by Frank Tallis
Attempting to conceal his embarrassment, Liebermann said, somewhat presumptuously: “Put the notebook away, Oskar—we're not going to die!”
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, just a feeling!”
“Max, you are an exceptionally contrary fellow.” Rheinhardt put the notebook and pencil back into his pocket, adding softly: “But I hope you are right.”
“Look!” said Liebermann, pointing down.
Osterhagen had reappeared, followed by a column of boys who were bearing the weight of a long flagpole on their shoulders. They came to a halt by the statue and, guided by the lieutenant's stentorian directions, raised the pole up. Then, releasing it from the vertical, they allowed it to lean toward the ledge.
“Don't let it fall,” Osterhagen barked. “Gently… gently…”
Rheinhardt and Liebermann reached out and, grabbing the shaft, lodged the tip firmly against the central mullion.
“We're saved,” said the inspector, smiling.
Liebermann watched as Rheinhardt slid down. His landing was accompanied by cheers and boyish laughter. The young doctor followed, making an equally swift descent. Within seconds of his feet touching the ground, Liebermann was startled by a loud crash. The ledge had finally worked itself loose, and lay in pieces on the ground.
58
THE WOODMAN RELEASED THE CATCH and pulled the carcass from the metal trap. He was about to add the animal to his carrying strap when he heard the sound of an approaching carriage. Its low rumbling rapidly increased in volume, until the air reverberated with the skipping beat of galloping horses. Through the trees, he could see the vehicle hurtling down the road at breakneck speed. The driver was half-standing, lashing his geldings, a black cloak flying out horizontally from his shoulders. The incline was steep, and the carriage veered from side to side. It was a reckless, uncontrolled descent. The din diminished as the carriage passed behind the hillside; however, within seconds there was a sickening crash— augmented by an unholy chorus of terrified equine voices. This dreadful cacophony was suddenly extinguished, leaving in its wake an eerie, hollow silence.
Attaching the carcass to his strap, the woodman reset his trap and set off down the hill. He walked to the muddy road and followed the deep ruts that widened where the carriage had skidded. The ground was pitted with hoof marks and littered with ripped-up clods of black earth. The woodman trudged around the bend and saw that the parallel furrows terminated abruptly at the edge of the road.
At the bottom of a ravine was the carriage, its rear wheel still turning slowly. The horses were lying on top of each other, their heads projecting from their bodies at unnatural angles. Some distance away was the crumpled body of the driver.
The woodman continued along the road until he found a point where he could make a scrambling descent. Once he was on the floor of the ravine, he walked back and inspected the driver's body. The man wasn't breathing, and blood was oozing out of a gash at the back of his head. Working quickly, the woodman removed the gown and slung it over his shoulder. He then paused, contemplating the corpse. He tested the man's weight with one enormous hand.
Yes, he could manage it, of course he could. But it was not quite dark, and they would soon be out looking for this man—the people from the village, the people from the school.
It was unwise—an unnecessary risk.
Even so, he thought. Zhenechka will still be pleased with the black cloak.
He set off into the undergrowth, clutching his booty, and feeling somewhat regretful.
It was a shame to leave all that horse meat.
59
FRAU BECKER WAS SEATED on her chaise longue, a handkerchief clutched in her left hand. She was wearing a black blouse decorated with printed roses—each blossoming from a green stem with two leaves. The collar was fastened with a large oval brooch, on which raised ivory figures promenaded against a terra-cotta background. Her dress was made of satin and ended a little short of her soft doeskin boots, revealing a sliver of her maroon stockings.
Rheinhardt and Liebermann were seated opposite, while Haussmann stood by the door.
“As he poured the vinegar,” said Liebermann, “Zelenka thought that he would be observing the effect of a weak acid on a range of innocuous compounds—sugars and salts. He did not know that your husband had replaced one of the test substances with cyanide, probably potassium cyanide. When vinegar and cyanide react, they produce hydrocyanic gas—one of the most poisonous gases known to man. Zelenka would have been killed instantly—and afterward the gas would have dissipated in the atmosphere.”
Frau Becker held the handkerchief to her nose and sniffed.
“Zelenka's body was discovered by Professor Gärtner, who immediately rushed to inform the headmaster. Professor Eichmann was at that moment engaged in a meeting with your husband. Some attempts to revive Zelenka were made—but these proved unsuccessful. Professor Gärtner was very distressed, and the headmaster subsequently went to summon the school doctor. Your husband would have had ample opportunity to remove the cyanide—which he then disposed of on his way to Nurse Funke s lodge. Hydrocyanic gas was an inspired choice of poison. It is virtually undetectable at autopsy— apart from a little congestion in the lungs, perhaps, but nothing more. Dr. Becker had assumed that in the absence of any alternative explanation, the pathologist would conclude that Zelenka had died from an unspecified natural cause. And this—of course—is exactly what happened. However, your husband is clearly a very fastidious gentleman. Even though his plan was exceedingly clever, it was not perfect. He detected one minor flaw. Hydrocyanic gas leaves a smell in the air—a faint bitter almondlike odor—that might serve as a clue.”
Liebermann paused, and allowed the fingers of both hands to touch, each digit finding its twin in a serial sequence.
“Unfortunately, perfectionism—when taken to its extreme—is always self-defeating. You may recall that just before Zelenka s death, your husband asked you to buy him an almond tart.”
Frau Becker looked puzzled.
“Which you purchased,” Liebermann continued undeterred, “from Demel's.”
The young woman's eyes suddenly opened wide.
“How did you…,” she whispered.
“The smell of almonds in the laboratory,” Liebermann went on, “might have aroused suspicion; however, your husband reasoned that if there was an obvious source of such a smell, it would seem less conspicuous. He kept the almond tart concealed in his desk, and, while he was removing the cyanide, he deposited the pastry next to Zelenka's body.”
“But, Max,” said Rheinhardt, “Professor Eichmann didn't smell anything.”
“Not everyone can, Oskar,” said Liebermann, turning to his friend and adopting a more confidential tone. “An inherited factor determines whether an individual can detect the residual odor of hydrocyanic gas. If that constitutional factor is absent, the individual cannot smell it.”
The young doctor crossed his legs and returned his attention to Frau Becker.
“Your husband was aware that Zelenka intended to leave Saint Florian's in the summer. Dr. Becker did not want to lose you.”
The woman's expression suddenly changed. Her features hardened and the blood drained from her face. She was no longer crying. Indeed, she seemed to have been overcome by a strange, almost sinister calm. When she finally spoke, her words shattered the silence like stones falling through panes of glass.
“I killed Zelenka.”
“What?” Rheinhardt cried.
Liebermann gestured to his friend to remain silent. The young doctor put on his spectacles, leaned forward, and observed Frau Becker very closely.
“I killed Zelenka,” she said again.
Psychoanalysis had taught Liebermann to respect silences. They were never merely the absence of speech. They could be many things: a tool, a consequence, a protest. Liebermann allowed the silence to consolidate. Undisturbed, Frau Becker's thoughts would clarify. When she was ready to speak, she would.
Outside, in the hallway, a grandfather clock was ticking loudly.
Frau Becker twisted a coil of blond hair around her finger. Her stare remained fixed on the floor.
“I have done a terrible thing… or should I say we—yes, we have done a terrible thing… but you must understand, we never meant this to happen. If I… if we had known…”
She stopped, released her hair, and lowered her hand. Its descent was slow, and mannered, like an object sinking in water. Her breast heaved—but no more tears came.
“We?” said Liebermann softly.
Frau Becker looked up, and her gaze met Liebermann's.
“Myself and Herr Lang.”
“The art master,” interjected Rheinhardt, discreetly reminding his friend of Herr Lang's identity.
“Since September last year, Herr Lang and I, we have…” Frau Becker's resolve faltered. “We have been…”
“Lovers?”
She nodded.
Liebermann was unable to maintain his clinical reserve. He craned forward, his eyebrows ascending above the rim of his spectacles.
“My husband was not the man that I believed him to be… and this is an awful place, Herr Doctor. A place where someone like me can never fit in. The masters’ wives are narrow-minded, and thought bad things about me from the start. I knew what they were thinking, of course. They regarded me as a stupid girl from the country, a gold digger… and a lot worse. I tried to get to know them, but it was useless. They didn't want to know me—they didn't accept me. And when I talked to them about the plight of some of the boys—the bullying, the persecution—they weren't interested. It made things worse. They thought I was being ridiculous. One of them called me… hys-hystorical?”
“Hysterical,” said Liebermann, quite unable to resist making this particular correction.
The pale skin around Frau Becker's eyes had reddened. The flesh looked sore, grazed—flecked with tiny raised welts. Liebermann noticed the unusual length and brightness of her lashes, which glinted in the lamplight.
“I did love Bernhard,” she said, her voice rising in pitch as if she were responding to an accusation of falsehood. “I did. I had never met anyone like him before—an educated man—a distinguished man—a generous man. But he changed. He started to complain about how much money I was spending. He was always in a foul temper. He became angry with me if I didn't understand what he was talking about. I felt neglected, lonely—and Herr Lang… Herr Lang was kind to me. He's an artist. He appreciated me, accepted me… and he cared about all the bad things happening up at the school.”
The young woman suddenly stopped, and tugged at her blouse, her expression suggesting utter contempt.
“I have a large wardrobe full of beautiful clothes, but I have never been interested in fashion. I used to tell Bernhard that I needed a new dress every time I wanted to get away. I used shopping as an excuse, so that I could go to Vienna. Sometimes it was possible for me to meet Herr Lang there. He knew places where…” Her cheeks flushed like a beacon. Modesty prevented her from disclosing the intimate details of their assignation, but Liebermann and Rheinhardt knew exactly where Lang would have taken Frau Becker. The city was full of private dining rooms—in Leopoldstadt, Neubau, and Mariahilf—where couples could conduct their illicit liaisons without fear of discovery.
“We made our arrangements,” Frau Becker continued, “through Zelenka. He delivered our notes to each other—he was our go-between, our messenger. I was very fond of him… very fond. But our relationship was innocent. I knew that my husband suspected that something was going on; however, God forgive me, I did nothing to make him think otherwise. In fact, I encouraged his mistrust. On the days that Zelenka came, I always wore something special. And all the time, I knew that whatever inquiries Bernhard made would ultimately come to nothing. The more my husband worried about Zelenka, the better—it put him off, helped to conceal the truth, misdirected his attention. Herr Lang thought I was being very clever— and said that he would do something too. He knew that Herr Sommer was a dreadful gossip, and told him things… made suggestions about Zelenka and me, knowing full well that Sommer would be indiscreet. It worked. Soon the whole school was talking—but about the wrong affair! An affair that wasn't happening! You look shocked, Herr Doctor. And I know what you are thinking: ‘What sort of woman would do such a thing? What sort of woman would knowingly destroy her own reputation?’ But you see, I had no reputation to protect. People said horrible things about me whatever I did, and at least this way the slander was serving some purpose. Besides, I would only have to endure it for a short time. Herr Lang is leaving Saint Florian's soon. He intends to join a commune of artists living in the Tenth District. I was going to join him, and may still do so. I've been told that such people do not make a habit of judging others.”
Frau Becker paused and looked from Liebermann to Rheinhardt, then to Haussmann and back again. Her chin was raised and there was something defiant in the set of her jaw; but the challenge was short-lived. She brought her hands together, nestling the closed fist of her right hand in the palm of her left—and bowed her head.
“If I had known…,” Frau Becker continued. “If we had known that Bernhard was capable of such insane jealousy, we would never have done this… but we did. And because of that, we must now share his guilt.”
Liebermann leaned back in his chair.
“I don't think so. You could never have foreseen your husband's actions.”
“I'm his wife. I should have—”
“Not in this instance, Frau Becker,” Liebermann interrupted. “The man you fell in love with no longer exists. You said earlier that your husband changed. I believe that this alteration in his personality had a very specific cause.”
“I don't understand.”
“Are you aware that your husband took medicine—a white powder which he dissolved in alcohol?”
“Yes. He took it for his headaches.”
“Frau Becker, your husband never suffered from headaches. He was deceiving you. The medication he took was an extract of the South American coca plant—cocaine. It is a substance once thought to improve mood and increase… stamina.”
A carriage drew up outside, and Liebermann was momentarily distracted.
“Forgive me for being forthright, Frau Becker,” Liebermann continued. “But it is my belief that your husband—being considerably older than you—doubted his ability to satisfy a healthy young wife. He started taking cocaine, having probably heard of its use as a tonic by the German army. However, cocaine is a highly addictive substance that, taken in large quantities, can disturb the mind's delicate balance. It can cause various forms of paranoia, a particularly disturbing example of which is pathological or morbid jealousy.” A loud knock resounded through the house. “Men are particularly prone to jealous feelings—but these can be grotesquely exaggerated under the influence of such a potent chemical agent. If Dr. Becker had not been addicted to cocaine, I very much doubt whether he would have behaved so irrationally—and with such tragic consequences.”
There was the sound of movement in the hallway, and a gentle tap on the door.
“Come in,” said Frau Becker.
The maid entered.
“What is it, Ivana?”
“Frau Becker, a police constable has arrived. He would like to speak with you.”
“You had better show him in.”
Liebermann looked at Rheinhardt quizzically, but the inspector was only able to respond with a shrug.
Haussmann stepped out of the way to let in the constable—a large youth with ruddy cheeks and a forelock of orange hair that peeped out from beneath his spiked helmet. He looked around the room, observing the gathering, but seemed quite unable to explain his presence. Indeed, his expression suggested confusion—complicated by anxiety.
Rheinhardt stood up and introduced himself, which did not seem to help matters. Indeed, the constable now seemed even more nervous and shifted the weight of his body from one foot to the other
.
“Well, man,” said Rheinhardt, becoming impatient. “What is it?”
“Sir,” said the constable. Then, looking toward Frau Becker, he said, “Madam… there's been an accident. A carriage left the road and the driver was thrown off! The landlord of the inn at Aufkirchen was passing—and he has identified the body. I am sorry, madam. Your husband… he's dead.”
Through the window Liebermann could see the city lights: rings of increasing intensity contracting around a central luminescent hub. This pool of stardust was home to nearly two million people. Germans, Italians, Slovaks, Poles, Ruthenians, Slovenians, Romanians, Gypsies, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, princes, archdukes, shop girls, and paupers. Liebermann fancied that each glimmering lamp was a human soul—a unique life, illuminated by hopes, fears, and aspirations. Such a vast collection of humanity was humbling. Yet he felt an odd, vainglorious compulsion to raise his arm and eclipse the great metropolis with his hand.
Would it be there forever? he wondered. After all, archaeologists had found the ruins of entire civilizations buried beneath the sand.
Liebermann opened his fingers and allowed the lights to reappear. Their constancy was mildly reassuring.
The mood in the carriage was subdued. None of the three men had spoken much since leaving Aufkirchen. They had passed the time, somewhat self-absorbed, smoking Haussmann's French cigarettes. The black Syrian tobacco produced an intransigent fug that smelled unmistakably of burning tar; however, the pungency and excoriating consequence of each draw had not deterred them, and the box—illustrated with a camel and a palm tree—was now completely empty.
Rheinhardt caught sight of his reflection in the window and squeezed the horns of his mustache.
“He could so easily have got away with it.”
The sentence was not addressed to Liebermann or Haussmann but to himself.
“Yes,” said Liebermann, “and I am struck by a certain irony. If it wasn't for the school bullies, Becker might have succeeded. I doubt very much that you would have been so tenacious had there not been signs of torture on Zelenka's body. In this instance at least, cruelty has served some greater purpose.”
