by Frank Tallis
The headmaster shook his head. “This is all we need.”
“Quite. Most inopportune.”
“Thank you, Deputy Headmaster,” said Eichmann.
Becker bowed and left the room.
The headmaster opened a drawer, took out a sheet of headed notepaper, and began writing.
Dear Herr Perger,
I regret to inform you that your son Isidor appears to have absconded from the school. This is a very serious matter.
The headmaster paused and bit the end of his pen. He recalled his talk with Wolf. For a moment, it crossed his mind that the boy might have misundertsood him.
No, he thought. Surely not.
Returning his attention to the letter, he continued to write.
49
LIEBERMANN EXAMINED THE CRACKED SURFACE of a large oil painting that depicted the 1683 battle of Vienna. The colors had been dimmed by generations of cigar smoke, but it was still possible to make out the noble figure of the Polish king, Jan Sobieski, confronting the Ottoman commander—Grand Vizier Merzifonlu Kara Mustafa Pasha.
What if Vienna had fallen? thought Liebermann. What then? Would the cry of the muezzin now be heard, resonating along the banks of the Danube, the Rhine, or even the Seine, calling the faithful to evening prayer?
He felt a small detonation of pride in his chest.
Vienna.
The peoples of Europe were much indebted to the Viennese—if they but knew it!
Liebermann stepped away from the painting, with its massive carved frame and its jaundiced, barely discernible figures, and surveyed the large gloomy room in which he was standing.
Thick embroidered curtains were drawn across three of the tall rectangular windows. Only the fourth pair of heavy drapes had been pulled back to admit a sour, enervating light. From the high ceiling hung a massive iron chandelier—notable for the complexity of its loops and involutions. Stalactites of congealed wax hung from its six dishes like a macabre merry-go-round of dangling atrophied fingers. The ceiling itself was equally ornate, indented with step-sided coffers. Below the ceiling was a cornice of regularly spaced moldings: rosettes, garlands, and openmouthed lions baring their teeth.
Two suits of armor stood guard on either side of the double doors. Other furniture included assorted chairs, a Japanese lacquered cabinet (shaped like a pagoda), a wall table (on which an antique chess set was displayed), a porcelain stove, some bookshelves, and—rather strangely—a battered leather saddle. Liebermann supposed that this last item must have been of sentimental value to the general, having been of service during some notable campaign. Military men—whose fundamental purpose it was to kill others—could be remarkably sentimental.
The center of the room was dominated by a mahogany desk: behind it was a high-backed wooden chair, and on this chair sat a stout gentleman with a bulbous pockmarked nose. His hair had receded, and, like many men of his generation, he had—in deference to the emperor—chosen to sport a fine set of muttonchop whiskers. He was wearing a quilted smoking jacket, with velvet trimmings, and loose-fitting silk trousers. Liebermann noticed that below the desk the general's big feet occupied a pair of elegant oriental slippers traced with silver thread and with toes that curled upward.
Liebermann could hear Rheinhardt's baritone through the closed double doors. He was interviewing one of the general's servants in the hallway. Although the inspector was speaking in hushed tones, his strong voice carried. It was answered by a muffled and considerably weaker tenor.
The general might have been taking a nap—such was his innocent attitude. His left cheek was pressed against the red leather inlay of the desktop, his arms were sprawled out to either side of his head, and his eyes were closed. However, in his right hand he held a bulky Borchardt pistol, and a gaping hole had been blasted through his skull—just above the ear.
A pile of books had toppled as the general had fallen forward. Most of the titles were by German theoreticians of warfare—but one volume, on closer inspection, turned out to be a lighthearted collection of military anecdotes. The pale calf bindings of the more academic works were spattered with blood and gelatinous globs of brain tissue. On the corner of the desk was a deep, wide ashtray that contained three cigar stubs.
Liebermann heard the sound of brisk footsteps advancing up the hallway, and then new voices and a brittle exchange. The double doors opened and a tall man entered, followed by a younger man who was evidently his assistant. Although Liebermann had heard a great deal about Rheinhardt's nemesis, Victor von Bulow, they had never been formally introduced. Liebermann remembered von Bulow from the detectives’ ball and had seen him once before, the previous year, arguing with Rheinhardt outside Commissioner Brü gel's office.
Von Bulow swept into the room and came to an abrupt halt on the other side of the general's desk. He and Liebermann looked at each other—though the manner in which the two men observed each other was curiously intense and searching. It did not suggest passive reception but, rather, an active seeking-out. They were inspecting. And as is always the case when two well-dressed men meet, the object of their attention was, first and foremost, clothing: value, quality, and provenance.
They recoiled slightly when they both observed—simultaneously— that they were wearing identical astrakhan coats, supplied almost certainly by the very same shop. This resulted in their expressions shifting—in tandem—from mild indignation to what might have been a form of grudging respect. However, their tacit truce was quickly dissolved. In a transparent attempt to assert his sartorial advantage, von Bulow tugged at his shirt cuffs to reveal the glitter of his diamond cuff links. Rheinhardt, who had followed von Bulow in, witnessed this silent but perfectly comprehensible exchange with some amusement.
“Herr Dr. Liebermann?” said von Bulow icily.
“Inspector von Bulow,” said Liebermann, inclining his head.
Von Bulow walked around the desk, his stare fixed on the general.
“I trust you have not touched the body.”
“That is correct. I have not touched the body.”
“Good.” Von Bulow crouched down to get a better view of the head wound. “Pathology is not your specialty, Herr Doctor…”
Von Bulow had subtly stressed his statement so that it sounded a little like a question.
“Indeed,” Liebermann confirmed. “I am not a pathologist. I am a psychiatrist.”
“You will appreciate, then, I hope,” said von Bulow, “that your presence here can serve no purpose.”
It was a blunt and discourteous dismissal.
Liebermann retained his composure and acquiesced with a curt nod. As he walked toward the door, von Bulow called out: “Oh, and Dr. Liebermann…” The young doctor stopped and turned around. “Inspector Rheinhardt was acting without proper authority when he invited you to accompany him. You must not tell anyone what you have seen here today. Do you understand?”
“With respect,” said Rheinhardt, coughing uncomfortably, “that really isn't right. I was instructed by the commissioner to initiate standard investigative procedures until your arrival. And that's exactly what I've done. There is nothing irregular about Dr. Liebermann's attendance. He has been of considerable assistance to the security office on many occasions—as you are well aware. If this investigation is—how shall we say? Sensitive?—then perhaps you should ask Commissioner Brügel why he did not make this absolutely clear vis-à-vis my instructions.”
Von Bulow paused and stroked the neat rectangle of silver bristle on his chin. He seemed to be reconsidering his position, weighing up costs and benefits on an internal mental balance. His pale gray eyes— almost entirely devoid of color—stared coldly at Rheinhardt. A sudden reconfiguration of his angular features suggested that his obscure calculations had been successfully completed.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said softly. “I am most grateful for your help.” His intonation had become unctuous—oily with sarcasm. “Be that as it may, now that I am here—you may both leave.”
“You may as well have this. I've just interviewed the head servant. The house staff were all dismissed last night at seven and told not to return until this afternoon.”
Von Bulow flicked through the notes.
“Rheinhardt, how can you possibly expect me to understand this scribble? I'll interview him again myself.”
Rheinhardt shrugged. “As you wish, von Bulow. You should also know that Professor Mathias has been asked—”
“Professor Mathias!” von Bulow cut in. “Dear God, Rheinhardt, you're not still using that lunatic? I'll be appointing my own pathologist, thank you. Now, gentlemen, the suicide of one of His Majesty's generals is nothing less than a national tragedy. I really must be getting on.”
He extended his arm toward the doors.
In readiness to leave, Rheinhardt looked over at his friend; however, Liebermann was hesitant.
“I'm sorry,” said Liebermann to von Bulow “But did you just say… suicide?”
Von Bulow turned on Liebermann with evident impatience.
“Yes.”
“You are of the opinion that General von Stoger took his own life?”
“Well, of course he did!”
“And why do you say that?”
“Because General von Stoger is lying here—quite dead—with a gun in his hand and a very large hole in his head. Now, for the last time, Herr Doctor, would you kindly leave? I have work to do.”
Von Bulow's assistant smirked.
“Forgive me,” said Liebermann, making his way back to the body. He beckoned to von Bulow, urging him to examine the general's wound more closely. “Observe,” Liebermann continued. “There are no powder burns on the general's temple. No grains embedded in the skin. Most people, when they choose to end it all by shooting themselves, place the muzzle of the gun against the epidermis—pressing it in, hard.” Liebermann made a gun shape with his hand and pressed the tips of his fingers into his temple. “Presumably,” he continued, “to reduce the possibility of making an error. Only rarely—very rarely—will a suicide hold the pistol at a distance. You are correct that I am not a pathologist; however, I am a psychiatrist, and it is a sad fact that members of my profession are frequently the first to discover individuals who have committed suicide. I have seen many suicides… and one notices certain resemblances between them.”
Von Bulow snorted. “It may be very rare—as you suggest—for a suicide to hold the weapon at a distance, but it is not so exceptional as to recommend that we should abandon common sense! Now, Herr Doctor, if you would kindly let me conduct my investigation in the manner to which I am accustomed!”
Dispensing with any pretence of courtesy, von Bulow flicked his thumb toward the exit.
“And the absence of a suicide note?” said Liebermann, ignoring von Bulow's rude gesture. “Does that not strike you as being a little odd? Gentlemen of von Stoger's class and rank always leave a suicide note.”
“Herr Dr. Liebermann,” said von Bulow coldly, “you are testing my patience!”
“I do apologize,” Liebermann replied. “I have neglected to mention the most important of my observations. No powder burns, no suicide note… these are simply auxiliary to the principal fact, which, if I may be so bold as to declare, is—in my humble judgment—quite compelling.”
Von Bulow's arm dropped to his side. He was reluctant to ask the young doctor what this compelling principal fact was and so cede his authority. He glared at Liebermann, who had chosen this moment to conduct a minute study of his fingernails. He picked off a cuticle. Rheinhardt, the long-suffering victim of Liebermann s irritating penchant for obscurity and mystification, was, for once, delighted.
The ensuing silence became frigid and intractable.
Von Bulow—finally overcome by curiosity—ungraciously spat out his question: “What are you talking about!”
“Simply this,” said Liebermann, smiling. “The general's eyes are closed. This is not remarkable in itself, being commonplace when people die naturally. But when people die suddenly—their eyes remain open. In the anguished state that precedes suicide, we can be quite sure that the eyes are wide open—staring, in fact. And this is how we—us psychiatrists—usually find them.” Liebermann paused for just enough time for von Bulow to register von Stoger's heavy, hooded lids. “Inspector, someone closed the general's eyes postmortem. And I strongly suspect that the person who did that was also the person who shot him!”
The blood drained from von Bulow's face. He ran an agitated hand over the silver stubble at the back of his head.
“Good day,” said Liebermann, marching briskly to the closed double doors. Before opening them, he looked back into the room and added, “And don't be fooled by that tight grip. A gun can be placed in the hand immediately after death, and then when rigor mortis sets in, it creates the illusion of a holding-fast.”
Rheinhardt bowed, and followed his friend out into the hall. The servant whom Rheinhardt had been interviewing was still waiting.
“Sir?” said the servant to Rheinhardt. “May I retire to my quarters now?”
“I'm afraid not,” said Rheinhardt. “My colleague Inspector von Bulow wishes to ask you some more questions.”
The man acquiesced glumly.
Rheinhardt and Liebermann began walking down the hallway, their footsteps sounding loudly on the shiny, polished ebony.
Unable to restrain himself, Rheinhardt slapped his friend on the back.
“That was truly excellent, Max, excellent. You made von Bulow look like a complete idiot.”
In response, the young doctor took a sugared almond from his pocket, tossed it into the air, and caught it in his mouth. He bit through the icing and produced a loud, satisfying crunch. “Let's go back to Schottenring,” he said. “I must see those photographs again.”
50
WOLF WAS SITTING IN the lost room, alone, smoking his way through a packet of gold-tipped cigarettes. He had acquired them from Bose, a plump and effete baron from Deutsch-Westungarn, whose arm he had twisted until the boy had squealed like a stuck pig. Resting on Wolf's lap was a large book, the cover of which was made of soft green leather and embossed with gold lettering. The endpapers were marbled. Wolf licked his finger and began to turn the pages. The movement of his hand across the spine became faster and faster—each transition was accompanied by a double syllable of friction and release. The sound was not unlike a person gasping for breath. Although he was not reading the text, Wolf's expression was attentive.
The monotony of the task created a void in his mind, which soon filled with recent memories.
Earlier that day Wolf had been summoned to the headmaster's office. The old man had rambled on in his usual way about values, honor, and reputation, but in due course his well-practiced oratory had stalled. He had become somewhat incoherent. Eventually, the headmaster had made an oblique reference to the matter discussed on the occasion of their last meeting.
“It appears that Perger has absconded.”
“Yes,” Wolf had replied.
“This sort of behavior cannot be countenanced. When he is found, I will have no other option but to expel him. Whatever plea is made on his behalf—and I'm sure that at least one well-meaning but misguided advocate will come forward—nothing, and I mean nothing, can possibly excuse such appalling misconduct.”
“No, sir,” Wolf had agreed. “It is quite disgraceful.”
The headmaster had risen and, as was his habit, had gone to the window.
Wolf recalled the nervous catch in his voice: “I take it we have understood the situation correctly. Eh, Wolf? I mean… Perger has absconded, hasn't he?”
“Why, yes,” Wolf had replied. “There can be no other explanation for his disappearance, surely?”
“Good,” the headmaster had muttered, evidently reassured by the boy's steady confidence.
Wolf now turned the final page. None of them had been annotated.
He had observed a few inky marks here and there but nothing of any obvious significance. Wolf closed the book and opened it again at the frontispiece, an antique etching of a bearded scholar in a library. At the foot of the title page, in small lettering, he read “Hartel and Jacobsen,” beneath which was the publisher's address in Leipzig, and the year of publication: 1900.
As far as Wolf could determine, there was nothing remarkable about the dictionary at all—except, perhaps, its quality. He traced the tooled indentations with his finger.
Why on earth did Herr Sommer want it so badly? He had been desperate, that night in the locker room.
Wolf inspected the inside covers in order to determine if anything incriminating had been slipped beneath the endpapers, but it was obvious that no one had tampered with them. The space between the spine and the binding was also empty.
It was a mystery.
Suddenly irritated by his failure to discover anything there that he could use to his advantage, he threw the dictionary aside and picked up a thinner volume that he had previously laid at his feet. He reverently removed the bookmark and turned the blotchy print toward the paraffin lamp.
Just as the clouds tell us the direction of the wind high above our heads, so the lightest and freest spirits are in their tendencies foretellers of the weather that is coming. The wind in the valley and the opinions of the market place of today indicate nothing of that which is coming but only of that which has been.
The great philosopher's words were like a prophecy—but not just any prophecy. This was a prophecy meant especially for him. Wolf smiled, and a thrill of almost erotic intensity passed through his entire body. He was the future. Tomorrow belonged to him.
51
THE KOHLMARKT WAS BUSTLING with activity. A woman carrying a brightly wrapped parcel smiled at Liebermann as she passed, so delighted with her purchase that she could not suppress her joy. Two splendidly accoutred hussars, standing on the porch of a milliner's, were speaking loudly in Hungarian. On the other side of the street marched three Hasidim wearing long black caftans and wide-brimmed beaver hats. The Michaelertor—the massive green dome that towered above the entrance of the Hofburg Palace— dominated the view ahead. It looked particularly beautiful against the pastel wash of the taupe sky.
