” said Rheinhardt, painfully conscious of the prohibition that had just been placed on all forms of nonessential inquiry. “May I ask why it is that I—a detective inspector—have been chosen to undertake this task? Surely von Bulow's assistant could do just as good a job.”

  “There must be no mistakes’ said Brügel. “You are an experienced officer, Rheinhardt. I know you won't let us down.”

  The appearance of the commissioner's teeth in a crescent, which Rheinhardt supposed to be a smile, did nothing to ease his discomfort.

  “And would I be correct,” said Rheinhardt, risking another question, “in assuming that there are some very significant dangers associated with this assignment?”

  What other reason could there be for such secretiveness? If they didn't tell him anything, he would have nothing to disclose—even if he were captured and threatened with violence.

  “Our work is always associated with significant dangers, Rheinhardt,” said the commissioner bluntly.

  Rheinhardt passed the photograph of Lázár Kiss back to von Bulow

  “No—you can keep it,” said von Bulow. “But do not take it out of the building.”

  Rheinhardt put the photograph in his pocket and looked up at the wall clock. It was eleven o'clock.

  “Csarda,” he said.

  “Csarda,” repeated von Bulow. “I look forward to receiving your report.”

  Rheinhardt got up, bowed, and made for the door.

  “Rheinhardt?” It was von Bulow again. Rheinhardt turned, to see von Bulow inscribing the air with an invisible pen. “Handwriting?”

  Rheinhardt forced a smile, the insincerity of which he hoped was unmistakable.

  18

  PROFESSOR FREUD—enveloped in a haze of billowing cigar smoke— began his third consecutive joke: “An elderly Jew was traveling on the slow train from Moscow to Minsk, and at one of the stops on the way he bought a large salt herring. At the same stop a Russian boy got on th
e train and started to tease him: ‘You Jews,’ he said, ‘you have a reputation for being clever. How come, eh? How come you are all so clever?’ The old man looked up from his herring and said, ‘Well, since you are such a well-mannered young man, and have asked me so politely, I'll tell you our secret, but only if you promise not to tell anyone.’ The boy suddenly became more serious and swore on his mother's life that he wouldn't tell a soul. ‘We Jews,’ said the old man, ‘are so clever because we eat the head of the salt herring.’ The boy was impressed and said, ‘In which case, I intend to get clever right away. You still have the head of the herring you've just eaten. Would you sell it to me?’ The old Jew was reluctant, but eventually gave in. All right, all right,’ he said. You can have it for a ruble.’ The boy couldn't wait to get started and paid. When he was almost finished eating he shouted, ‘Wait a minute… I saw you buy the whole herring for just ten kopecks—and I paid you ten times more for the head!’ The old Jew smiled and said, You see, it's beginning to work already’ “

  The professor leaned back in his chair, satisfied with the joke's effect on his young disciple: a counterfeit grimace and the ignition of a bright light in Liebermann's eyes.

  “Last year, you said you were thinking about writing a book on jokes,” said Liebermann. “Is that still your intention?”

  “In actual fact,” said Freud, “I've been tinkering with the joke book for some time—but progress has been slow. I've been simultaneously engaged on another project: a collection of essays on sexuality, which, I believe, may prove to be of much greater significance. Even so, I keep finding myself returning to the joke book.” He paused and puffed on his dying cigar. “Yes, there is much to be learned from a close examination of jokes. Psychoanalysis has demonstrated— beyond doubt—that we should not underestimate small indications. It is by close observation of phenomena that have hitherto been supposed trivial, such as dreams, blunders—and yes, jokes—that we are afforded our greatest insights.”

  The professor assumed a more serious expression: “The other day, I read something in the Freie Presse.… One of the mayor's associates had made a joke about Jews who wished to convert. He said that when being baptized, they should be held under water for at least ten minutes.” Freud smiled, wryly. “Not a bad joke, all things considered… but so very revealing! It would seem that primitive urges— forbidden satisfaction by the prohibitions of civilized society and thus repressed—ultimately find expression in the content of jokes. So it is that our jokes betray us, revealing, as they do, our shameful desires and, in the case of the mayor's associate, a murderous impulse.”